tourmaline and tiger’s eye were having a contention. tiger sided with reaction; tourmaline preferred prevention. to settle their dispute they asked the iron to advise them, so he cast them into pebbles wrapped in granite to disguise them, and put them in the paths of poor and rich men, one to one.
the poor man kicked the stone along the road. day’s work was done; he whistled as he walked on through the gloaming to his home. a flash of foxtail-red drew his eye hedgeward and his next step stubbed; he faltered, fell, felt head hit hard. he rubbed his temple, temper flaring, grabbed and gripped the stone on which he’d tripped.
the rich man rode on steady towards the light announcing dawn. his head was hanging heavy and his hand held in a yawn. hooves clacked on in cadence, lulling, steady, a species of still—then a misstrike—then rhythm resumed as they crested a low roll of hill. a whisper came on wing, better check for stones . . . but then the rider settled back, weighed down with chill in bones.
each one there was unaware: this moment was a choice. action then would be event, as breath becoming voice.
the poor man held his throw, and opened his hand to find tawny and gold.
the rich man plucked out a rubellite rose from the hoof of his horse in the morning cold.
“a draw,” the iron called it. “each is well rewarded. so let it be written, recalled, and recorded.”
but tiger’s eye and tourmaline, they were not well appeased, and each one to the other they took up the arms they seized. and from out of the commingling of their antithetic bloods were born the onyx, and the opal, and the fluxspar, and the flood.