The Stone of Cuore

by Stephen I. Carmer

The Village of Pristina

  Platov wandered for days following dirt tracks and trails through open arid land and dark haunted woods. Wolves snarled, bird screeched, rock slithers challenged his way, the trees themselves were nasty and unhelpful. No sign of Scorch, the dragon that would devour Platov on sight was seen, although an occasional dragon did fly over the trees. Wraith had not come looking for Platov either. After days of wandering, Platov’s orb suggested that he ought to stop worry so much about Wraith. Platov after all had the power to defeat the wicked wizard and an ally that would tell him how when the time came.

  On this day, Platov had been following a well-traveled road that meandered through the forest. Hungry and tired, Platov stumbled upon a small village nestled behind a rusted iron gate. Overhead, inscribed on the keystone was the name Pristina. Just beyond the gate, Platov could smell fish broiling over hot coals and the aroma of stone-ground bread baking. Without knowing who waited for him inside the walls, Platov bravely pushed open the gate and slipped inside.

  The village was not terribly crowded as only a few people were near the central square. One high tower rose up at the end of the square, while cluttered workshops and hovels haphazardly scattered about occupied most of the available space. The smell of food cooking was the only real part that Platov took much notice of as he was terribly hungry.

  “You will have to find a chore,” Sage spoke as Platov looked over his prospects. “Offer to sweep the floors, gather firewood, or clean the stables. Surely, someone will take pity on you if you work honestly.”

  Platov cautiously walked toward the single tower. Made of irregularly cut stone the tower was blackened near the base. With a single door at the top of a short stoop, the tower rose up high over the village. High up at the very top was a single window just under the peaked slate roof. All around the tower, tall, unkempt weeds and grasses grew except for a short pathway that led from the town square. Platov examined the tower carefully and then scoured the cluttered workshops to either side of the square. Men with long beards, dark eyes, and covered with dirt and soot from a hard day’s labor peered out of the workshops at Platov. Then his eyes fell on a boy who came darting out of workshop. The same age as Platov, the boy had long black hair and dark skin. He wore a leather skirt with a plain but dirty cloth shirt. His feet were covered in leather shoes with long laces that wound their way up his ankles culminating just below his knees. With big eyes, the boy bounded toward Platov.

  “Who are you?” The boy asked.

  “Platov.”

  “Where did you come from?’ The boy inquired curiously.

  Platov pointed beyond the gates, but where he had come from was actually a bit of a mystery as he had no idea.

  “I have walked many days,” Platov said. Given his appearance as he wore tattered clothing, torn shoes, and dirty long hair, he fit the part of a wanderer.

  “I am Tate,” he said introducing himself with big eyes. “Tatton actually, but I prefer Tate.”

  “I want to find work so that I might earn a morsel of food,” Platov begged and watched as Tate looked him over.

  “You will have to see Sabian,” Tate said. He pointed at the tall dark tower just beyond the squalor of the square. “He is a wizard. He owns this village. We all work for him.”

  “Sabian,” Platov muttered shyly. “Is he kind?”

  “I suppose,” Tate said. “Do not ever see much of him. He does not come out of his tower much. Go knock on the door and ask him for a job.”

  Platov nodded but then noticed a grizzly looking man standing at the door of the workshop that Tate had bounded out from. Wagon wheels were piled up around while just in front of the door was a workbench with tools scattered about. The man called after Tate, but Tate waved him off saying that he was taking the newcomer to see Sabian. Without comment, the grizzly workman disappeared back into the workshop.

  Being confidently led by Tate, Platov approached the tower cautiously. Encouraged and driven by the need to eat, Platov climbed the stoop and then reached up to the knocker. The sound of the iron knocker was little more than a thud that echoed back from somewhere inside. Then terrified that Wraith would open the door, Platov stood back and waited. Tate wanted to drag Platov back to the workshop right away so that he could show him how to work. Impatiently, he stood back while Platov stared at the weathered wooden door. Then he heard a sound inside the tower and before he could dash away, the door swung open.

  An ancient bearded wizard wearing a gray robe with a pointed hat stood on the other side of the entry. He held a forged iron twisted Staff in his hand and stared out at Platov with gray misty eyes. His robe was adorned with symbols while several charms hung from his rope belt.

  “Yes,” the wizard inquired.

  “I am Platov,” he replied with a gulp.

  “And you have come asking for a job so that you might eat?” Sabian asked.

  “How did you know?” Platov asked.

  “I know everything that is important,” Sabian replied. “Why I have seen you approaching for several hours now. You have courage to wander the forest alone.”

  “I have seen dragons, wolves, and slithers,” Platov admitted.

  “The forest is filled with creatures!” Sabian laughed with sparkling eyes.

  Platov gulped as he watched the gray wizard.

  “I am hungry, set me to a task and I will not disappoint you,” Platov pleaded.

  “Tatton, take Platov and tell Hanze that I said he is to have his supper first. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to be shown what to do.” Sabian instructed.

  “Thank you, sir.” Platov said humbly. Then with one last glance at Sabian, he darted off with Tate.

  …

  Having earned two enemies by the age of twelve, Platov had also found in Tate his first real friend. Pristina was a busy place as most of the men worked in the foundry making kettles from iron ore. The smoke from the fires was black during the daytime as iron ore was smelted and sent into molds that formed the kettles. Daily, wood had to be gathered from the forest while twice a week, wagons were loaded with kettles and taken to a far away market. Platov was given a job working alongside Tate fixing the wagons as needed or gathering wood when required. With a little bit of straw set in a corner of the wagon shop, Platov had a warm place to sleep at night. Dinner was never much, usually just fish caught from a nearby Adzes River at the bottom of the steep chasm. Certain men of the village tended to the fishing and occasional hunting, while several women who wore scarves over their heads tended to baking the bread and filleting the fish. Pristina was a quiet town where nothing much out of the ordinary ever happened. The days meandered along with few changes in routine or circumstances. Just as Tate had said, Sabian rarely was seen as he never left his tower. At night, candlelight could be seen flickering in the single window high up at the very top of the blackened tower. Tate was no wizard, but Platov had confided in him that he had magical abilities. He had shown Tate his ill-gotten stone and the orb as well.

  “Platov!” Hanze called. The village was busy as the men had just come back from the river with the day’s catch of fish. Fires burned in the center of the town sending a plume of gray smoke into the forest.

  “Yes sir!” Platov called back. Evidently, Hanze did not hear him for just as Platov answered him, Hanze called again and not so kindly this time.

  Platov dashed from the gatehouse with Tate at his side.

  “Yea,” Platov said as he produced himself to Hanze.

  “Be making a fire!” Hanze grouched and pointed to where the coals of his furnace were growing cold.

  “Yea,” Platov dashed off and gathered up several dried and split logs to toss onto the smoldering coals. Sparks filled the air over the furnace. Then Platov stood back stirring the fire with a long iron poker.

  “Be fixing them wagon wheels!” Hanze demanded.

  “The day, it be about done,” Platov replied meekly.

  “There by time yet,” Hanze growled. “Then ye can go
.”

  “Yea,” Platov nodded and then with Tate he ran off to pull out one of the broken wagon wheels. Tate brought a second back and then both looked over the wheels missing several spokes. The road to the market was rough and the wagons heavily loaded took a beating. Tate pulled the broke spokes out and then went to the woodpile to find some lengths of wood to replace them with. Platov in the meantime took a length cut from a long branch and began peeling off the bark with a spokeshave. The sharpened metal blade cut through the bark and then catching it with just the right angle and pulling real hard, the entire length of bark peeled off the branch.

  “We be working until dusk to fix these,” Tate grumbled as he brought back several branches of the right size. He set them out in a row and then taking the one that looked the best, he set to cleaning away the bark just as Platov was doing.

  “Canst you hex them?” Tate asked as he wanted to get the work done. The smell of broiling river trout was filling his nostrils. He was thinking more about his empty stomach than having to work on wagon wheels for several more hours.

  Platov looked around slyly and then seeing Hanze in the back working over the coals, he motioned with a slight movement of his head. Taking the hint, Tate picked up his work and then the two of them slipped around behind the workshop.

  Holding out his labradorite stone, Platov wished the work to be done. Four new spokes perfectly shaped and sized appeared. Tate glanced over his shoulder and then they hurried back to their workbench. Testing the spokes, they found them to fit fine. Proudly, they rolled the wheels inside for Hanze’s approval.

  “Ye be getting them done mighty fast!” Hanze said without looking took closely at the work.

  “We had the spokes,” Platov said. “We just had to trim them a bit to make them fit proper.”

  “Then be gone with you today,” Hanze waved them away.

  Leaning the wheels against the wall, Platov and Tate hurried away. Finding a dinner of fish skewered on a stick, they climbed up to the top of the village’s walls and sat with their feet dangling over the parapet. Down below people were closing up their workshops for the evening while in the tall stone tower, a single torch flickered in the high window. Nightfall was coming on with an approaching bank of dark storm clouds.

  “The wizard be watching,” Tate said looking suspiciously up at the tower window.

  “Do you thinks he be telling Hanze what we did?” Platov asked. Then he took the stick with the broiled fish and bit off a chunk.

  “He did not see us?” Tate asked with a tad of guilt.

  “I don’t thinks he be watching,” Platov said. “We done it before.” Glancing up warily at the top of the tower, Platov could not help but to notice a brass rod tuning on the very top of the roof. Curiously, he watched as the brass rod turned first in one direction and then back the other way.

  “He be strange,” Tate said as he too watched the brass rod. “Be best not to be looking at this contraption, it’s bewitched.”

  “I wonder what it is?” Platov asked.

  “A telescope,” Sage replied. Startled, Tate looked over at the sturdy cloth bag that Platov kept tied to his belt.

  “What is a telescope?” Platov asked while Tate tried not to smirk as the talking orb was the strangest thing.

  “A device for viewing the stars and the moon,” Sage replied. “Sabian has stumbled upon you fate.”

  “What hast I got to do with the stars and the moon?” Platov asked.

  “You will soon find out,” Sage replied.

  Tate stared at the cloth bag where the voice was coming from and then looked at Platov with a shrug.

  “The stars and the moon,” Platov muttered.

  Chapter 5: The Moonstone