The Stone Man

A Story by MadamHatter

Fantasy, ink-magic, and romance.

Long ago, there lived a lonely witch. She was poor and plain and alone, but she had one special gift. This witch was an ink-witch, able to write the most wonderful, fantastical words, which could become reality.

Although she was lonely, she was always busy; the people of her village hounded the ink-witch for her words, for her strange magic, that could make them richer, fairer, happier. And so the ink-witch's days were filled to the brim with the business of making others happier than she could ever be.

One day, the ink-witch laid down her pen, and clutched her chest. She held her hand there as she felt her heart break, and when she looked, she saw the shards of her heart embedded within her skin. The ink-witch knew she could not continue to live as she had.

She bound her hand, still bleeding from the jagged pieces of her heart, with a purple ribbon, and packed all that mattered to her into a small bag. As the dawn broke over her small village, the ink-witch took to the north, heading for the deepest, darkest woods.

The ink-witch wandered for many days, not stopping to sleep or eat, always aware of the heart-shards in her hand and the phantom beat in her chest.

At last, she came to a small clearing in the deep, dark woods. Little light shone here, but in the murky gloom the ink-witch could see a strange standing stone. She looked closely, and saw that, once, the weathered, faded rock had once been the statue of a man. The ink-witch smiled a little, for this statue had no more happiness or heart than she, and so she decided that this was where she would stay.

The ink-witch needed a shelter, a home to live in. She pulled some parchment from her bag, intending to write herself a cottage, but realised that she had no ink for her pen. For hours she wondered what to do, before the answer struck her like a streak of lightning.

Unwrapping the purple ribbon from her hand carefully, the ink-witch pulled a single shard of her heart from her skin, placing it gently at the foot of the stone man. Dipping her pen into the blood that spilled from her hand, she began to write.

Soon, the ink-witch was stood inside a small cottage and so, to her surprise, was the stone man. The snarled roots that had anchored him to the forest floor had vanished, and he rested on the wooden floor, the heart-shard by his stone feet. She was puzzled, but it made little difference to her. She rebound her hand and, after a simple meal of bread and cheese, the ink-witch laid down and slept deeply.

When she awoke, the ink-witch stretched and wondered what she would do now she had made herself a new home. As she sat in her soft nest of blankets, her eyes were drawn to the stone man. As she studied the barely-discernable features, an idea rooted itself in her mind and began to grow.

The ink-witch had spent her life alone, and it had broken her heart. She had spent her life weaving wonders out of words for others, and it had left her with nothing but pain. So she decided that she would write herself a friend. Someone she could talk to, and share the rest of her life with in comfortable companionship.

Sitting before her parchment, the ink-witch once again unwrapped the purple ribbon from her hand and removed a sharp fragment of her heart, placing it next to its sister at the foot of the stone man. She dipped her pen once more into her blood, and began to write.

For many days she followed her routine, discarding the broken heart-shards in a pile on the floor and choosing words to make her friend reality. Every night she would fall asleep exhausted, convincing herself it was nothing more than tiredness that made the features of her stone companion sharper; that the straight edge of his nose had always been so pronounced, and that the fine lines that marked a million smiles were just facets in the stone.

One day, the ink-witch unwrapped the purple ribbon from her hand for the last time; only one shard of her heart remained embedded in her skin. She stared at it for a long time, and realised that she missed the feel of her heart beating within her breast. Perhaps, she wondered, she and the friend she had nearly finished writing could find a way to mend it.

Slowly she pulled the last shard from her hand and placed it on the small pile that lay before the stone man, this time adding the purple ribbon too. She felt different, but could not explain to herself what the change was. Shaking her head, she bent to her work.

Long hours passed, and the ink-witch was finished. She had written the friend she had always wanted. As she wrote the last words, she felt the flow of her magic infuse her, and eagerly turned around to greet the companion she had brought to life with words and her blood.

No companion stood before her. No friend appeared to comfort her and be her salvation. All there was, was the man of stone, his flinty eyes staring sightlessly at the pile of jagged pieces of her heart and the sad, bloodstained purple ribbon that lay atop them.

Sobbing, the ink-witch took herself to her bed, mourning the loss of her gift, and the life she had tried so hard to weave for herself. As she passed the stone man, she was so blinded by tears that she did not see the tiny movements beginning in his stone fingers; she was so deaf to all but the sound of her pain that she did not hear the first breath that filled his stone lungs.

She cried through the night, wretched and broken. Eventually sleep took her, and she dreamed fitfully of a man whose face she could not see.

Whilst the ink-witch surrendered to her pain and fatigue, the stone man struggled to move muscles that had never before moved. He felt more than the icy coldness of the flint, and heard the rushing of blood that had once been molten rock.

As he slowly came to life, he felt the sharp absence of a heart. Kneeling, he gathered the purple ribbon and the pieces of the ink-witch's heart and wondered if it would be possible for the two of them to share.

When the ink-witch final arose, she was met with a scene from a story; stood where the silent stone man had always stood was a tall man made of flesh and blood. His nose had the same straight edge as her stone man, and the same fine lines were now creased in an gentle, loving smile. The eyes that had once been flint were now hazel - although they cut to the core of the ink-witch as she stared into them.

In each hand the once-stone man held half a heart, bound tightly with scraps of purple ribbon. Silently he held one out to her, pressing it against her chest as he pressed its twin to his own.

Studying his face, the ink-witch realised that this was her friend, her companion, the man she had written into being. Each shard of her heart laid at his feet had been an offering she made without knowing, and the blood she had spilled in her writing had fed the stone until it had been blessed with life.

Nodding slowly, the ink-witch closed her eyes and felt the man before her press her half of their now-shared heart into place. As it took its first fluttering beats, she lifted her own hand and guided his to his own chest, giving him half of her heart. She felt the warmth of his skin beneath her palm and felt her body fill with the fire she had longed for.

The stone man felt the heart beat within his body, and his eyes filled with tears; this was living. He felt the same fire that filled the ink-witch and was filled with longing; this was love.

The two came together and, as their lips touched, the halves of their shared heart beat in unison; a rhythm that could not be stopped.

The ink-witch and the stone man stayed for many years in their small cottage, laughing and loving and, for the first time, truly living.

© 2018 MadamHatter

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Featured Review

Samuel Dickens

Excellent. This is quite original and well-written. I love fantasy, fairy tales, etc, and this fine tale satisfies. I don't think I've ever suggested this to anyone before, but I think this cries out for some illustrations. Perhaps that isn't feasible, but it would make the reading more enjoyable. A tiny bit of editing is needed.