The fog hung low in the forest, obscuring Grimpow's way. The boy trudged through the deep snow, alert, despite the haze, but he didn't notice the body until he'd already tripped and fallen on top of it. He gazed into the face of the dead man lying next to him. He appeared so peaceful, it almost seemed as if the man was just sleeping. Horrified, Grimpow jumped up and ran back to the cottage, pant- ing like a deer being chased by hungry wolves. He raced up to the door and pounded on it with the full force of his body.

When the door cracked open, Grimpow almost fell into the modest home. "Grimpow?" Durlib asked, surprised by the boy's sudden return.

But Grimpow could barely speak. "There is a . . . a dead man," he stammered, and pointed toward the forest of fir trees behind him.

Durlib turned pale. "Are you sure, boy?" he asked, sounding alarmed.

Grimpow nodded, then dropped the rabbits he was clutching onto a nearby tree stump.

Durlib motioned for the boy to wait, then turned back into the cottage. He grabbed his fur cloak and paused at the door to take down a long sword he kept there and attach it to his belt.

"Let's go, Grimpow. Show me where you found him."

And, like ghosts in the fog, the two left to search for the body.

Grimpow walked fast, with his bow in his left hand and a quiver full of arrows hanging from his back. He was determined to use them if even a shadow moved around him. His heart drummed in his chest as he retraced his steps. The snow was so deep that the footprints Grimpow had left were hard to miss.

"There it is!" he said, pointing at the dark lump half hidden in the snow.

Durlib stopped. "Stay here and don't move until I tell you," he ordered.

The dead man lay on his side with his eyes facing the foggy sky, as if his last wish before dying had been to say goodbye to the stars. He looked to be around sixty years old and, judging from his clothes and the thick cloak on his back, there was no doubt he was of noble lineage. Durlib slowly walked closer to the figure and knelt by his side. He closed the gentleman's eyes. Small icicles hung from the man's long white hair, beard, and eyebrows. His complexion had turned bluish and his dry lips seemed to be smiling.

"He is frozen," Durlib called back to Grimpow, motioning for him to approach. "I don't see any wounds--no rips in his clothes or signs of struggle. He was probably away from his horse and got lost in the dense fog last night. The cold penetrated his veins and froze his blood. He had a peaceful end," Durlib concluded, "in spite of his unfortunate death."

As he stood surveying the body, Grimpow thought again that the man did seem to be sleeping. Perhaps death is nothing but a calm and eternal dream, he thought. Then he noticed something odd. The man's right fist was clenched, as if holding something so valuable he didn't want to part with it even in death. He pointed it out to Durlib, who took the man's stiff, frozen hand and wrenched apart each finger until the hand revealed a polished, rounded stone the size of an almond. Durlib plucked it from the gentleman's palm and held it up close to his face to study it. It was a strange color that seemed to change as he turned in the light. Durlib was mesmerized.

"What is it?" asked Grimpow curiously.

"A stone," Durlib answered, tossing it to Grimpow. "He might have used it as an amulet when it was time to entrust his soul to God."

Grimpow turned the stone in his hand.

"Keep it," Durlib instructed mysteriously, eyes wide as full moons. "From now on, this stone will be tied to your destiny."

Grimpow held the stone and felt the mineral's...

 

Grimpow by Rafael Abalos
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