her she might want a keepsake, a memento. And now all she had was this thing.
She gripped it tighter, until its edges dug into her palms and the flesh of her cheek, and then she took it with her.
She had to go on her hands and knees. The tunnel was a burrow of crumbling dirt walls, with some places so narrow she couldnât even crawlâshe had to lie on her belly and
worm
, pulling herself along with her fingers, pushing with her elbows, the tips of her toes. She slithered for hundreds of feet in the unimaginable dark, an almost tangible darkness, blacker than night, blacker than closets with closed doors, blacker than closed eyes under bedsheets.
As she inched forward, not knowing how far she had come or how far she had to go, with nothing but the noise of her own body and the darkness, it was the very
thingness
of the rectangular thing, pushed before her as she slid through the tunnel, that assured her she was still alive, that she had not perished in the aboveground world with her father.
At last she reached the end, where the tunnel terminated abruptly in a wooden hatch. Sefia crouched beneath it, scuffling at the splintered ceiling, and unlocked the door. Pushing upward with what remained of her quavering strength, she heaved it open and emerged in a tangle of bramble with summerâs last shriveled berries still clinging to the vines. She pulled herself through the hatch, clutching the rectangular thing to her side.
It was evening. The fog had burned off, and the cool air was clear, the shadows bruised and purple. She rubbed her arms. The entire afternoon had passed, sucked up by the darkness of the tunnel. For a moment, Sefia crouched, scratched and dirty, in the deep knotted safety of the thicket.
Her parents had given her three instructions: Use the secret doors. Go through the tunnel. Find Nin. Sheâd done the firsttwo, and after she did the last, sheâd have nothing left of them. Nothing but the strange object in her arms.
Sefia shut the hatch as quietly as she could and stood up. She recognized this thicket. Her father used to take her berrypicking here, and when their baskets were filled, theyâd bring one to Nin. Heâd always claimed these brambles had the sweetest fruit, but now she realized heâd been training her, showing her the way.
At the thought of her father, she began to cry again. Clutching the leather-wrapped object as if it were a blanket or a stuffed toy or a shield, Sefia stumbled out of the bushes and took off running through the dusk, ducking branches as they snatched at her hair. Saplings slapped at her face and arms. Ditches fell out from underneath her. But even though she sobbed and stumbled, even though her legs were weak and her body was shaking, she didnât stop.
By the time she got to Ninâs back door, Sefia was lost and half-gone with grief, spitting, blind, blundering, falling into Ninâs thick cushiony arms as if she were diving off a cliff.
Dimly, she heard Ninâs voice: âItâs finally happened, hasnât it? Iâm sorry, girl, I shouldâve been there. I shouldâve walked you home.â
She had done what sheâd been told. Use the secret doors. Go through the tunnel. Find Nin. And now it wasnât her fatherâs empty dismantled body that frightened her so much, but the silence, that unbreakable silence of the dead, because there would never be another reassuring word, no familiar gurgle from laying her cheek on her fatherâs stomach, no sneezes, nocoughs, no creak of tired joints, none of those everyday sounds of life. She had done what she had been told. And now there would be no further instructions, no way for another word to pass from her fatherâs lips into the bright prism of the still-living world. He was dead. And gone forever.
Chapter 4
This Is a Book
T he rain had not let up by the time Sefia awoke the next morning, and the little tent was filled with cold dingy light. As she lay
She gripped it tighter, until its edges dug into her palms and the flesh of her cheek, and then she took it with her.
She had to go on her hands and knees. The tunnel was a burrow of crumbling dirt walls, with some places so narrow she couldnât even crawlâshe had to lie on her belly and
worm
, pulling herself along with her fingers, pushing with her elbows, the tips of her toes. She slithered for hundreds of feet in the unimaginable dark, an almost tangible darkness, blacker than night, blacker than closets with closed doors, blacker than closed eyes under bedsheets.
As she inched forward, not knowing how far she had come or how far she had to go, with nothing but the noise of her own body and the darkness, it was the very
thingness
of the rectangular thing, pushed before her as she slid through the tunnel, that assured her she was still alive, that she had not perished in the aboveground world with her father.
At last she reached the end, where the tunnel terminated abruptly in a wooden hatch. Sefia crouched beneath it, scuffling at the splintered ceiling, and unlocked the door. Pushing upward with what remained of her quavering strength, she heaved it open and emerged in a tangle of bramble with summerâs last shriveled berries still clinging to the vines. She pulled herself through the hatch, clutching the rectangular thing to her side.
It was evening. The fog had burned off, and the cool air was clear, the shadows bruised and purple. She rubbed her arms. The entire afternoon had passed, sucked up by the darkness of the tunnel. For a moment, Sefia crouched, scratched and dirty, in the deep knotted safety of the thicket.
Her parents had given her three instructions: Use the secret doors. Go through the tunnel. Find Nin. Sheâd done the firsttwo, and after she did the last, sheâd have nothing left of them. Nothing but the strange object in her arms.
Sefia shut the hatch as quietly as she could and stood up. She recognized this thicket. Her father used to take her berrypicking here, and when their baskets were filled, theyâd bring one to Nin. Heâd always claimed these brambles had the sweetest fruit, but now she realized heâd been training her, showing her the way.
At the thought of her father, she began to cry again. Clutching the leather-wrapped object as if it were a blanket or a stuffed toy or a shield, Sefia stumbled out of the bushes and took off running through the dusk, ducking branches as they snatched at her hair. Saplings slapped at her face and arms. Ditches fell out from underneath her. But even though she sobbed and stumbled, even though her legs were weak and her body was shaking, she didnât stop.
By the time she got to Ninâs back door, Sefia was lost and half-gone with grief, spitting, blind, blundering, falling into Ninâs thick cushiony arms as if she were diving off a cliff.
Dimly, she heard Ninâs voice: âItâs finally happened, hasnât it? Iâm sorry, girl, I shouldâve been there. I shouldâve walked you home.â
She had done what sheâd been told. Use the secret doors. Go through the tunnel. Find Nin. And now it wasnât her fatherâs empty dismantled body that frightened her so much, but the silence, that unbreakable silence of the dead, because there would never be another reassuring word, no familiar gurgle from laying her cheek on her fatherâs stomach, no sneezes, nocoughs, no creak of tired joints, none of those everyday sounds of life. She had done what she had been told. And now there would be no further instructions, no way for another word to pass from her fatherâs lips into the bright prism of the still-living world. He was dead. And gone forever.
Chapter 4
This Is a Book
T he rain had not let up by the time Sefia awoke the next morning, and the little tent was filled with cold dingy light. As she lay
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