Something From The NaNoWriMo

I guard my treasure well. I sit at the top of seventeen stone steps, perched on the cold stone of a broken table. It was shattered once, by a spell so deep and powerful that I tremble as I sit. And yet, the magic turns away from me, for I am not a creature that it seeks to restrict. I am the keeper. The stone is so cold that my body has hardened to cope with it. Even now, I feel my legs solidifying into marble, my toes becoming carved humps in my worn boots. And yet, I remain where I am, becoming one with the stone I sit on. I could not move from this place even if that were my desire, for I have been bound here, with blood and name. Around me in a broad circle are little silver spears. They twinkle in the night. The spears are not much higher than the width of a palm, but they sit stubbornly in the ground and would deny my passage even if I could heave my bulk off this chilly ledge.

Behind me, some ways back, sits the prize. Few have braved the journey that would bring their faces to mine, and none have passed me by to lay their hands upon that which I guard. How it came to rest in this place, I do not know. Perhaps it tumbled from its owner’s fingers as he was torn apart, and stayed where it fell. Or perhaps some lost hero sought it out and placed it here. I do not know, only that I must guard it. It sits on a small rise in the ground, still gleaming. When the wind blows powerfully from the north, its strings vibrate with a song so sweet that it causes tears to flow from me. Such is the voice that turns back rock and arrow; such is the voice that fashioned a path from the underworld. I guard the harp, which was once played by Orpheus. Only a skilled musician could pick it up and do it justice. It would turn on any other, sinking them deep into the pits of Hades. Still, the music, when it reaches me, is pleasant enough. It sings to me of sweet feasts under a moonlit sky, of waters so high that the sky cannot be seen beyond them and of maidens so full of youth and merriment that they almost burst from it. I do not dare to touch it. I could not, for I am bound beyond its reach. But even if I was free of my stony table, and if I defeated the enchantment that sprung up around me, I would not dare to lay a hand on its beauteous surface. Such a harp was made for the gods to play, and I do not dare.

The harp is not all sweet songs and lullabies. There will come times that fill it with loss and sorrow, yearning for the hands of its owner. It will sing a song of lament and despair that it let Eurydice fall back into Hades and into eternal torment. I whisper to it, when I can, that it was not the fault of the harp; no it was Orpheus himself who looked back and let his mistress fall. The harp cannot hear me, or ignores my pleading whispers. It does not care to be comforted, but sings out sadness.

I remember the first time I was challenged, and the last. The first man was large, with hairy arms and a booming voice. He wished the harp for his own, to turn into a weapon of war. He wished to charm his enemies with its golden tongue, to lay waste to this world using its spell craft. I denied him, and killed him with a word, one that I found inscribed on the stone table. It was old, and powerful, and it broke him. The warrior could not have played the harp anyway; it would have driven him off, he and his clumsy fingers, suited to a sword but not to delicate strings. The last challenger was a poet. He wished to set the harp above his mantelpiece, so that it would fill his house with song. His name was Aaron. He sat with me for a day, gifting me with smoked meats and liquors of the finest make. Still, I did not relent and sent him on his way. He left with his head filled with rhyme. The harp sensed a kindred spirit in this man, and filled his head with verse and song thought to be ages lost. Still, he was not permitted to take the harp from its resting place. Sometimes I miss the poet and his songs. He was kind to me, when all else sought only to remove me so that they could have their prize.

I will remember his sweet face well when I become fully rock. It will be soon, for my waist is thickening with rocky protrusions, and my arms are now too heavy to lift. I can feel the stone twisting up within me. It does not hurt, but it is very cold. I crane my neck so that I may have one last look at the harp which I guard before I am transformed. The stone grips me. It is a perversion of the spell used to break the table. I have been exposed to its magic for an age, and now, finally, it works upon my flesh. My shoulders are stiffening, my neck twisted cruelly around to face the steps. I must keep watch for those who seek to pass me. I will remain aware when I am stone. I cannot speak, can no longer whisper comfort to the harp, for my mouth and tongue are stilled and heavy. My ears now, twist into carved rock, my long hair twining together to make a woven rope of marble. I am stone, and I guard. I will sit here, unharmed by raging wind or dripping water. I am the keeper, and I will keep the harp safe.