Rumble Stone

By Pamela Love

Once, long ago, an African king’s caravan stopped at a village for water. As its chief bowed before him, the bored king inquired what was notable about the place.

“Sire, here dwells Olayinka, the finest potter in the land.” The king yawned.

The chief gritted his teeth. He added, “She can make a jar that can hold a pond yet is small enough to carry on her head!”

At that the king demanded an introduction. Soon Olayinka stood before him, and the king repeated her chief’s claim. “Make such a jar, and I shall buy it. Failure means your chief lies, and I shall burn your village.”

After one bitter look at the chief, Olayinka ran to her clay pit. “I-I sh-shall try, b-but I’ll surely f-f-fail!” While skilled at pottery, her struggle with speech—and the reaction of hearers—made her understand failure well.

The ground shook. An earth spirit arose from the clay. “I am Rumble Stone. Why do you weep, Olayinka?”

Controlling her stutter was difficult for Olayinka, especially now. But the spirit listened patiently to her terrible story through the long minutes.

When she finished, the spirit said, “Give me your copper necklace, and I shall make the jar you need.”

Olayinka handed over her necklace, a gift from her new husband, Dakarai. Immediately, a red smooth-sided jar arose from the clay.

Hurrying to the king’s side, Olayinka dipped the jar in the village’s pond. Within moments it filled up with water, fish, and frogs. Gracefully, she swung the jar onto her braids. It felt no heavier than if she were carrying water to cook dinner. At the king’s nod, she poured it out again. The king smiled. “Now I know what you are capable of. Keep the first jar. Make me a second one to hold that lake.”

Olayinka’s heart sank. The lake to which he pointed on the eastern horizon was used to water the villagers’ herds of goats and cattle. It had to be ten times the size of the pond.

Could Rumble Stone make such a jar? If so, would it?

All she could do was ask. For her, a hard enough task.

Once more the ground shook and the spirit appeared. It listened to the second request. In exchange for earrings her mother had given her, Rumble Stone created a raincloud-gray jar, no larger than the first.

The king’s caravan soon approached, stopping at the lakeshore. She swung the jar into the water. It guzzled the entire lake and its life until only algae-slimed rocks and mud remained.

Slowly, the king nodded.

Olayinka poured out the second jar.

“Keep that, too. Create a third, one which can contain the mighty Nile. I will give you a purse the size of your head filled with gold.”

“Sire!” the village chief protested. “I said only that she could carry a pond in one of her jars. Need she do more?”

“If she wishes this village spared.” The king smirked. “Making me curious was unwise.”

Olayinka trudged back to the earth spirit. It again listened as she struggled to explain the king’s final demand.

“You ask an immense favor, human. You must give me the most valuable thing you carry.” At once she held out the lake jar, but Rumble Stone said, “I will collect my payment later.”

It took three times longer, but finally the jar, brown as rich soil and no heavier than the others, emerged.

By now, the entire village had heard of the test forced upon their neighbor. Loud was the rejoicing when the river and all its wildlife were swept into the jar, and louder still when the Nile flowed back between its banks.

To Olayinka’s astonishment, the king did not take the third jar either. He did pay for it as promised, then departed, saying, “My curiosity is satisfied.”

Olayinka returned to the clay pit, but Rumble Stone was gone. She refused to sell any of the jars, believing it would return for them eventually.

Eight months later, Olayinka and Dakarai rejoiced at the birth of their first child. When the baby was three days old, the ground shook and the spirit appeared. “Your daughter was the most valuable thing you carried when I made the final jar. Give her to me,” Rumble Stone demanded.

Somewhat annoyed by the horrified parents’ furious refusals and offer of the king’s gold instead, Rumble Stone at last said, “Tell me my name, Olayinka, and I will relinquish my claim on the child.”

“R-r-—” she began.

The spirit shook its head. “You do not remember? How ungrateful!”

“Your name is Rumble Stone!” bellowed her husband Dakarai, clinging to their baby.

“You are not Olayinka,” Rumble Stone said. “Only she can answer.”

Olayinka held back panic. She began stamping her feet on the stone floor. Perhaps she could pronounce her enemy’s name in this way. Dakarai joined in.

“You dance instead of speaking my name. Perhaps you don’t truly want this child.”

With the strength and stubbornness of one for whom speech is a daily battle, Olayinka gasped out, “R-rum, rum-b-ble S-s-stone, stone!”

“That is not my name.”

Tears welled in Olayinka’s eyes. With a triumphant laugh, Rumble Stone reached out for her child.

At that, Olayinka released the rage from all the times people had laughed at her. So powerful was her scream, a drop of her spit flew across the room like a mosquito. It glistened on Rumble Stone’s cheek, giving her an idea.

Olayinka snatched up Rumble Stone’s final jar. Leaping like a lioness, she clapped it to her enemy’s face. It sucked in both spit and spirit.

Seizing a cork, she crammed it in the top.

“Let me out!”

But the jar held firm against its prisoner’s pounding.

Olayinka laughed. Clay enchanted to contain a continent’s water, not to mention the struggles of the creatures, does not crack easily.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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