Free Circle of Stones by Catherine Fisher Page B

far—he stood in the shelter of the three stones, & he had his horse with him, saddled & bridled as if he had ordered it earlier.
    I cursed.
    My own beast was tucked up for the night.
    Just as I thought I should run to the stable, Forrest swung himself into the saddle, & I saw in the darkness flickers of light approach. I pressed myself back.
    Men rode out of the night. I counted ten, fourteen. More. They went as silent as they could, just a clinking of harness & a shuffle of hooves, & the storm covered them, whipping their coats. Each was well-wrapped, a dark shape. They came to Forrest & words were spoken, a question was asked but I couldn’t hear what, so I crept closer, behind the nearest great stone.
    â€œOroboros
.
”
The answer was clear, shouted against the rising storm. Then the men were turning, & Forrest with them. I slid along the stone, my face to its coldness.
    Hissing.
    An eruption of spitting, an angry cackle at my feet!
    I jumped back, cursing, my heart leaping wildly as the geese came at me, wings wide, necks outstretched, three white furious specters in the night.
    Forrest turned. He saw me. Our eyes met for a moment, through the rain, & I heard the man near him cry, “Someone is there. Watching us!”
    They would find me & drag me out. Someone drew out a sword, its blade glittering briefly in the lantern light.
    Forrest said, “It’s nothing but geese. We alarmed them.” He turned away from me.
    I heard the rider say, “Are you sure?”
    â€œSure. Let’s go.”
    I edged back from the hissing birds into the stone’s darkness as the men streamed by me, a cavalcade of shadows. After the last was gone & only the storm was left, I backed to the inn door & found it open.
    The fat woman was leaning there, one arm on the lintel.
    â€œA zore night for a fine laddie to be out in things that don’t conzern ’e,” she drawled.
    I pushed past her.
    She smelled. She laughed at my back.

Bladud
    S o I began to build.
    The first step was to clear the ground. I dug and toiled in the heat of summer.
    I moved stones. I uprooted brambles and rushes and reeds.
    Waterfowl squawked out of my way.
    I was careful. The ground was holy and its inhabitants were hers.
    And yet as the opening was widened the waters came rising up, welling warm, and the heat of them was sometimes too hard to bear so that my fingers were scorched and I gasped for breath.
    If magic is a word for the unknown, then this was magic.
    I had unlocked the heat of the earth’s heart, the lands deep below us, the places men dream of in the night, when they toss and turn and wake in fear.
    This was a heat with nothing human in it.
    One day, when I turned around, a boy was watching me from the greenwood. For hours he watched me, and then, when I was so tired I sat down to rest, he came and took the antler pick and began to work in my place.
    â€œMaster,” he said, “a druid should not dig.”
    I sat and smiled in my weariness.
    Next day, my people came. They came with picks and levers and ropes of twisted hemp. They came with songs for the spirit, with flowers and fruit and skulls for her.
    The spring welled into a pool.
    Its rim was stone, cut and curved.
    Thirty stones, to hold her wildness in place.
    The people stood back, and waited.
    All around I planted acorns. For her crown.

The Foundations
    Architecture is a term under which
is comprehended all the Causes
and Rules of Building.

Sulis
    â€œ A ll right?”
    She turned quickly.
    â€œFine, thanks.”
    â€œOnly I thought you looked a bit . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    Josh shrugged. Then he said, “Scared.”
    She had her coat and scarf on and a woolly hat that came down close over her eyes. Outside, it was raining, the square windswept, the tables stacked by the cafe in rickety heaps. The tourists had gone home.
    The word annoyed her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    â€œRight. See you.”