by Meg McKinlay
Table of Contents
Cover
Blurb
Logo
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Dedication
Other Books by Meg McKinlay
Every girl dreams of being part of the line – the chosen seven who tunnel deep into the mountain to find the harvest. No work is more important.
Jena is the leader of the line – strong, respected, reliable. And – as all girls must be – she is small; her years of training have seen to that. It is not always easy but it is the way of things. And so a girl must wrap her limbs, lie still, deny herself a second bowl of stew. Or a first.
But what happens when one tiny discovery makes Jena question everything she has ever known?
What happens when moving a single stone changes everything?
ONE
First the fingertips and then the hand. Choose your angle wisely, girl; there’s no forgiveness in bone. Rotate the shoulder, let the head and hips follow … there.
The Mothers’ words echoed in Jena’s mind as she eased into the crevice, flattening herself against the rock. When she was through, she paused, waiting for the next girl. They were deep now, in the heart of the mountain. Around her, the earth pressed so tightly it was hard to tell where her body ended and the stone began.
She sighed into the quiet dark. This was the work she loved – when there was nothing but ahead and behind, nothing but this steady movement on bellies and elbows. Seven girls nose to toe, wearing stone like skin as they made their way towards the harvest, a thin rope looping them together in an unbroken line. A finger extended, an elbow scythed onto rock, hunting leverage. A toe caught, kicked, gained for itself an inch. Another.
“Through there?” The voice was barely a whisper but Jena heard the tremor in it all the same. The rope pulled at her waist as the girl behind her slowed and then stopped. “But how …?”
“It’s all right.” Before Jena could reply, the answer came firmly from the back of the line. Though the voice had the hollow quality all sound took on down here, Jena knew immediately who it belonged to.
Kari might not have been chosen to lead the line but there was no one more reliable. She was always ready with the right thing at the right time: a soft tug on the rope to remind a girl she was not alone, a handful of well-placed words to quell her rising doubt. “You’ll be fine. You’ve trained for this. Just take it slowly.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
The rope slackened as the girl began to move, gingerly at first and then with more confidence. Jena waited until she was almost through and then resumed her own methodical progress, slowing every now and then to press a hand to the rock or shine her headlamp into a fissure. Always searching, always probing. This way, or that?
The girl behind her did not speak again but a few minutes later something brushed Jena’s foot. The lightest finger-touch, a whisper all its own.
Jena would not fault the girl for it. She was young and Jena remembered those days herself – that urge to reach out, to feel just for a moment the warmth of flesh instead of stone.
What was this one’s name again? As Jena twisted herself around a bend, her mind reached for it, then shied away. The village was not so large that a name would evade her if she truly wished to recall it. But it didn’t matter yet. Not when a girl was so new, on her very first harvest. Not until you were sure she would last.
This girl was not the first they had trialled since the Mothers pulled Petria from the line but she was by far the most promising. The last one had been a disaster; when the mountain began to narrow around her, she panted and flailed, hands thrashing at the rock.
There was no telling with some – the wooden training maze and shallow surface tunnels did not always predict how a girl would fare deep in the mountain. And though there was disappointment when the years of training came to nothing, the village tried not to lay blame. Not everyone could be born to the work of the harvest. Not everyone could adapt, or be adapted.
Later, Jena had seen that girl working in the fields. She would be useful out there in a dull sort of way – turning the soil over, searching for yams and roots. Jena shivered at the thought of the blade striking earth. There was no place for a digger inside the mountain.
What they sought in here – the precious flakes of mica that would warm the village through the long, snowbound winter – did not call for digging. When the harvest was ready, it peeled away cleanly at the slightest touch. The mountain saw their need, made them a gift of it.
The sole of Jena’s foot prickled where the new girl had traced her tentative fingernail.
It was late in the season to be breaking in a tunneller but with Petria gone, there was little choice; they could hardly go in with just six.
It was better that the girl came now. Better that they knew if she would join them next season. Or if they might need to look to another. There were decisions to be made. Winter was nearly upon them; already there was a telltale crispness in the air.
Jena’s belt snagged briefly as she hauled herself across a jagged rock. What few supplies she carried – a knife, a pouch, a flask of water, some straps of dried meat – were bound tightly against her side, so close they might almost have been part of her.
Just ahead, the space appeared to widen a little. Her eyes strained into the gloom. This deep, her headlamp offered no more than a feeble glow. The other girls carried their own, but these would remain unlit until Jena found the harvest and they spread out to begin flaking mica from the rock’s surface.
Although it was the mica’s warmth that kept the village alive, its light was useful too. When the line tunnelled, it was mica chips they used in their lamps; they would not waste them when those behind had no need to see, when all they had to do was follow.
Sometimes Jena wondered whether she needed it herself. Perhaps she might make her way just as surely without the light. In her mind’s quiet eye, the network of caves and interconnecting passages – the crevices and cracks through which the mountain allowed them entry – shifted this way and that, an invisible map remaking itself with every piece of ground.
There were real maps back at the village, a patchwork of pages the Mothers insisted Jena add to after each harvest. Though she did as directed, she had no use for them herself; their simple, flat surfaces could hardly speak for what was inside the mountain. The maps in her mind were complex and beautiful, intersecting and flowing across each other like living, growing things, but there was no way of getting them onto the page.
These days, each harvest carried them into new territory. The surface mica was long-depleted, the shallow tunnels stripped generations ago. It was said that in the first years after Rockfall, in the time of the Mothers’ great-great-grandparents, the line could go in for an hour and return with full pouches. But even if those stories were true, those days were long past. Every harvest called for them to go deeper – and darker.
As if to underscore the thought, Jena’s lamp flickered,
then dimmed. She reached into her pouch for another chip. Soon the mica would wink out altogether, throwing them into utter blackness.
She removed the dying chip from its housing and struck the new one with her fingernail. It flared immediately into pale blue light, sending ghostly shadows onto the walls. She pressed it into place and then slid the spent chip into a crack in the nearby stone. It was the simplest of gestures.
Another girl might have tucked the chip into her pouch, carried it back to the village. It would not have been odd to do so, for spent mica had many uses. It could be hammered flat, rolled into sheets of metal from which things like tins and cooking pans were made. Most of the mica they burned was turned eventually to such purposes, and that was as it should be. In the closed world of the valley, waste was a luxury they could not afford. But it felt different when they were tunnelling. In here, it seemed right that she return it to the mountain.
She crawled further, feeling the stone walls recede around her, the sense of a weight easing off her shoulders. She raised her head, throwing the anaemic glow from her lamp into the space before her.
It was a junction, a curving of the passage: one path to take; the other to pass by. She moved slowly forwards, probing.
This one, she told herself. The way the darkness deepened just ahead. The slight mustiness that clotted the nostrils. There was air moving down there. A shaft somewhere.
She leaned closer and smelled again, to be safe. To be sure – that it was air and not some fetid stench, a gas long trapped that might wrap itself around them, lull them into a dreamless sleep. The mountain might keep a girl that way. A harvest might fail.
She drew a shallow breath. Another. It was only air. There was nothing here to trouble them.
She reached forwards and pressed a hand to the ground. Odd. There was something loose there. Not a stone, for it was longer, thinner. And now another.
Oh. Something in her drew back, clenched. A jolt of recognition coursed through her. The smoothness of bone beneath her fingers. Her hand closed around the brittle fragments even as her mind began to race, imagining.
An old rockfall? There was no sign of it.
She knew where her thoughts were headed and tried to reel them in. There was nothing to be gained from wondering about this girl – who she had been and how she had felt. That chilling moment when rope caught, when flesh wedged and would not budge. Did she struggle, or give herself over to it, accepting what the mountain had decided?
Jena shook her head, bit down hard upon her lip. The bones rested light as leaves in her palm. There would be more but she would not seek them. She would not feel around for the shape of the girl, for the coil of rope, its neatly sliced ends.
Nor would she tell the girls behind her. Because although the other passage was wide and this one the barest sliver, instinct told her it was the way. And if they were to pass through, they must believe they could. The smallest seed of doubt could grow so easily, split a girl open. Jena would not plant it.
She inhaled a long draught of the musty air, steadying herself. These bones were surely old. It was years since the village had given the mountain reason to keep a tunneller. These days, the girls who made up the line were leaner; years of painstaking management had seen to that. And they were more careful, too, being sure to show respect to the mountain. They went in with seven, and followed only those spaces the mountain had made for itself – fissures and crevices carved by water and time, caverns hollowed out naturally like the chambers of a heart. If they happened upon one of the tunnels their ancestors had gouged through the rock, they turned away, found another path. Each generation since Rockfall had learned more about what it took to survive – in the mountain and the valley both.
Jena probed the opening with her free hand. It was tight but passable.
She turned her feeble light to the wall. This was the way. There were always signs, if you cared to read them.
There was no need for her to say it; she had only to begin to move. The others would take the path she set before them, unseeing, trusting.
As she twisted through the opening, she allowed herself to hope. They had been four days without a harvest, returning to the village with empty pouches. But surely today would be different? The signs were stronger now, the stain spreading through the rock like sinew. Soon enough it would appear – the soft blue glow with which the earth revealed its secrets. She would come to a stop and press her back against the stone, letting the others fall in beside her.
They would strike their lights, bring forth their blades, perform their slow, methodical work. Perhaps they would rest awhile – eat a mouthful of leathery meat, take a drink from their flasks. Then offer their murmurs of gratitude and turn for home. To the village that nestled, like all else in the valley, in the mountain’s vast shadow. As they approached through the fields, people would rise to greet them, eager for news. Glances would fall upon their pouches, hopeful, expectant.
But none would ask. It was to the Mothers that Jena would deliver the harvest. To the dark room in the back of the Stores where it would be weighed and measured into rough hemp bags. Mother Berta would make her spidery notes in the ledgers, thin fingers running down one column after another. This much for a baker, that much for a carpenter; two scoops for this family, one for the next. To each according to their service – and their worth.
The thought was a comfort. That quiet room. A bountiful harvest. Berta at her desk in the pale blue light, approval shining in her eyes.
If the rock allows it.
The words echoed in Jena’s mind, natural as breathing. It was the mountain that would decide. In this, as in all things.
The bones sat smooth and cool in her palm. Her fingers curled about them as if they were a treasure, something she might keep – or take back to the village and sink in the graveyard beside her many sisters.
No. She let her fingers fall back like a flower opening. Whoever it was, let her rest here. Was it not, for a tunneller, a fitting place to lie – folded into the mountain, her bones crumbling eventually to become one with the stone?
In the dim light, Jena watched her shadow flash across the rock. She set the bones to one side, then eased her way through the narrowing hole.
Somewhere secret, Lia has her back to stone.
It is a secret because she should not be inside the mountain. It is a secret from Father and Mother and from everyone else too. No one is supposed to come here but she cannot resist. Not since the very moment she found this place. What was it that made her look up that day? The shadow of a bird? Some unexpected shift in the light?
It is years ago now. She doesn’t remember. What she does recall is the sudden thrill of surprise. It was almost nothing, and that was the charm of it. A sliver in the rock face, nearly – but not quite – concealed behind bushes. It was so unlike the other gaping wounds in the mountain’s side, the great caverns people had hollowed out all those years ago.
Those are the spaces Father has told her to avoid and she does so gladly. There is a violence to them, a wrongness – the jagged rock like torn flesh that has solidified.
But this place is different. It is like a slot that has opened to receive her. The stone walls fit snugly about her, in a kind of embrace.
This is a way in, just for her. Even if she were not forbidden to come here, she would not tell anyone. The other girls are friendly enough but they are different somehow. They are not the kind of girls who want to explore and find out, who want to follow paths and passages and ideas to their distant ends. If Lia showed them this place, they would wrinkle their noses and say she was strange.
Nothing about this feels wrong or strange. If there is anything odd, it is that it feels familiar – a return to a place Lia has never been. After the first time she came in, her limbs buzzed for days with something she could not explain.
She has been here many times since, has sat for hours inside the stony walls, has clambered and crawled through their endless forbidden crevices. Som
etimes a flash of bluestone catches her eye and she turns her lamp’s flame to the wall, trailing her fingers across the flaking surface. People split the mountain open for this once but there is no need for that now. The plain that sweeps down to the sea is studded with it. It lies in rich, open veins right there on the ground.
Lia smiles at the thought. She reaches for the bracelet at her wrist and rubs the smooth blue bauble between her fingers. It is the first present Father and Mother ever gave her; she will never take it off.
She sighs as she leans against the curve of the stone. People say the mountain is dangerous, that the stone is unstable and can move without warning. It did so once, many grandfathers ago, exploding and collapsing in a calamity of tumbling rock. Though none among Lia’s ancestors saw it, the aftermath was clear enough. When they landed upon the shore, they saw the fresh scars upon the land, the gaping holes scoring the earth. And they knew that the wall of water that had taken their own tiny island, sweeping them into fragile boats on the wild sea, had visited here too.
But it was land at least. This place was bigger and the waters had drawn back, leaving it high and dry, livable. Their home was gone but here was somewhere to begin again.
Lia cannot imagine the mountain behaving in such a way. It is not, she thinks, in its nature. The stone walls around her feel solid, an immovable mass, unbreachable by any force she can conjure in her imaginings.
She sets one hand upon the rock. It is cold and warm all at once. It is solid. It is always.
You mustn’t go there, people say. It is treacherous.
And yet, it feels nothing like that. It feels like opening the door on a winter night, stepping across the threshold to a waiting hearth.
It feels like coming home.
TWO
First there was light. The darkness eddied around Jena, then receded.
There was sky up ahead, the faintest smudge of blue. A wisp of white drifted past. Cloud. Autumn breeze. The promise of outside.
She crawled towards it. Because they had a harvest and this was what came next. Make the harvest. Find the light.
