THE FULL, WHITE orb of a moon hung like a lantern, lighting the lane for Gabriel and Zebedee Fry as the twin brothers walked home from the hay making late on Midsummer Eve. They could see the Shipham farms around them and smell the sweet fragrance of dewy hay and wild roses. The chorus of a thousand frogs shrilled along the streambeds that ribboned between the surrounding Somerset hills.
“Did ye hear those travelers at the inn talkin’ about Salisbury t’other night?” Zebedee, the bigger of the twins, sighed and shifted his hayfork to the other shoulder. “Great markets and a church steeple that touches the clouds. Such a town I’m dyin’ to see. Don’t ye never grow restless for excitement, Gabe?”
Gabriel, a slender youth, shook his head. “Nay. Too many people for my way o’ thinkin’. I’m content in Shipham.”
Zeb sighed again. “I’m tired o’ farmin’. If I only had tuppence, I’d be off to travel the world!”
They rounded a bend in the lane and came in view of Wimblestone Hill, a sweeping, grassy mound that was all hayfield but for one huge stone. For as long as anyone could remember, the
