The Thing in the Stone

The sheriff shook his head. “Some other time,” he said. “Maybe soon. You figure there was something in that cave? Or was it just Ben’s imagination? He’s a flighty sort of critter.”

“Maybe there wasn’t anything,” said Daniels. “but if Ben thought there was, what difference does it make? Thinking it might be just as real as if there were something there. All of us, sheriff, live with things walking by our sides no one else can see.”

The sheriff shot a quick glance at him. “Daniels, what’s with you?” he asked. “What is walking by your side or sniffing at your heels? Why did you bury yourself out here in this Godforsaken place? What is going on?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He got into his car, started it and headed down the road.

Daniels stood in the storm and watched the glowing taillights vanish in the murk of flying snow. He shook his head in bewilderment. The sheriff had asked a question and then had not waited for the answer. Perhaps because it was a question to which he did not want an answer.

Daniels turned and went up the snowy path to the house. He’d like some coffee and a bite to eat—but first he had to do the chores. He had to milk the cows and feed the pigs. The chickens must wait till morning—it was too late to feed the chickens. The cows would be waiting at the barn door.

They had waited for a long time and it was not right to make them wait.

He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

Someone was waiting for him. It sat on the table or floated so close above it that it seemed to be sitting. The fire in the stove had gone out and the room was dark but the creature sparkled.

You saw? the creature asked.

“Yes,” said Daniels. “I saw and heard. I don’t know what to do. What is right or wrong? Who knows what’s right or wrong?”

Not you, the creature said. Not I. I can only wait. I can only keep the faith.

Perhaps among the stars, thought Daniels, might be those who did know. Perhaps by listening to the stars, perhaps by trying to break in on their conversations and by asking questions, he might get an answer. Certainly there must be some universal ethics. A list, perhaps, of Universal Commandments. Maybe not ten of them. Maybe only two or three—but any number might be enough.

“I can’t stay and talk,” he said. “I have animals to take care of. Could you stick around? Later we can talk.”

He fumbled for the lantern on the bench against the wall, found the matches on the shelf. He lit the lantern and its feeble flame made a puddle of light in the darkness of the room.

You have others to take care of? asked the creature. Others not quite like yourself? Others, trusting you, without your intelligence?

“I guess you could say it that way,” Daniels said, “I’ve never heard it put quite that way before.”

Could I go along with you? the creature asked, it occurs to me, just now, that in many ways we are very much alike.

“Very much—‘ But with the sentence hanging in the air, Daniels stopped.

Not a hound, he told himself. Not the faithful dog. But the shepherd. Could that be it? Not the master but the long-lost lamb?

He reached out a hand towards the creature in a swift gesture of understanding, then pulled it back, remembering it was nothing he could touch.

He lifted the lantern and turned toward the door.

“Come along,” he said.

Together the two of them went through the storm toward the barn and the waiting cows.