Scarecrow

The keeper looked down.

I felt it before anything else. Before the voice changed. Before the children stopped. A weight. Coming down through the grey from the top of the small world, where the ridges met. Not pressing. Not yet. Just looking. The way a very old, very heavy thing looks at something it has never had to look at before.

All its many pale eyes. Every one. Turning down from the far side of the sky, down through the grey, into the halls.

And seeing the cracks.

The voice stopped.

Not faded. Stopped. In the middle. Asking is not how— and then nothing. As if a clock that had been ticking on its own for longer than anyone remembered had felt a hand on it, for the first time, and gone still.

The silence was worse.

Every child in every hall went rigid. Not stiller. Rigid. All at once. Fifty-four thousand of them. On every bench. In every row. The ones who’d turned their heads toward the cracks, toward the singing, turned them back. The ones who’d stood up, the Kethri child and the round child beside it, sat down. Very fast. Hands together.

Waiting.

Because in all the time they’d been on those benches, the voice had never stopped. And they didn’t know what it meant. And the only thing they knew to do when they didn’t know was sit.

Then the voice came back.

Not the clock. Not the old wound voice that came down every few minutes on its own. The keeper. Itself. Looking. Speaking. Down through every fold of the small grey world at once, into every hall, into every child, and into everything else that had any silver in it.

Into me.

What are you.

It wasn’t a question.

I knew that. The way I’d known with the keeper in the box, when it said you are what we take. Keepers don’t ask questions. Keepers answer power. It wasn’t asking what I was.

It was telling me to be still while it looked.

And everything in me went still. All at once. My hands. My silver. The thing in me that sees through stone and steel and grey and asks it what shape it wants to be.

Still.

The way the children on the benches were still.

I couldn’t move.

I’d never felt that. Not with the keeper in the box. Not with the small polite one in the Chancellor’s chair. Not with the new Hand over the Kethri forest, hammering down like a fist. I’d always been able to push back. To look harder. To ask harder.

This was older than all of them.

It had been teaching for longer than humans had been standing up. It had taught fifty-eight thousand children. It had taught the keepers who taught the Overseer. And it had been looking down into the halls every day for all that time, and every day it had said the same thing, and every day the same thing had gone into every child it touched and stayed.

And I was a child it touched.

Born whole. Grown up without anyone teaching me not to ask. Cut, and narrowed, and opened again, but never taught.

You are what we take, said the keeper. Very slowly. Looking at me. Through the grey. You would have been at the top.

On the ridge beside me, Genny went down on her knees.

Not singing. She couldn’t. Her mouth was open and nothing was coming out. Her hand was flat on the grey and shaking. Beside her, Garnet, with her silver half up her arms and frozen there, small and wobbly and stopped.

In the hall below the Scarecrow, Tally. In the row. Very still. With her hand still on Reed’s.

And Reed.

Sitting on her bench. Third row. Near the back. With her finger on the small child’s hand. Very still.

Hands together.

And then I heard the heavy queen.

Not singing a name. Not yet. Just singing. The low slow hum she’d sung to the iron for three days, the one you felt in your feet more than heard. Coming up through the grey from where the Ground had come down on the far ridge.

The keeper’s voice was on everything. In everything. Pressing.

The heavy queen’s hum went under it.

Not against it. Under. The way water goes under ice. The way Harriet’s note went under Toby’s fiddle, so everything had something steady under it, holding it up.

And I felt something in the keeper’s voice catch.

It was very small. I almost didn’t notice. A hitch. In the pressing. Like a step missed on a stair you’ve climbed every day of your life.

The keeper’s eyes moved.

Not down into the halls. Not at me. Across. Toward the far ridge. Toward the Ground.

Toward the heavy queen.

What is that, said the keeper.

And that was a question.

I felt the heavy queen hear it.

All the way across the small grey world. Through the grey. Through the iron of the Ground. Through the hello, faint, held by fifty thousand children on the red glass eleven light-years away. I felt her go very, very still.

The way a stone goes still. The way something goes still that has been listening for a very long time, every night, from the top of a heavy world, and never heard anything.

And then hears something.

She came down the ramp of the Ground.

I didn’t see it. I couldn’t move. But I felt it. Through the grey. Every step. Very slow. One. Then a long time. Then another. Small and dense and grey. Down onto the grey of the small world. Onto the ridge. Toward the top. Toward where the ridges met.

Toward the keeper.

Her young went with her. The one from the ash. The small heavy child who’d come down out of the sky to her and stood in front of her while she rested her head on it. It walked beside her. Very slowly. The same pace.

The keeper watched them come.

All its many eyes. Turned away from the halls. Away from me. Away from the cracks and the singing and the fifty-four thousand children frozen on their benches. Turned across, and up, toward the two small heavy grey shapes walking very slowly along the ridge toward the top of its world.

And the pressing on me eased.

Not much. A little. Like a hand lifting a finger’s width off a page.

Enough.

I could move.

I didn’t move much. I didn’t know how long I’d have. I turned my head. Toward the ship. Toward the forward window of the Scarecrow, where Okafor was standing with her slate and Luna beside her with the drawings and the Drenn queen in her room behind them with her door open.

”Now,” said Luna. Through the seed. Very fast. Very steady. Her father’s voice. ”Everyone. While it’s looking at her. Every hall. Every crack. Bring them up. Don’t tell them. Ask. But ask fast.”

They went.

Everyone. At once. All over the small grey world.

Down the cracks. Into the halls. Tally, pulling herself out of the stillness in the deepest hall and turning to Reed and putting her hand out, flat, palm up. Reed’s finger moving. Off the small child’s hand. Onto Tally’s palm. Then back. Onto the small child’s. Then the small child’s finger, shaking, out. Onto the hand of the child beside her.

And that one’s. Onto the next.

Down the row.

Like the beds in the ward. Like a wave going down a row of grass. One finger. Then the next. Then the next.

Genny sang.

She got it back. Her voice. On her knees on the ridge with her hand flat on the grey. Not loud. She was never loud. The lullaby. The one she’d sung through the doors to the choir, and to the three hundred at Halden.

Not to the keeper. To the halls.

You can stop now. Nobody’s going to make you sit any more. You can stand up, if you’d like. You don’t have to.

And every queen sang under her. The Kethri queens. The furred queen. The marsh queen, so loud and so low the grey shook. The Drenn queen, from her room. And across the dark, every queen on Avalon, held by every child with their hand flat on the ground.

Names.

Down every crack.

And the children stood up.

Not all of them. Not at once. But they stood. In every hall. One here. Two there. The ones whose queens were singing first. Then the ones beside them, because the one beside them had. Then the ones whose fingers had been touched. Then the ones beside those.

They stood up off the benches. And didn’t know what to do. And stood there, in the rows, very straight, with their hands together, and their smooth grey faces turned toward the cracks. Toward the light coming down. Toward the singing.

And then Hana was in the halls.

With her hands out. Holding the air. The thick still grey air of the halls, that hadn’t moved in longer than anyone knew. A thousand ropes of it. She moved it. Very gently. Through every hall. So that for the first time in all those years, there was a wind on the benches. Very small. Barely a breath.

And it smelled of the red glass, and the green grass of the park, and the seventh lake, and bread. Because Hana had brought it from the Ground, from the open ramp, where Meg’s daughter’s bakers had been told to stand with the loaves and wait.

The children turned toward it.

And walked.

Up through the cracks. Up through the grey, which had opened because a dog leaned on it and an Overseer told it what happened. Up onto the ridges. Into the light of two suns. Toward fourteen open ramps with bread at the top of every one.

In rows. Holding hands. Because that was how they knew to walk.

The wardens felt it when the voice came back.

All over the small grey world. At the edges of the cracks, where they’d stopped and stood, waiting, in front of the General and Anja and Liam and Sera and Risa and the Drenn. When the keeper spoke, what are you, they straightened. All at once. Every one. As if a string had been pulled.

And turned toward the cracks.

Toward the children coming up out of them.

The warden in front of the General took one step forward.

The General didn’t move. He stood on the grey in his greatcoat with frost forming at the edges of it and his hands at his sides, and didn’t move at all.

The warden took another step.

And then the Overseer was there.

It had come along the ridge from the flat place in the fold, over the deepest halls, where it had knelt to tell the grey what happened. With the dog. Very fast for something so tall, its long grey limbs unfolding. It stopped beside the General. Between the warden and the crack.

The warden stopped.

It looked at the Overseer. Grey. Sorn. Tall, with pale eyes. The way the children on the ash had looked at it. The way everything made by the Sorn looks at something that looks like what it knows.

Waiting to be told.

The Overseer didn’t tell it anything.

It broke the loaf of Thorne’s rye in half. And held one half out. To the warden.

The warden looked at the bread for a very long time.

”I do not know what that is,” it said. Its voice was thin and dry. Like the Overseer’s.

”Neither did I,” said the Overseer. ”A girl left it on a stone. At the mouth of a passage. I did not know it was for me.” It held the bread out a little further. ”It is for you. You do not have to take it.”

The dog came out from behind the Overseer’s leg. And walked, very slowly, up to the warden. And sniffed its long grey foot.

And leaned on it.

The warden went very still.

It didn’t take the bread. It didn’t move. But it didn’t take another step toward the crack either. It stood on the grey at the edge of the world, with an old brown dog leaning on its foot, looking at a half loaf of rye in a long grey hand.

Behind it, the children kept coming up.

Wren stood at the top of the Scarecrow’s ramp with Toby’s stone against her ear and her eyes shut. Counting.

At the top of every ramp, bread.

Meg’s daughter had sent eleven thousand loaves. Her bakers stood at the top of every ramp on every ship with baskets, the way they’d stood on the ash at New Halcyon and Carver and Halden and Gallow Cross. And as every child came up out of the crack and across the ridge and up the iron, a baker held out a basket.

Most of them didn’t take it.

They didn’t know what it was. They stood at the top of the ramp with their hands together and their smooth grey faces turned toward the basket, waiting to be told what to do with it.

Jory stood beside them.

On the Scarecrow’s ramp. With Ruth’s pencils in his coat. He didn’t say anything to most of them. He took a piece of bread out of the basket himself. And ate it. Slowly. Where they could see.

And then he held out another piece.

And some of them took it.

To the ones who didn’t, the ones who stood there with their hands together and didn’t move, he held out a pencil instead. He didn’t explain it. He just put it in their hands, and closed their long or short or many fingers round it, and left it there.

”Somebody gave me one,” he said. To each of them. Very quietly. ”It was the first thing I ever held that nobody told me to.”

On the Wing, a child’s heart stopped.

When the voice stopped. When the keeper went silent in the middle of a word and every child in every hall went rigid. A child in the hall under the Wing, very small, from a world nobody knew, had gone so rigid that its heart forgot. And just stopped.

Sigmund was there in a minute.

He didn’t run. Sigmund never ran. He walked very fast down the crack and along the row, with Neve Ashworth beside him with the grey book, and knelt in front of the bench where the small child had slumped sideways with its hands still together.

He put two fingers on its chest.

”Toby isn’t here,” said Neve. Very quietly. ”There’s no one to tell you when.”

Sigmund shut his eyes.

He listened. The way Toby had taught him. Not with his ears. With the spark. With the little light at the top of every heart that fires seventy times a minute, or forty, or a hundred and twenty, depending what world you came from.

It wasn’t firing.

But under it, very faint, something was waiting to. The way his sister’s had been waiting, in the quiet room, under the storm.

”Now,” said Sigmund. To himself.

The snap. The small blue spark.

Silence.

Then, very faintly, under his fingers, a beat. And another.

Sigmund opened his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He picked the child up off the bench, very carefully, and carried it up the crack, with two fingers still on its chest the whole way. At the top of the ramp, Ruth was waiting, and took it from him.

”Name?” said Ruth. Writing.

”I don’t know,” said Sigmund. ”It doesn’t know either.” He looked at the child, very small, in Ruth’s arms, breathing. ”Put down that it started again after the first one.” He wiped his face with his sleeve. ”Put down it wanted to.”

And up at the top of the world, the heavy queen reached the keeper.

I saw it. I could see again by then. I looked up, from the ridge, through the grey, all the way up to where the ridges met.

The keeper was enormous.

I’d seen it before. From the window. A long time ago. But I’d looked at it the way you look at a thing you’re going to stand in front of one day. I hadn’t looked at it the way you look at a person.

I looked now.

It was grown into the top of the world. All the way. So far in that the grey of the world and the grey of the keeper were the same grey. With its many pale eyes, all round it, like the eyes on the moth queen’s wings. Very still. Very old. Very large.

And very dense.

So dense nothing could cut it. So heavy it couldn’t move. Squeezed small, a long time ago, by something much heavier than itself, and then grown, and grown, and grown, at the top of a world where nothing fell, because everything just sat where it was, very heavily.

I knew that shape.

I’d seen it in Bram’s trench. On the floor of the long room in Garnet’s chalk drawing. Walking very slowly across the plain toward an iron ship that didn’t know what it was.

The heavy queen stopped in front of it.

Very small. Very grey. On the ridge at the top of the small grey world, in the light of two suns, with her one young beside her. Looking up at the enormous grey thing with its many pale eyes, grown into the top of the world.

She didn’t sing a name.

Not at first.

She lowered her head. Very slowly. A long time coming. Until it touched the grey at the edge of the keeper.

And rested there.

The way she’d rested it on her young on the ash. The way a stone rests on another stone.

Not holding. Not stopping. Not telling.

Just there.

All the keeper’s eyes went to her.

Every one. At once. All its many pale eyes. Looking down at the small grey queen with her head resting on the edge of it.

And I felt the voice stop.

All of it. Everywhere. Not the clock. Not the pressing. Everything. All through the small grey world, through every hall and fold and ridge, the voice that had been coming down into the halls since before anyone could remember. Stopped.

Just stopped.

Then the heavy queen sang.

The name.

Very slow. Very heavy. A shape she’d made a very long time ago, on her heavy world, for her first young. The best. Born whole. The day it was born. And had sung every night since, from the top of her world, toward where they’d taken it. Into the dark. Into nothing.

Until a girl came home from the ring with fifty-eight thousand on paper. And she’d listened that way again. And heard something.

Mine.

The keeper didn’t move.

It couldn’t. It was the top of its world. It had been grown in for so long it didn’t know how to be anything else.

But its eyes closed.

One. Then another. Then all of them. Very slowly. All round it, all its many pale eyes, closing one at a time, the way you close your eyes when you’ve been looking at something for too long and can’t look any more.

And from somewhere very deep inside it, very faint, very slow, so slow it took a whole breath for a single sound, something answered.

Not the voice. Not asking is not how it’s done. Not what are you.

A hum.

Low. So low you felt it in your feet more than heard it. The same hum the heavy queen had sung to the iron for three days. The same hum the heavy young sang in their ring round her. The same hum the new ship had learned, very slowly, the morning it lifted off the plain and found out it had a voice.

The keeper hummed.

I don’t know how long they stayed like that. The heavy queen with her head resting on the edge of the keeper. The keeper with all its eyes closed, humming. The small heavy child beside them, very still.

Long enough.

Long enough for Wren, at the top of the Scarecrow’s ramp with her eyes shut, to say: ”Thirty thousand.” And later: ”Forty-one thousand.” And later still, very quietly, her voice cracking: ”Fifty-four thousand, one hundred and five.”

And then nothing.

”One more,” said Wren. ”There’s one more. In the deepest hall.”

Reed was still on her bench.

Third row. Near the back. With her finger on the small child’s hand.

Everyone else in the deepest hall had gone. Up the crack. Into the light. The whole row had stood up, one finger at a time, and walked, holding hands. Tally had gone up with them, at the front, because they’d followed her, because she was the one who’d lain down first.

Reed had stayed.

Because the small child hadn’t stood up.

I went down.

I didn’t ask anyone. I went down the crack under the Scarecrow, through the grey, into the deepest hall. Long and low and empty now. Benches going away into the dark. Hana’s small wind still moving through it, very faintly, smelling of bread.

And at the end of the third row, near the back, two shapes on a bench.

Reed. Tall, thin, pale, with her new face. Sitting very straight.

And the small child. Smaller than Dory. Smaller than Ash. With her smooth grey face turned toward Reed. With her hands together in her lap. All except one finger. Which was out. On the back of Reed’s hand.

She hadn’t moved it.

But she hadn’t stood up either.

I sat down on the bench in front of them. Turned round. Facing them. At their height.

Reed looked at me.

”She does not know,” said Reed. Slowly. Very hoarse. More words than I’d ever heard her say at once. ”If she is allowed. To stand. Nobody ever said. And the voice has stopped. And the voice always said. Even when it said no.” She looked at the small child. ”Now there is nothing. She does not know what nothing means.”

I looked at the small child.

I didn’t look inside her. I didn’t need to. I could see it from the outside. The way you can see it on someone’s face, even when the face is smooth and grey. A child sitting on a bench in an empty hall, with one finger on the only thing she’d ever been sure of, waiting for somebody to tell her what to do, and nobody telling her.

”Can I ask you something?” I said.

The small grey face turned. Toward me.

”Would you like to see the sky?” I said. ”There’s two suns up there. One blue. One red. They go round each other. And on my world there’s one sun, and it’s gold, and there’s two moons, and one of them’s very small.” I didn’t move. ”You don’t have to. You can stay here, if you’d like. Reed will stay with you. I’ll stay too.” I held out my hand. Flat. Palm up. On the bench between us. ”But if you’d like to see it, you could.”

The small child looked at my hand for a long time.

Then at Reed.

Reed didn’t say anything. She just looked back.

And the small child took her finger off Reed’s hand.

Very slowly. As if it might break.

And put it on mine.

”Fifty-four thousand, one hundred and six,” said Wren. At the top of the ramp. When I came up the crack with the small child on my hip and Reed beside me holding her other hand. ”Every one.”

She didn’t open her eyes.

She sat down very suddenly on the iron at the top of the ramp, and put her face in her hands, and Toby’s stone fell out of her fingers and rolled, humming Harriet’s note very faintly, down the ramp into the grey.

Tally caught it.

The small grey world was empty.

Every hall. Every bench. Every row. The cracks in the grey stayed open. Nobody closed them. Nobody needed to. There was nobody to keep in.

And at the top, where the ridges met, the keeper.

With all its eyes closed. Humming. With the heavy queen’s head resting on the edge of it, and her young beside her.

Standing on nothing.

Okafor came down the ramp of the Scarecrow.

She walked along the ridge. Slowly. In her plain dark coat. With her slate under her arm. All the way up to the top of the small grey world, where the ridges met. And stopped. A little way back from the heavy queen and her young.

And looked up at the keeper.

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

”Ask her,” she said at last. To me. I’d come up behind her. ”Ask the heavy queen. What she’d like.”

I asked.

The heavy queen didn’t lift her head from the keeper. She didn’t stop. But after a very long time, very slowly, a word at a time, she answered. Through the grey. Through me.

It cannot come. It is the top of this world. It has been grown in too long. If it let go, the world would fall.

A long pause.

I will stay.

Nobody said anything.

Not forever, said the heavy queen. Not if you need me. You can sing, and I will hear it, and the iron ship that knows its name will come for me. A long pause. But I have listened from the top of my world every night for longer than I remember, toward where they took it. I could not go. I was too heavy. She shifted. Very slightly. Her head still resting on the keeper’s edge. I am here now. It is humming. It has not hummed since it was taken. Another long pause. I would like to stay and hear it for a while.

”And the call?” said Okafor. Very quietly. ”Along the ninth line. To the keepers’ home. It called them.”

The heavy queen was quiet for a very long time.

It called, she said at last. It cannot unsay it. They will come. Someday.

A pause.

When they come, they will find a small grey world under a ring with every bench empty. And at the top, a keeper with its eyes shut, humming. And its mother beside it.

They will not understand that either.

The wardens and the handlers stayed too.

Nobody asked them to go. Nobody asked them to stay. They stood at the edges of the open cracks, all over the small grey world, where they’d stopped, and didn’t move. Nothing was telling them anything. The voice was gone. The keeper was humming.

The warden at the edge of the crack below the Scarecrow was still holding the half loaf of rye.

It had taken it. At some point. Nobody had seen when. It stood there with the bread in its long grey hand, very carefully, the way the Overseer held bread, as if it might break.

The Overseer looked at it for a long time, from the top of the ramp.

Then it came down. And knelt in front of it. On the grey. And put the other half of the loaf down beside it.

”There is more,” it said. ”Where I live. A man makes it. Every morning.” It looked at the dog, who’d come back to lean on its leg. ”If anyone ever asks you what is under the ring now, you could tell them that. That there is bread.”

The Ground stayed.

The iron ship that knew its name, with her ramp down, on the ridge at the top of the small grey world. Empty. Waiting. With a room in the middle and a door on the inside that nobody else would ever open.

Her young went back aboard. The small heavy child. To keep the iron company, it said, through the heavy queen. The iron had never been alone. It wouldn’t know how.

Everyone else came home.

Fifty-four thousand, one hundred and six. On thirteen ships. Through the page. Onto the red glass at dawn, where fifty thousand children were still kneeling with their hands flat on the ground, all over Avalon, holding.

And in the middle of them, Dory.

She opened her eyes when the Scarecrow came down.

She looked at me. At the small child on my hip. At Reed, holding her hand. At Tally, coming down the ramp behind us with Toby’s stone in one hand and the notebook in the other.

”You can stop holding now,” I said. ”All of you. They’re home.”

Dory looked at me for a long time.

Then she took her hand off the ground. And held it out. Flat. Palm up.

To the small child on my hip.

The small child looked at it.

Then put one finger on it.

Mother was on the porch when we brought them up the street.

Not all of them. Fifty-four thousand children couldn’t walk up one street. Most went to the ships’ queens, the ones whose queens had sung their names. Thousands went to the ward, and the long room, and the schools, which had been emptied and filled with beds. Thousands more went north and east and west on the trains, to Carver and the Reach and Stillwater, where people had cleared their houses and laid out blankets and waited at the stations with bread.

But some came to the porch.

The ones with no queens. The ones who’d stood up because the one beside them had. Hundreds. Up the street, in a line, holding hands. To the crooked house at the end, where the children from the ash, the ones with no queens either, had been sitting all night on the steps with Mother.

They’d been holding the whole time. With their hands on the wood. Not hearing anything. Holding anyway.

They saw the line coming up the street.

And the small child with feathers along its arms, who’d moved Mother’s bowl the width of a hair and sung Harriet’s note back with the third one wrong, stood up.

And walked down the steps.

And held out its hand. Flat. Palm up.

To the first child in the line.

Toby was at the gate.

With Harriet in her sling. He’d been there since dawn, Mother said. Since the first ship came down. He hadn’t gone to the plain. He’d stood at the gate of the crooked house, because he said Wren always came here first, after a crossing, to count the porch.

She came up the street with the stone in her hand.

She stopped in front of him.

”I dropped it,” she said. ”At the end. It rolled down the ramp into the grey.” She held it out. ”Tally caught it.”

Toby looked at the stone. Then at her.

”Did it hold?” he said.

”Yes,” said Wren. ”The whole time. Fifty-four thousand, one hundred and six.” Her voice cracked. ”I counted them all by her note.” She looked at Harriet. ”And then I counted us.”

Harriet, in her sling, opened her mouth and sang the note. Very quietly. Just for the gate.

And the stone in Wren’s hand sang it back.

Days 2576–2601. Standing on nothing.

The keeper looked down, and the voice stopped mid-word, and every child went rigid. Then it spoke itself, what are you, and everything with silver in it went still, me too; I’d never been held like that. It said I’d have been at the top. Then the heavy queen hummed under it like water under ice, and it asked a question: what is that. While its eyes were on her, Luna said now, and everyone went down the cracks; Genny got her voice back and sang, and the children stood, one finger at a time down every row, and Hana moved a wind through the halls that smelled of bread. The heavy queen walked to the top of the world and rested her head on the keeper. It was dense and squeezed small and couldn’t move; it was hers, her first, the best. She sang its name. All its eyes closed, and it hummed. Wren counted fifty-four thousand one hundred and five, and one more: a small child who didn’t know if she was allowed to stand, until I asked her if she’d like to see the sky. The heavy queen stayed with the Ground, to hear her young hum for a while; the keeper called home and can’t unsay it, and someday they’ll come and find every bench empty and a mother at the top. Dory took her hand off the ground and held it out, and the small child put a finger on it.