moni uddin

Hum of the Stone

Mowton Village, Spring

They’re still selling the same fish at the market. It’s been months; it would be nice to have a change. But that’s life in Mowton village . . . no one’s fond of change.

I fixed the mayor’s roof today, but it still looks a bit crooked.

Days here seem to blur together into one endless chapter. I carry on as I always have. But what I really feel like doing . . .

A crash shattered the stillness of the night.

Sable’s quill skidded across the pages of his journal and tumbled to the floor beside his bed. He leapt back, eyes wide with shock, as smoke and dust swirled through the air. He coughed as it filled the small shack, mingling with the moonlight that filtered through the hole in the roof. Through the haze, Sable glimpsed a crater in the floor, its centre pulsing with an eerie light. His fur prickled with nervous curiosity as he edged off his bed, drawn toward the strange glow.

As the smoke cleared, something became visible. It was smooth in certain places, rough and jagged in others. It glowed with a warm white light, casting dancing shadows around the room. Sable’s eyes widened as he stared at it, mesmerised by its unusual form. He had known nothing like it.

Something about it made Sable feel alive. It was as if it were calling to him with a hopeful hum, telling him that he could do anything he wanted to. It felt as though it believed in him, urging him to get closer. His paws itched to reach out, to touch it, but just as he took a step off his bed, the stone wriggled, rising slowly from the crater.

It hovered in the air for a moment, almost eye-level with him, its light pulsing gently as if it were alive. For a moment, everything was still. Then, without warning, the stone shot up through the hole in the roof and disappeared.

Sable scrambled outside just in time to see the stone streaking across the sky, leaving a faint trail of light behind. It moved quickly, beyond the village, over the old forest, and towards the Blue Mountain on the distant horizon, where it disappeared.

The next day, Sable couldn’t shake the memory of the stone. Its beauty and sound had embedded themselves in his mind. He spent the day fixing his own roof and thinking about it, his paws working on wood while his mind wandered far beyond the village. Stones didn’t move like that. He wanted to see it again, to hear its hopeful hum. But leaving the village was unthinkable. No cat from Mowton village had ever left.

When Felix arrived later that day, Sable wanted to describe the night’s events to his friend. Communication has always been hard, but he tried. Using his paws, he sketched out the scene, tracing the glowing stone’s path from the entry in the roof to the crater and eventual flight across the night sky towards the Blue Mountain. But Felix shook his head and chuckled.

“Come on, Sable, a glowing stone and a flying one as well to top it off?” said Felix, casting observant looks at the hole in the roof and the crater. “These shacks are brittle. A Bluetail could have fallen through. They migrate this time of year towards the mountains, and they’re definitely not the brightest.”

But Sable had seen Bluetails, and he had seen the stone. The otherworldly light that emanated from it could not have been imagined, either. Mowton had a way of stifling such ideas even in the mind. No, this stone was something else entirely—something beyond village understanding.

One evening, Sable made a small decision. He visited the village shop and pointed at the map of the region, including the Blue Mountain. He wasn’t going anywhere, not yet—but it was a small step, something to give form to the adventure his mind had been toying with.

Mrs Ripley, the shopkeeper, handed him the old, folded map, its edges worn but its details still sharp. “Are you off to act out one of your adventures again?” she teased. “You did so love to do that as a kitten.”

Sable merely smiled at Mrs Ripley, but the glint in his eyes told a different story. Back at his shack, Sable unfurled the map on his table, tracing the distant mountains with a claw.

The next morning, he found himself at the market, deciding on his breakfast for the day. When he purchased extra biscuits and dried fish, he told himself it was just practical—it never hurt to have extra supplies. He tucked them away in his cupboard and went on with his day, but something was shifting inside him.

The day after that, Sable bought a new pack from the weaver, a sturdy one meant for longer travels. He smiled to himself as he stuffed it with the map, the food, and a few other items he couldn’t imagine going without. It wasn’t much, but before he knew it, the pack was bulging with supplies for a trip he had never meant to take. And yet, here it was—ready and waiting.

On one unremarkable night, Sable stood at his doorway staring at the familiar horizon as he always did. He sighed softly, ready to call it a night. Then, he paused, his eyes drifting to the pack that rested by the door, ready and waiting. Tonight, something felt different. He sensed a pull toward the unknown, a quiet call to something beyond. Without another thought, Sable grabbed the pack, fastened his cloak, and closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment, not sure how it had come to this. But somehow, each small action had led him to this point. The final decision didn’t feel so impossible when the only remaining piece was him. With one last glance at the village, he took his first step toward the horizon, toward the place where he had last seen the stone.