Only the Stones Survive: A Novel by Morgan Llywelyn

stones.”
    “Long ago” was taking on new meaning for me. “Ancient time!” I blurted out. “That’s what I smelled last night when we came in. Ancient time.”
    “You are perceptive,” observed the Dagda. “I suppose that is how it appears to you.”
    “But…” Something teased at the edge of my mind. “But you said time is an illusion with a purpose.”
    He nodded.
    “Then how do you explain…”
    “There are things you must learn for yourself,” the Dagda said. “The most important lessons are always learned alone.”
    I was more baffled than before.
    Next the Dagda called our attention to the huge stones that formed the walls of the chamber. They had been painstakingly fitted together with pebbles forced into every gap. “What you see is no accident; this is the work of highly skilled craftsmen. Look at this.” He raised a torch while we tilted our heads back and gazed up. Up and up, into dancing shadows and quiet mystery.
    “The vault of stone above our heads is over four spear lengths from the floor,” said the Dagda. “The huge capstone at the top seals the dome so the interior of the mound remains perfectly dry, even when rain is plummeting down outside. A network of stone channels carries the water away.”
    My cousin Rimba, a sturdy little boy with an outthrust jaw, asserted, “You’re making that up.”
    The Dagda’s smile was almost lost in the forest of his beard. “I assure you it is true. On rainy days I used to come here to listen to the water gurgling in the walls. The builders cut drainage channels into the tops of the roof stones and sealed any gaps with sand and burnt soil, so the chambers and passageway would stay absolutely dry. It seemed magical to me when I was a boy, and it still does—not the concept of drainage, which I understand, but the breadth of mind that envisioned this structure.
    “I grew up here, you see. Here and around here, in the valley of the cow goddess. When I was a boy my parents tilled the rich soil along the banks of the river. In one season we could grow more than enough to feed ourselves and our animals for the next three, so we had ample time to lie on our backs and gaze at the stars.”
    “I do that too!” I burst out.
    “Do you really? What do you think they are, Joss? Better still, what do you want them to be?”
    I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and wished I had kept my mouth shut.
    Unperturbed, the Dagda went on. “Among the stars we found constellations like tribes and felt kinship with them. The wonders in the sky had inspired the building of temples and…”
    My voice cut across his again. “What is a temple?”
    The Dagda blinked; came back to us. My interruption had summoned him from a distant place.
    “Temples and their purposes are a subject for another discussion, Joss,” he said sharply. “There are two others nearby that you will visit someday, but this one is the most important. I explored it when I was no older than you; I even cut into the earth far enough to learn the secret of the channels. Only later did I realize I had committed a desecration. It is unfortunate that you are so young; you may never live to benefit from…”
    “Hush, husband,” said Melitt. “Do not frighten them; teach them.”
    “What was I saying? Ah, yes. This temple is the work of people who practiced powerful magic. Their control of the sun is still demonstrated in this very chamber.”
    “Control of the sun!” exclaimed my cousin Sinnadar, he of the pointed ears. He was deeply impressed. So was I, but I was reluctant to interrupt the Dagda again.
    “If we stay here for much longer—and I hope we will not have to—you can observe this for yourselves,” the old man said. “It is only one of the secrets of this temple. The mound that covers us is very large, yet the chambers within it are small. They and the passageway were built first. Then the mound was raised over them. A score of fully grown adults—do you remember how many