A Single Stone (6 page)

There was an odd movement, then, the baby’s scalp seeming to pulse beneath Jena’s hand. As her fingers probed gently, she remembered. There were thin plates here that took time to knit together. Until the bone sealed itself there was this fragile border between inside and out. And so you could feel it –
the heart beating in the head
. Was it her own papa who had told her this, or Papa Dietz? She had been so young when Kari’s family took her in she sometimes had trouble separating memories of one from the other. But she did know this: that it would take only the slightest pressure to rupture it. It made her queasy to think on it.

She looked past Kari, through the window on the far side of the room. Light slanted through the open shutters and played across the nearby beds. Outside, people hurried past, heading for the centre of the village. A thin line of smoke rose above the Square and it was towards this that they flocked, but there was no threat this time, no cause for alarm.

Kari inclined her head in the direction of Jena’s gaze. “Do you think they’ll roast a bird?”

“Maybe two.” It had been a day. It was the least the village could do to welcome such a daughter.

The baby began to fret. The bottle was empty. Kari dropped the spoon inside, where it came to rest with a hollow clatter. Then she smiled down at her sister, her arms tightening around her.

“All gone,” she cooed softly. “No more.”

“Another bowl?”

Father knows what Lia’s answer will be. He ladles more stew from the pot without waiting for a reply.

Lia breathes in the steam that rises from the glistening surface. The stew is mouth-watering – rich and full of flavour. Ripe tomatoes have coloured it a deep red and Father has added juicy chunks of orange and yellow peppers. Lia has seen where these grow; there is a farm on the other side of Shorehaven she passes on her way to the mountain. Brightly coloured vegetables stand in seemingly endless rows, their skins ablaze in the sun, which rises from the ocean and drenches the plains until late into the afternoon.

“I’ll take some too.” Mother holds out her bowl. “That was a good plump bird.”

“I set the snare again. Maybe I’ll get another tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Father raises his eyebrows.

“Maybe.” Lia blows onto her stew then lifts a thick spoonful to her mouth. Though there is no shortage of landbirds on the island, they usually take longer to trap. But lately she has been setting her snare by the mountain, where people seldom go. Perhaps it is that the birds there are less wily, more trusting. Perhaps it is simply that there are more of them.

Father says that one day he will teach Lia how to loose an arrow, to fell a skybird, but she is not sure she wants to learn. There is something about seeing them soar that makes her heart lift; it feels wrong to bring them down.

She takes a mouthful of stew, chews slowly. The bird is tender on her tongue, the juices thick and satisfying. She sets her spoon down, slipping it into the broth like a fisherman drops a line into the ocean.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

“Three!” Calla clapped her hands. “Can you believe it?”

She was standing by Jena at the long table where food for the feast had been laid out. Large platters were piled high with spiced yams and vegetables and fresh bread from the bakery. There was baked fish and a heavy pot of rabbit stew. And directly in front of them sat three plump birds, fresh off the spit. As they watched, one of the Mothers took up a knife and began to carve.

Calla jiggled on the balls of her feet, her gaze fixed eagerly on the meat.

“Just a little,” Jena cautioned. “We’ll go inside again soon.”

“I know that.” Calla turned to Jena. “Still … it’s good, isn’t it?”

Though most would not get to taste them, just seeing the birds made something in you sing. Since their ancestors, accustomed to abundance, had hunted out the landbirds generations ago, skybird had become their most precious meat. A skybird was not like a fish or a rabbit. You could not just set a snare or cast a net and wait for the hapless creature to stumble in. A skybird called for a keen eye, an unerring arrow. To have one at a feast was luxury enough; for there to be three spoke of the value the Mothers placed on this tiny new life.

Jena watched as the soft slices of flesh fell away from the bone. When she was little she had felt sorry for the birds – one minute wheeling high above, the next plunging groundwards. When one fell from the sky the others would scatter for a moment, circling, and then resume formation, taking up the empty space as if it had never been there.

There was something sad about that thought, but natural too. A thing gone was a thing gone. There was nothing those that remained could do but observe the loss, fly on.

“Forty and forty,” Calla breathed. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Oh, you should see her. She–”

“Jena? Do you want mash?” The familiar voice made Jena start. Petria stood on the other side of the table, a serving spoon in one hand, a plate in the other. Until last week, she had been one of them, tucked into the centre of the line. Now, it was as if she had always been elsewhere. Her hair hung loose about her face; she scooped yam mash from the pot with an easy confidence.

Before Jena could reply, the Mother who had been carving began piling slices of meat onto the plate. “Of course she’ll take some, child. And plenty of it.”

Calla raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were going inside soon.”

Jena flushed. “It’s not for me. It’s–”

“I know,” Calla said. “I’m teasing.”

The others were back at the house. Though everyone loved a feast, Mama Dietz was too tired to come out. Kari was keeping her company while Papa Dietz made soup. With the food Jena brought back, they would have their own feast, just the four of them.

Once Calla had her plate, Jena turned from the table and began making her way through the crowd of people that thronged nearby.

“Will you sit for a while?” Calla gestured at the fire pit in the centre of the Square. Low benches ringed its perimeter; later, people would gather there with their meals, talking and celebrating deep into the night. The rough flagstones nearby were burnished by the firelight, glowing with a warmth that made them seem almost alive. Orange fingers of flame reached skywards; some spiralled into smoke while others curled back upon themselves, collapsing into embers.

The sight sent Jena’s hand instinctively to her chest, but then she relaxed. The mica was well away, safe in the Stores. It was another irony of life in the valley that the substance they relied on for warmth could not be exposed to fire; it must be struck but never lit. Set alight, mica would burn itself out rapidly, uselessly. A single stray spark could see the harvest wasted.

“Jena?”

She shook her head. “They’ll be waiting at home.”

Calla glanced at Jena’s plate and then back to the table. “It’s so strange seeing Petria. I can’t believe she’s thickening. She looks the same to me.”

“You can’t always tell. The Mothers wouldn’t pull her without reason.”

“Of course.” Calla paused. “She said she might learn to mill grain. Can you imagine?”

Jena couldn’t imagine anything but the tunnels, though she supposed she must eventually. No matter how careful you were, you could not keep nature at bay forever. The thickening would come to all of them one day and while for some it was hardly noticeable, even a small change was enough to put the line at risk. When the Mothers found your numbers moving upwards in that telltale way, they would pull you from the line and relax the regimen – no more wrapping, no more need to count every mouthful. It would not be long then before you began to bleed, and to think of your own daughters – more use to the village as a mama than a tunneller once the thickening set in.

“I wonder how they’ll manage over winter.” Calla plucked a string bean from her plate and began to chew one end slowly.

“They’ll be all right,” Jena reassured her. Though Petria had left the line, she had tunnelled three seasons. When making the Wintering allocation, the Mothers would consider that, along with the hope of future daughters.

On the other side of the Square, Petria ladled scoop after scoop from the pot.

“Maybe she’ll become a Mother,” Calla said with a half-smile.

Jena did not reply. It was the mountain that would decide and yet they both knew Petria would never be a Mother. It was the heaviest of responsibilities they bore – for allocations, for the harvest, for everything on which the survival of the village rested. A Mother must be close to the mountain so it might speak through her; no girl who had tunnelled fewer than six seasons had ever been chosen.

“How about the new one? Will you keep her?”

“Yes.” The firmness of her own reply caught Jena by surprise. “She’ll do well.”

“Have you told her? I can do it if you want.” Calla turned to scan the crowd.

“It’s all right. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

It was a pleasant thought. The news that a girl had been accepted into the line was always welcome, but would be more so this time.
A sixth child. A first daughter.
It would mean a lot to have a tunneller in such a family.

They said goodnight and Jena made her way to the edge of the Square. Occasionally, someone caught her eye and murmured, “Congratulations!” or “It is a day.” But most people were gathered by the table, waiting for their chance at a plate. It was understood that tunnellers were served first; after that, a rambling queue had formed. No one wanted to be on the end of it, mouth watering for meat while only yams remained.

Jena was almost clear of the Square when she felt a hand on her arm. A low voice muttered something indistinct.

“Thanks be,” she replied. For the most part, this was as good an answer as any. But in response, there was a soft laugh. She turned to see a familiar face framed against the orange glow from the Square. The effect was an odd one, as if the boy were lit from the inside.

“I asked if you were all right,” Luka said. “Funny way to reply.”

“I didn’t hear you. I just thought …”

“So are you then?”

“All right? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Luka shrugged. “Berta said you were tired. She was going to make you a tonic.”

“I don’t need a tonic. I’m fine.”

It was true. What had happened that afternoon already felt far away, like a dream that had receded.

“That’s what I said.” Luka grinned. “I told her how tough you are. She said she knew but you could still use a tonic.”

Jena returned his smile. Although the long hours of wrapping and training meant that girls tended to keep to themselves, as Berta’s grandson, Luka was often around, and over the years they had developed an easy rapport.

“Anyway, congratulations. Forty and forty.”

His words did not call for a reply. There was something to simply hearing the numbers. Jena looked down, taking in the compact sweep of her own body. She herself had been forty-four, forty-six, numbers that had made the village gasp back then. But babies had been coming earlier lately, and smaller. Perhaps there would be a day when a girl began with thirty, when forty didn’t earn you a bird and fifty was enough to make people spit on the ground.

“Six moons.” Luka gave a low whistle. “You should have seen the Mothers getting everything ready last night. They were so excited.”

“Last night?” Jena’s eyes widened. She hadn’t realised Mama Dietz had laboured through the night. It must have started after she and Kari had gone to bed; they always turned in early when they were tunnelling and rose before dawn, slipping out soundlessly almost before they were fully awake. Even if Papa Dietz had heard them, he would have said nothing, not wanting to worry them, knowing they must keep their thoughts on the harvest.

Jena considered the thick slices of bird on her plate with satisfaction. There was strength in there and that was what a mama needed after a birthing.

“I should go.” She gestured down the darkened street.

“Me too. Berta said she’d save me a mouthful of bird.” Luka looked back towards the Square. The table was all but invisible in the midst of the swarming crowd. “See you around then. You’re not going inside tomorrow, are you?”

“No,” Jena began, “but …”
I’ll be busy
, she was going to say.
With Min and the baby and Mama Dietz.
But Luka was already moving away and so she did the same, turning her back on the fire and the feast and hurrying away down the narrow road towards the rock wall, towards home.

“There you are!”

Papa Dietz’s voice was chiding, but gentle all the same. He was stirring a shallow pot on the hearth, steam rising as he turned the spoon in slow, lazy circles. The liquid inside was a pale brown, so thin as to be almost clear.

“How’s the soup?” Jena asked.

Kari flashed her a wry smile. “How do you think?”

“This should help.” Jena slid her plate onto the table.

“So much bird! That’s very generous.” Papa Dietz lifted the spoon, letting a stream of liquid fall onto the soup’s surface. Aside from his porridge, it was the least appetising thing Jena had ever seen.