The Vanishing Stones

Matteo had never been first. The carnival of light and noise that blared into the thick desert night indicated this time he was also far from it. His sigh billowed up in front of him as one leather-gloved hand killed the rhythmic stutter of the engine with the turn of a key, and the ground crunched beneath his feet as he heaved himself from the truck.

A few hours ago, it would have been quiet here. The squat stone structure - all gaping openings, stumbling tunnels and expansive caverns - would have breathed undisturbed in gentle stillness. A day ago, it would not have even stood.

Now the tanned stone was transformed by winking blues, reds and purples and the surrounding stasis disturbed by conversation, laughter and clattering. That sound was charged with the easiness of those who were just passing through. Bravado, exaggeration, flat-out lies.

Matteo had heard most of the stories, repeated by a revolving cast of characters. Fisherpeople who captivated with tales of furious storms and terrible waves the size of cliffs. Or the ranchers who chased seasons across mountain and valley, falling into sparkling pools of crystal blue baked into countryside of rolling wildflower. Or those of the quarry folk, who cried as they told of families torn apart by falling stone and mechanical failure

The business of storytelling fascinated Matteo. It was an art form which blended preening with connection. And it was a business too, one based on trade. And that trade exploded when the stakes were low, like they were at the vanishing stones.

Matteo tried to shake the tiredness from him, firing himself up for the night ahead. But it was hard, and as he weaved his sled of brewing equipment through the crowds every jostle risked that tiredness exploding into anger.  

Eventually he squeezed into a corner deep within the stone. The brewing station bubbled, its hiss a bittersweet scent of coffee, cinnamon and nutmeg. Seated on the hard floor, Matteo leant his head back against the smooth walls. Either side were other latecomers, peddling snacks for onward journeys.

With no customers in sight, Matteo wandered through the avenues of neighbouring traders. Some he recognised and greeted with a soft smile, others he had never seen. Between the cured meats and baked loaves, a dance of colour caught his attention. Matteo squatted, examining the simple gemstone bracelets that lay glistening on a reed mat.

He looked to the trader. She was elderly, long wisps of white hair falling around her face, with kind brown eyes set into her tanned face.

“These are beautiful,” he said. “These would fetch a lot of business if you could get a better spot.”

The woman met his gaze. “I’m too old for that, young man. I’ve had my days of chasing the stones. I arrive when I arrive and sell what I can sell. What I don’t sell I bring back the next day.”

Matteo picked one up, examining its deep purple. The light swirled within it before seeping out, casting shades of grape across his palm.

“Still, more people should see these. You make these?”

The woman nodded. “And my mother, and my mother before her. They’re from the vanishing stones of the west.”

Matteo whistled, eyebrows raised. He knew the stories. The vanishing stones of the west which occasionally sprouted pockets and veins of glittering gemstone.

“Where do you get these from?”

The lady gave a coy smile. “I may be old, young man, but I am no fool. That is a business secret.”

Matteo laughed, holding up both hands. “Fair enough.”

He returned to his station, leaning back against the rock. Centuries ago these rocky formations were treated as spiritual sites. Apparently, they still were out west. It was hardly surprising. Great stone beings which emerged unseen in the night and crumbled at sunrise. There was no science to explain it, despite the efforts of many. Better to look for a more mystic explanation.

That mysticism was lost here, just a few kilometres from the desert motorway. Here they emerged as cathedrals of trade. A welcome break to those travelling the week-long road. Every night traders would circle the desert, watching their monitoring equipment, and swarm like moths to the moonlight when one emerged. Soon the stones became flashing beacons, drawing in the travellers for one night only.

But the stones’ temporary nature also cultivated a certain inhibition within the decades of travellers that flocked to them. Those that came felt unbridled by general social conventions, when you might return to the same place and see the same people. Yes, those that came may not be honest with their stories, but they were honest to themselves.

***

“Eyes up.”

The voice shook Matteo from his daydreaming, and his vision sharpened on the figure before him. She had the same desert-worn look as Matteo, sunbeaten skin, wind-tousled hair, well-worked muscles. But she also had a quickness to her. A roving gaze, fidgeting fingers, and tapping feet. Matteo rose to hug his cousin.

“Hello Sorcha. How do you find yourself here?” The two sunk to the floor in unison, Matteo watched Sorcha as she took in the cave. Eventually her attention returned to Matteo, fixing him with a bright laughter.

“Good to see you too cousin. I could ask the same, you normally have a better spot.”

Matteo shrugged. “I was tired today. I’ll be back on it tomorrow.”

“You’re always tired.”

Matteo kicked out a foot, catching his cousin on her knee. Sorcha feigned pain, and the two fell about laughing.

It was true though, and Matteo didn’t like that his cousin could see right through him. The desert-trader life was beating him up. Spending his nights at the stones, spending his days prepping his coffee mix, and snatching sleep somewhere in between. Sometimes he worried the spark that drove him towards the stones every night was sputtering.

His cousin’s lips curled in humour. “So, missed the signs, did you?” Sorcha fingered quotation marks around the word ‘signs’.

This time Matteo punched his cousin in the shoulder, spilling her coffee and laughing as he did. “Yeah yeah.”

The other desert traders mocked Matteo. While they had embraced the monitoring equipment that allowed them to swarm towards a stone once it emerged, Matteo had rejected it. He listened to the desert, the way it shifted, the vibrations in the ground, the movement of its wildlife. It drew him one way and another, and he always came within striking distance of a stone soon after it appeared. Never first, sure, but rarely last.

Meanwhile, Sorcha had ditched that way of life entirely, swapping it for life on the desert motorway. She bombed up and down that long stretch of tarmac, darting off into the towns and cities it dissected to find work. It had been a profitable move. Matteo’s desert leathers were worn and cracked. Sorcha’s radiated in the dull cave light.

The sound of the hubbub beyond the cavern trailed in towards them. Matteo watched Sorcha’s right knee bob up and down. His cousin’s indefatigable energy left her always seeming on the verge of dance. When with Sorcha, Matteo felt pulled towards that energy. That’s why he enjoyed her unannounced visits, even if she did wind him up.

The two spoke a while. Matteo shared the stories he had heard each night, while Sorcha shared her own. She spoke of the big cities to the North and South, where monoliths of glass and steel clustered together and grasped towards the heavens. She spoke of the lives of those citizens, who spent their days making the same journeys, seeing the same people, living the same challenges, celebrating the same triumphs.

“What stories do they tell?”

Sorcha paused, pouting as she thought.

“You know, not many. It’s not that they don’t connect though, or aren’t happy. It’s just like they find contentment in other things. I guess security and comfort.”

“And you?”

Sorcha’s fingers drummed her leather-clad legs. “It’s a nice life cousin. And yeah, I still have that desert restlessness in me, but when I get bored, I move on.” She spread her arms to wave around her. “Same as everyone here. They’re on the move, aren’t they? Heading somewhere, or returning.”

Matteo grinned, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his legs out.

“Not me.”

Sorcha locked eyes with her cousin and nodded slowly.

“That’s true. Not you. But you could cousin. The offer is always there to join me.”

Matteo felt the grip of something around his stomach, but persisted with his smile. He waved his arms around. “And leave this paradise? Don’t think so.”

Sorcha clambered to her feet. “We all decide where we go, while you let these dusty old stones dictate your path.”

She handed her cup back to Matteo.

“Get some sleep, cousin, and get a good spot tomorrow ay? I’m sticking around for another night. I’ll find you.”

Matteo watched his cousin go, listening as the bubble of conversation enveloped her retreating footsteps.

With his cousin gone he let the distant noise wash over him, rinsing away the strange knot inside him.

***

The sands shifted around Matteo’s fingers, tickling the palm of his right hand as it quivered just above the cooling ground. Eyes closed, he felt the desert’s murmurings. The clear night sky was painted thick above him, punctured by a million bright pinpricks, letting through the light of other worlds.

The wind shifted and then fell away before picking up once more. Matteo crouched motionless for another minute, hearing the hiss and rustle. He walked carefully to his truck, sitting still for a moment more in the driver’s seat. Then his engine erupted through the quiet, and he motored away.

Within five miles he found it. Only a few headlights illuminated it and Matteo smiled in the dark. He would lumber his equipment in later.

He walked into the stone cavern that gawped before him. The tunnels twisted and turned, the darkness pooling as the starlight slipped away.

Arms outstretched, fingers brushing against the smooth stone, Matteo let the curves and contortions lead him further. His footsteps bounced off the walls in a soft rhythm that both pursued him and pulled him deeper. He passed a few others in silence, each embarking on their own pilgrimage.

He always expected to stumble across a hidden pool, a desert oasis set deep in the vanishing stone. But he never did. He crouched once more, fingers on the floor, and let himself breathe. He gave himself a minute and then stood to leave.

Matteo almost tumbled over the mound on the floor. He fell into the wall, and the heap gave a brief cry of pain.

“Are you okay down there?” Matteo could barely make out the figure.

“I was just looking for something… and I got lost. Can you help me up?”

He recognised the jewellery trader’s soft voice. He bent and lifted her gently up.

“Of course. We actually spoke yesterday, you told me about your work.”

The woman paused.

“Yes, I recognise that voice. The nice young man who took such an interest. Sorry you found me like this. Can you lead me out?”

The two walked together, Matteo following the tunnel walls with his fingers, the woman wrapped carefully around his arm. Soon the moonlight spilled back in, and they were out into the open air.

Matteo dusted the woman down.

“Can I ask what you were doing in there?”

“Oh,” the woman tilted her head to the side. “I thought one day I’d find my own gemstone pocket. But today wasn’t that day.”

She squeezed Matteo’s hand. “Thank you for the help.”

The woman turned to leave, and then stopped, hands diving into the colourful bag that hung across her body. Her hands returned to Matteo’s, pressing something cool and hard into them.

“One won’t go amiss,” she said, with a wink.

Matteo shook his head as she drifted away. The purple stone twinkled in his palm.

***

Within an hour the motorcade arrived. Spilling out were a gush of young and old. Some were fresh-faced, perhaps only a day from their last stop. Others stooped out with hands on backs, bending, twisting, and shaking life back into rigid bodies.

This ritual of entry always intrigued Matteo, his mind jumping to explore imagined backgrounds, stories, emotions. He plucked these people up and dropped them into different worlds, trying to place their homes, their relationships, their habits.

Perched right at the front of one cavern, Matteo had a glorious view of the spectacle of community that materialised before him. The bare desert had been transformed into a communal living space. He imagined invisible strings connecting the crowds, thickening and thinning as relationships flourished, arguments broke out, and old friends emerged. He would enjoy this.

But then something else struck him. With the night laid bare, he was reminded of his cousin’s offer. A throbbing exhaustion replaced his glee. He rubbed his temples, trying to massage the weight away.

He was pleased to see a traveller worm through the crowd towards him. Matteo rose to fill a cup, but as he did the tiredness took his legs away. He stumbled into the tank, knocking it over. He swore as half a batch emptied out into the dry sand. An ironic cheer erupted around him, responding to the clattering metal.

He sat down with a thump, hands squeezing his forehead. He just needed a moment, he said to himself. A new batch isn’t a problem. It’ll be fine. Won’t it? An hour lost, maybe more… But it’s fine. It’s fine.

He allowed himself a few minutes more, hoping the laughter would have left him before he lifted his head. They had. He was a punchline for the evening, but a fleeting one, and with no coffee to serve he was now invisible to the crowd. A dark mood settled in.

But before it festered, two thick arms hooked under his own and hoisted him up. A broad, cheerful face looked down on him.

“We’ve all been there lad,” the man said. “Now tell me how we get this all set back up.”

***

A few hours later a tall figure emerged through the crowds, stepping delicately over sprawled limbs and weaving between dripping receptacles. Sorcha paused, a curious frown spreading as she watched a huge man serve coffee from her cousin’s station. The two were chattering away as she approached.

Sorcha grinned when she reached Matteo, her arms open as if to embrace her cousin, the man, and the coffee stand.

“You stuck to the task, ay cousin. And more, it seems.”

Matteo gave a shy wink. “I listened carefully tonight.”

“I bet you did,” Sorcha chuckled.

She noticed her cousin fiddling with something, toying with something small in his fingers.

“What do you have there?”

“Nothing.” Matteo’s voice was absent. He rose and turned to the man, handing him something. “Thank you for your help. Go and enjoy the evening, my cousin can help from here.”

The man looked down.

“It’s beautiful, are you sure?”

Matteo nodded.

“One hundred percent.”

***

The horizon projected a ghostly blue and the motorcade drifted away. Every morning something in Matteo sank at this exit, even though he knew a new web would be spun the following night.

He and Sorcha sat with their backs against the cool smooth stone. The silence only drew greater attention to his cousin’s fidgeting. Fingering small circles in the dark sand, Matteo knew the time had come.

“Think I’ll head south today, and cut westward towards the trading station.”

Sorcha spoke it into the world, as if it were an excuse. She turned to Matteo.

“Are you coming, cousin?”

Matteo felt the ache of his bones, his bruised legs and arms. He imagined himself in a glass walled apartment, sinking into a soft, cloud-like chair.

He reached down, feeling for the desert, and drew his hands back instinctively. The sand was wet. He frowned and looked down. The smell of stale coffee rose to meet him. Matteo raised his hand. Brown grains clung to his palm.

The last of the travellers clambered into trucks. As they did, one turned and waved to Matteo and Sorcha. A vibrant purple flashed from his wrist.  

The first rays of sunlight brushed the vanishing stone. A thin dust began to whisper from it, forming in a neat line which whirled over Matteo’s head and fell to the desert floor.

“I think I’ll be alright here, Sorcha.”