Short Stories

The Healing Stone

Dedicated and written for Lindsay

Henry looked back at his house. The chimney spit the remains of a fire, smoke rising into the sky. The door was shut tight and locked, and his mother would still be asleep. She was very sick, and the only way he could help her was to find a very special rock, known to most as the Healing Stone. It could cure any illness, but it was hidden away.

Like any protagonist, he only had his mother; his father had left many years before, nowhere to be found. Henry had to take care of himself along with his mother. It did not seem too hard at first, but then she became sick and no medicine would help.

So Henry walked down the path, his bag on his back heavy with supplies, and tried not to glance back at the house again. There should be enough food and water to last months alone. But he hoped he would only be gone a few weeks. His mother might not even have months.

The first stop that had to be made was to get a map. There was a cartographer not too far, but his prices were not cheap. Henry hoped to get him to lower the price, or maybe trade something for it. He had only brought a small bag of coins. Maybe he should have grabbed more, but his mother needed some.

The cartographer's house also served as his shop, with a dirty old sign on the door. It hung crookedly, but it did its job. It read "CARTOGRAPHER'S". Simple, really. Henry pushed the door open.

Maps covered the walls, and a few more were rolled up and tied inside barrels. An old man sat at a desk, with bottles of ink all lined up. Every once and a while, the man dipped his pen in the ink and continued drawing.

"Excuse me, sir," Henry said, "if you could take a moment of your time to assist me, I would be grateful." He slipped the hat off his head and squished it between his hands.

The old man set down his pen and turned around. "Hm?"

"I'm in need of a map. Preferably one that crosses through the mountains."

"That will cost you fifty coins." Then he gestured to the small bag tied to Henry's waist. "And that only holds, what, twenty-five?"

Henry swallowed hard. "Could you lower the price?" He definitely did not have that kind of money.

The man stroked his chin. "I'm getting very old... and before I die, I want to try one of the best pies in this village."

"I could get you some!" Henry blurted out without thinking.

He raised an eyebrow. "It has to be from the widow who lives at the end of the village. Then, and only then, will I lower the price."

"Of course, thank you, sir." Henry left the house and as soon as he was a few feet away, threw his hat to the ground and stomped on it.

"How could I be so stupid?" Henry asked himself. "Get some pie. While I'm at it do you want a glass of milk?" He laughed at himself, and picked up his hat.

The widow's house sat in the outskirts of the village. Candles were lit in the windows, but no pies sat to cool. Of course, it would not be that easy just to steal one. A few shingles were missing from the roof, and in their place was a bird's nest. Apart from that, the house looked well-kept. Henry was surprised, since the woman here was supposedly a widow.

He knocked on the door, and heard someone shuffling around inside.

"I'll be there in a minute!" A woman's voice called. And sure enough, a short young woman opened the door. She was not exactly what you think of when someone says "widow."

"I- um, hello there," Henry said. He felt heat creep up his face. The woman was rather pretty.

"Was there a reason you knocked, or can I go back to my business?" She asked. Her blonde hair was pinned back into a bun, a few strands stuck out covering her rosy cheeks.