THE CHOSEN STONE

by Mary Pretlow

 

Once, high up on a great and mighty mountain, there dwelled a stone.
Just a small stone, but a happy one, he was, in his wonderful home above
the clouds of pollution of earth, where the air was clean and good.

Of course nothing much grew there. Or hardly ever changed.

Nothing ever wore out nor crumbled as it did down in the valley.

But the little stone knew nothing of the rest of the world.

He knew only his own great place where he seemed to have lived and had his being forever.

He basked there in the bright, clear, air for ages and ages and knew nothing else. Except that he was, I would say , a little too proud of his high position -- and the fact that nothing could touch him.

 

Until...

one day a great thundering and shaking came to the mountain. Little Stone felt a shaking and a pounding. And suddenly, he found himself falling, falling down the mountain's side.

 

"Oh!" he cried as he hit time and time again. As he hit the side of the huge hard mountain he began to lose his beautiful sharp edges which had always protected him from being trampled on. He shuttered to think now how he could exist without his sharp, sharp edges. Actually, nothing had ever reached his high home before, and he had never been stepped on. But
one never knows when he might need sharp edges, and he'd been glad he'd had them. (Just in case.)

 

Finally he stopped rolling, and bouncing, and pounding, and jumping. He was laid to rest at the foot of the great mountain. Tired and hurt, he fell fast asleep. There he lay for ages and ages at the foot of his beautiful mountain. Time passed.

 

He loved to look up and see the trees and flowers, the birds, and animals who dwelt there at the foot of the Big Rock Mountain. He wasn't even sad now, as he had once been, that he had been torn away from his beautiful home high up on top of the Big Rock. The earth was soft and the sun and rain were pleasant. True, the animals stepped on him, and ground him deeper into the earth, but he wondered, now, how he could have ever have not cared to be touched.

 

Again ages passed, but, all too soon it seemed, Little Stone was moved again in a new and frightening way. A great storm came to the Mountain of Rock. Water carried away every thing in its path. Little Stone was propelled along with other stones and trees and soil and sand. He was terrified as the great waves splashed and crushed them.

 

Little Stone closed his eyes and made himself as hard and small as he could. Maybe that would stop the hurt, the thought. Everything had to move. On and on they went, knocking and hitting, trying to find a time and a place to stop and rest. But it was no use. They seemed to travel endlessly, on and on, being pushed and pulled by the torrents of the great wave. Little Stone stopped feeling, stopped caring. 

 

At last he came to settle down in a little cranny at the bottom. He lay there sobbing , crying, sore. Would he ever heal?

 

Would the pain of the journey ever go away?

 

He had changed from the sharp rock he had once been ages ago, young and smug with jagged edges living on the side of the great Big Rock.

 

Lying at the foot of the mountain for centuries and milleniums , he had lost much of his strength ad haughtiness and had begun to crumble in the soft damp soil bed.

 

The further rushing of the great water and the bumping against other stones in the flood had broken and hurt him more.

 

See here the pictures.

 

*Little Stone began as a smug mountain dweller.

 

*He became a respected member of the Foothill Community.

 

*Now he lay at the bottom of a small stream in the valley.

 

He was again happy. Forgetting the hurts of times past. Sometimes a large stone next to him would turn or twist as the water rushed over them, but mostly time and the gentle moving overhead smoothed his last remaining roughness.

 

He lay there , year after year, as the seasons changed above the lively brook, wondering, "Who am I? What will be my future?" He sometimes imagined himself as a perfectly smooth stone fit for the King's House.

 

But he dared not even dream of such a great honor for he knew it had taken ages of ages for some of the older stones whom he knew to be suited for the place to lose their jagged edges.

 

Years he waited and dreamed. He loved the warm water in the summers, and the lovely little flowers that grew near him on the bank. He loved to hear the singing of the clear brook, alive and making him, he felt, more alive every day by rushing over him. He had gotten used to the valley and the lively, gentle running of this water, bringing him all he could ever want.

 

In the winter, he turned cold as ice formed on top of his stream. The cold brook continued to rush over him. Life could be hard and cold like the rocks and water who had pressured and formed him into his present shape -- small, round, and smooth. He waited. It seemed it would be forever before he would be chosen for his special place. Sometimes he didn't think the day would ever come, but he knew he must be perfect.

 

Not far away in the valley lived the Young Shepherd Boy who would someday be King. All the stones in the brook delighted when he came down to the brook to select the stones he needed to use in his sling. He sang. They loved to listen to the beautiful tunes of his praises, for he sounded exactly like their own, lively water. The words he added were truly magnificent and caused them to want to clap their own hands in praise to the God above.

 

One day the Young King came down to the brook's bank. He picked up one stone after another and examined it. He was looking for a special stone.

 

Finally he picked up Little Stone. He turned him around and around. He must have a smooth stone so that his sling would turn just right. It must not have any rough place to pull or catch against the weapon.

 

Little Stone was chosen that day. Soon he was used in a game of one on one, the Young King against the great Giant. The giant was killed and the Young King and his Little Stone remembered forever.

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