A Single Stone

by Meg McKinlay

  “No,” Jena said quickly. “It’s bigger than that. All of this … what’s been happening with the mamas. I think we have to tell people.”

  “And say what?” Luka scoffed. “No one will take you seriously if you show them some scribbled names and say you smelled something strange.”

  “I know,” Jena said grimly. “That’s why I’m going to get proof. The bottle, and the ledgers. I’ll talk to Mama Dietz … and maybe Thom’s mama too.”

  She felt lightheaded, a sudden rush of something tingling in her limbs. She put a hand on Thom’s shoulder. “We’ll explain later,” she said. “Just … don’t worry. We’ll make sure you’re all right.”

  She thought of Min’s trusting face. It was too late to help her, but this was something she could do. For her family. And for others too.

  She squatted alongside Thom, one hand still on his shoulder, the other tracking lightly along the ground for balance. The stones here were mostly flattened and weathered but there was a pile of fresh debris, the scattering of rubble Thom had dislodged on his way down.

  Amidst the scree, her fingers struck an odd-looking pebble. It was larger than the stones around it, about the size of a plump wickerberry. But it was the colour that set it apart. In the pile of dull grey, it seemed almost to glow, a pale, luminous blue.

  Mica?

  The colour was similar but this was nothing like the harvest. It was not a flat chip but a smooth rounded stone. And even more oddly, it had a hole in it. She felt it before she saw it, her fingers tripping across the slight indentation in the surface.

  She was about to pick it up when she hesitated. This wasn’t a roller or a crumbler, something the mountain had shed willingly; it was only here because of Thom, because of a boy who had hauled himself up the rock on a forbidden rope and kicked wildly at its side.

  By rights, she should return it; at the very least, leave it where it lay.

  But it was cool beneath her touch, irresistible. And it was just one stone, she told herself. What could it hurt, to move a single stone?

  She scooped it from the rubble and held it up to the moonlight, peering closely. What she had felt was not a hole, but a tunnel of sorts – a thin passage running right through the centre of the stone, end to end.

  This wasn’t just a stone. This was something that had been made – fashioned with skill and care.

  Luka’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

  “It was on the ground. I think it fell when Thom was coming down.”

  “From up there?”

  Jena stared at the spot where Thom had scraped against the side of the mountain. And as she did, her body went cold. It was the same place Min had stopped, where she had peered in at the rock before her.

  Thom’s words returned to Jena. To be where she was. To see what she saw.

  Perhaps it was this, rather than the overhang, that had given Min pause. That had startled her, making her fall.

  Luka reached out and plucked the stone from Jena’s fingers. He held it close to his face, turning it slowly.

  “Remember how I told you Berta had a pendant from the old times?” He dropped the stone back into her open hand. It rolled back and forth for a few seconds before coming to rest. “It looks like this.”

  “Like this? Are you sure?”

  “It’s not exactly the same. Hers isn’t as smooth. But it’s definitely mica. It has a hole like this too.”

  Jena couldn’t resist the urge to pick it up again. Knowing what it was made it feel different; it seemed heavier in her hand, more substantial.

  “Do you really think it’s a pendant? It’s so small.” She held it between her thumb and forefinger, trying to imagine it strung around someone’s neck.

  “Maybe for a child?” Luka suggested.

  “And it’s been up there all this time, since …?” The image was before her suddenly, of the earth heaving, swallowing everything in its path – houses splintered like matchsticks, people tossed like rag dolls, a blue stone snapped from a flimsy string and lodged in the mountain’s flank. Lying there all these years, waiting to catch someone’s eye.

  Her hand closed over it, gripping it tightly. In the curve of her palm it felt smooth and solid – something to hold on to, to never let go.

  Lia is back there at first light. It is dark in the mountain but some feeble rays filter through the narrow crack in the rock.

  She did not want to come back here, to remember. That face, those eyes.

  It is not my fault, she reminds herself. But when she closes her eyes, the girl is all she can see.

  She did not want to come back here but she has to find it.

  She cannot believe she has lost this precious thing. Cannot believe she didn’t notice until she was out of the mountain, almost home. That heart-sinking moment when she looked down and saw her wrist bare.

  It is not the stone itself. They are cheap at the markets and if you have the will, you might even fashion your own. The bluestone is easy enough to find; it lies in rich, open veins right there on the ground, as if the earth were making them a gift of it.

  She could do that. She could pick some up, strike it and wait for it to burn itself out. Father would shape it for her, rolling it around a thin sliver of wood to make the hole through the centre. And this time she would be careful; she would choose a stronger piece of string, make sure it did not fray or snap.

  That must be what has happened, for it could not have slipped off. She had tied it firmly so it fit her wrist exactly. So it would never let her go.

  Because it was special. Because it was her first present, on her first birthday. And this is why it cannot be replaced. This is why a new one will never be the same.

  It was not really her birthday, of course; no one knew when that was. Father used to call it her “found outside the mountain” day, to joke that the earth had made them a gift of her too.

  It was a gift he and Mother accepted. They picked her up, and took her in. Asked up and down the coastline, sent word around the island. And when no answer came back, they shook their heads in disbelief. What kind of person would give up such a lovely girl-child? There were people who did such things, they supposed.

  But they would love her. She would have a life with them. And so they made that day her birthday. Near enough, they said. That’s how tiny she was, how frail.

  They were not sure she would survive. But she grew stronger quickly and when a year had passed and she was so much a part of their family they could hardly remember a time without her, they marked the day – with a plump goat on the spit and a birthday doll. And with a smooth blue stone on a slender string.

  That precious thing she has kept close all this time.

  Lia holds her breath as she scans the tunnel. And then her eyes fall upon it.

  The string is lying on the ground beneath the crack in the rock. It is no longer a circle but a line, its two ends severed cleanly.

  Her hand, she thinks, the way it scraped across the stone.

  She swings her lamp along the ground. She does so more slowly than she needs because she doesn’t want to reach the end of the tunnel. The end that will tell her what she already knows.

  The stone is not in here. It is outside and that means it could be anywhere. On the ground somewhere or on the side of the mountain. It hardly matters. People say the island is small but for a girl seeking a single stone, it is impossibly large.

  It is gone, she tells herself. She picks up the string and closes her fingers around it. It is so thin, so light, she might be holding nothing at all.

  NINETEEN

  In the days that followed, the stone sat deep in Jena’s pocket. Her fingers returned to it constantly, curling around it as if seeking comfort … or something else.

  What did it mean that this had tumbled loose from the mountain?

  There was no message in it, she told herself, at least not the way the Mothers would have thought. But still, there might be some meaning. Perhaps these were not, aft
er all, the same thing.

  Time passed slowly, seeming to thicken about her. Snow had begun to settle high upon the mountain and with it the advent of winter pressed close upon the village. Clouds hung sluggish in the sky above; it was as if the weather were holding its breath.

  Every day, she led the line into the mountain, leaving the village at dawn. The first few mornings, Kari woke too. She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and wished Jena well. Kari was busying herself at the Centre, helping Irina prepare for the winter. She was there until late at night, feeding and measuring and laying in stores.

  She must be tired, Jena thought. For soon enough Kari stopped waking; when Jena rose she stirred only slightly before rolling over and sinking back to sleep.

  A distance had grown between them and Jena longed to close it. There were times when she was on the verge of telling Kari what she had discovered, but she held herself back. She knew Kari was still uneasy about what had happened that day at the Centre; her eyes lingered often on Jena, a hint of worry at their edges.

  Before she told anyone else, she must have proof. But while it was all she could think of, there was no chance to return to the room where the ledgers were kept. With the season drawing to a close, the Stores had become a hub of activity which continued late into the night. Mothers bustled in and out shovelling grain and beans into bags; others leafed through pages of names and numbers, brows furrowed. There was no telling when they would be there, when it might be safe to trip the lock and try again.

  A week after she had talked Thom down from the rock, Jena led the line back from the mountain. Not from the harvest, for there had been none. There had not been a harvest since the new girls had started, since they had begun going in without ropes. The Mothers were uneasy, and the villagers too. Until the bags were distributed at Wintering no one would know exactly how much their household would receive, but a week without a harvest was a long time. When Jena laid their empty pouches before Berta, the Mother would seek an explanation. Perhaps they had not yet done enough? Perhaps there was more they must do for the mountain to return them to its favour?

  They were halfway across the Square when the noise began. Someone was yelling – a single voice at first and then others joining in. She heard footsteps scuffling and doors opening as people emerged from the buildings around her, drawn by the commotion.

  A figure appeared around the corner, coming from the direction of the fields. It was a young boy, his face alight with glee. “I caught it!” he panted. “It was right there. I mean, not right there. I had to chase it. It tried to get away but I caught it.”

  He had slung the bird across his chest, in the way of a hunter. A boy might watch a hunter, Jena supposed dully, as a girl might watch the line. The bird’s neck hung limp against him. “I twisted it,” he said proudly. “See?” He pulled the rope from his shoulder and held the bird out, an offering to no one in particular, or to everyone.

  As he did, Jena saw the edge of one wing, slightly folded.

  The bird had felt no pain, she told herself. But the thought was not enough to keep her knees from shaking. She stared at her hands as if some echo of the creature might linger there.

  The boy moved past and with him the crowd that had gathered. The bird’s head lolled from his hands, seeming to fix Jena with one unblinking eye.

  “It mustn’t have been strong enough.”

  Luka’s voice was soft behind her. She didn’t reply. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, her voice a shifty thing, unreliable. She couldn’t trust it not to crack.

  “We tried,” Luka said. “It was just too weak.”

  He was right but it was no consolation at all.

  That evening, she hurried to the Stores, her key clutched in one hand. Her heart pounded, a caged thing beating wildly in her chest.

  It was not yet late and there were still people about. Behind the Stores men added bundles of firewood to the pile and nearby a group of women sat shelling peas. From the open doors of the bakery the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted, tantalising.

  There were no Mothers about though. They would be gathered around the long table in Berta’s kitchen, waiting for Jena. This afternoon, Jena had asked to meet with them. She said it was as Berta suspected – if they were to find favour with the mountain once more, there were things they must discuss.

  She did not know how long she would have, but prayed it would be enough.

  She slid her key into the lock and shouldered her way into the front room, taking care to lock the door behind her. Moments later, she was in the musty room down the hall. The bottle was where she had left it; she retrieved it from the shelf and tucked it into her satchel. But the ledgers were not so simple. Although a few still stood on the shelf, others lay scattered about the room. With Wintering drawing near, they must be in more regular use and there was no easy way to identify the volume she had found her name in earlier.

  She scanned the covers, hoping something familiar might strike her. If only she had thought to mark that particular ledger. She could hardly take them all; while one might slot unobtrusively under her arm, half a dozen clutched to her chest would be sure to attract attention. She flicked through the coarse pages of the closest book. This was a record of remedies rather than people, a recipe book of sorts. She set it aside and turned to the next. This one had names but the pages were not organised into columns as the other ledger had been. She clapped it shut. There was a volume on the other side of the table and she leaned across to retrieve it. She was sliding it over when a sudden sound made her freeze. A key was turning in the front door.

  There was a creaking noise as the door swung open down the hall. Jena ducked low to the floor by the corner of the table. It was too late to make a run for the front room, too late to pretend she was here for the tunnelling gear. She could only hope that whoever it was headed for the mica room rather than this one.

  But the footsteps stopped just outside. The door rattled softly as a key slipped into the lock, then swung open.

  Her thoughts raced. Perhaps she might say she was seeking a tonic – something for Mama Dietz or Ailin. She had been in the front room, had seen the door ajar and thought someone was still here.

  But then she ought not to be cowering here, hiding. She ought to stand, to say, Oh! I was looking for you.

  As the cloaked figure entered the room, she pulled herself upright. “Oh! I …”

  The figure stumbled backwards. The hood was drawn up, the face beneath it wide-eyed.

  “Luka?”

  He pushed the hood back and sagged against the table. “You gave me a fright.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He glanced at the ledgers. “The same as you, I guess. Berta said the Mothers were meeting so I knew there’d be no one here.” Berta’s keys dangled from his fingers. “I thought I could put it back before the meeting finished. Aren’t you meant to be there?”

  “Are they waiting for me?”

  “They were talking. I heard your name mentioned though.”

  “I should hurry.” Jena turned back to the ledger.

  “I can take it. You go. I’ll hide it somewhere safe for later.”

  He reached for the book but Jena motioned to him to wait. “I have to find the right one.”

  This one had columns at least. And the notations looked similar. She turned the pages hastily, searching for Dietz. This might be the only chance she had before winter; she wanted to be certain.

  Luka pulled some other ledgers from the shelf. “Do you want these?”

  “I’m not sure. Wait a minute.”

  Dietz had been near the start but she couldn’t see it now. Maybe this wasn’t the right book after all. There might be several like this, each with different families.

  She jabbed a finger at Luka. “Pass that one.”

  As he handed her the book, something crossed his face. “That stone you found … do you have it?”

  One hand went to her hip. “It’s in my pocket.”

/>   “Can I see it again?”

  She drew it out and set it alongside the ledgers, her fingers lingering briefly upon the cool surface.

  Luka took it to the window. He held it aloft, trying to catch what little light filtered through from outside. “When I was getting the keys I had another look at Berta’s pendant. Remember I said hers wasn’t as smooth? It’s all chipped and worn, like it’s older.”

  Jena continued flicking through the ledger. “I guess it is then.”

  “They’re both old. And this one’s been in the mountain, so wouldn’t it be worse?” Luka closed one eye and squinted at the stone. “But it’s different too. That’s what I can’t work out. This hole through the centre is smooth but Berta’s is all bumpy on the inside, and there are cracks, like it broke when they were making it.”

  Jena nodded distractedly. “You should get away from the window.”

  He came back to the centre of the room and placed the stone on the table before her. “Look how shiny it is. This isn’t from the old times. It’s newer.”

  “Don’t be foolish. No one would waste mica like that now.”

  “I know, but–”

  “We can talk about it later.” A note of impatience crept into Jena’s voice. She scooped the stone back into her pocket and gestured towards the ledgers. “I have to do this, before I’m missed.”

  But all of a sudden it was too late for that. Because the dim light had moved, throwing a dark shadow across the table. Someone was standing in the doorway, someone who had come in softly without making a sound.

  Thom, she thought, hope flaring briefly. Perhaps Luka had told him he was coming. Perhaps …

  No.

  There was no hood masking this face. The Mothers had no reason to hide themselves.

  TWENTY

  “To think my own grandson would take my keys! And that cloak. It hardly becomes you.” Berta sighed heavily. “I feared this might happen. What happened to the girl was difficult, but you cannot take things into your own hands. They will have enough if they are careful. If the rock allows it.”