The Dark Ground

by Gillian Cross

  The others were holding their breaths now. Robert could see them all staring, with their eyes wide and their mouths half open. And he stared, too. The leaf dominated the cavern, flinging its tall shadow over Zak’s body and onto the earthen wall behind him.

  Humming from the back of his throat now, Zak opened his mouth wider, taking in the edge of the leaf. With quick, sharp movements, he bit—and spat. The drumming stopped dead.

  And then—at last—he looked. His eyes traveled up the leaf, to the high tip, and down to the base of the stalk where Bando held it against the dusty, earthen floor. He covered every inch of it, and Robert found himself looking, too. They were all looking, following Zak’s eyes. Taking in the exact shape of the leaflets and the way they curved away from the main stem. The strength of the stem and the texture of the gray underside of the leaf. The whole physical reality of it.

  It’s too much, Robert thought. Too much. The leaf had become the solidest, most real thing in the cave. But what was he supposed to think about it? Was it good to eat? Useful for making rope? Something that could be dried as bedding?

  What was it?

  He wanted someone to tell him.

  That was the moment when Zak named it. He gave a quick, brisk nod. Greeting the leaf and summing it up.

  "This is silkskin," he said, in a clear, firm voice.

  A long, satisfied sigh ran around the cave. Robert felt everyone relax as the name linked itself to the tall, textured leaf. The sound and the object were twinned forever now. This is silkskin.

  After a moment, Bando bent over, reaching for the next leaf in the pile. But Cam drew in her breath, just loudly enough to make him look around. Catching his eye, she nodded across at Robert.

  Not me, Robert thought, without knowing what the nod meant.

  But Bando obeyed Cam, as he always did. Dropping the leaf, he marched straight across the circle. Without hesitating, he bent down and slid his arms around Robert’s body, heaving him off the floor.

  There was no time to protest. Robert was lifted right off his feet for a second as Bando swung around. Then he was dropped in front of Zak, so suddenly that he crashed to the ground. The fall jarred his wounded leg and twisted it sideways, and the pain made him gasp.

  "Be quiet," Zak said. Not unkindly, but with authority.

  He reached forward and touched the wounded leg, pulling it into a more comfortable position. Then he looked down at Robert, meeting his eyes.

  "Who are you?" he said.

  13

  "YOU KNOW MY NAME," ROBERT SAID. "I’VE TOLD YOU."

  Zak didn’t say anything. He just waited. And looked. All around the circle, people were staring at Robert, expecting . . . he didn’t know what. He could feel the pressure, but he had no idea what they wanted him to do or say. Wherever he turned, there were eyes glinting in the shadows.

  "OK!" he said, when he couldn’t stand it any longer. "I’ll tell you again. My name’s Robert. Robert Doherty."

  Zak raised his eyebrows just a fraction. As if Robert had surprised him. "So tell me about yourself, Robert Doherty. What are you like?"

  That was an easy question. A school standard. Write a description of yourself . . . . De quel couleur sont tes yeux? . . . Calculate your own density . . . . Today we’re doing self-portraits. Robert had done it dozens of times.

  "Dark brown hair," he said. "Grayish, greenish eyes. My nose is a bit lumpy, but my teeth are good."

  Zak’s nod was polite, giving nothing away. "And your family? They’re the people who know you best. What would they say about you?"

  Before he could stop himself, Robert thought of Emma, and his parents, and home. For a second he couldn’t speak at all. The torrent of bewildered, angry, terrified questions surged up inside his head. Where are Mom and Dad and Emma? What happened? How can I—why did I—?

  "What would they say?" Zak repeated, not leaving any space for the questions.

  Robert caught his breath and answered quickly, before he was overwhelmed. "They’d say I was a bit of a techie. And good at basketball—because I can reach so high."

  The moment the words were out, he knew that he’d walked straight into a trap. A flood of familiar, tormenting images swept up from the bottom of his mind, blotting out everything in front of him.

  He was running down the basketball court with great long strides, bouncing the ball in front of him. He saw himself jump for the basket, with his arm held high, stretching, stretching . . . .

  Flick.

  The picture switched, suddenly and viciously.

  Now he was marooned on the edge of a great sea of polished wood, with the gym rising around him, impossibly high and huge. Immediately ahead was the raised white strip that marked the edge of the basketball court. The strip was so wide that it would have taken him three strides to cross it.

  But he dared not cross, because of the danger. Beyond that line great feet thundered up and down, ten times his size. If he got caught underneath one of those, he would be squashed flat.

  Flick.

  Now the picture had changed again. He was sitting in front of his computer at home, chatting in three windows at the same time. His fingers rattled over the keys, making jokes and wisecracking back at his friends, faster than they could reply.

  Flick.

  He was on the computer, all right. But now he was crawling across the keyboard. Every time he wanted to press a key, he had to stand up on it and jump up and down, trying to make his weight register. One letter at a time. i-’-m- -r-o-b-e-r-t—h-e-l-f- -m-e-.

  And all the time there was a voice shouting in his head, Help! Help! Help! On and on and on. Help, Dad! Help, Mom! Help! Anyone would have done that. Even Tosher or Joe. Even Emma. But no one was going to help him. No one would come, because he couldn’t . . . he wasn’t . . .

  He wasn’t tall or about to play basketball or able to lift his mom off the ground or big enough to arm-wrestle his dad or able to run down the road or draw cartoons or whisper jokes in Tosher’s ear (unless he crawled right in) or tease the cat (How scary was the cat?) or turn on the television or make a phone call or send an e-mail or get on a bus or buy a candy bar (it would feed everyone in the cavern for a week if he could) or take the remote control away from Emma or play a computer game (What kind of speed do you get jumping from key to key?) or take a bath or clean his teeth or crawl into bed and pull up the covers and pretend that everything was just

  the way it

  wasn’t

  anymore.

  The whole thing hit him at once, in a split second, a crazy, high-speed collage of pictures that didn’t match or make sense. It hit him like a missile, knocking the stuffing out of him. Knocking the self out of him. He was swamped by a black wave of loss and despair and never, never, never again. And worse than all that—worse than all the grief and rage and desolation—was a terrible, humiliating shame.

  He was no one. Nothing. Nameless.

  He was dissolving.

  WHEN THE BLACK WAVE DREW BACK, ZAK WAS STILL LOOKING at him. Robert forced himself to meet the stare, expecting—what? Triumph? Sympathy? He didn’t know. But he wasn’t prepared for what did happen.

  Zak closed his eyes. Then he reached out toward Robert’s head. His hands found the top of it, tweaking the thick, straight hair. He rubbed it between his fingers and Robert heard the hairs scraping together and felt them pull at the thin skin of his scalp.

  Zak’s hands ran down his face, over the forehead, around the eye sockets, and across the cheekbones. As they moved on, circling the ears and mapping out the shape of the jaw, Robert felt himself grow solid again. His head. His neck and shoulders and arms. Zak lifted one of his hands and held it up to sniff the scent of the skin. Then he laid his own palm against Robert’s, pressing forward. Robert pressed back, feeling his muscles work, measuring his strength.

  Zak’s eyes were still closed, but his face was sharp with concentration. Robert felt all that fierce attention focused completely on him. Not on Robert or Rob, but on hims
elf as he really was at that moment, crouched in the dark cave. Zak’s fingers ran over the leather tunic that Lorn had made and the fleece that Robert had found for himself. They touched the healing wound on his thigh, with a touch as light as thistle-down. Robert remembered the ogre-bird and his fight and the effort and cost of his survival. It stood sharp and clear in his mind, as real as his own skin under the moving hands.

  Zak opened his eyes and looked him up and down. All around them the cave was silent, the air as still as standing water. When Zak drew in his breath, the noise resounded like a fanfare.

  And Robert knew that he was going to be named.

  Zak was going to name him, the way he’d named the leaf. That was why all the others had unfamiliar names. They had all—every one of them—been through the same nightmare as he had. The black water had swept over them, too, and Zak had pulled them out with a name that was real in the cave and the ravine and the dark wood.

  And now it was his turn. He was going to take his place in this new life. Then he could forget the lost, high-in-the-air, steel-and-plastic existence of Robert Doherty and be real with the rest of them, down there on the dark ground.

  Zak drew in his breath and opened his mouth—

  And Robert knew he couldn’t take the new name.

  He felt the lure of it. He understood the easy, comforting solution—but he couldn’t do it. He remembered his own face as he’d last seen it, reflected in the restroom mirror high above the clouds. That’s still me, he thought. I’m the same person. Before Zak could speak, he interrupted, clear and loud.

  "My name is Robert Doherty," he said. "I have a mother and father and sister in one of those houses across the park. And I’m going back there, to find them."

  He felt the shock of his words resonating around the circle. Zak didn’t move, but Cam darted forward, thrusting her face at him.

  "Don’t. Be. Stupid," she said. Taking a separate breath for each word. Flinging them into his face like fists. "This. Is. How. It. Is. Accept. It."

  Robert was afraid she was going to hit him. He was afraid they were all going to rush him at once, beating him down and trampling on him. But there was nothing else he could do. He had to say it. "I’m still the same person. Even like this. I’m still me. And I’m not going to give in. I’m going to find a way of getting back to what I was."

  "No!" Lorn said. "That’s terrible!"

  It was a relief to turn away from Cam. Robert hunted in the shadows on the other side of the circle until he found Lorn’s face. She was almost in tears.

  "I’m going back," he said gently. Ignoring the others and speaking directly to her. "I know where we are—I saw it from the top of the tree. I’m going home."

  A current ran through the cavern, like a ripple in the air. Lorn’s eyes widened and Nate leaned forward, as if he were going to speak. But before either of them could make a sound, Bando lumbered forward, looking puzzled and confused.

  "You can’t go home. You won’t be able to get in."

  That unblocked the silence for the others. Suddenly they were shouting at Robert, yelling nonsense with a sharp edge to it.

  "You’re too small to reach the door!"

  "Your shirts won’t fit!"

  "—can’t work the computer—"

  "—open the fridge—"

  "—turn on the TV—"

  "—use the phone—"

  The cavern was full of ugly, jeering voices, Robert put his hands over his ears, but the others came closer, shuffling on their knees and crowding around him, standing up to spit the words in his ear.

  "—can’t take a bath—"

  "—play with a Game Boy—"

  "—eat a Popsicle—"

  "—send an e-mail—"

  He couldn’t keep the sounds out. He couldn’t turn off the flood of angry images. They filled the air and beat at his brain, and he braced himself, feeling the anger swell and grow. Waiting for the words to turn into fists, hammering at his body.

  Very gently, Zak began tapping at his drum, setting up a rhythm. Gradually the shouts took on the pattern of the drumming.

  Ta-ta tap, ta-ta tap.

  "You can never go back—"

  "—this is all that there is—"

  "—all the rest is unreal—"

  Ta-ta tap, ta-ta tap.

  The drumming kept the same rhythm, but gradually it grew slower and softer. People began to sit down again, sinking onto the floor where they were. The shouts died away, and Robert sensed the pressure lifting. He felt himself becoming less visible, less important.

  He subsided, too, finding a place between Lorn and Nate. Lorn was holding a half-braided cord. It was twisted tightly across her knuckles, digging into the flesh. And when Robert looked up, he saw that she was crying. She lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. He turned away quickly, embarrassed at having upset her.

  That brought him face-to-face with Nate. Nate’s expression was quite different. As their eyes met, there was a flash of excitement, fleeting but unmistakable. We need to talk. Neither of them said it, but it hung in the air between them. Waiting for the right moment.

  For now, though, there was silence. Like everyone else, Robert let the drumming take over until the whole cavern was completely quiet and still.

  When the last rustle had died away, Zak put the drum down. "Listen," he said.

  The red glow lit his face, sharpening its angles. His voice was calm and full of authority.

  "Once there was a girl who was lost in a dark wood . . . ."

  Perdew and Tina slid surreptitiously back to the brazier as the red glow began to dim. Very quietly, they started lifting the wood again, lowering the logs very gently into the fire, so that they didn’t interrupt the story.

  14

  AT THE END OF THE STORY, THEY SLEPT WHERE THEY LAY, except for Perdew and Tina, who went on stoking the brazier.

  And Cam.

  Cam went out on her own through the tunnel, into the night. She walked along the edge of the ravine, through the tangle of creepers and thorny vines, knowing that Zak would come.

  He called to her softly, from overhead, using her name. Not Cam. Her real name. The sound stabbed at her, and she jammed a finger into her mouth, biting it to keep herself silent. Slithering down from the tree, Zak dropped lightly to the ground in front of her. When she tried to turn away, he moved with her, blocking the path. And he said her name again.

  This time she lashed out, aiming for his mouth, but he caught her fist and held it high in the air, watching her face.

  "I’m not going to cry," she said defiantly.

  Zak raised an eyebrow, and she realized that she was already crying. Pulling her hand free, she rubbed it angrily across her eyes.

  "He’s the one," Zak said.

  "He’s too new." Cam looked rebellious. "He doesn’t know how things operate."

  "You know he’s the one," Zak said relentlessly.

  Cam glanced away, avoiding his eyes. She did know. She had known for weeks. "What am I supposed to do?" she said.

  Zak didn’t answer. Not until she looked up and met his eyes. Then he said, "You ought to go with him."

  Cam’s heart jumped. "How can I go? There’s too much work to do. It’ll be winter soon." She scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand, getting rid of the rest of the tears. Thinking, I’m over it now. I can cope. I’m going to make the decision myself.

  If Zak had left her alone for a few minutes, that would have been true. But he went on looking at her. The moonlight caught his eyes and they gleamed suddenly, like a Siamese cat’s.

  "You have to go," he said. "I’m sorry, Cam, but it’s time." He batted her words back gravely. "It’ll be winter soon."

  Holding his gaze, Cam saw the cold come out to meet her, cruel as a clear January sky. She met his long, blue stare without blinking.

  "It has to come from you," he said. "And it has to be him. There’s no other way."

  And then he was gone, swinging himself up into the dark trees. Fo
r a second Cam saw his silhouette moving from branch to branch. Then it dissolved into shadows, leaving her standing, shaken and uncertain, on the ground.

  Slowly she walked back to the cavern, struggling to convince herself that he was mistaken. But the battle was already lost. She knew Zak was right.

  It was time.

  15

  ROBERT WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH HIS OWN VOICE echoing in his head. I’m still the same person. Even like this. I’m still me. And I’m not going to give in. I’m going to find a way of getting back to what I was.

  The words still sounded good. He had reached out and taken a grip on the slippery, impossible substance of his life. What lay ahead was frightening and unpredictable, but he was in control now.

  Sitting up, he peered around the cavern, somehow expecting it to look different, altered by the change inside his head. But it was the same as always. Bodies were curled up around the walls, making pools of shadow in the red firelight. There was the usual undertow of whispers and snores and tiny, restless movements. And the same thick smell of smoke.

  As soon as he moved, Cam noticed he was awake. She caught his eye and nodded toward the brazier.

  "I’m not—" Robert began.

  But there was no choice. Cam had already turned away to talk to Annet. Perdew was sliding down from the ledge, and Nate was beckoning Bando over to the woodpile. If Robert didn’t take over now, the fire would probably go out.

  Angrily, he went over to the brazier and heaved himself up the ramp.

  Bando had just woken up, too. He staggered straight to the woodpile, but he was still dazed and sleepy. When Robert called down for a log, Bando pulled at a piece that was jammed in tightly, near the bottom. As he tugged it out, the whole pile collapsed and wood rolled everywhere.

  "Why do you have to be so stupid?" Robert snapped. "Why don’t you stop acting like a baby and pull yourself together?" He didn’t care how loudly Bando bellowed back. He needed an excuse to yell at someone.