Then without further speech the old man rose. And taking down a candle from the mantle he showed him to the bedroom, where he gave him his own bed to sleep in. Then with the young man safely at rest, he returned to the fire to think through all that he had heard, and decide what he must do to help him.
Because this same weather-beaten mariner, who was never to be seen making dramatic gestures at the church, or heard to raise his voice in righteous patriotism at the tavern, who himself had so little in the world, was then and there willing to risk it all to restore a single life to fullness. Without being asked, or telling himself that he was good or kind to do so, he felt the simple, organic stirrings of compassion in his aged heart. And expecting no greater reward than the warmth of the feeling itself, he determined to do all he could to guide this lad back to safety and freedom.
Simply put, he had vision enough to see another human soul before him, and courage enough not to turn away. For such was the spirit of his kind.
Twelve
She had found what she sought: a chant to raise the spirits of the dead. In terror at her own resolve, yet no more able to restrain herself than to stop her heart from beating, she put the book beneath her arm, wrapped a thick cloak about her, then lit and lifted the torch that she had found.
The night was still and cold as she stole from the hut, with traces of ghostly mist already forming in the hollows. The moon shone full and hard, dimming the surrounding stars with its halo of pale white.
She made for the Standing Stone, as dry as bone, where the power was strongest, older than the hills themselves. She felt that she moved not of her own accord, but as a puppet upon the strings of some higher (or lower) being. The reading of those dark, soul-splitting words had done its work on her. She moved as if entranced---eyes wide, mind dark and dulled. Only very deep, in the roots of her being, did the heart remain intact; and she realized that no matter how strange the vehicle, or how terrible the consequences, this was a thing which must be done. She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.
The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers. For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.
She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away, shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death’s Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to look upon it, but pass beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.
She stood motionless, her resolve wavering before the onslaught of doubts and questions. Was she doing the right thing? Might her actions not only do them both further injury? These thoughts interlaced with a raw, gut-level fear for her own safety.