Shouting at the Stone

In a world where the most powerful magic is the loudest, a mage who has lost his voice must find a way to save the woman he loves. (http://www.speculativerealms.com )

Some magic begins with a whisper.

“I love you, Chir.” Mela’s arm, heavy with sleep, was both comforting and constricting, holding me safe, pinning me down. Her voice was the distant murmur of the dreamer.

Some magic begins with a shout.

“I love you, too, Mela,” I whispered back. Gods! Every time I said that, I felt better. Each fiber of me tingled with anticipation. Visions of shining decades ahead, as bright as the moonlight washing the room, filled my head. It felt so good to be able to speak without guilt, without worrying what others might think or mutter.

Some magic begins with a howl.

A vague uneasiness chilled me. I wormed out from under her arm and padded on bare feet across the floor. The stones were as cold as the silver light pouring through the window, and the breeze raised gooseflesh across my arms and leached Mela’s warmth from my chest.

I looked out. Mela’s sculpture seemed enormous in the moon-fed shadows, a hulking black thing that filled the small courtyard. “Striving”, she called it.

“When will it be finished?” I’d asked her once.

“Never,” she said, her sightless blue eyes shimmering with emotion far deeper than I could see. “How could it? We are always striving.”

As I tugged on the shutters, I heard a distant rumble. It lingered on the edge of comprehension, like the crash of hidden breakers heard from beyond the dunes. As I fastened the latch, understanding dawned.

It was the howling of a mob ....

(I wrote this story to impress a woman. It nust have worked. Lynne is now my wife.)