A Single Stone (21 page)

“To honour you,” Mother Dyan said.

“To
honour
me?”

“We meant no harm,” Berta said quickly. Then she hesitated, something in her face faltering. “You must believe me, child. We never meant to–”

“It is not we who decide.” Dyan held up a hand, cutting her off. “It is the rock. In this, as in all things.”

“Jena,” Berta began again. “I …”

The air between them seemed suddenly heavy. Then Dyan continued. “The mountain has released her,” she said. “It is a day.” At her words, the crowd began to chant again.
Thanks be. It is a day.

Someone tugged on Jena’s sleeve. “Did you find a harvest, child?”

“A harvest?” Jena felt like she had been jolted from dreaming. “No, I …” She trailed off. Thom was before her, and the Mothers. The table with its precious mica. All thoughts upon it, hungry, hoping.

You must believe me
, Berta had said. But there was no
must
any more, no weight to her words.

Jena stepped into the space and turned to face the crowd. The night stilled about her. She gestured at the bags that lined the table.

“We don’t need this.” She was the only sound, her voice a feeble thing struggling to find a hold. From the far side of the Square, Papa Dietz threaded his way towards her; Mama Dietz was at his side, with Ailin in her arms. “There’s an outside,” Jena said. “We can go there.”

Gasps and exclamations rose from those in the front. Others turned to their neighbours.
What did she say?

“There’s an outside,” she repeated, more loudly this time. She tried to speak as she once had to the line.
Let’s go. This is the way.
No matter what she was saying, the message was always the same.
Trust me. I speak truth.
“There are people out there. Villages.”

Mother Vera held up a hand. “And you’ve seen this, child?”

“Not yet. Lia told me. She’s–”

“Lia?”

“She’s a girl from outside. She …”

Even as the words came from her lips, she was dismayed at how foolish they sounded, like a story a child might dream up.

“And where is this girl?”

“She’s inside still. At the Pass.”

“Where you went in,” Vera said softly. “As your papa did once.” She reached a hand to Jena’s head. “You’re injured, child. You must let us take care of you.”

Jena stepped back. “I’m all right. We have to get Lia. She’s waiting.”

Dyan was beside her then. “Child, you have been under a great strain. To follow your papa’s path into the mountain … to conjure a story like this. You must rest. I have something that will help.”

One hand reached for Jena and the other disappeared into the folds of her cloak.

“Poor thing,” someone said. “She’s not in her right mind.”

Dyan’s hand emerged, a bottle clutched between her fingers.

“No. We have to get Lia out. We …”

The night seemed to sway; stars swooped towards her, blinding. How long had it been since she left the girl? Already their journey through the rock had taken on the blurred quality of a dream.

“You have to believe me,” she said. “We don’t need to tunnel any more. We don’t need a line or …”

“Jena.” Mama Dietz was before her and without meaning to, Jena found herself reaching, scooping Ailin into her arms. She clutched the baby to her chest and hurried away – from the throng of people, from the Mothers. To a space where she stood alone, where even those close by stepped quickly back.

“We don’t need wrapping. We don’t need
ripening
.” Her hands worked at the thin blanket around the baby and then the wrappings. The skin beneath was soft and warm.

“Ripening?”

“What is she talking about?”

“What is she
doing
?”

Ailin began to wail, a shrill, spiralling cry. Her tiny arms flailed as if fighting the very air around her.

“Come, child. You must be so tired.”

“You need to rest.”

Jena stumbled back as the Mothers approached. Then she felt someone at her side. “Here, let me take her.” Kari’s voice was low and gentle.

Jena hesitated. This weight in her arms, so light and yet so heavy.
Look after your sister.

And then something caught her eye – a shadowy figure behind the table, something familiar in its movement.

Luka? But there was someone else too, a smaller figure following him tentatively. A faint pinprick of light moved with them – a fading lamp on the verge of extinction.

But still – a flame. A weary hand setting it down upon the table, unthinking, unknowing.

A spark flared. Slow and stealthy at first, then roaring suddenly to life. Blue light exploded, filling the square, everything awash with it.

The mica was on fire.

People threw their arms up, staggered back.

Though Jena was not close, she swung instinctively away, shielding Ailin from the flaring force of the heat.

“Water!” Someone darted forwards, cup in hand. A thin stream of liquid arced briefly through the air, then trickled uselessly to the ground. The last dregs of a drink, perhaps? It was too little by far.

A few people peeled from the crowd and raced for the well. But others stood rigid, as if the flames had fixed them in place. Then a figure ran towards the table, shrugging off her cloak as she ran, stretching it before her like a blanket.

Through the flames, Jena saw Luka’s eyes widen. “No!” He made to reach for her, but the table – the fire – was between them. And it was too late now, too late to stop her.

Berta was upon the fire and it was upon her. She gave a terrible scream as she flattened herself against the burning table, the cloak beneath her, blanketing, smothering. The flames dipped, waned, then began to lick tentatively upwards once more from the hem of her cloak.

Berta did not scream again but moaned, a low guttural sound. Her body continued to press upon the cloak. She arched her neck, a wild, animal look in her eyes.

Luka careered around the edge of the flames. He lunged for Berta, one hand raised high to shield his face, the other latching onto her leg. He pulled desperately at her. “Help her! Somebody!”

It was like a spell had been broken. People surged to the table and began beating against the flames with coats and aprons. They returned from the well with pitchers and pots and threw the contents onto the fire. Others moved in and flanked Berta, helping her up.

The old Mother’s face was twisted with pain. Something was dripping from her hands.
Water
, Jena thought, but no droplets hit the ground. As the Mothers led Berta away, liquid hung from her fingers in an unmoving stream. Not water, but her own skin. Jena fought back the nausea that rose in her throat.

Behind her, where the mica had been, was little more than smouldering cinders.

“The harvest.” There were cries from the crowd. Some people sank to their knees in the dirt. But others were fixed on Luka; he was staring after Berta, pain etched into his face.

“It was him,” someone called. “I saw it.”

A low rumble rippled through the gathering. People began to press towards Luka.

But then a small voice came from behind him. “It was my fault. I didn’t know there was bluestone in those bags. I’m sorry. I put the lamp down. I was just so tired. I–”

“Lia?” As Jena spoke, the crowd stilled, parting silently around her.

“Who is that?” Kari was beside Jena, her breath warm in her ear. “I don’t …”

She didn’t need to finish. Because above them the feathery clouds had torn one from the other, letting moonlight stream down upon the Square.

And as the pale beams bathed her dark skin, her curious clothing, Lia began to speak.

“My name’s Lia. I’m from Shorehaven. From outside. I …” Her gaze searched the sea of faces before resting upon Jena. Then she looked out at the towering hands of the mountain, as though she could not take in what she were seeing. “I thought you were from White Bay. I thought you were just fuzzy from that knock on the head.”

Jena stared from Lia to Luka. “But how …?”

He held up his hands. They were raw and bloody, as if he had scraped them against something, as if …

“I went to look for you,” he said. “But I found her instead.”

Papa Dietz broke through the crowd. “I don’t understand. The Mothers … they said you were gone. And now …” He glanced at Jena. “Is it really true?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his.

“And there’s a way?”

“Not any more. But we can make one.” She gestured at the charred remains of the harvest. “We have to.”

A question had been floating in the back of her mind and now she allowed it to surface. “Papa … my papa … did he know about the outside?”

At her words, Papa Dietz seemed to crumple. He put his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving silently. When he looked up, his eyes were red. “He talked about it after your mama died but there was nothing to it … nothing but grief and wishful thinking. I thought he would get past it. I never dreamed …” One hand had balled into a fist and he uncurled it slowly, reaching out to rest it on Jena’s shoulder. “To lose him like that … and your sister. I can’t forgive myself for letting it happen.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jena said. “Papa, he …”

She stopped, because something had changed in Papa Dietz’s face. He was staring at Lia.

“Shorehaven,” she was saying, in response to a question from the crowd. “And there’s White Bay on the other side. That’s where I thought Jena was from, but …” Her lips curved in that curious crooked smile. “Does this place really not have a name, then?”

Jena felt something inside her shift, a current stirring. Was it Papa’s face or Lia’s smile? Or was it simply that a crack had opened in her mind, letting her slip inside it?

Everything has a name.
A village. A girl. A six-moon baby hovering on the edge of life. A strong name, sealing you into stone. A light-as-air name, opening into sky.

Seren.

Lia.

Not a birthday but a “found outside the mountain” day.

Jena blinked heavily, letting her eyes stay closed a beat longer than they needed. In her arms, Ailin was quiet and still as if she too were holding her breath, waiting.

The crowd between them was a tunnel again, the past and present collapsed in a single, perfect moment.

Do not fall, but if you must …

“Jena?” Kari’s arm was around her.

Do not fall.

“It’s all right. I’m okay. It’s just …” In the pale light, she locked her eyes on Lia’s, forcing into her voice a steadiness she could not imagine ever feeling again. “I think you’re my sister.”

“It’s perfect.” Jena pressed her shoulder against Lia’s. It was so strange, but so right too – standing here in the dappled shade flanked by sisters.

“Thank you.” Thom was on his knees in the damp grass by Min’s grave. Lia’s bluestone nestled in a hollow alongside the water stone their mama had laid.

Lia had told them what happened, and though it hurt to hear it again, it was good to know. To make what sense of it there was to be made. There were tears in Thom’s eyes but the ghost of a smile on his lips. He seemed, if not happy exactly, then satisfied. Content.

He didn’t blame Lia, he said. She could not have known.

Still, Lia was stricken with guilt. The gift of the bluestone did nothing to ease it, but it was something. And what stone could be more fitting for Min?

“I’m so sorry,” Lia said again. “I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have liked you.” Thom rose and they stood together, looking down upon the grave.

Thank you.

Jena did not speak the words but let them remain a whisper in her mind. And this, she knew, was gratitude – not something that rolled easily off the tongue, but something wrenched from deep within.

In a curious way, it was Min who had saved Jena and Lia. When the Mothers offered Thom’s brothers extra mica for sealing the Pass, they could scarcely refuse. But it was Thom who had insisted on placing the last stones at the very top, and in doing so had left a space – not so much that it would draw the eye from the ground but large enough all the same.

It wasn’t that he thought Jena was alive, he said. It was simply that he could not forget that moment when the earth had closed over Min. He didn’t want to feel that again, couldn’t bear to be part of it.

Jena sighed and looked out across the clearing. On the far side, a knot of villagers had gathered alongside the Mothers. Luka was on his knees in their midst, smoothing a last clod of earth over the freshly turned ground.

Berta had lingered two days after the fire, but in the end her burns were too severe. The Mothers said she had lacked the strength to heal but Jena knew it was more than that. There was a brokenness to her. Jena had seen it when she stood by her bedside. How small she had seemed, swamped by a pile of heavy blankets, as though she were receding into herself.

Berta had not asked for forgiveness, said she knew she could not expect it. Her sunken eyes pleaded silently with Jena; she wished only for her to understand. That they had meant no harm, that their thoughts had been only for the line, for the survival of the village.

It was what the Mothers had countered when Jena told the villagers about the ripening, about the notes in the ledgers and the rubus.

We did not know. We could never have imagined.

Now, watching Luka kneeling in the dirt beside Berta’s grave, it struck Jena that those were two utterly different things.

“Are you all right?” Kari put a hand on Jena’s shoulder.

“I’m fine.” Jena reached up and locked her fingers briefly with Kari’s. Then she let go and began to walk across the clearing. When she was a few steps from him, Luka turned, seeming to sense her approach. He pressed a lingering hand against the earth, then rose to his feet. “Are you ready?”

She was. There was nothing here for her now. And she had no wish to stay and hear the Mothers repeat what they had said so often in the days following the fire: that even if there was an outside, that did not change the fact of Rockfall. The anger of the mountain, the salvation of the Seven. It was unnatural to carve a path through the stone. It was an abomination for a man to be inside the mountain. Judgement would surely come.