“ROCK CAN MAKE IT repeat itself and sound more and more hollow. In my warm right hand I held my obsidian. So firm and four-cornered, its rough underside covered with little lumps and grooves and white pocks, its glossy face like the eye of a dark pond. I know exactly how my seeing stone looks, and yet I scarcely know it at all. Each time I look into it, it surprises me. I can see the hill shaped like Tumber Hill. The rock-prison. A knight is riding toward it. And now I hear the terrible noises i...nside the rock. Howling. Sobbing, dry sobbing. But which are the cries, and which are their echoes? The knight reins in and listens very carefully. He’s uncertain whether this is a rock with a voice, or whether someone—maybe more than one person—is trapped inside the rock. Now the knight sees what could be a passageway, blocked by a massive boulder. But not even one hundred men could move that. Stormy howling—wild sobbing. The knight backs away a little and stares up at the rock. “Is there anyone there?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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