He would not tell me what the stone was for. ‘Carry it,’ he said, walking on ahead and only looking back to make sure his footsteps matched my own.

Children collect and parents carry. Stones, sticks, leaves, anything that looked useful in an adventure. The leaf would heal, the stick would hurt, but the stone? He would not tell me what the stone was for.

Will you throw it, Bo-bo? Will it fit into a sling and kill a giant?

‘Giants aren’t real,’ he shouted back. His hair flew in the wind, sunlight on water, rippling as he walked.

Sure they are. Giants are real. I know a story…

‘I heard it already. You told me.’

Not this one. Not this story. This one is about how the giants hid so well that all the little boys thought they weren’t real no more.

‘I heard it.’

What’s the stone for, Bo-bo? Tell me what the stone is for.

He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear. The wind was picking up and his footsteps were out of sync with my own. I’ll drop the stone if you don’t tell me. I will.

‘No you won’t.’

I felt the stone in my hand, in the palm of my hand. It felt small and smooth like his hand used to feel. I wouldn’t drop it. Whatever it was for. I’d carry it to the camp and beyond. It was only tiny. I could carry a stone this size. I’d carry a stone any size, for him.

You don’t know what it’s for. I know what it’s for. It’s to fit into a hole and open a door beneath the forest. The markings on it show which way up it must be placed. I’ve heard of these stones before. You were lucky to find one. I had to shout but he didn’t answer. The wind was too strong.

Of course it could be a Night Stone. You’ve probably never heard of one of those. Night Stones are rare. Night Stones are precious. You wouldn’t have let me carry it if you’d known it was a Night Stone. They can stop day from lifting. Nobody is supposed to use a Night Stone but some people do. Some people use it to keep us all asleep so they can change things in the dark. You could have used it later and eaten all the chocolate I packed. But now I have it. I can keep you asleep long enough to get some rest.

Bo-bo?

I thought what else the stone might be for. What other reason could I invent to draw his attention back to me and our childish game? He was too far ahead of me to hear now but I’d catch him at the camp-site. He couldn’t settle down without me. I had the bags. He needed me. Maybe he’d set a fire going. I’d taught him how. Will you share the story of the stone around a campfire, Bo-bo? Bobby, he’d say. He’d like to be called Bobby now. He would be able to set fires and tell stories all on his own. I couldn’t carry him no longer but I’d still have his little stone.

What’s the stone for, Bo-bo? It was small and heavy and he’d asked me to carry it. Me. I’d taken my eyes off him to make up a story. Just a few minutes to fill him with wonder. A few minutes not watching him. A few minutes or a lifetime. I can’t remember what he looked like but I remember the stone. It sits still in the palm of my hand.

Like his heart the day I found him.

Like mine, the day I lost him.

—

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