The Rock Shard

1

There was no warning for the tragedy. One day, the wall had been stable, perfectly held together, and nobody had looked twice at the shelf of rock that edged over the top of the tunnel. The next, well. No story starts in a happy place.

So, the wall shattered. A huge shard – longer than twenty men, stacked one atop the other, and thicker than three arranged the same way – wedged itself over the entrance, and when the dust and sound had cleared, the stretch of the damage was clear for all to see. Nobody would be coming in or out until it was cleared, and damage like this was hard to clear. It could take weeks, months, even years, for the destruction to be properly soothed over. The palace couldn't say.

Whispers started quickly from the town. What of the children, they asked. There's a school in that tunnel, only a few steps down. All our children are stuck in there, and how long for? Will we see them again?

A woman unhooked her tool from the wall.

And what of our elderly, the questions continued. There's a community hall down by the stream, they love to sit and watch the water flash, eyes gleaming in the liquid light. All our elders are stuck in there, and how long for? Will we see them again?

A teenager uncovered a crude tool from the back of a cupboard and weighed it in his hands.

And what of our loved ones, came the continuing cry. There are countless homes and places to work down that tunnel, and no other way out. My wife, brother, son, aunt, friend, co-worker, they're all stuck in there, and how long for? Will we see them again?

A lantern-maker considered his coals after a hard days work.

His time for rest had arrived. The small building, only a few houses down from the tragedy, was glowing gently in the cave and was one of the few light sources untouched by the dust. All the others had been smothered, leaving the murmuring town in darkness. The walls were warm when he rested his hand against them, and as he leaned back in his chair, sweat trickled down his forehead.

His job was not easy. It had taken him years of learning to get to his standard and many more to his level of delicacy. Sometimes, when he had time and an audience, he would go on about the importance of his profession. Did you know, he would ask his humble listeners, that lanterns were one of the first things that the original settlers made? The importance of light was not to be underestimated, especially in these caves they called home, and he was well-known and well-loved for his skills. The lanterns he made were not cheap. And now, it was time for him to rest for the night.

The lantern maker did not move. To extinguish the coals and go back home was to face his nephew again, worriedly preparing food, eyes fixed on the dusty window as if expecting news about his mother to arrive if he kept watching. The lantern maker was a proud man, a strong man, a practical man. His nephew presented a problem that he couldn't solve, and it made him awkward and sorrowful.

Nobody alone could move the shard of rock, especially not him. His hands were made for lighting things, but even restoring the glimmer of life to the town was impossible for one person. Logically, he should give up, and wait for the palace to sort out the problem.

Instead, the lantern maker pushed another gust of air into his coals, lit his house up further, and reached for his faulty lanterns. Creations that were not up to his standard, not made to the delicate detail he pursued. Technically functional, but not worthy of sale, they had never had a purpose before now.

By the end of the night, there were thirty-two sitting outside his workshop, freshly stocked with strong wicks and puddles of oil, ready for claiming.

Several streets along, the teenager shifted the crude tool from one hand to the other. He was young, fresh out of school, and had no more direct link to the tunnel that had been cut off anymore. Fond memories had him smile into its darkness when he passed, but he had never given himself any further reason to care. He had no siblings, no friends, no fond individuals stuck behind the tragedy, after all. There was no reason for him to act.