Boulder
It's Easter weekend, so here's something different to celebrate - a short story I've had in my head for about 20 years and that I finally wrote down, just for you.
Early every Sunday afternoon, winter and summer, the villagers went walking down to the lake. In the summer they would spend hours there, bathing and enjoying the warmth and the sunshine, while in the winter the visits were quicker, nodding greetings to neighbours before quickly returning home again.
The sick and the infirm and the mothers of the newest of newborns might stay at home, but everyone else went, young and old alike. They had done so for hundreds of years, and no-one would ever think of not going.
One deep winter day they arrived to find a man they didn’t know standing, waiting patiently by the edge of the frozen lake by a huge boulder tied with a rope.
“Who are you?” one of the villagers asked.
“I am the man who is going to make one of you very rich,” the man replied.
The villagers didn’t like outsiders, but this man was promising them something different.
He emptied a pouch of golden coins onto the smooth, flat top of the tied-up rock.
Most of the villagers gasped. They had never seen that many coins before.
“This is part of the prize,” the man declared, firmly but not overly so, yet loud enough for everyone to hear.
“The prize for what?” another villager asked.
“For the wager we shall enter into,” the man replied.
The villagers looked at one another.
“By my calculations, there is somewhere between twenty and forty days left in winter, and as you all know, no-one can predict when the warmer weather will come and the ice on this lake will melt.”
The villagers nodded in agreement. Some years spring came early, sometimes late. Even the birds didn’t seem to know when the weather would turn for the better, often staying away until they were well sure of a warmer climate.
“I am going to place this boulder in the middle of the lake, and after that the process is a simple one – you pay ten gold coins and choose a date over that span of twenty days and if, upon your chosen day, the ice melts so much that the boulder sinks to the bottom, you take all the coins. All of them.”
The villagers gasped again. Very few, if any, of them had two gold coins to their names, let alone ten, but the prospect of becoming so indescribably rich had them thinking desperately of ways to acquire them.
Twenty dates times ten gold coins would be two hundred gold coins – a return of nineteen times what they had paid to take part, plus their stake. Add to that the contents of the man’s purse, which must have been at least another forty or fifty coins, and it would be a princely sum for the winners.
“Do … do we have to pay you up front?” a villager asked.
“Of course, but how you choose to do so is up to you. Each date chosen costs ten gold coins, but you may enter into whatever financial arrangements or syndicates you wish to finance them. That is of no interest to me.”
The low murmurs started to rise as villagers began to look towards their neighbours, sizing up who they could pair up with to join in on this glorious opportunity.
An older villager spoke up.
“What’s in this for you?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” said the man. “I have more gold coins than I know what to do with, and this is a way of bringing some excitement to those less well off than my good self,” he intoned.
“I have no further time to talk, for I must move this boulder to the middle of the lake. I will return in exactly one week, where I will meet you at this exact spot at midday – the dates are first come, first served. The queue shall begin at this tree stump and run to that oak over there. Choose your date wisely, my friends,” the man said, before turning his back to them, the rope over his shoulder to begin the arduous process of dragging the boulder to the centre of the lake.
A week later, the villagers began to gather from early morning. The whole week had been spent in furious discussions as they tried to pool their resources and pick a date for the melting of the ice that would see them emerge victorious.
The old people of the village were consulted to see what dates were likely, what weather conditions they had experienced, the movements of animals and the colours of the sky – anything that might help them in predicting when the thaw would come.
Families and friends argued and bickered as alliances formed and fractured over who would own what share of the winnings and who knew what about the previous winters, but now that time was passed. Twenty men representing twenty different syndicates stood in line between the stump and the oak, and at precisely midday the man appeared, his purse of gold coins jingling on his belt.
“Do we all have our coins?” he asked.
The villagers murmured their assent.
“Good. The rules are thus – the wager begins in thirteen days, and every night at midnight you are welcome to come and inspect the boulder. If it has disappeared during the preceding day, I will immediately pay out the full sum to the syndicate that owned that date. I shall pitch my tent close to the boulder and from this day on I shall keep watch on it, day and night, to ensure there is no foul play. In return, the village shall deliver to me what I need to remain here in the way of food and drink. Are we in agreement?”
The villagers again murmured their assent.
The twenty men shifted from foot to foot, anxious to get their names noted in the red ledger the man was carrying.
The ones towards the end of the queue knew that their chances were more or less a lottery; by the time their turn came, there would be limited dates to choose from, but then again – it was almost two weeks to the start of the wager, and anything could happen.
The man took the ten gold coins from the first villager and duly noted that booked day 10 – a good idea, but hardly scientific. One by one, the twenty men handed over their coins, nervously choosing their dates and hastily choosing new ones if their preferred ones were already gone. The process was quickly over and the man moved off onto the ice to pitch his tent on the frozen surface.
“In thirteen days, we begin. I look forward to you sending whatever it is I am to eat and drink,” the man said, turning his back on the villagers.
They began to whisper among themselves. This man was strange, but he brought with them an opportunity that none of them wanted to miss; surely, they must be as hospitable as possible? Arrangements were made to bring the finest food and drink, as well as furs to keep him warm.
The villagers often spotted the man in the intervening thirteen days, out on the ice. The day before the wager began, they gathered once more.
“So it begins. Worry not - the weight of the boulder will cause it to fall through the ice first, so there is no threat to my safety. I will remain until the wager is over and the prize has been paid out. Good luck, my friends.”
The boulder stood, solid and unmoving on the ice.
Little happened in the first few days as the early speculators fell away. Some had imagined that the weak sunshine that had penetrated the clouds might remain and bring an early spring, but it wasn’t to be. One man had borrowed from almost everyone he knew and was beaten by them when they were quickly eliminated.
Some of the wealthier villagers had invested in more than one syndicate, and the anguish of those who had lost their money early was tempered by the relief of those of greater means who knew that they were still involved.
One morning, a week into the wager, the villagers woke to a strong westerly wind, and word of the weather spread through the village like wildfire. The west wind was warm, far warmer than the north winds that usually whistled over the lake in winter – would this be enough to melt the ice? And if so, when?
More villagers than normal made their way down to the lake at midnight, but the boulder still stood. The villagers stamped and listened, trying to gauge the thickness of the ice and the effect of the wind by the dull thud of their feet on the frozen surface. It told them nothing.
Another few days passed. The west wind came and went, clearing the snow from the ice and leaving it exposed, but still thick enough to bear the weight of the boulder and the curious villagers.
On the tenth day, the sun appeared early and stayed out for the day. On some of the roofs the frozen snow started to glisten. The chatter in the village was that this would change everything, and the villagers came down early that night, long before midnight.
Things had changed. The surface of the ice was wet and slippery with the water that had melted sitting on top. The buzz of excitement was palpable.
The man, who hadn’t spoken, came out of his tent.
“What a pleasant day it has been. It might not be too long now,” he said before going back inside.
The tension mounted. Surely this was not the first time this mysterious man had done such a wager - what did he know that they didn’t?
The following day, the north wind howled again and the pools of water from the night before quickly froze again, merging star-cracked patterns that crackled underfoot. The villagers wondered aloud how the man coped in the thin tent; he was delivered the best of food and drink every day, but every night they rushed home just after midnight to sit by the fire, desperate to chase the damp cold of the lake ice from their bones; he remained steadfast.
The weather remained cold for several days as the winter stretched itself out unbidden, until the temperature gradually starting to climb again. There were only four syndicates left now, and all of a sudden, the members found that their shares were worth a lot more than the ten gold coins that they had originally paid.
They were offered the chance to sell their shares to other speculators, often for three or four times more than what they paid – but what was that compared to the twenty times their investment if the boulder disappeared on their day? Those of a mathematical mind calculated the odds and the dividends, but the simple fact remained; no-one knew when the ice would melt.
Some, having seen the savings of their neighbours wiped out early, sold their shares, grateful to take a profit while they still could, even if it wasn’t the riches they had dreamed of. Some held on, and as the mercury in the thermometers rose, so too did the tension.
With just three days to go, it was unbearable. The ice could be heard shifting and cracking loudly under the surface as the meltwater formed large pools above, but still it bore the huge weight of the boulder.
The man seemed inscrutable. Other than thanking those who delivered his sustenance, he barely spoke at all. He smiled benignly while looking at no-one in a way that did not invite conversation. When the villagers asked when he thought the boulder would slip under the surface, all he would say was “soon, soon.” Just after midnight, there were only two syndicates left.
One was made up of a motley crew of regular villagers, simple folk who had collected enough coins between them to take part, scarcely believing that the boulder would still be in place on the nineteenth day. There were plans among them to pay for new houses and weddings and all of the things that those on the edges dream of, even in their waking hours, knowing that the chances of those dreams coming true are as distant as picking out the moment spring would begin.
The other was made up of a handful wealthier types, some of whom had bought in a second and even a third time. The kind of people who owned things, but still wanted more things, especially if it stopped others from owning them.
One of them approached the man, asking what would happen if the boulder was still there at midnight on the twentieth day.
“In that case, I shall return all wagers to those who made the stakes originally, keeping my own purse, and leave,” he said.
“But that’s preposterous! Some of us have invested many times over in this wager! How are we supposed to get our investments returned?” the wealthy villager said.
“I told you that you could enter into whatever financial arrangements or syndicates you wish. If you invested without having asked about the rules, then that is your own fault. A wealth man like you must surely know that the risks must be carefully weighed when making such decisions,” said the man, abruptly going into his tent and ending the conversation.
The following morning, the villagers awoke. They had quickly discovered that they were not been able to wait until midnight; many visited the lake several times a day to see if the boulder was still there, and the children had made a game of racing back and forth, bringing news of the wager from house to house.
As the wager went on, the children went down earlier and earlier, and on the morning of the nineteenth day the first child to arrive, a young boy of nine, saw that which everyone in the village had been waiting for.
Early that morning, his eyes widened as he walked gingerly out onto the ice.
The boulder was gone, replaced by a dark, jagged hole where it once stood.
Gone too were the tent, and the man, and the money.
Thrilled and unknowing, the boy rushed to tell the village, slipping on the ice at the edge of the lake as he ran.
In his hand he clutched the empty purse, the only sign left that the man had been there at all.
Liked the story Philip, and the movie playing in my head as I read. Looking forward to the revenge plot in part 2. Wouldn't like to be the next stranger wandering into that village though.