The clearing was silent and still, the forest resting in the balmy heat of summer. The stones also rested, reclining like old men sleeping though the long afternoon; some had fallen on their sides in the grass and were half-covered by mossy blankets, while others leaned drunkenly, about to fall but never falling. All of them were chipped and worn down by the ravages of time and the elements, their rugged scars the only evidence of their antiquity.
They were arranged in two wide circles, the outer circle twelve feet tall and the inner circle half as high, twenty pillars hewn from grey marbled rock. In the middle, alone, a black stone lay, six feet long and three feet high, shining dully in the dappled shade. No-one knew who had quarried the stones and brought them here; it had been done so long ago that not even the trees remembered the hands that had wielded the tools, or the arms that had hauled on the ropes, or the sweat that had dripped from the brows of the men who consecrated the ground.
Trees grew for miles around, and brambles hemmed the clearing in on all sides. But the plants knew better than to take root on the holy ground itself. Animals did not come there. Birds did not fly over head. The place was quiet and still, with the stillness of the grave.
The brambles rustled, breaking the sacred silence. A moment later a small voice cursed under its breath. More rustling, then a boy’s head appeared at ground level and looked both ways before breaking into a grin.
“We’re here!” he whispered over his shoulder.
He wriggled the rest of the way out of the undergrowth and scrambled to his feet. He was short and stocky, with cropped black hair and dark brown skin the colour of chestnuts. A devil-may-care light glinted in his eyes as he surveyed the clearing before him. Within five seconds he had taken in the entire scene and assessed the possibility of any adventure to be had there. He smiled to himself. Yes — this was it.
“Banac!” Another voice called out from the bushes behind him, this one smaller and less sure of itself. “I think I’m stuck!”
Banac rolled his eyes. That was the problem with bringing little brothers along on an adventure. All they did was complain.
“Wait a second,” he said.
He crouched down and groped around under the lowest branches. When he found what he was looking for he gripped it and heaved backwards with all his strength; there was a ripping sound, a brief cry of pain, and another boy burst from the undergrowth like a newborn foal, tumbling awkwardly over his brother and landing with him in a heap on the grass.
Banac quickly untangled himself and stood up, brushing himself down and leaving his brother to sit on the ground nursing a long scratch on his arm.
“It’s bleeding,” the younger boy said after a moment. “And my smock’s ripped.”
Banac ignored him. This was his usual attitude towards his brother, Balor, who at three years younger than him was naturally far less interesting than most other things in the world. The only reason he had let him come on this adventure at all was because Balor had pestered him to distraction about it, and because none of the other boys in the village had enough imagination to be interested.
He left Balor to tend his wound and looked round the clearing again, taking in every detail. They had been looking for this place for weeks, spending countless hours tramping in circles round and round the forest, and now they had found it Banac was in no hurry either to leave or to explore. Such a find it was not to be wasted either way. It was to be savoured.
He sniffed. The air in the clearing was still, and though it was a hot midsummer day gooseflesh pimpled his arms. He listened. No birds sang, and no crickets chirruped. It was not an atmosphere of peace — it was claustrophobic, and the air was thick in his mouth.
“I don’t like it,” Balor said, appearing at his elbow. “Father said the standing stones are evil.”
Banac looked down at him. Balor was clenching and unclenching his hands the way he did when he was nervous.
“Father just wants to scare you,” Banac said. He strode up to the nearest stone and laid a hand on it, resting his fingers on faint carvings and runes worn smooth by the ages. “The galac-men were all killed a hundred years ago. That’s why the stones are all ruins now. They haven’t been used since before Father was born. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
He jumped up on another stone that lay nearby and spread out his arms, smiling. “See?”
“I still don’t like it.” Balor repeated, gazing round wide-eyed, his hand still clenching and unclenching. “Can’t we just go?”
“I don’t think so.” Banac craned his neck for a better view. “You can wait here if you like. I’m going to look around.”
He jumped down on the other side of the stone, making a mental note not to bring Balor along on the next adventure — little brothers, it was clear, did nothing more than ruin the atmosphere.
As he made his way towards the centre of the stone circle he gazed round at the ruined remains. The stones were stern and silent, their blank faces seeming to stare at him as he passed.
* * *
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