Free The Knowledge Stone by Jack McGinnigle Page B

firmly in the deep mud, the merchant wearily fetched his shovel and began to dig out a ramp in front of the trapped wheel; if the excavated ground was firm enough, this would allow the wheel to roll up to ground level when the mules exerted all their strength to pull the wagon forward. His wife helped to throw the excavated mud over to the roadside with a smaller shovel.
    Meanwhile, their two children, a boy and a girl, did as children always do – they ran whooping up the hill, laughing, shouting and jostling each other with that mysterious joy of living that children have. On the track below, the cloth merchant now judged that the wagon was ready to be pulled from the mud so he returned to the heads of his beasts to tug at their head ropes, clucking his tongue to encourage them to pull forward. The powerful beasts strained forward and the wheel came free with a reluctant squelch and rolled up the excavated ramp to return to ground level.
    Ready to resume their journey, the merchant replaced the shovels in the wagon and called for his children. After some moments, the boy and girl came running back. His wife took one look at their little faces and, as mothers always do, knew something was very wrong. She caught the boy by the arm and enquired urgently: ‘What’s wrong? What has happened? Have either of you hurt themselves?’
    Eyes wide, gasping and white of face, the boy mumbled a reply: ‘It’s up there, in the cave. We thought it was a bird but I think it’s a baby. It’s all bloody.’
    The boy burst into tears and his little sister immediately howled in sympathy. The adults looked at each other blankly, shock mirrored in their eyes. Extended seconds ticked by.
    ‘It’s not our business, nothing to do with us,’ the man said uncertainly, ‘we’ve got enough problems of our own.’ He looked as if he wished he was somewhere else – somewhere very far away!
    However the woman was more practical and decisive: ‘No, we can’t say that. We can’t just walk away. The boy has told us what he saw. We need to investigate, to see what has happened.’ Still the man did not move. ‘Go and see what has happened. Go quickly.’ The woman was adamant.
    Reluctantly, sighing and muttering to himself, the merchant climbed up the hill to the cave. After a few long minutes he reappeared and returned to the wagon. The adults held a whispered conversation, observed fearfully by their quietly sobbing children. Then both adults climbed up to the cave, the man carrying his shovel.
    The baby was still alive, though now so weak that it was reduced to almost inaudible whimpering, its breathing rapid and uneven. The woman lifted the pathetic scrap of life from the ground, still wrapped in the blood-soaked blanket and carried it down to the wagon. There, she tended to it, washing away the blood and dirt and wrapping the tiny body in clean, warm cloth. Meanwhile, the man carried out his grim task on the hillside near the cave, digging a shallow grave and burying the small pathetic body of the mother therein.
    When the man returned, his wife asked about the identity of the mother – who she was, where she came from, where she might have been going.
    ‘I looked everywhere,’ he replied, ‘but there was absolutely nothing to identify her. We don’t know anything about her.’ Then he looked worriedly into the bunk bed where the baby lay. ‘What about the baby? Do you think it will live?’
    ‘Well, I’m going to try my best,’ his wife answered briskly, now busying herself with the preparation of some warm milk. ‘We’ll see if she can be persuaded to have a little of this milk. If I can get her to take some of this, she will have a chance of survival. We don’t want to have to deal with two deaths in the same day.’ The reality of this thought passed a shadow across each of their faces.
    The following hours brought blessed progress. The baby responded well to the care of the merchant’s wife and started to feed with