Free The Knowledge Stone by Jack McGinnigle Page A

eventual arrival at Old Malik’s farm.

Giana
    I t had been a long night of vicious weather. Now the dim light of dawn revealed churned, saturated ground peppered everywhere with deep pools of constantly rippled water. The wind, a ferocious, howling gale during the night with stinging, near-horizontal rain that chilled and soaked in an instant, had now given way truculently to a lower order of storm. Even so, the day had still dawned raw and angry, a bilious scudding grey augmented by cruel gusts of icy rain, driven pitilessly against those unfortunate enough to be out.
    The woman (though in truth hardly more than a girl) had by chance stumbled close enough to the mouth of a low, dark cave in the hillside and taken blessed refuge there at the height of the storm the night before. Although cold, the cave was dry inside and sheltered from the worst of the wind.
    As soon as she had penetrated far enough into the cave to escape the weather, the woman sank to the floor in a paralysing haze of increasing, pulsating pain. She was filled with terror as she realised her time had come and now she scrabbled around ineffectually with her hands, trying to prepare for the arrival into the world of the life that had been beating inside her for so many months.
    The night developed steadily into an unbearable, all-pervading crescendo of pulsating pain, worse than anything the woman could ever have imagined. Her shrill screams echoed in the cave but were quickly snatched away by the banshee howls of the wind outside.
    By morning, it had been fulfilled. The woman lay exhausted, desperately calling into the void for help, while trying to stem the crimson stream that flowed from her body. Her baby lay where it had been delivered from her womb; in her pain and exhaustion, the only thing the mother had been able to achieve was some padding layers of blanket below the tiny body, with the ends drawn up to enclose the baby in a loose cocoon.
    The child was alive, crying thinly but at the same time demonstrating that unique determination of the new-born. Despite her most powerful desires, the mother had no capacity to respond. Time passed. The crimson flow did not slacken. The mother’s cries for help weakened. The baby clung to life, protesting its innocence with increasing hopelessness. The cries emanating from the cave mouth diminished.
    ‘What a day!’ The travelling merchant muttered these words to himself as he and his family trudged along the narrow muddy track that would eventually take them to the village. When the weather was like this there was no question of anyone riding in the large covered wagon – not even the children.
    Years before, when this heavy wagon was being built for him, the merchant had wisely specified stout wide wheels; they were usually effective on muddy roads. However, this track was proving to be a serious trial. It was in poor condition and heavily pocked with deep potholes, now filled with slimy mud. The merchant sighed as one of the large rear wheels sank deeply into a pool of mud, bringing the heavy vehicle to a shuddering halt, despite the best efforts of the two strong mules harnessed to the front shaft.
    Like his father before him, the man was a travelling merchant in cloth; he and his family spent most of the year on the road, travelling widely around the country villages, selling from the extensive stock of cloth carried in the wagon. Each of the large bundles of cloth was very heavy and it was of course necessary to carry a comprehensive selection of material for sale.
    As he travelled across the country, the merchant also bought cloth from village weavers and sold this on at a suitable profit to individuals and other merchants further along his route. This had been a steady and successful business in the family for many years.
    ‘People always need good cloth for hangings, covers and clothing,’ the merchant often said, ‘and everyone knows I sell nothing but the best of cloth.’
    With one wheel stuck