Storied Stones
Words worn into cave walls speak for themselves
My father was a storyteller.
Bundled up around campfires in the foothills of the Mnddl Mountains, I heard the stories passed around about the Man in the Stone. It has a dozen or so origins, with every city and village and town claiming to be the beginning of the legend. Between these varied stories and tales, the same truths continue to rise to the top - in a cave, along the southeastern side of the Mnddl, rests a stone formation. It appears, by all accounts, to be a mortal body. Of which race they are is impossible to tell, the defining features long worn to smooth stone. Where what would be the man’s left foot, the stone is cracked open, leaving a gaping hole.
The bayside city of Phylkc claims the tale was carried down from their mountain hykets, who spoke at length about the body encased in granite, grandes stone, and gold. Local oral tradition spans beyond the Great Catastrophe, recording stories when the Man was the First of the Hykets, who sacrificed their flesh to bring to life the hagedons. Their foot was stolen by the desert fiends who wished to become higher beings themselves. The story changed as time went on, the Man becoming Kere’unel - and worshiped as such - with her foot being stolen by Chitin desert tribes until the later revelation of the Nine Gods meant the body was once again cast into anonymity.
The forest village of Stesil tells a different story, naming the Man no man at all, but proof that, in the Times Before Memory, rock and stone could be brought to life. Such magic has been contested within the Arcane Assembly for centuries, an eternal shadow hanging over arcane scholarship that sharply colors those on either side. These stories of walking stone do not stop at Stesil's borders, but their Man in the Stone is the most definitive evidence yet found for such magic existing.
The Mnddl Evn people, for whom the mountains are named, have held onto a single truth, even as they spread across the states of Dian Pohnas, Tzk Tzyl, and the Plains. They believe the body encased in the cave in the mountains is no mortal, nor are they a magical imitation of such. They are not a God, greater or lesser, nor a pale attempt to resemble either. Instead, they are a sign; a message hidden on the ancient cave walls, waiting to be understood. Communities have grown up around the attempts to decode this message, some even including mages who believe there is some overlap between the message and the magic.
These are the stories I grew up hearing; my father repeating words he himself was told by his mother, and back and back until our family fades into centuries. He always gave the story some embellishment that changed with each iteration- that the message had been decoded but the carriers of it disappeared on their way to Kusta Be, or that those who broke the code were swallowed into the stone - but kept the heart of it the same. The village children would boast that they had seen the Man, either in their dreams or during a family trip to the larger, northern cities.
“They blinked at me!” children would claim, faces shadowed under the ladnador trees. “I saw them move!”
Most of the time those children had never left our home village of Qezkett, let alone made the trek to the cave system on their own at twelve. But the Man in the Stone was - is - such a pervasive legend that even a white lie would garner you notoriety among the schoolaged children.
As an adult, the conversations are much less flamboyant, but no less common. It’s the first thing out-of-towners ask about, and at least one of the conversation topics when my friends and I meet for morning meals at the bakery. There is always something new to be said about the Man and the cave they reside in, which is rather surprising in itself. A story as old as that one should’ve long become stale and overspoken, but they never have. At least not in my experience.
Now, nearing my sixtieth, I’ve decided to do what most from the Mnddl foothills do, and take the four day trip north to the alpine region in the mountains to view the cave and its Man. Though its been decades since I’ve heard my father’s voice, my memory is clear when I hear him tell me of the horrible things that happened to those who gazed upon the Man. In a strange way, I’m comforted hearing his voice more than I’m disturbed by what he’s saying. He was a storyteller, one of many beloved traits I got from him.
When my father spoke of visiting this place, it was much more treacherous than it is now. The Stesil Academy, who claims ownership of the site, had let the path grown wild and unkempt for quite a few decades before the Court of Thought forced them to resume maintenance of it.
“Not that I think there’s any reason to be making the hiking easy,” my father would say after a round of explaining how many times he’d nearly tumbled down the hillside. “There’s something about a hard won journey. Makes the whole story feel more like a legend.”
He’d be disappointed to see the path is now paved with wooden planks - with railings, to prevent those many near tumblings he’d experienced. And he was right. This path doesn’t feel like a legend, it feels like a vacation spot. Not that I’m particularly invested in people dying to view a cave, but for the place that apparently birthed the hagedons, or that houses a God, or that holds some enigmatic message from eons past, I wouldn’t expect the way in to have rest stops and drinking pools.
Yet, despite the well paved path up the hillside, the cave does not disappoint. It isn’t a rounded descent into the base of the mountain like I expected, but rather a jagged wound cut sharp into the rock. The opening stands nearly thirty feet in the air, but quickly drops to only six as I walk further into the cave. It’s lit by seals carved into the cave’s walls. I’m sure my father would be displeased to see that, too. I can already imagine the conspiracy he would dream up, claiming the mages did so to ‘distract’ possible decoders.
The walk to where the Man rested isn’t far and I reach them quicker than I anticipated. They’re so high on the wall that I almost miss them, stopping when I notice a sign directing me back. My eyes travel up the two stone yellow and red stone, passing through the layers of time until I came upon the Man.
They are tall - taller than I am by at least double - with their head craning downwards, as if they’re peering down at me. Their face is completely smooth without any distinguishing features, just like the legends said. It’s both ethereal and threatening, like being gazed down upon by a God whose nature you don’t know. I can’t say I’ unnerved as much as I am unsure. The stories had mostly prepared me for how the Man would look, but not for how they would make me feel.
My father’s presence lingers somewhere here, I’m sure of it. He brushes over my skin like I’m standing in his shadow, sharing a moment across time. The Overlay must be thin here, bleeding the living and the dead - a fitting phenomenon for a place soaked in legend and myth.
I gaze down at the Man’s foot, the only part of them that isn’t smooth. The jagged hole looks recently cut, despite its age. “Desert fiends or ancient message?” I ask the air where my father drifts.
Neither he nor the Man respond.
I spend the next hour or so sitting on the cool cave floor, occasionally turning towards the entrance when I hear the branches rustle in the wind or the boardwalk creak. I am alone here, for the most part. The longer I stay, the louder my father grows until I can hear him in the echoes of the cave. His stories - each and every one of them - are read out around me. I mouth the words; their familiarity is a comfort.
The Man does not move. The children’s tales of eyes opening from the smooth stone of the Man’s head never comes to to pass. The Man is as still as a sentinel. I find my own eyes drifting towards him every so often, guided by the words of my father.
The sun begins to set outside the cave, my shadow dancing on the far walls. A few times, I catch myself wondering if it’s my father passing by. I know Overlay is a strange thing, especially in the odd places like this that exist between here and there. I hope he is dancing within my shadow. That means he’s evaded Styvel’s attentions yet. He promised he stick around to make sure I was alright.
Before I lose light entirely, I rise to my feet, my knees achey and sore. My father’s voice grows louder, as if he knows I’m setting out. I look first to my shadow, watching from afar, and then the Man, watching above. For a moment, both are one in the same.
I carry my father’s stories out into the fresh air while his voice fades, mine replacing his. I won’t have light for long, and walking the foothill paths alone at night isn’t wise. There’s a small research camp twenty minutes from the cave that I passed on my way in. I’m sure they’ll have a spot to spend the night. My father keeps me company in the stories I repeat. Sometimes the Man finds their way into those stories. Sometimes my father’s stories are the Man’s stories, too.
I am a storyteller, just as my father was. I don’t tell the story of the Man as a hero or a God or an ancestor. Rather, when I speak the words I heard in that cave, I tell the story of a Man who was a father, a sentinel frozen in time. The Stone is not eternal, but it lives a much longer life than you or I. It can tell stories we might never get the chance to tell, echoing out into a cave for eons, beyond time or memory, to people who might have forgotten what out voices sound like.
I am a storyteller and the Stone tells my tales; the one place my father’s and I’s voices can be joined in harmony.