by Meg McKinlay
Anya motioned to the girl to exit and she pulled herself clear, her face split in a broad grin.
“And the other?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe the tall one?”
The Mothers muttered among themselves. Perhaps, Jena thought, they had not yet chosen but were narrowing it to two. Perhaps there would be some final test.
But the fair girl had reached them now and Berta bent down, congratulating her. “Come to the Stores later. We’ll get you some gear.”
The girl spoke, suddenly bold. “My friend Marla … we always train together. She had trouble before but she’s really good. She–”
“Child.” Berta silenced her with a word. “It is not for you to speak.”
The girl flushed, chastened.
“I don’t understand,” Jena said. “Are we to take another?”
It couldn’t be. The thought of going in with eight was absurd. Anya stared at Jena, an odd expression on her face. “Has no one told you?”
“Told me what? I don’t–”
It was Berta who replied, her voice gentle. “Kari is thickening, child.” Her forehead creased into deep ridges. “I thought she would have spoken with you.”
The air about Jena felt suddenly too heavy to breathe. “No. She can’t be. She …” Disbelief gave ground suddenly to something else. Kari’s face swum before her eyes, white in the lamplight. I’m stuck. I’m sorry.
Berta sighed. “We all walk a different path. It is the mountain who decides.”
“In this, as in all things.” The words rolled unbidden from Jena’s tongue.
“Just so, child.” The Mother’s response faded behind her as Jena turned on her heel and hurried away.
Kari was perched on a stool beside Ailin’s crib. When she saw the look on Jena’s face, she lowered her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was something in her own voice Jena couldn’t quite recognise. Was it anger she felt? Disappointment, perhaps. Sadness.
But there was something stronger too. A feeling that buzzed beneath the surface of her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Kari said simply. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to. I thought maybe I could stop it.”
“How long have you known?”
“A few months, maybe. At first I thought my wrappings had shrunk.” She pinched at the skin around her waist. “I thought if I was more careful …”
Jena cast her mind back. Kari skipping breakfast. I’m going to help with Ailin. I’ll eat later. Pushing her dinner plate across the table. I’m all right. I ate earlier.
Kari leaned over the crib. “Mama noticed too. She said she thickened at my age so she’s been keeping an eye on me. She hoped I might have longer. But …” She shrugged. “I went to Mother Marla, to see if–”
“Kari, no,” Jena gasped. Like Dyan, Mother Marla was a healer. But unlike Dyan, she was responsible for more than tonics and remedies. If you broke a bone, she would set if for you. And if a bone needed breaking; if a girl needed adjusting, then …
“You don’t have to worry. She said it’s too late.” Kari poked a hand through the wooden slats of the crib. “It’s all right, Jena. I don’t mind. You were always better than me anyway.” Her voice was flat but her face seemed to lighten while she spoke, as if doing so unburdened her. “Just like our mamas. We all walk a different path. And we’ll be okay. We have your allocation and Ailin coming through. And I’ll still get some.” She gave a shy smile. “Berta said I need to look after myself, stay strong. Maybe one day I’ll get to be a mama too.” Her fingers trailed lightly across Ailin’s cheek. “Meanwhile, I have to find something else to do. Renae’s mama said she could use someone at the bakery. Maybe I’ll learn to make bread or something.”
She let out a soft peal of laughter. Her eyes met Jena’s, inviting her to join in. Instead, Jena gripped the edge of the crib, her mind reeling.
What Kari said was true. Soon enough it would be her turn to birth a daughter. To swallow a tonic – for strength or healing or who knows what?
Just like our mamas.
The words sent a chill through Jena. What else would they repeat?
Mama. Papa. Min.
Observe the loss, fly on.
Ailin was waking. Tiny undulations rippled her wrappings as she stretched beneath them. She tensed her shoulders, straining outwards, her face reddening with the effort.
Kari wrinkled her nose. “She’ll need changing.”
Jena reached down into the crib.
“Not yet. She’ll feed first.”
“It’s not that.” Jena’s fingers probed for the end of the wrappings.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s too tight. I need to–”
“Stop it!” Kari’s whisper echoed in the stillness of the room. She put a hand on Jena’s arm. “You can’t.”
Ailin began to cry and Irina’s dark head appeared at the door. “Awake already?”
Jena slumped back.
“I’ll get her milk,” Irina called.
Kari exhaled heavily but did not relax her grip. “Jena, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I …” Jena had spoken without a sense of what would come next and now it was as if the path she had begun to lay had petered out before her.
“That … it’s what your papa used to say. It’s what he used to do.” There was a tremor in Kari’s voice.
“I know. I remember.”
“No, you don’t. I only know because Papa said so.” Kari hesitated. “He and Mama … they talk sometimes.”
“I do remember.” All at once Jena felt that she might look up and see Papa – charging in arguing, his strong arms reaching. Before, memories had been distant things that had to be dredged up. Now they seemed to swim just below the surface of her thoughts, ready to break through at any moment. “I remember what it was like, Kari. All those hours. Didn’t we–”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Kari said quickly. “It’s hard at first; everyone knows that.”
“Do you ever think,” Jena said tentatively, “that things could be different? That maybe there’s another way?”
“Jena, no.” Colour drained from Kari’s face. “Your papa … it was because of your mama. You know that. Papa said he just got too sad.” Her hold on Jena’s arm relaxed; her fingers became caresses, curling softly on Jena’s skin. “I can’t imagine what that was like. What it is like. If I lost Mama, I … we’re just so glad you turned back. That we didn’t lose you too.” Kari reached for Ailin and picked her up, clasping her close against her chest.
“We’re family,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. And I’m sorry we can’t tunnel together any more. I’m going to miss it. A lot. I can’t really think about it too much. It’s so strange.” She sighed. “But that’s the only thing that’s changing. Everything else is going to stay just the way it is.”
Kari could not have known Jena found no comfort in her words.
Ailin began to fuss. Her mouth gummed at Kari’s chest, bobbing up and down like a bird pecking at the ground. Jena glanced at the downy head then turned away. She could not bear to think of those fragile plates.
Instead, she called up the image of the bird she and Luka had found. Had saved. Where would it be now? Perched high on the mountain, perhaps, gazing down on them all. Or curled in a nest somewhere, sheltered and still.
But when she closed her eyes all she could see was its upwards spiral as it beat higher and higher, disappearing finally through that impossible hole.
Jena is five. Yes, five. Papa still hasn’t remembered but she doesn’t mind because something exciting is happening, something that has shaken the numbers clear out of her head.
There is no bird but Papa has packed some dried fruit and bread. Supplies, he calls it, for the journey.
There is no birthday doll but there is something more wonderful. There is a baby – a tiny sister cradled in Papa’s arms and perhaps later, if Jena is good and quiet, he will let her hold her.
When he does, she will hold her close. She will fold her arms and legs tight against her body, because that is what babies like. It is what babies need and Jena doesn’t know why Papa has unwrapped her. As they walk, her dangling limbs flail and her cries ring out across the darkening night.
But Papa won’t listen when Jena tries to tell him. He just says, Shh, shh! – to her and to the baby both – and quickens his pace.
He seems different though, and that is good. He is gentle again, his eyes almost smiling.
Jena was asleep when he came. There were no voices tonight and no moonbeams. Uncle Dietz has fixed the gaps. Even though Jena is five he would not let her come on the roof. It was too dangerous, he said, for her special bones. But he let her choose the wood and pass him the hammer.
When he had finished, he ruffled her hair and said she was an excellent helper. And then he lowered his face to hers and said, Be patient with your papa. It is hard for him. And for you too, I know.
Jena has been patient and now, tonight, it is like old Papa is back. His voice was soft when he called her, when he shook her shoulder gently, saying, Wake up, Jena. It’s time to go. As they hurry through the empty streets, his steps are light.
They do not pass through the Square but keep to the edge of the village, skirting the rocky paths behind the houses at the very back. And when they reach the long street that leads out towards the fields and the forest, Jena wonders why they have come this way at all. The other is so much faster. It is the way they always go.
This is a journey, but it is not one she understands.
Something wicked is happening and something wonderful. They are the same thing, somehow, and that makes no sense. She cannot get any of it straight in her mind.
She is five. She repeats it with every footstep. Five, five, five.
Is it old enough, she wonders as they cross the fields and enter the inky thicket of forest, to ask Papa what he is doing, where they are going? To say, Wait, Papa, stop.
It is not. And so she doesn’t.
There is nothing to do but follow.
And so she does.
EIGHTEEN
Jena lay awake in the darkness. Nearby, Kari’s breathing rose and fell, making its own steady rhythm.
For a time, they had been awake together but silent. It was as if something were balanced between them, waiting for one of them to pluck it. Eventually, Jena heard Kari roll over, but whether it was towards her or away, she couldn’t have said.
At dinner, Mama Dietz had slipped Kari an extra helping of stew. She did it quietly but Jena noticed all the same. Kari glanced quickly at Jena, something new in her eyes.
Now, Jena’s gaze lingered on the dark shape in the other bed. Although Kari was right there, it felt like she had left, had gone on ahead to a place where Jena couldn’t follow.
She rolled towards the wall, pulling the blankets tightly about her. And then came a sound. It was a kind of tapping – soft at first but then louder, insistent. And with it a voice, low and urgent.
“Jena!”
She sat up and peered out the window.
“Get up! I need you to come outside.”
“Shh!” Jena glanced across at Kari. She swung her feet onto the floor then padded out into the hall, pulling the door closed gently behind her.
Luka had come around to the front door. He jiggled on the balls of his feet, his face pale.
“What is it?” Jena asked. “I–”
Luka was panting, out of breath. Instead of replying, he raised a hand and pointed – across the rooftops and out at the forest. Jena squinted, then stepped outside to stand alongside him.
The air around them was cold, the night crisp and sharp-edged. The village was sunk in darkness, every light long extinguished. Above, the night sky was seeded with stars.
It was peaceful. Soothing, almost. And then she saw what Luka was pointing at. Above the tree line on the far side of the forest, a figure was silhouetted against the rock in a pale wash of moonlight. From here, he appeared to be suspended in midair, but Jena knew what anchored him to the mountain’s side.
The rope, left to hang where she had fixed it – as a reminder, as a warning.
A slight figure making its way slowly upwards.
“Thom?” Jena’s hand flew to her mouth. Her fingers fluttered, then curled into a fist. She turned back to Luka. “What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was going to the graveyard. I went after him to see if he was okay, but then …” He waved wildly at the mountain. “He won’t listen to me. You have to come.”
“Thom, stop!”
Jena could not keep pace with Luka and he was out of sight when she heard him call. By the time she broke clear of the trees, he was at the foot of the rope. Thom had almost reached the top; another few feet would put him at the opening.
“You have to come down.” Luka’s voice was quieter this time but still loud enough to carry to where Thom hung, his feet planted flat on the rock.
There was no reply but Jena saw Thom’s shoulders slump. He began to sob, great gulping cries that echoed off the stone.
“Thom?” she called tentatively. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but–”
“It’s my fault.” Thom’s body shook, making the rope swing beneath him. Luka reached out and grabbed the end. That false security, irresistible.
“Thom, no,” Jena said. “It–”
“The other day … she was so angry. I told her I was sorry, that I didn’t mean anything by it. But she said it didn’t matter. She said if judgement comes–”
… it will be from the mountain.
The words were a roar in Jena’s mind.
It was a few short days ago, but felt like an age. The girl who had said that was someone she no longer recognised.
As she thought back to seeing Thom at the Source, something came to her with a confused kind of clarity. A boy must not be in the mountain. As children, it was one of the first things they learned. When the Seven crawled from the rock, the message had been clear.
As clear as the message Min’s death had brought them?
Generations from now, might their own great-grandchildren learn at their mamas’ knees about the danger of ropes, tell stories of how the mountain had rumbled that day?
She called up across the rock, fighting to keep her voice steady. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Thom.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know, Thom. She just … why don’t you come down? We can talk properly here and …”
You won’t be able to fall. Her sentence went unfinished but the thought echoed loudly. Standing here, she couldn’t help but recall that tiny figure tumbling towards her.
But it was all right, for Thom was descending. He came slowly at first and then picked up speed as he fell into a kind of rhythm. For all his slightness, he was strong, and there was a sureness to his movements as he edged down the rope, hand over hand.
When he reached the overhang, he hesitated before manoeuvring awkwardly past. The rope swung a little and his feet scrabbled against the stone as he tried to stabilise himself. Jena ducked as debris showered around her.
A short while later, Thom was beside them, his feet reaching for ground. Luka clapped an arm around his shoulder, his other hand maintaining a firm grip on the rope.
Jena’s instinct was to head for the trees, to get clear of the rock and the rope and this place, but Luka was already leading Thom beneath the curve of the mountain, motioning to him to sit.
“I’m sorry.” Thom slumped to the ground. “I just wanted to be where she was. To see what she saw when she … it’s dumb.” He reddened, sheepish. “I wasn’t going inside. I swear.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jena said.
She wasn’t sure herself what her words meant. That it didn’t matter because Thom hadn’t gone inside, or that it wouldn’t have even if he did? Her own thoughts had become slippery things, ungraspable. It felt like she was splitting op
en, her world upending itself from the inside out.
Luka crouched next to Thom. The ground here was scattered with loose stones, as if the mountain were crumbling at its base. Luka’s feet scuffed through them, leaving lines like freshly swept paths. “You should come back. Get some rest.”
Thom ran the back of his hand across his nose, snuffling. “I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight for missing her. And for worrying. About winter. About Mama.”
“It will be hard for her,” Jena agreed. “For all of you. When my mama died, I–”
“I don’t mean that,” Thom said. “I heard her and Papa talking. She’s going to try again.”
“What do you mean? Try for what?”
“For a daughter.” Luka spoke slowly as if something were in the process of clicking into place. “Berta said something to Dyan before. I didn’t realise they were talking about your mama.”
“But Min said your mama was broken. How can she?”
Thom looked stricken. “She said it’s our only chance. And the Mothers said if she was careful … that they could help her. That there might be a way.”
“Thom, no.” Something clenched inside Jena. The thought of brittle bones pushing and pushing. The force of a birthing. And even if she survived, even if she birthed a daughter, it would be next season. There was still this winter.
“They said they’ll give us extra now. Two bags, I think. And Mama said …” Thom’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She said even if things go wrong, at least we’ll get through the winter. Ernst and Jann can take wives next season. They’ll have their own allocations then, their own families to think of. It’ll just be the five of us, or four, if Mama …”
Something fierce rose in Jena. It was not anger exactly but a kind of conviction. “She can’t birth again, Thom. You have to tell her not to.”
“She won’t listen to me. She doesn’t even know I heard. And it’s Papa too. They decided, together. They’re doing it for us. They think it’s the only way.”
“It is,” Luka said. “Unless we find another one.” He turned towards Jena, his eyes blazing. “You have to go inside. I’ll cover for you. I’ll–”