And he walked right by Zip, whose nose was wrinkled at the salty smell of marsh emanating from him, and on toward the pile of stones.
“No, don’t! Please! Nobody’s supposed to touch-” Zip lunged un- thinkingly toward the armored man and the horse behind him screamed and reared, hooves flailing.
Zip threw up his arms and dived to the dirt as the horse stalked up- right toward him.
At the same time, the armored man turned slowly, from the waist, and held up his spear. The horse came down on all fours and bowed its head, snorting.
Zip scrambled to his feet. “Look, like I said, nobody’s supposed to touch-“
The armored man’s head swiveled toward him and the voice from behind the visor said, “This one first.” His spear pointed to a certain stone, then jabbed toward it commandingly when Zip only stared. “This one. Now.”
Zip found his hands on the stone. And then on another, the one that the spear touched next. And another, and another. Zip labored there, under the direction of that spear, until the sky was red and gold and he held the final stone in both his hands, chest heaving.
Poised over the pile, afraid that attempting to place the last stone would tumble all the others. Zip blurted breathlessly, “You’re sure?”
The helmeted head nodded once, up and down, and the spear jabbed forward commandingly.
Zip placed the stone atop all the other stones and a spark seemed to jump from the rocks. It bit his hand, crawled up his wrist. It hurt like fire.
He staggered back, squinting at the stones suddenly too bright, as if they’d ignited. He shielded his eyes from the glare. A trick of the dawn light, he told himself when he opened his eyes again and the pile was still there, neither burning nor singed, not even smudged, but squat and sturdy.