All The Stones He Carried – A Fiction Short Story by Mary Tooley

Silas hadn’t meant to build anything.

He had only gone out to move the stones from the lower field. The space Mae used to complain about every spring when the ground shifted and brought more of them up. She stood at the edge of it, hands on her hips, nudging one loose with the toe of her boot. Saying he would break an ankle if he didn’t take care of it. He had told her he would.

There never seemed to be any reason to hurry.

Something always needed to be done first.

The field looked the same now, with dry grass blowing in the breeze. Stones sat half-buried in the earth. The house sat behind him. Windows were dark and silent, which still didn’t seem right.

He bent and picked one up.

It was heavy with jagged edges. Dirt coated his fingers as he turned it. There was really nothing special about it.

He took a few steps and set it down on bare ground. Then he went back for another.

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By evening, he had a small pile near the fence line. Nothing more than an uneven stack where grass gave way to dirt. He stood over it, breathing heavily. The field didn’t look any different, not enough to match the ache in his shoulders. Still, he kept working. Moving stone from the field to the pile that was slowly turning into a line that matched the fence.

He stayed out longer than he meant to. The sun had dropped below the ridge, turning the land into dull gold. Mae always liked this time of day. She always said it meant that it was time to slow down and rest to get ready for the next busy day ahead.

By the time he went inside, the house was dark and cool.

He didn’t sleep well.

The bed felt too wide.

He lay on his back, then his side, and then turned again. It was too quiet. The only sound he heard was the cottonwood tree scraping against the house, and for a second, he thought it was Mae crossing the porch.

He almost said her name, but changed his mind.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling until morning.

The next day, he went back out. Worked like he did yesterday. One stone at a time. He bent, lifted, carried, and set it down. Some stones he could carry in one hand. Others took both. The bigger ones he had to lift and straighten slowly before he could move them.

The line grew longer and taller.

He adjusted the rocks as he went. Turning one piece, or shifting another until it made more sense. It wasn’t neat, but it held.

Around noon, Earl slowed his truck along the road.

“You planning to wall the whole place in?” he asked.

Silas rested his hand on a flat stone.

“Just clearing the field.”

Earl looked at the line of rocks and then back at him.

“Looks like more than that.”

Silas didn’t say anything.

Earl sat a moment and then drove on.

By dusk, the line stretched maybe ten feet. It was knee-high in some places, lower in others. One section came up higher without him noticing, flat enough across the top to sit.

Mae used to love sitting in places like that.

Her foot would be swinging, and she would be talking. Nothing really important, just whatever crossed her mind. How the calves were growing fast. The neighbor's fence leaned more every year. Should they plant something different in the spring?

Silas set another stone on that section.

Now it was too high to sit.

He didn’t think about that.

The days ran together.

In the mornings, he fed and watered the cattle. Did other chores that needed to be done around the property. He ate standing up over the sink. Coffee went cold on the counter. Dishes stayed where he left them.

Then he found himself back at the lower field. There was always another stone to move—just one more. Just need to finish this one part.

The wall kept growing.

What started along the fence line turned inward along the field. Silas didn’t notice when that changed. He worked where the stones were thickest. It was easier to focus on that. Things that made sense.

Once he was carrying a wide stone against his chest, he turned towards the house without thinking. The kitchen window caught the light.

He almost called out.

A picture of it came to mind, Mae turning from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel, asking him what he wanted.

He didn’t call out.

He shifted the stone in his arms and kept walking.

The second week, there were fewer stones under his feet and more stacked into place. One afternoon, he stopped and listened. It was quieter near the wall. He could still hear grasshoppers in the grass, a bird calling out near the road, a calf calling out in the distance. The wind didn’t move the same way. It hit the wall and stopped.

Mae would have noticed that.

She would have said something about the quiet in the half-formed space, waiting for him to answer. He leaned down and put another stone in place, harder than he meant to. The stone struck sharply against his knuckle, and a line of blood started to form.

He put his finger in his mouth without thinking. The taste of blood and dirt filled his mouth.

He couldn’t remember the last thing she said to him.

He tried.

He remembered her voice. The sound of it. Her favorite blue mug with chipped rim. The way she leaned against the door frame in the evenings, looking out at their property. He remembered her foot finding his at night.

But not her last words.

He worked until dark.

Sunday came and went without him noticing. Clouds rolled in by mid-morning, low and gray. The air cooled. Silas carried another stone and put it in its place.

Then another.

He then sat one down and didn’t reach for another.

He stood inside the curve of the wall. It wasn’t closed in all the way. One side was still open. Everything else was outside of it: the house, the road, and the far pasture.

He turned around slowly. The wall looked higher and closer.

It started to rain, light at first, and then came down harder. The stones darkened around him, washing off the dust as it rained. The smell of wet earth rose around him.

He stood there and let it fall. Cold water ran down the back of his neck, soaking his shirt.

He didn’t move.

Something shifted in him, and he walked to the higher ground and rested his hand on the top of the wall. Beyond the wall, the house blurred in the rain.

He could almost see her there in his mind.

He lowered to the ground and put his back against the wall. Water ran down his face, but he didn’t wipe it away.

For a long time, he just kept moving. Kept working. Not wanting to think about that, she was gone.

It seems like the only thing he could do.

For the first time since the doctor walked out into the hall, since his world went silent and would stay that way. Silas stopped moving.

He bowed his head and let the tears fall.

When he finally stopped, he just stayed there for a while. The rain eased up, and everything looked darker and smelled cleaner.

Near his boots, half-buried in the grass, a small stone lay near his boot. He must have dropped it while adding stones to the pile. He picked it up and turned it in his hand. It was light and smooth.

For a moment, he thought about where it would go on the wall.

He stood up.

He looked at the opening in the wall. It wouldn’t take much to finish it. Just a few more trips across the field. A few more stones in the right place.

There were still plenty of stones in that lower pasture.

He looked down at the small rock in his hand. Then put it in his pocket.

He stepped through the opening and walked back to the house. Leaving the wall the way it was.

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