A Single Stone (20 page)

The girl stepped back and Jena slipped her own arm inside, showing her how to rotate her shoulder, work the angle. “See? You have to turn there or you won’t be flat enough.”

“I think I can do that. I’ll try.”

“Stay close. Watch me and do what I do.” Jena slung the flask around her neck. “I’ll carry this. And you’d better give me the lamp.”

The girl handed it over wordlessly. It was an odd-looking device: rather than a chip of mica, it had a naked flame, muted behind a clear housing. There was a strange smell to it – some kind of oil, Jena supposed, like the larger torches they used in the village.

She turned to the rock. Then she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

The answer came quickly. “I’m Lia.”

“Lia. I’m Jena.” She eased herself into the stone. “Follow me.”

Their progress was slow, but no slower than Jena had expected.

In some ways it was even a little faster. Because the girl – Lia – was fast. There were tricky corners where Jena had to wait, to turn back and position the light just so, talk her quietly through each movement –
here, then there – see?
But as they went on, these became fewer. She would turn after a tight section to see Lia coming through unaided, a smile on her face, paying no heed to the fresh cuts and grazes that scored her skin.

At first, Jena wondered if she had been mistaken about the space. Perhaps the strangeness of her journey in had made it seem more difficult than it was. But it was not that. It was Lia herself. The girl learned quickly, almost as if the facility had been within her all along, waiting for a chance to reveal itself.

She had no reverence for the rock though – that much was clear. She kept up a stream of chatter as they moved through and Jena resisted the urge to hush her. This was not the line, not the harvest.

“What’s it like where you live?” Lia twisted herself around a bend. “Is it like Shorehaven? I mean, I know you probably haven’t been there. I haven’t been to White Bay either. But Father told me things.”

“It’s just a village,” Jena replied. “Like …”

Yours
, she had been going to say, but even thinking it felt foolish. There was no reason to think the girl’s village was anything like hers. The colour of her skin, the flesh on her bones. The way she exclaimed as she made her way through the rock, like it were a game, an adventure.

“I can’t believe I’ll get to see it.” Lia exhaled loudly as the rock opened out around her. “How long do you think it will take? How long did it take you to get in?”

“I don’t know,” Jena replied distractedly. “I–”

“Maybe we could make a way through!” Lia burst out, then flushed. “Well, I kind of did, didn’t I? Then wrecked it. But maybe we could do it again. Even just for you and me. We could meet in the middle and … do things. I don’t know. I just like it in here.” She glanced at Jena, thoughtful. “What were you doing here anyway?”

Jena twisted the lid from the flask and took a sip of water, then passed it to Lia. “My village,” she began tentatively. “It’s not what you think.”

Lia wiped a hand across her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not from Shorehaven. Or White Bay.”

“But there aren’t any other villages.” Lia frowned. “Where is it then? What’s it called?”

“It isn’t called anything. It doesn’t have a name.”

There was a peal of laughter. “That’s silly. Everything has a name.”

Jena felt suddenly weary. It had never seemed odd before. Home had simply been the village, the valley, the mountain. What use was a name when there was just this one place and nothing to set it against? But now she wished she had a word she could give Lia, something that could speak for everything the village was and had been.

“Oh.” Lia reached a hand to Jena’s forehead. “You’ve got a bump there. No wonder you’re a bit fuzzy. We can rest if you want.”

“But I’m not …” Jena stopped. It would be easier this way. Rather than trying to explain, to wait until they got there and let the girl see for herself. “I don’t need to rest,” she said. “We should keep going.”

In truth, she needed to rest more than anything she could remember needing. Every muscle, every movement begged her to stop. To lie still for a while, to close her eyes.

She pressed a thumb against the lump on her head. Pain shot through her like a knife-edge, sharpening her dulling senses.
Wake up. It’s time to go.

It was several hours before the valley’s familiar smells began to filter through the rock. They were close now but it was tight here and each small movement was hard won. For a time they had been upright, edging sideways through a slender crevice but before long the space had tapered to a fine point, forcing them onto their bellies. They were the finest thread, slipping through the eye of a needle.

Another few minutes would do it, she thought. And not before time. Behind her, the girl’s breath was shallow and fast, and though they had drunk sparingly, the flask was almost empty.

But it was odd, for surely this was the final bend? The leafy damp of the forest seemed to fill the air, as though it were almost upon them, or they upon it. And this jagged edge here – didn’t she remember that too? The skin on one arm had torn as she pulled herself past it – no care in her then, only haste.

But if she was right, there should be light here. Or at least, the darkness ought to have eased. Even if it was night-time, there were always fingers of moonlight that filtered through by degrees. The opening should be visible up ahead. She pictured the stones she had moved aside, lying neatly one upon the other, waiting.

“Are we nearly there?”

It was the first such question Lia had asked and Jena could hear the plea in it.

“Not long now,” she replied. For everything in her said it was true and she must trust her instinct. And as she manoeuvred herself around the turn, she saw it – the shape of something emerging from the gloom ahead. The space above opened out, the roof drawing up and away. This was the place she remembered – narrow but tall. The height of a girl and a little more besides.

“We’re there,” she said. “We …”

There was something wrong. The light was not as it should be. No clean sliver of it indicating the space through which they must pass, but rather slices of light at haphazard angles to each other, as if the opening had been cut into tiny, impossible pieces.

She blinked. The shapes resolved into clearer focus. And as they did, she froze.

The opening was stoppered with stones. And this was no rockfall. There was nothing haphazard about the way the stones lay – they were wedged tightly, jammed in place.

The Mothers had sealed them in.

Jena felt suddenly faint. The ache in her head shrilled to a fine point, her vision clouding. She stumbled as she tried to stand and had to grab at the rock to keep from falling.

“What’s wrong?” Lia’s voice was a whisper.

Jena could find no words to reply. The Mothers’ faces crowded through her mind – Anya’s hand in hers, guiding her through a corner of the maze; Irina, checking her wrappings, her touch firm but gentle; Dyan pressing a healing poultice upon a wound, brow furrowed with concern. And Berta, all these years, always there, always everywhere.

She straightened, willing her thoughts to clear.

“Wait.” She ran a hand along the wall before her. These were not the stones she had moved. They were larger, heavier. She pressed upon the nearest one with all the strength she could muster but it did not budge.

Her fingers probed for crevices, tracking slowly upwards. She was almost at full stretch when she felt it – a notch of space in the very top corner, where the pile met the smooth face of the mountain.

She flattened herself against the wall and beckoned to Lia. “Here.” She passed her the lamp and flask and began to climb, pulling herself awkwardly up the column of stone.

The gap was a head’s width, no more. But the outside was right there and this was the way. Must be, for there was no other. She threaded her fingers through and then her arm, rotating her elbow and then her shoulder. The head’s hard plates, stubbornly solid. She flattened one ear to the rock, felt it scrape as she passed through. A thin trickle of blood slid down the side of her face.

Her hands found purchase on the rock outside, steadied. She was high enough that an uncontrolled fall might break her; she could not let that happen now, after everything.

Another rotation – the hips; another scrape. A tear? She would not reach down to find out. Because she was through now, her feet kicking clear, swinging out and down the face of the pile, finding footholds.

A few seconds later, a hand appeared; Lia’s arm protruded to the shoulder. She pressed her face to the crack. “My head,” she said. “How did you …?”

“You have to rotate,” Jena said.

“It’s too tight.”

“There’s a way. You have to find it.”

Lia’s arm tensed, her hand clenching into a fist. There was a scuffling sound, an exclamation. Then her fingers uncurled and her arm flopped down, hanging loosely over the rock. “You’ll have to make it wider.”

“I can’t.” Jena’s reply was swift. She had taken the measure of things at a glance. There was no way she could move these stones by herself. She squeezed Lia’s hand. “I’ll get help.”

“You’re going?” Lia’s voice quivered like an arrow string the moment after flight.

“I have to. I won’t be long.”

“But I can’t stay here alone. I …” Lia trailed off. “All right.” There was a sudden firmness in her voice, a decision. She pulled her hand free and began climbing down the inside of the wall.

“I won’t be long,” Jena repeated. “I promise.”

As she clambered down and scrambled into the forest, she could only hope she was right.

She was on the outskirts of the village when she heard the sound: a single voice rising into the night, shrill and urgent.

The village was dark. It was early evening but no lamps shone in windows; no warm squares of orange flickered a welcome. It was like the place had been stripped of life, hollowed out.

Though the moon was full, it was shrouded in cloud, dim and distant, the faintest echo of light. But above the Square a blue glow blurred the night’s edges. It was from here that the sound came and Jena hastened towards it. She had thought to steal quietly through the streets, to find Luka and Thom and hurry back to where Lia waited, but that was impossible now. For the glow could mean only one thing – the Mothers had gathered the village for the Wintering allocation. She would not find Luka and Thom at home or helping out with the wood or the stores; they would be in the Square with everyone else, waiting for their name to be called, for their turn to step forwards, arms outstretched.

Thanks be. We gratefully receive it.

But instead of that soft murmur, there was another sound. It was low at first but seemed to gain intensity as she approached. As she reached the final corner, she could feel it – the sense of something building. And above it, that voice again, calling. A voice she did not know well, but recognised with a shock all the same.

Thom stood in the centre of the Square, shouting and straining towards the table where the bags of mica lay. The Mothers blocked his way in a ragged but unbroken line. Though the night was dark, bracketed lamps on the nearby wall lit the area near the table, lending the front of the gathering a feeble light.

Thom’s brothers jostled around him, grabbing for a hold as he twisted and turned, somehow managing to keep himself just clear. Through the melee of flailing limbs, Jena caught a glimpse of his mama’s pale features. Her lips were moving – quickly, ceaselessly, as if she were trying to talk him down, to soothe him in the way you might a child who has been swept up in a fit of temper.

Jena crouched low in the shadows on the bakery verandah. From her vantage point against the wall, she scanned the crowd for Luka but could not spot him in the throng of people. In any case, there was nothing for it now. She could not show herself without Lia by her side. She would have to wait until the gathering dispersed and she could get Luka alone.

She turned, thinking to slip off the verandah and get more distance from the crowd. But as she straightened, she found a face staring directly into hers. Renae was inside the bakery, looking out. Her eyes widened. “Jena?”

Before Jena could put a finger to her lips, Renae had rushed through the door. “Thanks be!”

“Renae, no …”

But it was too late, for heads were turning. Someone broke away from the rear of the crowd. Murmured something, causing others to follow. And then Renae called out, her cries mingling with Thom’s. “It’s Jena! She’s all right! She’s here!” Her arm was on Jena’s shoulder urging her off the verandah and into the crowd. Gasps punctuated the air around them.

“Jena?” There was a hand on her arm, a hoarse voice in her ear. Before she could speak she was swept into a hug, familiar arms reaching for her as they had so many times across the space between them. “But how are you here? What happened?” Tears glistened in the corners of Kari’s eyes. “The Mothers said you went in alone and–”

“But you’re dead!”

A deep voice echoed across the clamour. Jena turned. It was one of Thom’s older brothers, a tall, ruddy-skinned boy who shared none of his ghostly features.

“Dead?” Jena’s breath hitched in her throat. Her gaze locked onto Berta’s across the crowd. There was something in the Mother’s face she could not read. Fear? Relief? Sadness? Surely it could not be all of these at the same time.

“Child.” Berta’s voice was low and gentle. “Thanks be. We thought the mountain had taken you.”

“Is that why you sealed me in?” Jena had lowered her voice to match Berta’s but now she raised it again, speaking out into the crowd. “They blocked the opening. They–”

“It was us.” It was another of Thom’s brothers who spoke. He glanced about him at the others. None of them would meet Jena’s eyes. “They asked us to. They said–”

“I could have died,” Jena said.

“We thought you had.” Berta held her hands out, palms upturned as though she were making an offering. “That the mountain had chosen you … to be with your papa, your sister. We meant only to seal the Pass, so such a thing could not happen again. And to give you stones, to mark your passing.”