Scarecrow

I asked Kyria on the seventh night after the breakfast.

On the long porch. After I’d said it, in order, to everyone. When the grass below had emptied and the lamps were coming on in the trees all the way to the lake and Andraste was on the rail at the end with her hand on her middle, where the daughter who listens is.

Kyria was in the chair beside Mother’s. With her first blade across her knees. She’d taken it back from me again that morning. She does that. Every few days. Takes it back without a word and gives it back without a word, and Andraste says it’s the most a First Blade’s mother has ever said to anyone.

I sat down on the step below her.

”The arch,” I said. ”The one your First Blade’s daughter went through. Three hundred years ago. With twelve.”

Kyria went very still.

”The one she came back from alone,” I said. ”And didn’t speak for a year.” I looked up at her. ”It was hungry.”

Nobody on the porch said anything.

Mother put her cup down.

Andraste, on the rail, turned her head and looked at me. Not crooked. Not with the scar. Just looked.

Kyria didn’t answer for a long time.

”Why?” she said.

I told her.

Not all of it. She knew most of it. She’d been at the long table when Konrad showed us the tithe speeding up eighteen years ago, as if the houses had stopped thinking about next time. She’d been on the ring when the far towers went out, one at a time, from the edge in. She’d sat in the kitchen when Ilka came down off the Meridian and said that past the ring it sounded like a great many things breathing at once.

I told her the rest.

That the breathing had stopped, for an hour, the morning Corin asked his mother’s middle for something. That it had started again. That Ilka said it wasn’t any closer, but wasn’t any quieter.

That the daughter who listens, the one Andraste is carrying, was born facing it.

”Okafor says after the weddings,” I said. ”She says she’ll know what it is when it’s close enough to have a name.” I looked at the plain. ”I don’t want to wait until it’s close enough to have a name.”

”You want to go and look,” said Kyria.

”Yes.”

”Through the arch my great-grandmother’s daughter came back from alone.”

”Yes.”

Kyria looked at me for a long time.

”What was her name?” I said. ”The daughter.”

Kyria didn’t answer straight away.

”Vessa,” she said. Eventually. ”Her name was Vessa. She was nineteen. Her mother was First Blade, the one before my grandmother. She took twelve. The best twelve on Hyrran.” Kyria turned the first blade on her knees. ”She came back through the arch on the ninth day. Alone. Walking. With no blade. And she sat down on the ridge in the snow and didn’t speak for a year. When she did speak, she said the one thing. It was hungry. And nothing else. Ever. Not about that.” Kyria put the blade down. ”She lived to be very old. She was First Blade herself, after her mother. A good one. She never once went back to that arch. She had it sealed. With stone. From the inside of the mountain.” She looked at me. ”She said to leave it sealed until someone came who could go through and come back and tell us what it was.”

”And nobody has.”

”Nobody has asked,” said Kyria. ”In three hundred years.” She looked at me very steadily. ”Until now.”

”I’ll go through alone,” I said.

That was when the porch went from quiet to something else.

”No,” said Andraste.

From the rail. Before I’d finished. Before anyone else could say anything.

”Listen to me,” I said.

”I am listening,” said Andraste. ”And I am saying no.”

”I can scatter,” I said. ”If something’s there, I can come apart and come back together on the other side of the arch before it’s finished turning round. Nothing can hold me if I don’t want to be held. I’ve done it on the ring. I’ve done it up the thread.” I looked at her. ”I can feel every atom of anything I’m standing near. I can see what it’s made of before it moves. And if it’s alive and it’s coming for me and there’s nothing else to do—”

I stopped.

I made myself say it.

”I can turn it to salt.”

Mother didn’t move.

Dot had told her about it in depth. The first dawn the Teeming came. Sixty-one of them. Who were only trying to warn me. I turned them to salt because I didn’t know what else to do, and I learned afterward that they’d been coming to tell me something, and I put a scarecrow in the field for that and I’ve spent every year since learning every other way there was.

Mother knew what it cost me to say it.

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me.

”And if it’s more than something,” I said. Quieter. ”If it’s a whole world of them. If there’s nothing else to do—” I looked at the plain. At the lamps in the trees. At the house on the rise, where eleven children were asleep in a heap with Harriet and Inga and Rory the second. ”I made a second sun over Caddoc. Once. Far out. On an ice moon with nothing on it.” I swallowed. ”If there’s a world through that arch with something on it that’s eating the far side of the houses’ ring, one tower at a time. And if it turns round and starts coming this way. And there’s nothing else to do.” I looked at Andraste. ”Then I could do it to the world.”

Nobody said anything for a very long time.

Then Andraste got down off the rail.

She came down the porch. Barefoot. In plain dark cloth. With her hand on her middle and the white ribbon on the hilt of her blade.

And knelt down in front of me. On the step. So her face was level with mine.

”You could,” she said. ”I’ve seen you.” She didn’t look away. ”I’ve seen you nearly go small over the forest on Ammaru. I’ve seen you go small up the thread for thirty-four towers. I held your face for two days and nine hours while you did it.” She put her hand flat on my chest. Over my heart. The way she did on the salt. ”And every time, you came back because someone was holding the door.”

”I know.”

”If you go through that arch alone,” said Andraste, ”and there is something there, and you go small enough to do to a world what you did to an ice moon—” She stopped. ”Nobody will be holding the door. And you won’t come back.” Her hand didn’t move. ”And I’ll be on this side. With the twins. And this one. Who’s listening. And I’ll never know.”

”I’m the fifth door,” she said. ”I told you on the ridge. I told the four of them in the snow. I will guard it for you as I guard it for him. For as long as I live.” She stood up. ”You’re not going through any door I’m not standing in.”

”Andraste,” I said. ”You’re carrying.”

”Yes,” said Andraste. ”So was my mother. Through the eleventh landing. So was hers. Through the ninth.” She looked down at me. ”On Hyrran, a First Blade who’s carrying doesn’t stay off the ridge. She stands at the top of it so everyone can see. So they know what they’re fighting for.” She put her hand on her middle. ”And this one is already at the wall. Listening. Facing the edge.” She looked at the dark past the lake. ”She’d want to see.”

”Then I’m going too,” said Mother.

Everyone turned.

She was still in Father’s chair. With her cup. With the dark blue ribbon in her hair. Very calm.

”Mother—”

”I’ve been to every place you’ve been, love,” said Mother. ”Since the ring. Since the reef. Since Tiel.” She put her cup down. ”I went into the towers. I lifted a tower off a ring round a star. I carried the last child across a path that was melting under my feet.” She stood up. ”I’m not going to sit on this porch while you go through a door a First Blade’s daughter came back from alone.”

”Nor am I,” said Ingrid. From the step. Standing up.

”Nor me, love,” said Maura.

Teshka didn’t say anything. She just stood up. On her own two feet. With her blade.

And Kyria, beside Mother, very slowly, put her first blade back across her knees. And looked at her daughter. And then at me.

”I sealed nothing,” she said. ”Vessa sealed it. I’ve stood in front of it every year of my life, on the day she came back, and put my hand on the stone, and thought about the twelve.” She stood up. ”If someone’s going to open it, I’ll be the one standing beside them when they do.”

The Mom Squad. All five. On the porch. Standing.

And then Risa stood up.

”Absolutely not,” I said.

”I didn’t say anything,” said Risa.

”You were going to.”

”I was going to say,” said Risa, ”that I’ve been through a Hand. Front to back. As lightning. And through every tower on the ring. And if there’s something on the other side of that arch that’s eating towers, I’d like to be the one who hushes it while you find out what it is.” She folded her arms. ”That’s what a Wing Commander does.”

”Risa—”

”And Luna’s going to make the path,” said Risa. ”Because you’ll need one. And Sera’s going to burn the black off it. Because there’ll be black.” She looked down the porch. ”And Hana’s going to breathe. For everyone. Because whatever’s through there, Vessa came back from it walking, and that means there was air, and Hana’s going to make sure there’s enough of it.” She looked back at me. ”And Andraste’s going to guard the door. Because she said so. And she’s the only one of us you ever listen to.”

I looked at the four of them.

Luna, at the window, with Elin, who’d gone very still. Sera, on the bench, with Goldie, who’d stopped glowing. Hana, in the big chair, with Abena asleep on her chest.

None of them said anything.

They didn’t need to.

”The children,” I said.

”The grandfathers,” said Sera. ”The way they did on the ring.” She put her hand on Goldie’s head. ”Rory says he’s got the hang of it now. He says Taveth’s the best of them, which nobody believes, and the General’s the worst, which everyone does.”

”And Dory holds,” said Luna. Very quietly. ”The door. This end. The way she did for six days.” She looked at me. ”She’ll want to. She’s been asking since the ring.”

Kyria looked at all of them.

The Mom Squad. My wives. Me, on the step.

Then she looked at Andraste.

”Well?” she said.

Andraste didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then she said: ”Not like this.”

Everyone looked at her.

”Not like this,” said Andraste again. ”Not in what you’re wearing.” She looked down the porch. At Mother’s coat. At Maura’s apron, with flour on it. At Ingrid’s flight jacket two sizes too big. At Luna’s dress, and Sera’s, and Hana’s cardigan with Abena asleep against it. At Risa’s flying leathers, worn through at both elbows. At Teshka’s plain grey Vaeli cloth, and her mother’s old iron, and my coat.

”Vessa took twelve,” said Andraste. ”The best twelve on Hyrran. In the finest armour the forges had ever made.” She was very quiet. ”And she came back alone.”

She looked at me.

”Nobody goes through that arch,” she said, ”until every one of us is fitted. By the forges on the ridge. In the best iron on Hyrran. With the best blades.” She looked at her mother. ”All of us. Every one. The way a First Blade’s house goes to war.”

Kyria looked at her for a long time.

Then she nodded.

”I’ll wake the smiths,” she said.

I told Okafor in the morning.

In her room on the Meridian, with the map of the houses’ ring on the wall and the far side of it shaded grey, where the towers have gone out. She listened to all of it without saying anything. Then she looked at the grey for a long time.

”Look,” she said. ”And come back.”

”That’s the plan.”

”No,” said Okafor. ”That’s the order.” She turned round. ”You don’t fight it. You don’t make a sun. You don’t turn anything to salt unless it has its hands round one of your mothers. You go through, you see what it is, and you come back through, and you tell me.” She picked up a pen and put it down again. ”Vessa took twelve and came back alone and said three words in seventy years. I want more than three words, Dask. I want a name for it.”

”And if there’s nothing there?”

Okafor looked at the grey on the map.

”Then you’ll be the first person who’s ever been glad to come back with nothing,” she said.

Dory found me on the ridge that night.

She held the courtyard arch for six days once, with Corin beside her and her hands flat on the frame, and she’s never once talked about it. She stood beside me in the snow with her hands in her coat and looked at the stone where Vessa’s arch is, a long way down the ridge, dark against the white.

”I’m holding the door,” she said.

”I know. Your mother told me.”

”Not the arch,” said Dory. ”The house. The children. While you’re gone.” She didn’t look at me. ”Grandfather Rory says he’s in charge. Grandfather Kwame says he is. The General hasn’t said anything, which means he thinks he is.” She sniffed. ”Taveth’s making soup.”

”Taveth can’t make soup.”

”I know,” said Dory. ”That’s why I’m holding the door.”

Corin was waiting in the courtyard when I came down.

He’s small yet. Smaller than he looks, the way they all are, grown so fast there’s no room in them for how young they still are. He has my face. Mother says he has Father’s way of standing, with his weight on the back foot as if he’s waiting for something to fall so he can catch it.

He looked up at me.

”She’s listening,” he said. ”My sister. In Mama.” He put his hand on his own chest. ”She says it isn’t asleep.”

”What isn’t?”

Corin thought about it, very seriously.

”The hungry,” he said. ”She says it doesn’t sleep. It just eats, and then it makes more of itself, and then it eats.” He looked at me. ”She says don’t try to talk to it. It doesn’t have anything to talk with.”

I knelt down in the snow in front of him.

”Did she tell you that?”

”She doesn’t tell,” said Corin. ”She listens. I just listen to her listening.” He put his arms round my neck. ”Come back,” he said. ”Grandmother says you always do. But come back anyway.”

So we went to the forges.

They’re under the highest ridge on Hyrran. In the mountain. Below the hall where the Hyrrani queen lives, carved out of the rock over a thousand years, so deep and so hot that you can feel them through the soles of your feet on the ridge above. Doctor Bell spent nine days in them building the walking engines twice and came out saying she’d never seen anything like them.

Kyria took us down at dawn.

Through the courtyard arch, onto the ridge, past the little arch between where Andraste’s feet had been. Down a stair cut into the inside of the mountain. Round and round. Into the heat.

And there were the smiths.

Forty of them. Women. Very old, most of them, with arms like the iron they work and scars from the shoulder to the wrist, the way Andraste’s arms are scarred. In leather aprons. Standing in a row at the bottom of the stair, in front of forges so big you could have fitted the house on the rise inside one.

The oldest of them came forward.

She was very small. Smaller than Teshka. Smaller than Mother. With white hair cut very short and hands so scarred they didn’t look like hands. Kyria said her name was Odra and that she’d forged the armour Andraste wore on the salt of Caddoc, and the armour Kyria wore before that, and the armour Kyria’s mother wore before that.

She looked at all of us. Very slowly. One at a time.

Then she looked at Kyria.

”All of them?” she said. Dot translated. Through the stone. ”The old ones too?”

”All of them,” said Kyria. ”The old ones first.”

I’m going to write the fittings. Because they took nine days, and every one of them mattered, and because Andraste said that on Hyrran the First Blade’s husband writes down every piece of armour his house goes to war in, so the children will know what was made for whom.

Mother.

Odra looked at her for a long time.

Then she said, through Dot: You hold things. Lift them. With your mind.

”Yes,” said Mother.

Then you don’t need iron on your hands, said Odra. Iron on your hands is for women who hold blades. You hold everything else. She looked at Mother’s coat. The dark one. That she’s worn since before I was born. With Father’s ring on her finger and the dark blue ribbon in her hair. And you won’t take that off.

”No,” said Mother.

Then I’ll put the iron under it, said Odra.

So she did. A shirt of Hyrrani iron, worked so fine it moves like cloth, that goes under Mother’s dark coat and can’t be seen. And at the collar, very small, where only Mother would know it was there, a pattern in the steel like water running.

And a blade. Short. Very plain. That Mother looked at for a long time and then said she’d never used one in her life.

You won’t, said Odra. It’s for the children. If you have to carry one through somewhere dark. So they can see you have it and know they’re safe.

Mother took the blade.

Maura.

Maura asked for pockets.

Odra looked at her as if nobody had ever asked her anything like it in sixty years at the forges.

”For bread,” said Maura. ”If there are children. There are always children.” She looked at the iron. ”And I warm things. Limbs. Hands. Where the black’s been. I need my hands free and I need them bare.” She held them up. ”So nothing on the hands. And pockets.”

Odra put pockets in her armour.

Eleven of them. Lined with something from the deep forges that holds heat for days, so whatever bread Maura puts in them comes out warm.

Maura cried a little when she saw them. She said it was the smoke.

Ingrid.

Ingrid’s armour couldn’t be iron. Iron conducts. Ingrid goes as lightning; if she went as lightning in iron, Odra said, she’d melt her own armour round herself and it’d be very bad.

So Odra made her something else. Out of a stone from the very bottom of the mountain, under the forges, black and very light. Woven. Like Ingrid’s flight jacket, two sizes too big, the way she likes it, so she can move. And when Ingrid tried it on and went as lightning in the middle of the forge, a long blue line from one end to the other, the stone didn’t burn and didn’t melt and didn’t do anything at all. Except go very faintly blue at the seams.

Konrad, who’d come down the stair behind us because he said he wasn’t going to watch his wife be fitted for a war from the top of a ladder, sat down on a bench at the side of the forge and watched her for a long time.

”You look exactly the same,” he said. ”As the Kesh.”

”I look forty years older,” said Ingrid.

”No,” said Konrad. ”You don’t.”

Kyria and Teshka.

They didn’t need fitting. Kyria had her old iron, the armour of the First Blade before her daughter took it. Teshka had her blade.

Odra fitted them anyway. She said that was the rule. She said nobody goes to war from these forges in old iron without someone looking at it first.

She looked at Kyria’s armour for a long time. And found three places where it was thinner than it should be, from thirty years of being hit. And mended them.

She looked at Teshka for a long time.

Then she made her new armour. Grey. Not Hyrrani. Not Barrow. Something between. Plain. With no pattern in the steel at all.

You stood in rows for eleven generations, said Odra. Through Dot. You’ve never had armour that was yours. She held it out. This is yours. Nobody’s ever worn it but you. Nobody ever will.

Teshka looked at it for a long time.

Then she put it on. And stood very still. Not in a row. Just still. The way you stand when you’ve just found out you’re allowed to.

Luna.

Luna has ice armour. The queens gave it to her. White and blue and very fine, like frost on a window, from her throat to her feet.

Odra looked at it for a long time.

It’s very good, she said. Better than anything I could make. She touched it. One finger. And took her hand away very quickly; it was cold enough to burn. But it melts.

”I make it again.”

In the middle of a fight? said Odra. Every time something hot comes near you?

Luna didn’t answer.

So Odra made her a frame. Hyrrani iron. Very light. Very fine. That goes under the ice and holds it. So that when the ice melts, it melts onto something, and Luna can grow it back from the iron instead of from nothing.

Luna looked at herself in the forge-light for a long time. In ice over iron. White and blue and grey.

”My father would like this,” she said.

He did. He came down the stair on the fifth day and looked at her and didn’t say anything at all, and then went back up the stair and stood on the ridge in the snow for an hour.

Sera.

Sera burns. Living flame. As hot as a supernova, the queens said. Nothing on Hyrran, Odra said, could be made to go round her when she was like that.

So Odra didn’t try.

She made Sera a ring.

One. Iron. From the very hottest part of the deepest forge. Very plain. With a pattern in it like water running.

When you burn, said Odra, everything else goes. Cloth. Iron. Everything. She held out the ring. This won’t.

Sera put it on. Next to the red ribbon round her wrist.

And then she went up. In the middle of the forge. All of her. Living flame. White-gold, so bright the smiths covered their eyes.

And came down again.

And the ring was still on her finger.

So there’s something left that isn’t fire, said Odra.

Sera started to cry. And set a bench alight. And Maura put it out with a damp cloth from one of her eleven pockets.

Risa.

Risa wanted it light.

”I fly,” she said. ”As lightning. Through Hands. Through towers. I can’t be heavy.”

So Odra made her the lightest armour the forges had ever made. Out of the same black stone as Ingrid’s. Woven so fine you could see through it in places. Fitted so close that Risa said it felt like nothing at all.

And on the left shoulder, where you’d put a rank, Odra put a small iron cloud.

Risa looked at it.

”Who told you?” she said.

Your son, said Odra. Small Sigmund. He came down the stair on the second day with his grandfather and stood at the bottom with a cloud over his head and asked me if his mother would be safe. She looked at Risa. I said yes. He said: then put a cloud on it so she knows I’m there.

Risa didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then she said: ”If anyone tells anyone I cried, I’ll make it rain in the forge.”

Hana.

Hana didn’t want armour.

She stood in front of Odra in her cardigan with Abena asleep on her chest and said, very gently, that she didn’t fight. She breathed. For people. That was all.

Odra looked at her for a long time.

Then she looked at Abena.

You’re bringing her, she said.

”No,” said Hana. ”She’s staying with my father.”

Then you’re coming back for her, said Odra. So you need armour.

She made Hana something very light. Not iron. Not stone. Something Odra had never made before, she said, out of a metal so fine it moved like water. And she put it under Hana’s cardigan, the way she’d put Mother’s iron under her coat.

So you can still look like yourself, said Odra. When they come to you for air.

Andraste.

Andraste couldn’t get into her armour. She hadn’t been able to since the twins.

Odra looked at her for a very long time.

Then she took the old armour, the dark iron, worked very fine, like the scales of something, that Andraste had worn on the salt of Caddoc, that Odra herself had forged when Andraste was seventeen.

And melted it down.

All of it. In the deepest forge. While Andraste watched.

And made it again. Bigger. With room. With a place over the middle, where the daughter who listens is, that was thicker than anywhere else, and had a pattern on it that wasn’t water running.

It was a wall. A small one. With a single figure standing on top of it, looking out.

Andraste put her hand on it.

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

For the one at the wall, said Odra.

Me.

I said I didn’t need it.

I can feel every atom of anything I’m wearing. I can make my own armour out of anything. I can scatter. I said all of that, standing in front of Odra at the bottom of the stair.

Odra looked at me for a long time.

Then she looked at Andraste.

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

You’ll wear what’s forged for you, said Odra. Or you won’t go through.

So she forged me armour.

On the ninth day. The last. She took longer over mine than anyone’s. She wouldn’t let me see it until it was done.

When she brought it out, it wasn’t iron.

It was silver.

Not my silver. Not the queens’. Hyrrani silver. From under the mountain. From the hall where the Hyrrani queen lives, who’s never once been taken. Silver she gave, Odra said, on the first night, when Kyria told her what it was for.

Odra had worked it the way she works iron. Very fine. With a pattern in it.

Not water running.

A field. Wheat. And in the middle of it, very small, with its arms out, a scarecrow.

I didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then I put it on.

It fitted. Every atom. The way the silver in me fits. As if it had always been there and I’d only just noticed.

And when I put my hand on it, I felt the Hyrrani queen. Very faint. Very far up, in her hall under the ridge. Singing.

Not the war song. Not not still.

The one they sing to the young when they go out of the nest for the first time.

So they’ll know the way home.

Kyria gave me her first blade.

At the top of the stair. On the ridge. In the snow. In front of everyone.

She didn’t take it back this time.

We walked to the arch at dawn on the tenth day.

Down the ridge, along the spine of it, an hour through the snow. All of us. Fitted. Mother in her dark coat with the iron under it. Maura with her eleven pockets, every one of them warm. Ingrid in black stone, Konrad walking beside her as far as the last cairn, where Kyria told him gently that he’d come far enough, and he stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched us go and didn’t say anything at all.

Luna in ice over iron. Sera with her ring. Risa with the cloud on her shoulder. Hana with the water-metal under her cardigan and her hand going, every few steps, to the place on her chest where Abena usually is. Teshka in grey that was hers. Kyria in her mended iron. Andraste at the front, with the wall over the one at the wall, and the white ribbon on her blade.

And me. In silver. With a field on it, and a scarecrow.

The arch is smaller than the others.

Old. Older than the courtyard arch, older than the hall. Carved out of the ridge itself, black stone, with the frost thick on it. And filled. All the way. Floor to keystone. With stone of a different colour, grey and rough, laid by hands three hundred years ago and never touched since.

There was a mark on it. At the height of a woman’s hand. Worn smooth.

Kyria walked up and put her palm on it. Where the stone was smooth. Where she’d put it every year of her life, on the day Vessa came back.

”Twelve,” she said. Quietly. In Hyrrani. And then the names. All of them. One at a time. Dot didn’t translate them, and I didn’t ask her to.

When she’d finished, she took her hand away.

I put mine where hers had been.

And listened.

Through the stone. Through three hundred years of it. Past the place where the arch stops being stone and starts being the other thing, the fold, the door.

There was nothing there.

Not quiet. Not empty. Nothing. The way a field is nothing after the locusts. Every atom I could reach on the far side was where it had been put and nowhere else, and none of it was moving, and none of it was alive.

And then, a very long way past that—

Breathing.

I took my hand away.

Andraste was beside me. She didn’t ask. She put her hand on my chest, over the scarecrow, over my heart.

”I’m holding the door,” she said.

Behind us, Mother lifted the first stone out of Vessa’s wall. Very gently. As if it might still be warm.

Days 4271–4282. Fitted.

I asked Kyria for the arch. Vessa’s: nineteen, the First Blade’s daughter, twelve went with her, she came back alone on the ninth day and sealed it: leave it until someone can go through and come back and tell us. I said I’d go alone; I can scatter; I can turn it to salt; I could do it to a world. Andraste knelt: nobody will be holding the door; you’re not going through any door I’m not standing in. The Mom Squad stood. Risa stood. Luna, Sera, Hana didn’t need to. Andraste: not like this. Nine days at the forges under the ridge. Odra: iron under Mother’s coat; pockets for Maura; black stone for Ingrid; Teshka’s first armour that’s hers; a frame under Luna’s ice; a ring for Sera that won’t burn; a cloud on Risa’s shoulder from small Sigmund; water-metal under Hana’s cardigan; Andraste’s melted and made again, with a wall over the one at the wall. Mine was Hyrrani silver, with a scarecrow in a field. Kyria didn’t take her blade back. Okafor: look, and come back, and bring me a name. Dory holds the house. Corin: the one at the wall says don’t try to talk to it; it doesn’t have anything to talk with. At the arch, Kyria said the twelve. Past the stone, nothing, like a field after locusts. Past that, breathing. Mother lifted the first stone.