by Meg McKinlay
“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.
TWENTY-SEVEN
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.”
“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.
TWENTY-EIGHT
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.”
