Sourceless Stone

By Erik Harssan

When needs aren't met
we make decisions we come to regret
and we worry and fret
because some lenders do not forget

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Harssan
• Release date: Jan 15, 2016

Erik Harssan

Slayer of windmills

Book preview

Sourceless Stone

by

Erik

Harssan

Copyright 2016 Erik Harssan

Smashwords Edition

From inside the hollow the world was a shaggy green dish lidded by perfect blue. A breeze rustled the edges, but left the lower dish windless and warm. On the sunniest side grazed four floppy-eared ewes, and on a small bump near the bottom lay two shepherdesses. They had flattened the grass with their overcoats, and lounged in gowns of silvery felt, simple garments fit for summer and easy movement.

One of them had a stuffed brown satchel serving as pillow, and she watched the sheep while wiggling her bare toes in the sunshine. The other lay flat with a coat-sleeve over her eyes, and she balanced one black-shod foot on top of another.

Listen to them go, she said sleepily, through the coat-sleeve.

The sheep chewed tirelessly, and took turns ripping up grass with crisp rasps.

Yes, sturdy beasts, said the barefoot one, smiling at them. Not a wobble in their legs. And there’s Dolie, fatter than before the purge.

How much did she give? asked the shod one.

A quarter jug of greens, and some foamy whites. Distilled it came to four vials. Her voice warmed with admiration. An impressive production, from only some unripe bitterberries and sourtruffles.

The sheep chewed on.

And all of it went into the bloat-gut brothers, she continued, sounding sadder. If they survive they’ll owe Dolie and her sisters more than gold.

A saltlick would probably do, said the shod one. How did the brothers respond?

Very differently. The older is on a good trend, but the younger worsens by the day.

What’s their egg counts?

Nineteen for the older, and dropping nicely since the first run of greens. He’ll be switched to soft whites soon. Her voice slowed. But the younger exceeds sixty, even after the hard greens. She stared grimly away. And what a vile sight that was, the soups of eggs and spent acids he spewed.

The shod one sighed under her sleeve.

A mocking sickness it is, she said. Making men lay eggs before they die.

The sheep chewed on.

There’s still the reds, said the barefoot one. A run of raw searing reds might wash his inner tracts clean. As they did mine.

She watched her toes wiggle in the sunshine, pinkish and plump and alive.

Somewhere beyond the hollow, and behind the noises of grazing sheep, brushed the dry sweeps of a two-legged walker.

The barefoot one scanned the rim.

We have a guest?

She turned an ear to the steps, and her eyes sought the most likely spot.

A round, brown hat bobbed over the edge. The large brim bounced a little with each step, and shaded the face and two slender shoulders.

That is not someone we know, said the barefoot one, and poked her friend with an urgent toe.

They sat side by side on their coats, and studied the stranger in silence.

A leathery jacket flapped by the knees, and the overlong sleeves flopped by the sides, womanly shaped sides, held in by shiny black bandoliers. Stride by scuffing stride, she pushed through the tough growth above the hollow.

She’s dressed like a robber, said the shod one.

A dark scarf hid the stranger’s face.

That person should not be in our pastures, said the shod one. "Why didn’t the bridge men stop