The Hurlers

Note: This short piece is something of a teaser for a much longer story.

He was standing alone in the silence surrounded by the stones. He heard nothing but the heartbeat of nature. He heard nothing but his own voice, even though he wasn’t speaking – it must be in his head. He heard nothing but the movement of the air, even though there was no wind. He heard nothing but the shouts of the hurling game being played around him – but he was alone, no one else in sight. He heard nothing but the sound of pipes being played frantically – was he going mad?

Suddenly there was silence, no not silence but the total absence of sound. He thought he had gone deaf suddenly. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. There was a sudden rush of air. He opened his eyes and was staring at a map on his desk. What the hell had happened to him?

He closed his eyes, then he realised that he could still see the stones where he had been standing alone in the silence. That he could still hear the heartbeat of nature. That he could still hear his own voice, even though he hadn’t been speaking. That he could still hear the movement of the air, even though there had been no wind. That he could still hear the shouts of the hurling game being played around him – but he had been alone, no one else in sight. That he could still hear the sound of pipes being played frantically.

He opened his eyes and stared at the map, it was Cornwall, specifically Bodmin Moor, even more specifically he had drawn a circle around the stone circles known as The Hurlers. Why had he circled them? Why had he been standing among the stones on Bodmin Moor when he was sitting at his desk in Edinburgh?