A Single Stone (14 page)

Jena cannot answer. Though there is no girl who doesn’t long for this sometimes, it is not better. It is easier; it is more comfortable. But that is not the same thing. A girl unwrapped will never make the line.

When Papa leaves, he takes the wrappings with him and so she pulls her blankets tight about her. This will do for now and soon enough it will not matter because she will be at the Centre. The Mothers said she is to spend the winter there with the little ones. Five is too old for that but she doesn’t mind. She will be with her sister and when spring comes the old Papa will be back. All he needs is time, the Mothers said, and winter will give him that.

The baby will grow over the winter. Already she is changing. When she is unwrapped, she reaches for things – a hand, a face. When she is wrapped, she tilts herself from side to side, as if she were trying to roll, to tip herself over.

Seeing this makes Jena feel strange, puts an itching in her limbs. And when the baby’s forehead knots in frustration, she feels her own do the same.

When the baby cries, Jena sits at her bedside.
I know,
she croons.
I know.

It is hard when you are little and cannot understand. When you do not know about the mountain and the line.

One day you will see,
she thinks.
One day I will tell you.

But for now, she strokes and soothes and soon enough her sister falls asleep, and is still.

At home, there is no one to sooth
e Jena. She lies in bed awake.

Down the darkened hall a door clicks. Footsteps pad nearby and voices drift across the night.

It is something she once loved – the sleepy sound of Mama and Papa, their soft voices murmuring while her eyelids became heavier, sinking towards sleep.

But there is no Mama now and Papa’s voice is different. It sounds cracked, as if someone has taken an axe and split it open.

Trust them?

Another voice, gentler.
Darius, we must.

Her door is closed but light leaks in underneath. It is late. She knows this because the moon is high overhead and she knows this because slivers of white light slice through the roof timbers, making ghostly fingers upon the walls and the floor.

Three stripes of moonbeam on her bed means three too-large gaps. Means corridors through which winter might reach its icy fingers.

She told Papa about them last week but he said
, Hush, child. Not now.
And looked past her, like he was seeking a point far in the distance.

It is too bright to sleep. The moon is on her face, pale and cold.

The voices down the hall rise and fall. It is late for voices, especially this loud. Even the soft voice is louder now and she knows who it is. It is Uncle Dietz and this is lucky because he is good with roofs, like Papa.

She pushes back the blankets and swings her legs out onto the coarse matting.

She will tell Uncle Dietz about the moonlight, about the cold. He will listen and say she is good and helpful. And tomorrow he will put on his belt and climb up with his hammer and his nails and he will fix things.

At the end of the hall, she hesitates. She will wait her turn because that is what big girls do when other people are talking and that is what is happening now. The kitchen door is ajar and words upon words are spilling from it, fast and blurry.

I can’t, Karl. Could you?

You have to. What else can we–

Something. I don’t know. There has to be something.

It is the way, Darius. You know that. It–

How can it be the way?
Papa is shouting now.
Look at what it does to them! My Clara. And Jena … it’s all she wants. She will follow her mama and … I can’t let them, Karl. I–

And then there is a sound – something falling, shattering?

She pushes the door open. The light is suddenly bright and Papa is there in the middle of it. His fist is on the table. On the floor, pieces of a bowl lie broken, sharp-edged. Uncle Dietz is half-sitting, half-standing.

I’m sorry, Darius. I just meant–

I know what you meant.

There is something brittle in Papa’s voice. The way his whole body seems clenched, the something-wild in his eyes. It is almost not Papa.

Everything here is wrong. Papa and Uncle Dietz stare at each other, wary, as if the space between them is too great to cross.

Papa?
Jena steps into the kitchen. When he sees her, something changes in Papa’s face.

Jena? What are you doing up?

I can’t sleep.

We woke you,
Uncle Dietz says.
I’m sorry.
Then he leans down, frowning.
Why aren’t you wrapped?
He turns to Papa.
Darius?

Jena tugs his sleeve, turns him back to her.
I’m off tonight. The Mothers said.

But Kari …

She’s four,
Jena says.
I’m five.

Of course.
Uncle Dietz scoops her up.
Come on, then. Let me put you back.

She is flopped over his shoulder and they are halfway down the hall. Papa stands in the open door of the kitchen, one hand raised in a funny little wave.

As they step through her doorway, Jena raises her own in reply.

She is five. And that is old enough to know that some things are secrets.

He has grown strange to her. But he is Papa. So she will tell no one.

“That one?” Mother Anya pointed at a dark shape easing its way through the slats of the maze.

She was flanked by several other Mothers. Their shrewd gazes darted back and forth as a series of girls took their turn in the narrow passages. Just a few remained inside now; a handful lurked nearby, their faces downcast.

After letting the bird go, Jena and Luka had separated in the forest. While he headed for the Square, she skirted the base of the mountain to the back of the village, thinking to slip home quietly. But as she rounded the last corner, she realised her mistake. A crowd had gathered at the maze. It was crawling with girls, their eyes shining. In the long shadow of the rock, their families, fresh from a funeral, stood willing them on.

When they saw Jena, they called to her.
My daughter … you must see her. My girl … she was forty-eight, forty-nine.

And then the Mothers beckoned her over. To watch, to help choose.

The girl Anya had indicated reached an open part of the maze. An arm protruded first, followed by a fair head. She might have been nine, Jena thought, though it was always hard to tell.

Berta turned to Jena. “What do you think?”

Jena could not bring herself to reply. Although she had done this before, today was different. Standing here, she felt like a hunter sizing up a bird or a rabbit. Which to take, and which to leave for another day?

Someone had looked at her in this way once. How eager she had been. Just like these girls. And Kari too. Both of them waiting, hoping for their chance.

“Child?”

Jena bobbed her head in assent. The Mothers would make their choice in any case. Soon enough there would be a new girl behind her, the line replenished.

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.