Lark stared longingly at the ring in the glass cabinet. She was in Amesbury, England, on a semester abroad and was heading to Stonehenge that morning for a unique sunrise experience. The ring sat on dusty purple cloth in a dingy antique shop on a drab little street. The shop, ‘Wood and Lace’ was next to a 24-hour McDonald’s, conveniently located across from Lark’s Airbnb.
The unassuming sign on the antique shop put the opening hours at 8 am to 4 pm, but Lark could see a warm glow being emitted as she went into the McDonalds to grab a coffee and muffin. It is curious, she thought to herself, the foot traffic at this God-forsaken hour could not possibly warrant opening for business. Still, as she continued to stare from her seated position at the red plastic table, a plump figure opened the door and flipped the little ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.
Lark was bored, not wanting to chance sleeping through her alarm and missing the coach, no less than 10 alarms had been set. Subsequently, she now found herself the only person present at the students meeting place. I could go browse that shop and buy a couple of gifts, Lark mused to herself, shrugging on her coat and stepping out into the damp English air. The shop welcomed her with a loud jingle from an overhead bell, announcing her entry from the dark and empty streets.
A short, round woman in her mid 60’s met Lark with a smile and enthusiasm that felt unnatural at this hour. As per the name tag, the woman named ‘Helena’ bid that Lark “G’wed! Browse around love” as she chatted without pause in a heavy Scouse accent that made Lark nod and smile like a bobblehead on a dashboard.
The shop had little that was truly unique but contained many small knickknacks and local goods of soap, teas, honey and spoons. Dust and cobwebs hung heavy in the air, but the shop smelled of Sage and English Tea, a comforting smell to Lark in this unknown place. The ring caught her eye as she paid for a pretty love spoon with a heart and dragon handle. The ring was small and made of rose gold. It was dirty and unpolished but still held a gleam that seemed to want to escape its years of grime. The ring had several small etchings that Lark could not make out and a centre stone that was perhaps peridot or some other yellow gem.
The shopkeeper, Helena, noticed Lark eyeing the ring and took it out at once. “You have a keen eye for quality, my girl. This little ring came here about six months ago as part of an estate sale. In fact, many interesting pieces came from that home, and I believe this is one of the last pieces we have. It was told to me it was, that the home held vast collections of jewellery, art and artifacts from all over the World. This here though, this ring came from Wales, you can tell by the quality of the rose gold band, there’s even a maker’s mark on the inside but these old eyes can’t make it out”.
The ring fit perfectly on the pinkie finger of her left hand, it had smooth edges and a deep pink hue that shone under the warm lights. Lark was uncertain if the hot coffee she was drinking was spreading comfortingly around her chilled body or if it was the touch of a cool band on her warm finger. The memory of a cold popsicle in hot summer hands at the local outdoor Greenaway pool filled her with longing for the once happy and grubby child that she normally couldn't recall.
Honk! Lark spun around and saw her classmates loading the coach. The never-ending rain was beginning to hit the windows as the wind whipped garbage (or was that called rubbish here?) around the narrow street. Lark yanked off the ring and started for the door, “that’ll be 82 pounds, Love” said the portly shopkeeper. Lark stopped and looked at the lonely ring with its curious etchings on the dusty purple cloth. “Ok, I’ll take it”. She paid hurriedly and waved aside the jewellery box, slipping the ring onto her finger once again. She ran outside to climb onto the coach, barely aware of the older woman as she called a faint farewell.
Helena watched as the young woman left, making sure the coach was well past the visibility of the shop and no stragglers on the street before turning the sign to close and switching off the lights.
Outside, the wind howled and the rain furiously lashed against the window panes like a wolf begging entrance to a sheep’s pen. Inside, Lark and her friends laughed with good humour as a bottle of liqueur was passed around and generous helpings were added to the waiting thermos and cups. Lark drank a mouthful of the rich and warm coffee that now tasted strongly of caramel and rum. Today, she thought, is a wonderful day for adventure, if only this bloody rain would stop. With that, Lark pulled her Gortex jacket out of her backpack and checked on her cold stash of sausage and cheese and onion rolls from Gregg’s pastry shop.
The weather looked horrendous, even by accounts of the born and bred English coach driver. The driver, Gareth, seemed to wear a permanent scowl and continually muttered and cursed about how “Summer was supposed to make the rain warmer” and something about “porking his missus with an umbrella”. Lark’s classmates howled at his use of profanities that provided them with rich material and showed off their keen academic learning by eagerly texting friends back home with updates to their roster of insults. Lark, without further complaint, munched happily on her breakfast rolls and sipped her spiked coffee.
An Archeology student of Simon Fraser University in British Columbia, Lark relished the opportunity to be absorbed in the enigma that was Stonehenge. At home, her university morning would look like any other, she would wake up, make a pot of coffee, eat cereal, say goodbye to Thomas and sit in a lecture hall with dozens of other students. But this, this was exciting! To visit a site of myth and folklore, of Merlin or Danes or Romans. Lark marvelled at the modern-day mystery that held as many secrets as it had when Stonehenge was discovered and the site was believed to date back to 3100 BC.
As suddenly as it had begun, the rain and wind fell silent as the coach approached the massive stone monoliths as though the angry storm was quieted in eager anticipation of the first rays of sunlight that gave a welcoming kiss to the protruding structures on the first day of Summer Solstice.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The coach pulled into the parking lot at 0430 sharp. The students yawned and moaned half-hearted complaints despite their aggressive attempts at caffeination and camaraderie, fighting the urge to remain in the warm, climate-controlled vehicle instead of brave the rain, wind and dark. Lark, despite her fatigue from early morning travel and a slight buzz from the extra helpings of coffee liqueur, managed to shrug on her Gortex jacket, gloves and toque that was ironically dotted with sheep on a sunny English hillside.
She looked out the window and could only faintly see the outline of the tomb-shaped rocks on the horizon. The sight of her query gave her the incentive of a cattle prong, and she jumped out of her seat and reached into the overhead for her ratty backpack and grandma’s walking stick.
The walking stick was somewhat of a unique piece. Although an orphan for over the last decade, her grandma had passed away a few years ago and left her and Thomas with a post-war bungalow-style home in Surrey, British Columbia and closets and drawers brimming with clothing and silly trinkets that appeared worthless.
Thomas and Lark had spent weeks cleaning, organizing and decluttering the space. Each now had a comfortable desk to study at with a bookshelf that no longer held Red Rose Tea Figurines but textbooks, binders and printer paper. In her grandmother’s closet, Lark had found the walking stick. She had knocked it over in her surprise at the odd discovery, and it had landed with a loud ‘thwack’ on the hardwood floor, leaving a round dent by the floor lamp. The walking stick was a handsome wooden item of considerable weight. It was made of a glossy dark wood, perhaps ebony. The unique feature of the walking stick was the handle in the shape of an enormous toad. The toad had a wide, gaping mouth that fit her small fist, like where a stone might go but was missing. Curiously, the whole toad swung back when deliberate force was exerted under the amphibian’s chin, and Inside was a hidden chamber that contained a strange note from her grandmother.
Lark, take this with you on your next adventure,
for a Lilly pad in a tranquil pond may hide many monsters lying in wake.
Lark did not know her Grandmother. Even after the death of her parents, Lark had been moved between foster homes and had never been claimed by extended family despite a singular member from her maternal mother’s side being located.
Her grandmother had reported to child services that she was unwell and not fit to care for her granddaughter. The homes she went to did not facilitate reunification with her kin and so their relationship consisted of occasional calls, a birthday, a Christmas card and most importantly, an unspoken rule that Lark would ask for nothing and hold no expectations of the elderly woman. As far as Lark saw things, the old crone had continually stated her ailments and general decline to anyone who asked while blatantly appearing in excellent health.
She sent yearly pictures of her traversing the World from the Cheewhat Giants of the Vancouver Island to the home of the Crystal maiden in Actun Tunichil Muknal, Belize. Most recently, her travels had taken her to the Southern Island of New Zealand. This last particular trip showed a picture of her grandmother in her mid 80’s hiking the Mount Somers Walkway through Alford Forest in Methven.
The photo, taken by an anonymous person or travel companion, showed a vibrant woman in peak physical health. She wore all the colours of the rainbow in what could best be described as a patchwork hiking jacket with matching shorts, brazenly standing at the summit of a large pinnacle that overlooked a rushing river of dazzling blues. Like all photos she had seen, standing proud in her grandmother’s right hand was the ebony and toad walking stick.
Now, the gaping mouth of the toad appeared to mock her. Lark felt ridiculous taking it along on this trip. She could have left it, but the nagging guilt of the home that she had inherited and the odd note found in the hidden compartment made her reconsider. Lark could not shake the feeling she owed the woman, so she packed the silly toad stick and rented her room to her best friend, besides, it might get lost or broken along the way. At her final destination in Heathrow airport, Lark discovered that even though it had gone through baggage check, the packaging had still been taken apart by security, probably looking for amphetamines in the hidden compartment, her amphibian had still made it.
Here ‘he’ was! the frog, or toad? Seemed like a he to her. Yes, definitely a he. Lark pulled the stick and her backpack off the coach in an awkward fashion before setting things down to organise straps, and hats, and toads.
Her small group of friends from the class gathered around her as she was seemingly the only one coming off the coach still struggling to look like an adult that had herself ‘together’. Lark thought of that criticism that recycled itself continually through her life from home to home, used by different foster families, teachers and employers. Only Thomas had never said or insinuated that to her, she gave herself a minute to quietly miss him for it while the straps were lashed and shoelaces tied.
At that moment, a brown and white dog of some sort came bounding up to her and grabbed the bottom of the stick, the dog threw its head back and forth in the vicious, growling and playful energy of a puppy before careening away again when an unseen female voice range out, “Albus, come here boy!” Lark laughed at the spirited encounter with the puppy and checked the bottom of the stick, no chew marks, not even a scratch from the ebullient fluff monster.
Once she was sorted, Lark and her friends set off at a quick pace to beat the incoming buses and get a good seat on the grassy slopes. The beauty of the ancient stones was still obstructed in the night, but slivers of sunlight rose to greet them, stretching shy tendrils of light toward the monolithic stone in a morning embrace of fiery promise to dance away the shy stars and bring the power of the sun to expose the circle of stone.
As the growing crowds continued to spread across the plain Lark and her friends were enveloped in the spirit of the gathered. Lark felt a strong urge to touch the stones from the Bronze Age, being warmed by the new Sun. Lark wanted to experience the rich texture of the vertical Sarsen and revel in the sleeping ruin. She strode forward with quiet confidence, reaching out her left hand as she juggled the cumbersome walking stick in her right. Suddenly, the little brown and white dog was at her feet and she pitched forward. The dog was locked against her shin as her hand grasped wildly to catch her fall, but she had still been too far from the stone with too much weight from her packs and staff, pitching her from a controlled fall and into a wild arc. The outside of her right hand grazed painfully down the rough stone, opening her skin and leaving a bloody smear down the rock, she could vaguely hear a woman yelling “Albus, no!” before her head collided with the base of the stone and a yellow light flashed around her.
Pain, unbelievable pain, searing from her hand and into her chest as the yellow light faded to a merciful black.