A Single Stone Read Online Free PDF Page B

frightened or sick. They speak gently and sing you back down into dreaming.
    There is something sweet on Mama’s breath and Jena’s nose wrinkles. Sweet is good – it means some wickerberry for the porridge or honey for the bread. But this is neither of those things; this is on Mama and in the air around them. It is the smell of a birthing, she supposes. Or of a baby.
    The word echoes in her mind, making her smile.
    She will hold the baby later. She will ask Papa and he will let her. Even if it is only for a minute, before the Mothers take her to the Centre. She will lower her face and breathe her in, the sweet, new smell of her.
    Look after your sister,
Mama says now, and she will.
    Mama slips a hand from the bedclothes and reaches for Jena.
    Oh.
Her hand is damp beneath Jena’s fingers. It is hot and cold all at once.
    Mama?
    The bedcover shifts, falls away.
    There is a blanket underneath and a white sheet. Only it is not white because something is blooming across it like a strange flower – a stain of red spreading towards the edges of the bed.
    Mama?
Jena says again, her small voice unsteady.
    Fingers flutter in her hand.
It’s all right.
    But it isn’t.
    Later, they come for Mama. There is a special place, Papa says, where the Mothers will get her ready to go in the ground. Soon they will put her there. And Jena will go with Papa, with the village, to say goodbye.
    She will remember then, Jena thinks – the fluttering fingers, the swift red flower. But she will not cry.
    Mama has had a good leaving,
she tells herself.
She has given us a daughter, a sister.
    It is a day.
She repeats the words over and over. The Mothers have said so, and it must surely be. The rock has allowed it.
    She will not cry. She will set her mouth in a line and take the stone from Berta’s trembling hands. She will kneel and place it soft upon the quiet earth, and she will say goodbye.
    For that is what a girl does when her mama goes.

FIVE
    “Stand up, child.”
    There were arms under Jena, lifting, insistent, a fog of warm breath on her neck. The voice was unmistakable.
    “Mother Berta.” She set a hand against the wall, willing strength into her legs. “I–”
    “You’re all right.”
    Was it a question or a command? Jena turned to face her.
    “You’re all right,” Berta repeated, and it was a statement now, a matter-of-fact quality to it that allowed for no other possibility. Her voice was hard-edged but there was kindness in it too. Jena had spent enough time with her over the years to hear it.
    “Were you dizzy? Kari said you ran back.”
    Jena hesitated. They had run and she was dizzy; that much was true. But she was not sure the two things were connected.
    The smell lingered in the air, though it seemed to have eased. Perhaps it was something else on the fire – a medicinal herb or root used for the birthing – its strength ebbing and flowing with the force of the flames?
    Willow-wort for pain? Calumb for healing?
She called up the only names she could think of. But she was a tunneller, not a healer. It could be either of those or one of a hundred other things whose names she would never have reason to know. Whatever it was, it had reached back across the years, dragging her with it. She felt shaky still, as if the ground beneath her might shift without warning.
    She turned to Berta. “That smell …?”
    Berta looked sharply at her. Then her expression softened and she placed a hand on Jena’s arm. “You need air. Come.”
    As she steered Jena outside, there was a flurry behind them. One of the younger Mothers hurried from the kitchen, steam rising from a bowl in her hands. She disappeared into the bedroom at the end of the hall.
    Another question formed on Jena’s lips. “Do you know anything? Is she …?”
    “Not yet.”
    “It’s so early. She–”
    “I know, child.” The reply was firm but gentle. “But we must trust.”
    Berta went to place a hand on Jena’s shoulder but then let it fall back, as