Of Legends and Madness

By Bree Buonomo

A light scratching within the cavernous walls sent new goosebumps racing down Aniya’s arms. She couldn’t see anything in the shadows, only heard unsettling noises, followed by a slow, barely audible dripping of water. She strained her eyes as if squinting would provide clarity, but when the cave remained resolutely dark, she pressed her back harder against the wall. The jagged rocks jabbed at her, yet the pain couldn’t quell her darting mind.

Was it worth it?

She clutched the dirty Stone in her hand. The Stone that had evaded scholars and treasure hunters for centuries… Aniya admired it in the dim, flickering beam of her flashlight. Black with gold lines throughout it, she might have passed it off for a cheap crystal had she not sworn the gold pulsed like lightning. It might have been her imagination, her mind intoxicated by victory, but she didn’t care. Aniya was happy her research was correct—though that happiness was tarnished by the fact that she may never get to share her revelation.

Still, she did it.

Aniya had found the Philosopher’s Stone.

Her flashlight blinked out, and darkness enveloped her once more.

Aniya let out a burble of mirthless laughter at her present predicament. She had proven historians and naysayers wrong. But she was existentially aware that none of it mattered, trapped as she was in the cave with no identifiable way out.

The Stone weighed heavy in her hand. She imagined being buried alive, someone finding her tattered corpse with the imperfect rock held firm and useless.

The scratching grew closer, louder. Burrowing. Something was making its way to her. Being eaten alive was even less appealing than death by asphyxiation.

Aniya rested the back of her head against the wall, fighting the chills skittering down her back. She had been so careful. Delicately chiseled away around the Stone to pop it out of its precarious placement in the cave wall. Successfully removed the Stone without obstacles.

Except curiosity had gotten the better of her. Veins of gold trickled throughout the cavern, just a little digging could uncover a trove of minerals. Historians always said it was only one, but then again, historians could be proven wrong.

The collapse had happened after five taps of the chisel into the wall. Her instinct took hold to prevent her from being crushed but did not give her insight to consider the direction. And the direction she had chosen had led her to a dead end.

She fingered the strap of her canteen, knowing that she couldn’t afford another sip. Aniya let the canteen fall back to her side and sucked in a deep breath.

She wanted to dig her way out but would likely die trying. The air would eventually thin; the thought alone burned her lungs. She stood up and took careful steps around the cavern searching for a draft, but felt none. Her fingers, cut and bloody from an earlier attempt to move rocks, only managed to topple more into the space. She sat back down.

Scholars believed ingesting the Stone activated its powers. Aniya considered mixing fragments of the Stone in her last reserves of water and praying that immortality stuck.

She did not know the limits of its power. Would her skin regenerate or suffer infection if she tore her hands apart from digging endlessly through rocks and rubble? Was she still susceptible to human fatalities—immortality without invincibility?

Aniya sighed, drew her knees to her chest, and rested her head.

She wished she could call for help. Or even just call her father to allow his humor to calm her nerves. But her phone–along with her food–was lost under the pounds of rock in front of her. Not that there would be service hundreds of feet below the surface, anyway.

Aniya knew if she did not try for immortality, she would be dead within a day.

The digging noise became incessant, gaining momentum, and images of sharp claws tearing her skin filled her mind. Aniya inched away and scraped her hand against a harsh rock. The skin ripped, blood welled, and the Stone dropped.

“Ow!” Her lip quivered as she searched the dirt floor, feeling the bumps and ridges before locating the Stone again. She wiped her hand on her pants, dirt smearing into her cut. She hissed, then pulled out her knife.

Consuming the Philosopher’s Stone was her only hope. It did not matter if she poisoned herself amidst the other horrors that waited for her.

Aniya tried her flashlight again, flicking the switch on and off in rapid succession. She hit the side a few times hoping to jostle the batteries back to life, but had no luck. Sighing, she held the Stone awkwardly over her canteen as she scraped the knife across its uneven surface. She couldn’t see if any flecks landed in the water or merely on the ground, and she didn’t know how much she would need to consume. She scraped vigorously for several minutes, securing either a promise or a death sentence.

The darkness loomed around her, but she thought she saw a glimmer of gold shimmering on her pants and in the canteen. It might have been a delirious hope.

Somewhere above her, between the dirt and rocks, the digging began again. A pebble tumbled down the wall and landed near her foot. Too close.

In a moment of impulsiveness, she chugged the water, feeling the little pieces swish around in her mouth before she swallowed and waited. No number of deep breaths could calm her racing heart.

Her body felt the same, no sensations indicating magic affected her. Her mouth dried and tears pricked her eyes. With no remaining water and no immediate answers, Aniya stood up and began digging through the rubble once again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bree Buonomo is a writer of many genres, her favorites being fantasy and horror. By day, she works as a mental health counselor where the interactions with her clients lend to the realism in her fantastical worlds. Bree lives in Northeast Pennsylvania, where the weather is unpredictable and the coffee is constant, with her husband and two rowdy Shiba Inus.

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