The Stone Girl's Story

by Sarah Beth Durst

Sighing, Risa folded her wings around herself. “Then we wait.”

  “Make yourselves at home,” Garit said. “You can look around, if you like. Meet the other stone creatures. If you’re hungry, you can visit the kitchen . . .” He smacked his head with the heel of his palm. “No, obviously, you can’t be hungry. Sorry.”

  “There are more stone creatures here?” Mayka asked. She’d seen the otters outside and the magnificent griffin, but she hadn’t paid attention to anything as she’d raced through the house. She’d been too focused on Jacklo.

  “Lots,” Garit said.

  I want to meet them! All of them! She’d seen plenty of other stone creatures in the city, of course, but here was a chance to talk to them and hear their stories. She glanced at the workroom door, then at the birds and Si-Si, then at the door again. Given that Jacklo was fine and the stonemason was busy . . . “I’ll be back soon,” she promised the birds.

  “We’ll be here,” Risa said. “Waiting.”

  Leaving Garit with the others, she went to explore the rest of the stonemason’s house. She’d passed through so quickly before that she’d barely looked. Now she wandered slowly. It was strange and beautiful, with mosaics on the floors, walls, and ceilings. Made of shards of stone, they showed flowers, vines, woodland animals, sea creatures, and dozens of kinds of birds. Every doorway was trimmed with stone swirls and flourishes.

  As she peeked into dining rooms and sitting rooms, she heard a thunk, thunk, thunk sound. She followed the sound until she reached a stairway made of rolling boulders. Each boulder thunked as it fell onto the next one. It was like the street outside but more complex.

  As they tumbled, she read their marks: “I roll. I carry. I . . .” The third mark was one she didn’t recognize—​it was another verb but with flourishes all around it. “Curious he didn’t name you.” The marks were all verbs, which wasn’t the same as an identity. She looked up the stairwell. Am I supposed to ride on them?

  She supposed she was.

  “Do you mind if I walk on you?”

  The moving steps didn’t answer. She hadn’t really expected them to—​their story was so simple that all they knew was a life of constant motion.

  Stepping onto the first boulder, she held out her arms for balance as it rolled beneath her, carrying her up the stairwell. She stepped off at the top and looked back down at it, as it continued to roll along, not speaking, not reacting, just rolling. What an odd thing to carve, she thought. It wasn’t necessary or even very useful. She hadn’t risen to any great height, and she could have easily walked up ordinary stairs.

  She wondered what other oddities the stonemason’s home held.

  Upstairs, the walls were of polished blue stone with flecks of mica. They glittered like the night sky, and she found herself looking for constellations as she walked along.

  The walls murmured as she passed, as if talking about her, but she couldn’t hear any clear words. It was more like the babbling of a brook. She found their marks: “‘Walls that watch.’ That’s it? Where’s the rest of your story?”

  Searching the corridor, she found more marks: “Protect against the rain and cold. And . . . huh, there it is again.” The mark on the boulders she hadn’t recognized. She wished she could draw and dissect it. It seemed to be a mix of other marks. Staring at it, she thought it reminded her of the mark for “lead” but it was backwards.

  Up ahead, she heard a noise like a brushing sound and went toward it. Rounding the corner, she faced a stone creature that looked . . . well, she’d never seen anything like him. Sculpted from sandstone, his body was bulbous, with eyes set into either side, and he had eight smooth . . . tails? Each tail held a brush or a broom, and the creature was maneuvering through the hallway, dusting and sweeping everything he could reach.

  “Hello? I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”

  The creature halted. “You aren’t tracking dirt into the house, are you?” He stuck to the ceiling as he climbed over her to examine the floor behind her; then he swept.

  “Sorry,” she said again. “But . . .” She didn’t know what to ask without being rude. “Were you made by Master Siorn?”

  “Yes, I most certainly was. Lift your left foot.”

  Mayka obeyed, and the creature rubbed the bottom of her foot with a rag. “Um, would you mind if I read your story?”

  “Right foot.”

  Mayka lifted her right foot. She held her arms out to balance. “It’s only that I’ve never seen anything like you.”

  “Octopus,” the creature said. “See the eight tentacles? Master Siorn saw an illustration on a map drawn by a sea captain, and he decided to replicate me. I was shown at the last Stone Festival, but there wasn’t any demand for me, so Master Siorn kindly decided to keep me. He gave me a purpose here in his home.” He lifted two tentacles (Not tails, Mayka thought) to expose his stomach, which was etched with a spiraling circle of marks.

  She spotted the mark for “octopus” quickly. Even though she hadn’t seen it before, it was a clear representation of the creature. The story went on to talk about how the octopus loved cleanliness and order and . . . And there’s that same mark again. Curious.

  Why would the stairs, the walls, and the octopus all have the same mark?

  “Excuse me, but I must continue my work.” The octopus lowered his tentacles and continued down the hallway, not touching the floor but instead suspending himself between the walls and cleaning beneath him. Mayka watched him go.

  The mark was a mix of two other marks, she was sure, judging by the way the indents curved, but which marks? And could that really be an actual creature? She’d never heard of an octopus.

  Still mulling over the marks, she peeked into rooms: bedrooms and bathrooms, and then she went down again—​using a second rolling boulder staircase—​and found the kitchen.

  The kitchen was curved like a cave but an open one with stone tables down the center and hearths on either side. A fire danced in the fireplace, with pots and pans and kettles hanging over it from an iron rod.

  It was a marvel.

  Not so much because of the room itself, but because of the creatures in it.

  Six stone creatures bustled between the tables. One would chop a vegetable and toss the slices into the air, another would fling a pot across the room, and a third would catch the pot, then catch the vegetables. The other three were playing by the fire, tossing a glowing ember back and forth as if it were a ball. Once in a while, they’d pause to scrub a pot or fold a piece of laundry.

  All of them looked like mishmashes of other creatures: one was half hedgehog and half lizard, one had a deer head with antlers but a body like a turtle. Another had human hands but a snake’s body covered in stone scales. Another looked like a cross between a duck and a rabbit. These were the creatures that Garit had mentioned—​the ones that Master Siorn had carved but no one wanted. They’re incredible, she thought.

  Careful not to interrupt what looked like a choreographed dance, Mayka picked her way between them, studying them and looking for their marks.

  Oddly, on all of them, she saw the same mark she’d seen on the stairs, wall, and octopus. It was improbable for so many vastly different creatures to all bear the same bit of story.

  Seating herself on an unused stool, she began to draw the mark in flour that had been spilled on a table. Sketching the various lines, she separated them into essentials.

  Two different marks—​combined into one—​that much was clear.

  One was the verb “lead” inverted.

  The other . . . It didn’t resemble any word she ever knew—​it was structured like a noun but not a familiar one. The fact that the two marks were intertwined had to be important. Rubbing her hand across the flour, she wiped out her experiments.

  “Stone girl,” a voice grated.

  She looked up to see the griffin, Kisonan, filling the arched doorway into the kitchen. All movement and sound ceased as everyone turned to look at Mayka.

 
“This household functions best when everyone focuses on their duties, without distraction,” Kisonan informed her, then barked to the others, “Go about your tasks! The master requires his dinner in his private workroom. Leave it outside the door.”

  Crossing the room, Mayka smiled and nodded at the strange creatures, who all ducked their heads and resumed chopping and mixing and stirring. A few smiled back at her. “Sorry for bothering you,” she said.

  One—​the half headgehog, half lizard—​waved its paw. “No worries. Not a bother.” The creatures all returned to their slicing and stirring and cooking, chattering to one another in a low murmur.

  Reaching Kisonan, she asked, “Do you have the same mark?”

  “Excuse me?” He ruffled his neck feathers as if she’d just asked something rude.

  Mayka was growing tired of trying to guess what passed for manners here in the valley. It wasn’t an unreasonable question. She was curious. All of them wore the same story, yet they were all so different. It didn’t make sense.

  “The one that looks like a verb and a noun tied together. May I read your marks?” Mayka stepped toward him, eager to see what was written on the griffin.

  “My story is mine alone,” Kisonan said. “Now, if you would allow me to escort you back to the workroom. The master would not want you poking your nose into matters that don’t concern you and upsetting the balance of his household. You are here as his guest, and if the master wants—”

  An idea occurred to her, and what had seemed to be merely an interesting mystery now suddenly seemed alarming. No, it couldn’t be. She interrupted him. “How does your master write his name?”

  The griffin broke off his scolding. “Pardon?”

  Mayka hurried past him—​she didn’t need him to answer. She knew where Siorn’s name would be. All the stonemasons had had signs in front of their houses. She hadn’t paid attention to Siorn’s, but if she was right . . . Please, don’t be right. She reached the boulder that served as the door.

  Kisonan squeezed between her and the door. “I do not believe the master wants you to leave. He wants to study you and help you. If you’ll wait here while I inquire—”

  “I’m not leaving.” Not yet, she thought. And not without my friends. But if I’m right . . . “I only wish to see his sign. Could you please step aside?”

  He hesitated a moment, then scooted sideways. “It is heavy. You seem agitated. Perhaps if you told me your concerns, I could assist—”

  “It could be nothing,” she said. “Overactive imagination.”

  Bracing herself, Mayka pushed the boulder. It rolled sideways, opening a gap. Outside the stone otters popped up around the yard. “Play, play, play?”

  “Not now,” Mayka said.

  She stepped out, careful where she put her feet, trying to remember the exact pattern that Garit had walked. An otter popped up from behind a boulder. Watching her, it chittered to its friends. She stopped walking and called, “Lizard? Hello? Could you please turn around?” She hoped she was wrong. Garit seemed so friendly, and Master Siorn seemed so nice. Absentminded and focused on his work, perhaps, but no more than Father had been. When Father had been in the middle of a carving, it would have taken an earthquake shaking the mountain to catch his attention.

  One of the lizards at the gate swiveled its head to look at her.

  “The shield you hold. May I see it?”

  He turned, facing the stone shield toward her.

  Oh no.

  She was right.

  This was it, the noun she hadn’t recognized, beside the mark for a stonemason. It was Master Siorn’s name. The mark she hadn’t recognized was his name, combined with the inverted sign for “lead,” which could be read as “obey.”

  Obey Master Siorn.

  He’d made that a part of all of the creatures’ stories. Obey me, he’d written on their bodies. She was certain she was reading it correctly, and equally certain they had to leave. Right now.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  Mayka did not run.

  She was proud that she didn’t. She walked, calmly, under the eye of the curious griffin, back through the halls, past the kitchen, and by the octopus, who clucked at her and cleaned the floor where she stepped, to the door of the workroom.

  Hurrying past her, the griffin blocked the doorway. “You cannot disturb Master Siorn. He’s in his private workroom, which means he wants no interruptions.”

  “I won’t bother him,” Mayka promised. “I just need to speak with Si-Si and my bird friends.” She pushed past his wing—​Kisonan was larger, but she was made of stone too, and he wasn’t trying to keep her out of the main room.

  Inside, Risa was perched on top of Jacklo’s cage, talking to him, while Si-Si was still huddled by the door to the back room. Garit was next to her, and they were deep in conversation. Seeing him, she hesitated. Once she announced her intention to leave, the apprentice might try to stop them. Don’t be so untrusting, she told herself. It’s not as if he captured me. Coming here was my idea. Garit had only been kind.

  She hurried over to Risa and Jacklo.

  Reaching into Jacklo’s cage, she scooped the bird into her arms.

  Jacklo squawked. “I’m supposed to rest!”

  “You’re supposed to stay still,” Mayka told him. “I’ll carry you, and you can stay still. Come on, Risa, on my shoulder.”

  “What’s going on?” Risa asked.

  “We’re finding a new stonemason,” Mayka asked, keeping her voice level, calm, and low, as if every instinct weren’t screaming at her to run. “I don’t like this one’s style.”

  “But he helped me!” Jacklo said. “He saved me!”

  “Hush,” Mayka told him.

  “He’s a genius and a hero,” Jacklo continued.

  “She said hush,” Risa said, and snapped her beak at him. He subsided and curled himself against Mayka’s chest. Cradling Jacklo, she crossed the workroom.

  The boy looked up from the dragon. “You’re back. Did you meet the others? What did you think of the octopus? And the stairs? Did you ride the rolling stairs? The first day I was here, I must have ridden them up and down twenty times.”

  Mayka made herself smile and say in a casual, friendly voice, “Hello, Garit, thank you so much for your hospitality, and please thank your master for us for helping Jacklo. We very much appreciate it, but it’s time for us to leave now. Si-Si, you should come with us too.”

  “What? Why?” Si-Si got to her feet. “I can’t leave! Garit has offered to fix me!”

  “Try to fix you,” he corrected. Standing, he twisted his hands in his apron nervously. “I’m going to study the dragon, in conjunction with the bird, to see if I can figure out how to adapt the bird’s marks and structure so that the dragon can fly—​I know it’s never been done before, but no one has ever had Master Kyn’s original work to study. I’ve already started to make notes.”

  “I believe in you!” Si-Si cheered.

  He smiled at her, a wavering, hopeful kind of smile.

  “Apprentice Garit, I’m sure you’re a wonderful person who means well, and I’m sure you’re a very talented stonemason, but we need to leave. There’s a mark on every stone creature in this house that I believe is . . . Well, we can’t stay.”

  Garit’s smile faded. “What mark?” From his expression, she had the sense he knew exactly what she meant. His shoulders had tensed, riding up beside his neck, and his breath had quickened. But Si-Si had a mulish look on her face. It was clear she wasn’t going to leave until Mayka explained, and Jacklo wouldn’t be happy either.

  Mayka turned to the griffin. “You have it too, don’t you? Show them.”

  The griffin drew himself taller. “You do not understand—”

  “I think I do,” Mayka said.

  He studied her for a moment and then slowly he lifted one wing to display a mark on the side of his chest, tucked up under where the wing bone met the shoulder. It was the same mark she’d seen on the ot
hers.

  “Obedience,” Mayka said, pointing to it. “That’s what it means. It means his story is owned by Master Siorn.”

  Risa gasped, and Si-Si let out a whimper. “You’re wrong,” the dragon pleaded. “You have to be reading it wrong.”

  Mayka tried to keep her voice calm. It was horrible, the worst mark she’d ever seen, a corruption of what stories were supposed to be. Stories were supposed to set you free to be whoever you could be, but this . . . it constrained instead of freed. “We need to leave, because anyone who would carve a mark like that is not someone I want carving into my friends.”

  Kisonan lowered his wing.

  Garit was staring at her, shock clearly on his face. “You can read it?”

  “Can’t you?” Mayka countered. He was a stonemason-in-training. He should be able to. Given that it was on every creature in the house, he couldn’t have missed it. The question was, why was he okay with it? “It took me a while to decipher, because I’ve never seen a mark used like that. It’s not right.”

  “Master Siorn said . . .” Garit looked uncomfortable, as if ants were crawling on him and he wanted to shake them off. “He said it makes them part of his household. It makes them safer, because they’re his.”

  Si-Si perked up. “Does that mean she read it wrong? This is my best chance at my dreams, and I don’t want to run away because Mayka misread a story.”

  “I didn’t misread it,” Mayka said. “That’s what the mark says.”

  “You said yourself that the marks are just guides,” Si-Si said. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation that isn’t . . . this. The obedience mark doesn’t exist. It’s a legend! The stories say that in the Stone War, a stonemason used an obedience mark to compel stone creatures to fight. But no one believes it.”

  Mayka shook her head. Even if she was reading it wrong . . . I’m not, she thought. Regardless, there were plenty of other stonemasons in the Stone Quarter. They could simply pick another one. Maybe the one with the mice and the maze. Or the one with all the doors.

  “He’s making their lives his. Their stories his. Don’t you see? With ordinary marks, we choose how we act and react, based on our stories. But with this ‘obedience mark,’ Master Siorn chooses.” She fixed her gaze on Kisonan. “He controls your story.”