by Meg McKinlay
She buckled, hands thrown uselessly above her head. The crushing weight of the mountain upon her, the stone floor rising to meet her like a slap.
There was so much sky and all of it stone. The roof was down and there was no roof, no floor. It was just rock, all around her, the weight of everything pressing. The earth slamming a fist into its palm, and her in between.
She tried to move, to grab hold of something, anything, but all of it was tumbling and her arms, her legs, were as useless as sticks, crushed, crumpling.
Rocks broke and the sound of their shattering was inside her bones.
There was nothing but rock and darkness and pain, lowering upon her with each breath. Time seemed to swell, each moment fat and slow.
I am fourteen, she thought. And that is all I will ever be.
The light, the dark, winking out.
When Lia strikes, the force is hard and blunt. The air is pushed from her lungs like she is a bellows, pumped.
She lies still, tentative, testing. This arm. That leg. Somewhere nearby, there is a faint glow. Her lamp lies among the rubble, tumbled clear.
She blinks. It is a cavern of some kind – not a large space but not small either. Fine dust drifts through the wan light, rising from the freshly fallen stones.
She rolls to one side, suppressing a groan. Inches her way towards the light across the bedlam of rock.
One stone, she thinks. To move one and find the mountain coming down around you.
Unstable, they said, and now she believes them.
Jena is five. Is she five?
Perhaps a birthday has slipped past. The world seems to have melted and blurred.
There might have been a birthday, a doll. Has she missed it? She has been sleeping; it feels like forever.
There is a room here. Four walls around her. A face lowering over her own.
Papa? Something pounds in her head. A sharp knot of pain throbs in one shoulder.
It’s all right, child.
There is a woman here. It is not Mama but her eyes are kind. A smile hovers at the corner of her mouth.
Here. She holds out a spoon. This will help you sleep.
I have had a bad dream, Jena thinks. Papa was there, and the baby. And before that …
Her mind reaches for something but there is a face over her own, a warm hand on her shoulder. She tries to sit up but sinks back down.
Here, child.
A spoonful of something, soft in her mouth. The air blankets her, warm and feathery.
It was a bad dream; that’s all.
She sleeps.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jena had thought she knew darkness but this was something else.
This was a kind of night that had fallen, close and final as a grave.
Something pressed heavy upon her and it was the whole world. She tried to move a finger, a toe, but could not. The mountain had taken her, and held her fast.
This is where I will lie. The thought spread out before her, leaden and dull. Some passages did not allow for return. The Seven had known this; she would learn it now too.
It was an embrace, she told herself, the mountain folding her into its arms. Stroking, soothing. In time, the stone would settle around her. In the valley, the sun would rise and set; shadows would lengthen and contract with the seasons.
Observe the loss, fly on.
One day, a way might open – a way for another girl, yet to come. One day someone might harvest her bones, feel them light as ash in the palm of her hand.
Sleep, child.
The world was blurring. She was tired, so tired.
I’m sorry, Papa.
It was only a whisper. In her mind all these years and now here in the mountain’s dead air. She imagined it travelling through the rock to the place where he lay.
But then, impossibly, there was another voice.
“Hello?” It was faint and tentative, as if it were coming from a great distance. Her own voice, inside her head. It must be.
But it was louder now, and closer. Hello? And alongside it, another sound: a scrabbling and scraping, the noise of rocks rolling and dragging across one another.
Being rolled, being dragged.
The world lifting from her chest, a slim shaft of air, and – yes – light.
That voice again, shaking. “Is someone under there?”
TWENTY-FIVE
Hello?
There was a light in Jena’s face, pale but blinding in its closeness.
The weight was gone and she had never felt such relief. Her limbs pulsed painfully as blood rushed back in.
She was no longer trapped but could not move. Above her, a floating shape resolved. A face lowered towards her.
“Are you all right?”
It was a girl, the light lending her skin an eerie glow. Her eyes were hooded, one half of her face in shadow.
Jena blinked. There was something familiar about the girl but she could not place it. Her mind raced with faces, names, trying each in turn, but none fit.
She tried to sit up but could find no strength in her body. As feeling returned, it brought only pain. Her body felt like it had been scraped raw; there was nowhere that did not throb or sting. Her head was too heavy for her neck; in the base of her skull, a shrill beat pulsed.
“A rockfall,” she rasped. “I …”
Images from the last few days swum queasily before her. And with them, a single sentence.
If judgement comes, it will be from the mountain.
“I’m so sorry.” The girl’s dark face seemed to flush. “I only meant to move one, but then … I didn’t know there was anyone here. How could I know?”
“You did it? But who–” Jena’s voice cracked, faltered. There was grit in her eyes and mouth. Each ragged breath scraped air across her parched throat.
“Here.” The girl set her lamp down and pulled at a strap across her chest, swinging a satchel around from behind her. She withdrew a flask from inside and twisted the lid free, then pressed the opening to Jena’s lips.
The cool was instantly reviving. Jena let the water spill across her mouth. Some trickled down her throat; some ran along her chin and neck. She grasped the flask and began to tilt it, slowing the flow.
After a time, she pulled herself awkwardly onto her elbows and shuffled by slow, painful degrees into a sitting position. She passed the flask back. “Thanks.”
It was a relief to hear her voice come out more cleanly this time, a certain steadiness returning.
“How did you get in here?” Jena asked. The girl must have followed her somehow but it was strange for she was no tunneller. Though she was small enough, there was a fleshiness about her, as if she had not been properly wrapped. Her complexion was mottled in the way of a girl who spent her days in the fields; it seemed even darker than that but Jena supposed that was the light.
At her words, the girl gestured vaguely at the wall of the cavern.
Jena twisted around but could not make anything out in the shadowy dark. “Did the Mothers send you?”
“Who? I don’t …” The girl trailed off, an odd look on her face. She leaned towards Jena. “What’s that?”
The stone must have fallen from Jena’s pocket; it lay beside her on the floor of the cave.
The girl reached out, a kind of hunger in her eyes. Her fingers scrabbled in the dirt, closing tight around the stone. “Where did you get this?”
“I … found it.” It was as much as Jena could manage.
“Well, it’s mine. I lost it.” There was an edge in the girl’s voice, as if she thought Jena might argue or take it back. When she did not, the girl’s expression softened. Her eyes searched Jena’s, suddenly thoughtful. “But you fell. I thought …” She uncurled her fingers from the stone, which sat snug in the palm of her hand. “No, it wasn’t you. The other girl was–”
“What other girl?” But even as Jena asked, she knew. And now she took the girl in properly – the odd cut of her shirt, the strange fastenings at
the collar, the wooden clasp that drew her hair back from her face.
They were like nothing Jena had ever seen. In the village, in the world.
This is not from the old times.
“Where are you from?” she whispered.
“Near the inlet.” The girl’s reply was matter-of-fact. “On the east side, past the mill. How about you?”
“I …” A lump rose in Jena’s throat; she could not seem to push words past it.
“Wait … you’re not from Shorehaven, are you? White Bay, then? That other girl … her hair was like yours. I thought she looked strange …”
Her voice faded into the background as Jena’s thoughts became louder. There was only one thing that mattered in what the girl said; once she had heard it, there was nothing else.
This was a girl from elsewhere, from outside. From a place – an idea – she had hardly dared believe in, even as she was heading there. And more than that – there were people out there, and villages.
The walls of the cavern seemed to swim about Jena. It is one thing to imagine, to believe something, and another altogether to see it with your own eyes. She pointed at the stone. “This is really yours?”
“It’s my best bluestone. I’ve had it forever, since my first birthday.” The girl hesitated. “Not that it was really a birthday. Father calls it my ‘found outside the mountain’ day but …”
“How did you get in here?” Jena clutched at the girl’s hand. “Do you know the way out?”
“Out? Of course.” She turned and flashed her light on the wall behind her, then gasped. It was as if a river of rock had gushed into the cavern, a pile of boulders tumbled one upon the other. She stood up and picked her way across the rubble. Jena struggled to her feet and followed gingerly, pain sluicing through her with each footstep.
The way was blocked; any opening there had once been was gone, hidden behind a wall of unsteady rock. The girl placed a hand on the pile of stones, then a foot. Immediately, there was a rumble from within, something shifting beneath, out of sight.
“Stop!” Jena’s voice echoed off the walls. “You’ll make it worse.”
But how could it be worse? There had been a way, and it was gone. She stared at the jumble of stone. “How did you … Did you climb down?”
“Not exactly. I sort of … dived.” The girl rubbed her arm ruefully, the corners of her mouth turning up in a lopsided grin.
The girl was not without her own cuts and bruises, Jena realised. Though it was nothing like you would expect for someone who had fallen – or dived – from such a height. “You must be broken,” she said. “Let me see.”
“Broken?” The girl batted at her arm like she was dusting something off. “I’m okay. Just a few bruises.” She took a step back into the centre of the cavern. “I guess we’ll have to go your way.” Her face creased in puzzlement as she scanned the stone walls.
Jena indicated the crack through which she had come.
“There?” The girl picked her way over to the crevice. “You really came through here? I guess you’d better lead the way.”
“It’s too narrow. You won’t get through.”
“You did.”
“That’s different. I’m used to it. I’m …” Jena checked herself. The line would mean nothing to the girl; to speak of it would only invite questions Jena had no energy to answer just now. “I’m in here all the time,” she finished.
“Me too,” the girl said. “Besides, how else am I supposed to get out?”
She was right, of course. But it was more than that. With the ledgers lost, Jena had no proof of anything. There might be no way now to convince people of what the Mothers had done. But if there was an outside, a place where people turned mica into jewellery, then they would have no reason to tunnel or harvest or – Jena could hardly bring herself to think the word – ripen.
The girl had to come with her. If Jena returned to the village alone, who would believe her – Luka? Thom? No one who would be able to move rocks, to help clear a passage back to the girl. People would simply shake their heads and say she was mad after all. Her papa’s daughter. What could you expect?
“I can do it.” The girl was edging into the crevice, the whole of one arm now disappeared from view. The side of her face was pressed hard against the rock and there was something in it Jena recognised. Something that made her approach and place a hand on the girl’s other arm. “Not like that. Here.”
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.”
TWENTY-SIX
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 fe
lt 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.
