The Knowledge Stone

by Jack McGinnigle

  He knew he had to hurry now. Old Malik only allowed him a few minutes to eat the food and drink that Maretta angrily threw down for him every morning. Running, he arrived just as Maretta tossed the familiar small wicker basket down on a flat stone just outside the door of the farmhouse. He tried to thank her but she ignored him, muttered something under her breath and slammed the door shut.

  The boy had tried very hard to please Maretta when he first arrived but she either rebuffed him icily or shouted angrily for him to go away, sometimes slapping his face if he didn’t move fast enough. At first, this harsh and unkind treatment made him cry but he had long become hardened to it. Nevertheless, he had made it a rule to be scrupulously polite to Maretta; maybe someday she would be in a better mood and smile at him – or better still, let him have more food.

  As he perched on the fallen tree trunk where he ate his morning and evening meals, he heard loud shouting from the farmhouse. Obviously, poor Giana had done something wrong and the shouting was punctuated by the sharp crack of a hard hand hitting soft flesh. Joachim dropped his head in compassionate fellowship but at the same time was pleased that the sound was not the so-familiar muffled thud of a heavy stick bruising and cutting into taut flesh and muscle: ‘I’m glad they don’t beat her with a stick,’ he thought, ‘slaps are really sore but they don’t injure you so much.’

  In the past, the boy had tried many times to show friendship to Giana. He was forbidden to talk to her but inevitably they met at times because the area of the farm was not very large. Meeting face to face, he had smiled at her a number of times but his smile was never returned. She looked either blank or cross.

  ‘In fact,’ Joachim remembered, ‘there was that day when we met on the narrow path to the field and she pushed me right into the mud, whispering: “Get out of my way, you horrible boy!”’. Momentarily, he felt rather sad that everybody hated him.

  Meanwhile the boy ate quickly from the scarred wooden bowl perched on his knees. This morning there were two slices of coarse brown bread and a small piece of hard cheese, all made by Maretta from their own farm produce.

  ‘This tastes pretty good,’ the boy thought as he ate, ‘I just wish there was more.’ He was always hungry and sometimes experienced quite sharp pains in his stomach. She had also given him a large earthenware cup of goat’s milk and he drank that down quickly.

  It was always a problem for him to find enough to drink. Sometimes, he was driven to drink water from the small muddy stream that crossed the farm at the bottom of the field. Before drinking the water from the stream, he always examined it carefully, meticulously removing any dirt, insects or rotting vegetation; even then he knew from past experience that the water might still make him sick.

  ‘The trouble is, you can’t see the evil spirits,’ he always reminded himself, ‘I wish I was like Old Malik and never had to drink this water.’ While working, Old Malik drank from bottles of beer that Maretta had brewed for him. He never offered any to the boy and Joachim knew better than to ask for some.

  The door of the farmhouse opened with a crash and Old Malik appeared. Without looking at the boy, he spoke harshly: ‘Get moving. You’re ploughing today. Get started at the top of the field and make sure your furrows are deep and straight. I’ll be examining them and they had better be right.’ As he spoke he tossed a cloth bundle towards the boy – this was Joachim’s daytime meal, to be eaten during a very short break in work when Old Malik gave permission.

  The boy deftly caught the bundle before it spilled its contents on the muddy ground; this was an important skill he had learned after many occasions of scavenging his precious food from the stinking dirt. He tied the ends of the cloth around his belt, already moving towards the pen where the bullocks were kept. Old Malik kept two bullocks for heavy work on the farm; the boy was directed to use the smaller animal with a lighter plough to deal with the rather poor, stony soil at the top of the field while Old Malik used the larger beast with a heavier plough which was more suitable for the lower field where the ground was softer, more fertile and much easier to plough.

  Fortunately, both bullocks were quite docile creatures and the boy usually had little trouble with them. In addition to the animal he was to use, it was also his job to fasten the harness around Old Malik’s bullock, so that it was ready to be hitched to the plough.

  ‘Better do his bullock first,’ he thought, ‘otherwise I might get into trouble.’ He made soft clucking noises to reassure the bullocks as he approached with the sets of harness ropes and had no problems putting them on, achieving this just before the arrival of Old Malik.

  The farmer glared at him and growled, ‘You still here? Get moving and make it quick.’

  The boy immediately left the pen with his bullock as quickly as he could, avoiding the kick that Old Malik aimed at him as he passed. As he led the bullock along the packed earth of the path that led up to the top of the field, he delighted in the crisp, sunny morning and hummed a little song he had learned from his mother when he was a little boy. ‘At least the bullock likes my singing,’ he thought with a little smile, ‘even if no-one else does.’

  The wooden plough lay at the edge of the field where it had been left at the end of the last ploughing season. Its metal parts were rusty but the boy knew that the rust would be cleared away as soon as he started ploughing. Heaving and straining, he pulled the plough upright and propped it up with a stick. Then he manoeuvred the bullock round to the front of the plough and fastened the harness ropes to the cleats. Holding the plough upright on its single wooden wheel and keeping the ploughing blade clear of the earth, he tapped the bullock on its back with a stick, calling for it to walk forward. The animal complied and, in due course, they reached the top of the field where they turned around and were ready to begin ploughing.

  There were times when the boy really enjoyed his work on the farm and this was one of them. Despite his inexperience, lack of strength and diminutive stature, he knew he did a good job of ploughing.

  ‘Not that Old Malik ever says so,’ he thought ruefully, ‘but the fact he doesn’t complain means that he must be satisfied. I do wish he would be nice to me, just occasionally.’ He sighed wistfully.

  As expected, the ground was dry and difficult. The plough stalled and jammed many times and the bullock had to heave with all its power to pull it free. There were some occasions when even the strength of the bullock was insufficient and then the boy had to dig around the large jagged stones and heave them out of the furrow. Some stones were so big and heavy that the boy could not lift them and they had to be rolled laboriously, end over end, to the edge of the field. Soon, his hands became reddened, bruised and sore.

  When the boy eventually reached the end of the first furrow, he looked back to admire his work: ‘Not bad,’ he thought, ‘quite straight and it looks to be deep enough.’ He hoped fervently that Old Malik would be satisfied with his work.

  The plough was turned around and the second furrow made in the same agonisingly slow way. These first two furrows were followed by the third, the fourth and the fifth, all neatly parallel to each other. The sun was now high in the sky. The boy stopped and mopped his beaded forehead with a rag, squinting upwards at the blazing sun.

  ‘Whew! It’s really hot now,’ he said aloud. Then he jumped as the harsh, strident tones of Old Malik’s voice pierced his delightful reverie.

  ‘Talking to yourself, are you? Just about what I expect. You’ll grow up to be a madman – that is, if you live long enough to grow up!’ Old Malik thought this a very good joke and laughed loudly and unkindly. By this time he had walked to the top of the field where he scrutinised Joachim’s furrows narrowly.

  The boy waited in silence, trembling a little.

  Old Malik stood completely still and said nothing for several minutes. Then, he turned on his heel and walked off down the hill. ‘You can eat after you give that
beast a drink.’

  Standing some distance away, Joachim barely heard the rapidly fading words, carried away on the wind. Obediently, the boy visited the stream and fetched water for his bullock; he also watered Old Malik’s animal at the bottom of the field. Although Old Malik had not ordered him to do this, he knew from bitter experience that he would be in trouble if he did not attend to the other beast. At times, Old Malik used such tricks as an excuse for beating the boy.

  ‘I hope this will please him,’ Joachim thought. He also fed both animals by laying down a pile of sweet-smelling hay for each. Then, sitting under the thin branches of the spindly tree in the top corner of the field, he spread out his daytime meal on the cloth. The boy observed with gratitude that the slices of bread were thicker than those he had been given in the morning. There was a thick piece of cheese and a small pat of butter, too. To drink, Maretta had included a pot of mead, made from the honey produced on the farm.

  ‘What a feast,’ the boy thought, ‘I’m really lucky to be given such good food.’ Within a short time, the midday meal had been consumed and the boy prepared to have a short rest before starting again on the exhausting task of ploughing. ‘Anyway,’ he thought, ‘my beast needs to rest.’

  The boy knew that Old Malik always returned to the farmhouse for his midday meal and that he would be absent for quite a long time – much longer than the brief respite that Joachim was allowed. Because of this, the boy knew that he could rest safely for a time, which he could measure by the creeping shadow of the tree across the ground. He knew he must be hard at work when Old Malik returned to the lower part of the field. He marked the position of the shadow, lay back and stretched luxuriously. ‘Yes, life is good,’ he thought., ‘I’m not hungry or thirsty, my back is only slightly sore and I can be alone and relax for a little while.’

  Time passed and Joachim’s thoughts wandered gently. Then a feeling of unreality crept over him slowly, a feeling he had never experienced before. It was strange but not unpleasant so he was not frightened or worried by it. He felt almost connected to the earth rather than lying upon it. He heard, or rather, sensed the start of a gentle sound. At first he could not identify what it was but then he realised it was like the rustling of many leaves when the wind blew through a large broad-leafed tree. The sound strengthened progressively until it pervaded his mind. A deep peace descended upon him.

  Time passed.

  ‘Crack!’ A dry twig below his shoulders snapped, a tiny sound that exploded in his mind like a clap of thunder. The boy sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and fearful, focussing with difficulty to scan the field before swivelling round to check the position of the tree shadow.

  ‘Not much movement,’ he breathed gratefully. However his sudden awakening had shaken him considerably and he also felt peculiar, as if something special had happened. Scanning all around, he could not see anything untoward; still the fine sunny day, the quiet field and, thankfully, no sign of Old Malik. ‘A funny dream,’ he concluded, ‘I wonder what it means.’ The boy knew that dreams could be messages from the spirits.

  As he continued to sit quietly on the ground, he felt there was still something he must do, but he couldn’t think what it might be. Again, he looked around carefully – nothing different or strange. It was when he turned to admire the straight furrows of his ploughing that he saw something odd. There, some distance away in the bottom of his last furrow, was an intense, sparkling light. Of course the boy had seen things reflecting the sunlight before; some stones sparkled, or sometimes water droplets on the grass reflected the sunlight in beautiful pinpoints of light – but this was different – bigger, brighter.

  ‘What can that be?’ he asked himself and went to investigate.

  The object proved to be unremarkable. A small pale yellow stone projecting vertically from the ground, roughly cylindrical in shape but with two smooth depressions on each side of the cylinder towards the top. He stretched out a hand and picked it up, his forefinger and thumb slipping naturally into the smooth cavities. As he did so, he imagined he felt a peculiar little jolt deep in his body.

  ‘Must be the effect of the mead,’ he thought. He examined the stone from all angles and noted that it was quite light in weight. At first he thought it was completely plain and smooth but closer examination revealed shallow striations from end to end and it was from these shallow marks that the sun reflected brightly. ‘Maybe it’s magic,’ he thought, but he smiled as he said this because, unlike the people in olden times, he did not believe in magic stones. ‘But it’s really quite nice; I’ll keep it in my pouch. It can be my secret,’ he thought, and felt quite pleased that he had something in his possession that no-one knew about.

  Now he walked back to the tree and checked the shadow.

  ‘Better get started again,’ he thought, ‘Old Malik will be coming back soon.’ He felt particularly calm and rested. The bullock was roused, re-harnessed to the plough and work restarted.

  Not long after, when Joachim was about halfway along his new furrow, the burly, grizzled figure of Old Malik appeared at the lower corner of the field.

  Old Malik

  Replete from his ample daytime meal, washed down by copious quantities of farm-brewed beer, Old Malik strode towards the field, his large booted feet tramping angrily on the path.

  ‘That boy had better be working hard when I get there,’ he thought, ‘otherwise he’s in trouble.’ He smiled unpleasantly at the thought. He kept a beating stick at the top of the field and would not hesitate to use it on the boy.

  Other men might feel satisfied and good-humoured after a good meal with plenty of beer to drink but Old Malik’s life had settled into bitterness and anger many years before. He and his wife had long ceased to have any close relationship and now they barely tolerated each other. Nevertheless, he recognised that he was dependent on Maretta. Although he would never have admitted it, he knew that it would be impossible to run the farm without her.

  For many years in the past, his only “pleasure” had been in bullying and beating the unfortunate men and women who worked on his farm. When the farm was more productive, several men and women worked for him and he had always been quick to abuse them. In recent years, these adult workers had gone and he could only vent his spleen on the unfortunate Joachim and, to a lesser extent, on the girl Giana. Old Malik had long translated his constant unhappiness into violent behaviour towards those who worked for him.

  ‘They need beatings,’ he muttered with perverse satisfaction, ‘they need to know who is in charge.’

  In his life, Old Malik had actually had four names. He had been born on the farm and, as the firstborn son, had followed the local tradition of taking his father’s name. Thus, the sturdy baby who grew into a small boy was called Little Malik, his first designation. Later, as he grew up to become a strong and muscular boy, his name was changed to Young Malik. Two decades later, on the death of his father, Young Malik became the owner of the farm and became plain Malik for many years. In time, his lined, weather-beaten face and grizzled hair transformed him into Old Malik, arguably his final incarnation. However, no-one ever called him Old Malik to his face (no-one would have dared!); in the local villages where he appeared occasionally to buy, sell or barter, his few acquaintances would shake his hand and call him Malik.

  On the farm, Maretta spoke very little to him and, these days, never spoke his name; for many years, she had addressed him only as “Husband”. Likewise, he addressed her as “Wife”. Of course Joachim or Giana were not entitled to speak the names of Old Malik or Maretta but acknowledged them as Master and Mistress on the very few occasions they were required to speak. Normally, Old Malik did most of the talking and no response was required or expected!

  Old Malik was a man who lived in the present; he gave little thought to the future and seemed to have no interest in the past. In fact his childhood had actually been happy and secure. Althou
gh his father set the Young Malik to work on the farm at quite an early age and required a good standard of work from him, he was always pleasant and fair to him. He loved his son and wished him well. Young Malik was strong and physically well-coordinated so he did not find his work on the farm onerous.

  However, the academic side of Young Malik’s training never went so well. His father was an educated man who could read and write well; in addition he had enough skill and understanding of figures to keep the farm accounts meticulously. Naturally, he wished to pass on all these talents to his son and spent many long hours teaching him reading, writing and basic numerical skills, as well as passing on the considerable general knowledge he had acquired during his life. With dogged persistence, Young Malik eventually was able to read and write and became sufficiently numerate to deal with simple accounting procedures.

  His mother was a cheerful, energetic woman who doted upon her first-born son. She spoiled him when she could and clearly favoured him over her other children. She arranged that he sat next to her at family meals and surreptitiously fed him the best bits of food from the communal dishes before the others could take them. During the day, she attended to him assiduously any time he was present, making sure his clothes were always in good repair and putting delicious tit-bits in his food bag when he left for work.