Page 16 of A Land So Wide

T he truce began with a secret journey beyond the Stones.

It had been one month since the storm.

One month since Resolution Beaufort’s last breath.

One month since Malbeck Baird had returned after sunset with tales of the bright-eyed monsters and the angry winds that had held them back.

And in that month, trapped between the towering Stones, the survivors had begun to build.

With tools salvaged from the wreck, they felled trees and split logs. They foraged and scavenged and learned to hunt the unfamiliar beasts of these waters and this land. Slowly, bit by bit, acre by acre, the community of Mistaken began to grow.

Structures were erected: platforms and lean-tos, then shelters and small cabins. They sprouted like mushrooms across the freshly cleared cove.

The settlers began to parse through the limits of their new world, growing accustomed to the ebbs and flows of the great Stones.

The wind barrier came every sunset—no matter how the days lengthened with summer’s approach—then slipped away each morning, allowing unfettered access to the forests’ bounties.

Some railed against the restrictions, certain there was a way to break through the wind, to free themselves from the Stones’ hold. Each attempt was met with failure.

Others accepted the confines with resigned stoicism and devised a system to warn of the falling night. A bugle—found washed ashore in a tangle of flotsam—was blown throughout daylight’s final hour, giving anyone outside the Stones’ embrace time to hurry back.

Already, they planned to make something larger, something louder, so that no one could ever miss hearing the bellowed warning.

The settlement was full of plans and preparations, and a council of leaders was selected to ensure that such visions would be carried out with efficiency and order.

Ten men had been chosen.

Ten men began to assess.

Ten men began to write.

They wrote their decisions upon every scrap of spare paper rummaged from Resolution’s trunk, passing new laws that made sense in their new world.

When one of the ten spoke out, wondering aloud why the council wanted to focus on growing a town within the strange limitations of the flickering Stones, rather than seek a way out, the other nine laughed.

They’d begun to see their predicament’s golden lining.

The bedeviled trees that had so consumed Resolution Beaufort’s reason were every bit as remarkable as he’d promised.

Merchants would pay premium prices for the lumber, and—according to the ledger found among Beaufort’s belongings—they already knew to come.

The first ship was due to arrive in a year and had pre-emptively bought an entire cargo hold’s worth.

The settlers had eleven months to get their mill running, and the council did not intend for one dissenting voice to slow them down.

Tormond Mackenzie volunteered to venture into the woods first, scouting for groves of the trees.

He took great precautions, laying down lines of twine as he traveled, armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, and always keeping a sharp eye on the sun, anxious to cross the border well before the bugle’s first trumpet could sound.

But one afternoon, Mackenzie was running late. The first warning rang out, followed half an hour later by two more. Still he did not return.

As the sky began to shift to red and orange, the council and townspeople gathered near the boundary line, waiting for him. Just before the last of the sun’s rays winked out, Tormond Mackenzie burst from the tree line, his eyes wide with wonder.

“I’ve met them,” he declared. “I’ve met the ones who made the Stones.”

Waves of disbelief rippled through the cluster of settlers, and they all drew in to listen to Mackenzie’s tale.

He’d been along the western edge of the forest, noting where the prized trees grew thickest, when he felt a change in the air, like currents of wind before a storm. When he looked up, there they stood.

There were four of them, forebodingly tall and indescribably beatific.

He explained how the beings spoke to him with mouths that did not move except to smile. The great ones were pleased that the settlers had washed upon their shores. They had read their hearts and commended their ambitious intentions.

And they pledged to keep the settlers safe.

“These Stones are their gifts to us,” Mackenzie said, placing a reverent hand upon the monolith beside him. In return, it flickered a warm vermilion, as if pleased. “They will hold back the monsters with the bright eyes and keep us together.”

“Why would they take such interest in us?” the settlers wondered.

“It is not for us to understand why,” Mackenzie declared. “Only to be thankful that they have, and to show them our gratitude.”

Somewhat appeased, the settlers returned to their homes, brimming with ideas of how to repay such benevolent wardens.

The council of ten remained at the Stones.

The man who wanted to find a way out of the accursed cove railed at Mackenzie, enraged he had not urged the beings to release their grip. He volunteered to go into the forest at first light and find them once more. He pledged to negotiate for their freedom.

The nine others listened with impassive faces but hearts full of grave concern. It would not do to present a divided front to the town. The council knew all too well how quickly whispers of dissent could grow.

So, when Tormond Mackenzie pulled a length of shimmering red beads around the man’s neck, they all watched in silent accord.

And when Tormond Mackenzie pushed the man into the gusts of wind that rose along the line of Stones, shoving and breaking him through the barrier, they watched still, wary wonder stirring within them.

Only when the bright-eyed beasts fell upon the man, tearing and biting and feasting and devouring, did they turn and watch no more.