On Monday morning, Martha Bell found a hole in her school shoe.
This was not unusual. Her shoes had been bought in the spring, and it was now autumn. What was unusual was that the hole had a small stone sitting in it.
Martha took off the shoe and tipped the stone into her hand.
It was grey, roughly oval, and no bigger than a walnut. There was nothing remarkable about it, except that it appeared to be looking at her with considerable disapproval.
“You’re back,” Martha said.
The stone said nothing.
“Did you finish thinking?”
The stone rolled over.
Martha took this to mean that it had not.
She put it in her pocket and went downstairs.
At breakfast, the stone rolled out of her pocket, crossed the table, and settled beside her mother’s teacup.
“Where did that come from?” her mother asked.
“The garden.”
“What garden?”
Martha considered explaining about the door in the wardrobe, the rain that went where it didn’t fall, and the little girl who had tried to teach a stone to fly. She decided that breakfast was probably not the right time.
“A garden I know,” she said.
Her mother picked up the stone and put it in the fruit bowl.
“Keep it there, please. I don’t want it getting into the butter.”
The stone rolled out of the fruit bowl.
Her mother put it back.
It rolled out again.
After the fourth attempt, her mother covered the fruit bowl with a plate.
“There,” she said. “That should settle it.”
From beneath the plate came a faint scratching sound.
Martha finished her toast.
“I think it wants to go somewhere,” she said.
“Then it can go somewhere after school.”
Her mother went to answer the telephone. When she returned, the fruit bowl was empty, the plate was on the floor, and a small grey trail of dust led from the table to the front door.
Martha followed it outside.
The stone was sitting on the garden wall, watching the street.
“Where are you going?” Martha asked.
The stone rolled towards the pavement.
“Wait for me.”
It did not wait, but it rolled slowly enough for Martha to catch up.
The first person they met was Mr Pottle, who delivered the post.
He stopped when he saw the stone rolling along the pavement.
“That's a very unusual pet,” he said.
“It isn’t a pet.”
“Does it have a name?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Everything ought to have a name,” said Mr Pottle. “It makes the paperwork much easier.”
He took a notebook from his pocket.
“Stone,” he wrote. “Owner: Martha Bell. Purpose: unknown.”
The stone rolled over his foot.
Mr Pottle frowned.
“Temperament: uncooperative.”
The stone rolled over his other foot.
“Persistent,” he amended.
Then he hurried away, because the post was not going to deliver itself.
Martha followed the stone to the town square, where a man was selling umbrellas.
It was a bright, cloudless day, but the man had a large sign announcing:
UMBRELLAS FOR ALL WEATHER, INCLUDING WEATHER THAT HAS NOT YET BEEN INVENTED.
The stone rolled beneath his stall.
The man peered down.
“Ah,” he said. “A customer.”
“It doesn’t need an umbrella,” Martha explained.
“Everybody needs an umbrella. The question is whether they know it yet.”
He produced a tiny umbrella from his pocket and opened it over the stone.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a small shower of rain fell upwards from the pavement, collected beneath the umbrella, and disappeared.
The man looked pleased.
“Excellent. A backward-weather model.”
The stone rolled out from under the umbrella.
“Wait!” cried the man. “I haven't established the price!”
But the stone had already crossed the square.
Martha hurried after it.
At the edge of town stood a building with a sign that read:
OFFICE OF THINGS THAT HAVE NO PROPER PLACE.
Martha had never noticed it before. She suspected it had not been there yesterday, though this was difficult to prove, as she had not been looking for it.
Inside, a clerk sat behind a desk piled with objects.
There was a key that fitted no locks, a clock that kept excellent time but only on Tuesdays, a sock whose other half had never existed, and a glass jar containing what appeared to be the sound of a door closing.
The clerk wore spectacles with one round lens and one square lens.
“Good morning,” he said. “What have you brought us?”
“Nothing,” said Martha.
The clerk looked at the stone.
“Ah. Something, then.”
“It doesn’t belong here,” Martha said.
“Most things that come here don’t.”
The clerk took a form from a drawer.
“Is it lost, misplaced, misplaced on purpose, or not yet properly found?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very good. That’s the most common category.”
He began filling in the form.
“Does it move?”
“Yes.”
“Does it move by itself?”
“I think so.”
“Does it move with purpose?”
Martha watched the stone roll in a small circle beside her shoe.
“I don’t know.”
The clerk sighed happily.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to obtain a proper answer to that question.”
He stamped the form and handed it to Martha.
TEMPORARY PLACEMENT: UNDETERMINED.
“There,” he said. “You can leave it with us.”
The stone rolled towards the door.
“Don’t let it go!” cried the clerk. “We haven’t finished determining it!”
Martha followed the stone outside.
Behind her, the clerk was already shouting for someone to bring the jar containing the sound of a door closing.
By lunchtime, the stone had visited the railway station, the public library, and a shop selling clocks.
At the station, it rolled onto a platform and stopped beside a suitcase.
The suitcase opened.
Inside was a small field of yellow flowers, with a wooden gate at the far end. A man wearing a railway uniform looked into the suitcase and shook his head.
“Not again,” he said.
He closed it firmly.
The stone rolled beneath the suitcase.
The suitcase began to hum.
The man opened it again, and the field was gone.
“Where has it gone now?” Martha asked.
The man consulted his timetable.
“According to this, it’s arriving yesterday.”
He folded the timetable and put it away.
“Travel is becoming very difficult.”
At the library, the stone rolled into the dictionary section and stopped beside a volume of The Oxford English Dictionary.
Martha opened the book.
The stone was listed under S.
STONE, noun. A hard, naturally occurring substance.
Below the definition someone had written in pencil:
Except when it isn't.
Martha looked around. The librarian was helping a woman find a book about gardening.
She closed the dictionary.
The stone rolled away.
At the clock shop, every clock stopped as it passed.
The shopkeeper came running out.
“Extraordinary! What time is it?”
Martha looked at the nearest clock.
“Half past eleven.”
The shopkeeper checked his watch.
“Impossible. It's nearly one.”
“Perhaps the clocks disagree.”
The shopkeeper looked appalled.
“Clocks do not disagree. They merely indicate different stages of accuracy.”
The stone rolled on.
Behind it, the clocks began ticking again, each at a different speed.
The shopkeeper stood in the doorway, trying to decide whether to be angry or grateful.
He settled on both.
By the time Martha reached the park, she had begun to suspect that the stone was not merely looking for somewhere to go.
It was looking for somewhere that would let it go.
She sat on a bench and placed it on the ground.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The stone rolled a few inches away.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
The stone rolled back.
“Are you trying to get home?”
It remained still.
“Are you trying to find somewhere new?”
The stone rolled in a circle.
“Are you trying to decide?”
The stone stopped.
Martha waited.
A pigeon landed beside them. It examined the stone, walked around it twice, and pecked at it.
The stone rolled under the bench.
The pigeon looked offended.
“Quite right,” Martha said. “You shouldn’t have to answer every question just because someone asks it.”
The stone emerged from the other side of the bench.
For the first time, Martha thought it looked almost pleased.
Then it rolled towards the park gates.
She followed.
They arrived at the school just as the children were coming out for afternoon play.
Mr Grindle, the headmaster, stood at the entrance with his hands behind his back.
He was a very orderly man. He believed that every problem had a solution, every solution had a proper method, and every proper method ought to be written down for future use.
He saw Martha and the stone.
“What's that?” he asked.
“A stone.”
“I can see that. Why is it here?”
“I don't know.”
Mr Grindle frowned.
“Everything has a reason for being where it is.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps is not an answer.”
The stone rolled towards the school steps.
Mr Grindle stepped in front of it.
“Stop!”
The stone stopped.
Mr Grindle looked triumphant.
“Excellent. You see? It responds to instruction.”
The stone rolled backwards.
“Come here!”
It rolled forwards.
“Go away!”
It rolled sideways.
Mr Grindle's face grew red.
“Do you see what happens when children are permitted to make up their own rules?”
Martha looked at the stone.
“I don't think it's making up rules.”
“Then what is it doing?”
“I think it’s finding out what happens.”
Mr Grindle stared at her.
“That is precisely the sort of remark that leads to confusion.”
He called for the science teacher.
Miss Pritchard arrived carrying a clipboard and a small hammer.
“Ah,” she said. “A specimen.”
The stone rolled behind Martha.
“Bring it here,” said Miss Pritchard.
Martha shook her head.
“Why?”
“To examine it.”
“Why?”
“To discover what it is.”
“But we know what it is.”
Miss Pritchard looked at the stone, then at Martha.
“Do we?”
The stone rolled away.
Miss Pritchard lowered her hammer.
“Well,” she said, “that was an unexpectedly good question.”
Mr Grindle did not agree.
He announced that the stone was to be placed in the school laboratory until its nature could be properly established.
Two older boys were sent to fetch a box.
The stone rolled up the steps, through the school door, and straight into the headmaster’s office.
Everyone followed.
Mr Grindle sat at his desk. The stone rolled beneath it.
“Bring the box,” he ordered.
The boys brought the box.
The stone rolled out from beneath the desk and into the corridor.
“Block the corridor!”
The boys blocked the corridor.
The stone rolled up the wall.
Everyone looked up.
It continued along the ceiling, crossed the ceiling of the next room, and disappeared through a closed window.
There was a long silence.
Miss Pritchard put away her hammer.
“I think,” she said, “that we may have to revise our method.”
Mr Grindle sat down heavily.
“Then what do you suggest?”
Miss Pritchard considered this.
“Perhaps we should ask it.”
Mr Grindle looked at her as though she had suggested asking the furniture.
But Martha was already running outside.
The stone was waiting beside the school gate.
Martha crouched beside it.
“Have you finished thinking?”
The stone rolled once, slowly.
Martha smiled.
“I thought you might have.”
She held out her hand.
The stone rolled into her palm. It was warm, as though it had been lying in the sun.
“Would you like to come home with me?” she asked.
The stone rolled towards the road.
Martha lowered her hand.
“All right,” she said. “You can go.”
The stone rolled a little way, then stopped.
Martha waited.
It rolled back, touched the tip of her shoe, and rolled away again.
This time, Martha did not follow.
She watched until it disappeared around the corner.
Then she went home.
That evening, Martha found a small blue door in her wardrobe.
She opened it.
On the other side was the garden, though it looked rather different from the last time she had visited. The sea was back where the cabbage patch had been, and the upside-down tree was growing a second moon.
The little girl in the red-door house was sitting on the grass.
“Have you seen the stone?” Martha asked.
The girl nodded.
“It came back.”
“Did it tell you where it had been?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
They sat together for a while, watching the clouds drift across the ground.
At last Martha said, “Do you think it will go away again?”
The girl shrugged.
“Would you want it to stay?”
Martha thought about the stone rolling past the clocks, escaping the box, and leaving the headmaster with his mouth open.
“I think it should be able to decide.”
The girl nodded.
“Then perhaps it will stay.”
“And perhaps it won’t.”
“Exactly.”
They watched the garden grow darker, though the sky remained bright.
Somewhere beyond the sea, something was rolling slowly across a landscape that had not yet been made.
Neither girl asked where it was going.
They had other things to think about.
And, for once, nobody had given them a form to fill in.
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