Chapter 8: The Floating Stones

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“Will they fall on me?” I ask, pointing up at the floating stones.

“There’s no need to worry about the arch,” the man says. “It’s sturdy.”

Still, I stare up at the stones. I’m puzzled as the path seems to go through a door. On both sides of the path, rock walls rise and curve up toward stones overhead. They hover, as if hovering in the sky.

I’d seen other skerries, of course. I can see two off in the distance beyond the “arch” right now. These giant rocks that we live on float in the blue and white and dark of the sky, but how could ordinary rocks stay up above the path?

I look back at the man who greets me through the doorway.

“Arch?” I ask. “Is it magic?”

“Magic? No, it’s masonry. Smart fellows know how to balance the rocks on each other. Come through, come through,” he says, beckoning me.

I push through, stepping quickly under the stones as if they might fall just as I pass, and not looking up.

“Hello, sir,” I say, showing him my token.

“Oh, that’s not for me,” he says. “What’s your name, fellow? Are you a peddler?”

I shake my head, putting the token back away. “Bessil, sir. I’m from Bocut. I’m with a pedder. His name is -” I don’t recall, still. It will come back to me.

“Well met,” says the man. “You’ll want to go to the sign of the Three Goats and show them your token. You’ll have to talk to the sheriff before you can trade.”

I mean to tell him that I’m not here to trade, but my new friend is already gone on his own business.

Under the arch, the Path of the World stops. Crushed shells give way to plain gravel and dirt. I take off my sandals and tuck them into my belt, since no one asks to hold them.

And I look off up toward the Cut of Beshof. As I approach Lake Town, I see bushes and small trees, but now I can see the lake. Truly, it is water too deep to wade through. Here - at the “shore” - the brush is cut down and you can see across. Can anything be that flat?

And the edge of the lake - the mud flats between true ground and water, that’s called the shore, a word I struggle with for my time at the lake. Is the shore the ground? Is it the water? The lake fills up, when the dark rolls in. Does the shore move? How can it, when land is fixed?

I walk along this plain path, what looks like the remnant of a stone paved road and I hear the music. It is flutes and recorders and guitars and instruments I don’t have names for. Mostly, the music makers made their own visions, but some nibbled at each other, some touched and pulled back or swept up together.

The token is worn, but could be the heads of three goats, so I look out for goats. And, yes, I look for live goats, but I see a sign, toward the lake, a picture of three goats. I look at my token, again.

What I’m looking at is a ship. It had been a shark in life, but the head is gone and covered by an oiled tarp. The thing is taller than a seventh circle man, without the fin. The aft hatch is open, so I go there.

“Hello,” I call out.

“Who are you?”

I turn to see a woman who’s come up behind me. Her face is askew, as you see when someone is injured young.

“My name is Bessil,” I say. “Am I to give this to you?” I show her the token.

“There’s a bed,” she says. Her mouth moves funny, when she speaks, for the organs of her face do not fit as they should. “But you’ll do no trade in the boat. Nor out here. Go to the market for that.”

I shake my head. “I’m only to wait for the peddler here,” I say. “He has trade in Beshof.”

And the Legions are in Beshof, but the peddler must trade something there.

Something adult.

Something scary.

“You’ll have to leave your basket with the sheriff,” she says. “Come back when you’ve done that.”

“But-” I protest.

“Come back when you’ve done that,” she says. She turns the good side of her face toward me and I cannot decide whether she means to curse me or just get a good look at me.

I tuck the token away and follow her directions to the sheriff, the peddler's pack weighing heavier on my back.

The Sheriff’s place is the only proper building I see in the whole town. I’m not sure to call this place a town, although it is called Lake Town. I walk by shacks of woven panels and bone tabletops, balanced on poles and held together with twine and by tents of oilcloth and leather.

The sheriff's building is rock and bone-mortar, like the overseer’s cottages, with proper doors of woven panels and windows with bone bars to keep out the goblins. The doors are thrown open in the pleasant air and I poke my head in and call out, “Hello? Is the sheriff there?”

“The sheriff is here.”

I turn to see him, since he has come up beside me. Is no one inside here?

“Hello,” I say. “The woman at -” I hesitate “The Three Goats,” I go on, “Says I must leave my basket here. Will it be safe?” I ask.

“What is your business here?” he asks. “Do you mean to trade?”

“I’m to wait here for a time and then meet the peddler on the road to Fearsmere.”

The sheriff is a tall man, sixth circle, maybe seventh. He’s dressed in a plain shirt and britches, but wears a nice leather jacket - sharkskin - over it. He holds a matching sharkshin cap in his weak hand.

He motions for me to remove the pack.

“You can’t have your wares in town, but have no worries. No one gets into things here. Looks like you have your own knot.”

“It’s not mine, sir,” I say. “It belongs to -” the peddler.

“And you mean to do no trade here?”

“I’m to wait for the peddler. He has trade in Beshof.”

“Is there sugar in this basket, boy?” the sheriff asks.

“No,” I stammer. “I mean, the peddler repacked the wares and took the small basket for himself.”

The sheriff nods and leads me to the storeroom inside his cottage. I put my burden down with fear. The peddler will be livid if I leave his things and they are opened.

“Can I stay with it?” I ask.

“No,” says the sheriff. “Go back to the goats. That’s a place to sleep. Let it be and it will be well.”

Submitted: April 21, 2023

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