And in the dark we rise and reach for our clothes, says Sabine. I hear slow drawn breathing, buttons scratching through eyes, shifting feet. I hear chair joints softly moaning, and other movements I know, pockets and helping, as we straighten each others’ collars and tighten our scarves as if it were an ordinary outing.

Munka holds me still, says Cora. She places something heavy in my right pocket, and it pulls my shoulder down, another heavy thing in my left, and I want to scowl at her, though I know she is doing the same for the others. I have to straighten myself, practise standing evenly with the new weight. I feel the stones, each one so big and rough my hands can’t describe it all. Heaviness spreads, dreadful coldness; I shiver and yawn, think to the journey ahead. I know I will tire, and so I will have to pretend I am carrying a small animal or a child, otherwise I’ll be tempted to drop a stone here and there and ruin everything. I no longer want to go. I would like to go back to my bed and dream. But I am not scared. I am simply tired.

We can’t hold hands, says Maurilia, as we are walking in a line, and I am at the end because I am the youngest, though I think Munka or Sabine should be behind me for protection. My back is cold. See, they do not lead so well. So I must tread carefully by myself over the bumpy, sharp ground. I have no hands to balance or break a fall; they are occupied with bunching and weighing my coat pockets, to keep the stones from hitting against my sides. I wish we could hold hands, though I do feel a little safe and grateful for the moon; I can now see something of their dark shapes moving ahead through tree arms and bushes and down and up soft muddy slopes. The faint roaring sheet of river is constant, so we know we are going the right way. I may occasionally complain, but at this moment I am glad to be the youngest and freed from the burden of leadership, unlike Kiki and Munka—find the stones, find the river. And even if I were older and leading, I cannot imagine doing a good job of it, for since my birth they have fed my fear and laziness, my eyes half-shut and my body half-asleep and blind to real sense of direction. It is too late to try and be different now, to look after any of them (although I have always had good ears, and would still hear the roaring sheet of river, so perhaps, perhaps I could lead if I had to).

 We shiver in the dark light, says Kiki. I feel weak and near to crying for myself—the poverty—our poverty—the struggle—the waste—the absence of struggle—Father—

I am tired, says Munka, and very heavy. It grieves me that I do not look behind once for Cora, Sabine and Maurilia. I worry that one of them will trip and fall, or scratch themselves on a branch; not because the injury will be great, but because it may jolt them from their sleepy resolve and suggest more fear to them, and this will exaggerate and we cannot, cannot have more fear—but I do not look behind. I love them, I say, but I no longer know what it means if I am also tired of them and wish for them to die so I am free of worry, free of thought. How wonderful to forget. How satisfying, to feel no weight or sense. The heaviness grows, it has no mercy. I am full of revulsion and longing for my blood. Kiki chose night, so we wouldn’t have to see each other. She too thought it would make us weak, doubtful…but she forgot about the moonlight, which means it is not really so dark, and we are able to see a little of our faces, our dim shapes. But none of us will look. Perhaps she knew this too.

As I bend under branches and step over the rocky ground, I am thinking of nail heads, says Sabine, those shiny flat pelts starring the joints of the wooden gate that separates the pig pen from the vegetable garden. I think of the nail heads and marvel at my love for them, never knowing till now how I depended on the sight of them for reassurrance. They are footprints in mud, a smudge of breath on a window; evidence of the human effort. I see dear old Fung, kneeling over planks of wood with hammer and purpose in mind to create a useful thing, pushed by cooks’ hands, servants’ hands, gardeners’ hands. And mine and Maurilia’s, because we loved the pig.

We shall miss our studies with Master Liang tomorrow, says Cora. We shall miss his stooped old back, which reminds me sometimes of a homeless bird, and his clumsy entrance of books, manuscripts, rolls of paintings spilling out of his arms as he edges towards the desk. We shall miss his rounded words heavy with intent and sadness, and the thoughtful pauses that sometimes drift into permanent silence. Today, while reciting a poem about a hunter in a forest, the interruption of a swallow flying into the room and perching on his lectern elicited this response: “Well, a good afternoon to you, sir. But I’m afraid you have flown into the wrong classroom.” Then he spent a considerable amount of time waving his book about, finally succeeding in shooeing it back outside. He caught me covering my smile, and gave me a brief scowl. I shall miss his scowling. I shall miss the novelty of being unfavoured, for once my beauty and charm ignored. And I shall miss our painting classes, and I shall miss my fingers light against the zither, and I shall miss the mottled shadows on the calligraphy book that almost dissolve the painful effort of my brushstrokes, and make me happily resigned to the ordinariness of my penmanship.

They responded to my authority with sad compliance, says Kiki, as if they all knew there was no other way—except perhaps Sabine, who spent the next few days avoiding my eye, trying to hide her dark look of doubt and mistrust. But then she surprised me in class this afternoon; when Master Liang was preoccupied with the swallow, she reached over and placed a pebble next to my book. She held my gaze for a moment and nodded to me, yes, yes.

We find a place at the river, says Maurilia, although it doesn’t feel so much like a place that we’ve chosen, as somewhere we’ve happened to stop at, having finally come to the end of our strength. We stand a little while in a dark, bluish clump, panting lightly, nudging against each other with soft elbows, shoulders. Our bodies are warm from the walking. We do not look at each other. Hand in hand we meet the water: Kika goes in first, leading Munka in after her. I hear Sabine, “It’s cold”, and I realise it’s the first time we’ve spoken since getting up in the dark, and then Cora takes my hand and pulls me towards the water cold shock around my legs I gasp going in quickly it is up to my neck I gasp, and push, why push, why reach for the bank and roaring but the hand and the stones are pulling me back, but I kick and push, but the hand and the stones, but I kick and stop, stop, you see, don’t you see, says Kiki, the line of crowns will crumble and dissolve; no weight, no sense, no memory, remember; not to be sent; not to suffer alive; not to fear alone; not to die alone; not to disappear into broken myth. Now, calm. Together we step down. We sink. We lay down. We are close, and we remain. We remain.

 

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