The Line (11 page)

But Dad. What would Dad have done? Whoever that was on the corder, he was in trouble. Her dad would have tried to help, she was sure of it. He might have been afraid, but he would have tried. She knew her mom wanted her to stay safe, but she couldn’t pretend she never found the corder. She couldn’t pretend that someone out there didn’t need her help.

Rachel had brought the minibeam from the kitchen in case she had to wait past dark; she figured she could use it to signal to whoever might be out there.

It was definitely dark now. She decided to try it—two flashes—and see if anything happened. If not, she would go back to the guesthouse.

I
T HAD BEEN five nights of waiting. Pathik had been careful to track the time on his trekker, a length of twine with beads on it, knotted at either end. Each night at sunset he had trapped another bead on the “over” side of the string. He remembered when his grandfather, Indigo, had given him his first trekker, on the eve of his first trek alone.

 

 

“THIS IS A day, let us say it is
this
day, the day before your first trek,” his grandfather had said, holding one of the beads between his fingers. “Until night this day is open, it is free.” Grandfather had slithered the bead back and forth on the twine of the trekker, smiling his sly smile. “Anything can happen.” Then he slid the bead all the way over to the end of the twine, snug against the end knot. “But soon it is evening, like now. The sun is setting on the day. Each night when this happens, you take a bead, a day, and trap it, like so.” He tied a knot on the other side of the bead, so it was held in place on the twine. “And now that day is over. It is frozen, Pathik, finished. It is unchangeable.”

Malgam, Pathik’s father, had rolled his eyes. “It’s a way to track your time, Pathik, to remind you how long you’ve been out. Not a philosophical lesson.” He shook his head at Indigo, but his expression was indulgent, not angry. Pathik was relieved; there would be no arguing that night.

“Just remember, Pathik.” His grandfather held the trekker up by the bead he had trapped and flicked the other end with his finger, making the loose beads fly up and down on the twine. “As long as the sun has not set on a day, anything can happen.” Malgam exhaled a dramatic sigh, and Indigo laughed, reached across the small fire to muss his son’s hair. “Always the practical one, Malgam,” he said.

“Somebody has to be, don’t they, Da?” Malgam reached into his pack, withdrew his spare knife. “Speaking of practical,” he said, “I think you’ll probably need this.” He tossed the knife to Pathik, who barely caught it, stunned at the casualness of his father’s action. Knives were hard to come by, at least real knives, from before. Malgam’s spare was a good knife; steel blade, sturdy handle. Pathik tilted it so the blade caught the light of the fire, traced the edge with his finger. He looked up at his father, who was studying him from beneath his hat brim, gauging his reaction. “Take care of it, Pathik,” he said. “I can’t give you another one.” Pathik felt something then, something tight, coming from his father. He was worried, Pathik thought, worried about the trek. First treks could be dangerous; more than one adolescent had not returned to base camp.

“I’ll be fine, Da.” Pathik slid the knife into his own pack. “Thanks.”

They spent the rest of that evening quietly, two men and a boy (though Pathik
felt
quite manly, since he was going on his first solo trek in the morning) gathered around a small campfire, each with his own thoughts, each tied to the others in the tenuous ways that had become all that was left, Away, of family—all that might be left of anything, really.

 

 

TO PATHIK, HUDDLED now in the strange field he had been camped near for six days, that first trek seemed like it had happened ages ago. He had been on many since then, foraging for firewood, hunting, looking for better base camp sites. None of his other treks had had so vital a purpose though. Nor had any taken him this close to the Line. Kinec and Jab, his companions on this trek, didn’t like its proximity at all; both had refused, after the first night, to journey to the stand of oaks where Pathik waited now. Instead, they had remained at the camp by the stream.

That first night the sight of the house made entirely of glass, something they had all heard stories about since they were little, seemed to unnerve them. Indigo had explained that the building was called a green house, that the glass allowed the sun’s warmth to provide a perfect environment for the orchids Indigo said grew inside. But Pathik had always secretly wondered if it was just one of Indigo’s stories.

“It’s real,” Jab had whispered that first night, staring at the structure.

“It’s just a building,” Pathik had retorted, though he too was awed by the sight of the house, all the glass intact, gleaming in the moonlight. He had heard about this house on many evenings, when they were all tired from a day of hunting, or hauling water to the corn plants, or stacking wood. It was a part of a favorite fire tale told by his grandfather—and here it was, come to life. Jab and Kinec had exchanged glances, not convinced by Pathik’s facade of nonchalance. The reality of the glass house made them think of other fire tales, not so happy as that one. If this house actually existed, then those other, far more frightening fire tales might be true as well.

It had taken them four days to reach the stream, and they didn’t find the place where it disappeared into the ground until midmorning on the fifth day. It was just as Indigo had described it—one moment the stream was flowing lazily along; the next it was gone, replaced by marshy grassland. It looked like magic until you examined the area and saw the lush growth that indicated the stream’s continued course beneath the earth. The group had set up camp there.

Pathik had not even removed his bedroll from his shoulders before he took the corder from his pack. He had carried it as far as he could; it, and the message his grandfather had spoken into it, would have to reach their destination now without his help. He set it on the water, holding it in the slow current for a moment before releasing it. The corder sank, then rose to float a fraction of an inch beneath the surface, moving at a leisurely pace away from him. Within seconds it had disappeared under the earth. He ignored the doubtful looks of Jab and Kinec, though he did whisper to himself, “I hope you are right, Grandfather.” To the others, in a louder voice, he said, “Now we wait.”

Each night after that first, Pathik left the camp alone at dusk and made his way to the meadow by the Line. He crouched near the oak trees and waited, staring at the glass house, feeling for some sign, though he knew he was too far from the structure to pick up anything. As often as he dared, he lit his lantern and held it up over his head for a few seconds, before snuffing it to conserve the oil. He was painfully aware of the time that had passed. He worried over how long it had taken them to get here, how long it was taking to make contact. He kept thinking about how ill his father, Malgam, had been when they left on this journey.

Each time dawn began to lighten the sky in the meadow, Pathik trudged back to Jab and Kinec, shook his head at their questioning looks, and fell into his bedroll to sleep. Five times now, and it looked like this night’s end would make six. Jab and Kinec were ready to go back. They had told him so that morning. Kinec had spoken, while Jab shuffled behind him.

“One more night, Pathik.” Kinec had sounded firm. “If nothing happens tonight, we go back after you’ve had some sleep. Midmorning tomorrow we need to be on our way.”

Jab had chimed in then. “We don’t even know if anyone found the corder. For all we know, we are waiting for nothing and your father is already dead. It’s—” Jab stumbled sideways from the elbow Kinec shoved into his ribs but finished his complaint. “It’s too dangerous.” He glared at Kinec, then at Pathik. “We need to get back.” Pathik had said nothing. He was tired. He knew that Jab might be right.

Pathik slept, and when he awoke, he huddled with the others around the tiny fire they had built. They shared some of the dried meat they had brought, but no one talked. After a bit Pathik got up and fetched the lantern and his jacket. When he was ready to leave for the meadow, he turned back, looked at both of them. “We’ll go tomorrow. If nothing happens tonight, we’ll leave when I get back.” He walked away without waiting to hear what they said.

So there he sat, waiting in a strange meadow. They had been gone from home for too long. Pathik wondered if the others were right, if his father was already dead. He lit the lantern and held it up, watching the glass house to see if anyone acknowledged his signal. Nothing, just like the night before. He sat back down and snuffed the lantern, took his trekker from his pocket, and selected the top bead from the loose ones on the end. He slid it back and forth on the twine. “Anything can happen,” he said, under his breath, and smiled. Grandfather. His hair was completely gray now, trimmed short, though Pathik could remember when it was still more dark than gray, dark and long. Even now his eyes still held their sparkle, those blue, blue eyes. Pathik had the same eyes, and he took some teasing for it from Nandy.

“You’ll be the end of some sweet thing’s heart, Pathik,” she liked to tell him. “If your da had those eyes, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to get over his crusty old personality. I would have swooned!” Nandy usually did a little act then, holding her hands together against her cheek and leaning far over to one side, her eyes closed, laughing. Malgam laughed too, though he always tried to swat her. Nandy had made a difference in him. He was less angry now that she was a part of their family. Pathik wondered what she was doing right now, this moment. He looked around at the dark field and snorted. “Sleeping, you foolishness,” he muttered to himself, “like you should be.”

He slid the bead he’d been playing with over to the other side of his trekker and knotted it in place. “Trapped,” he whispered to himself. “Over.”

If Pathik hadn’t been so tired, he probably would have cried.

Then he saw the light.

R
ACHEL FOUND HERSELF at the place next to the Line where she had tried to Cross—it seemed so long ago—without being conscious of having left the greenhouse or of walking to the spot. She peered into the dark, unable to see anything past a few feet. She was shaking. The moment she had seen the glow in the distance—such a soft, strange light, briefly glimmering and then eclipsed—her body had begun to tremble.

It was real. Somebody was
out there.

She stood waiting, trying to breathe calmly. She listened intently, but there was no sound. She flashed the minibeam twice and listened more. There was nothing. The night was still.

Then she heard it. A faint rustle of grass, just once, somewhere straight ahead of her. She squinted into the distance but saw nothing. Another rustling, to the left this time, closer. A denser darkness rose there, shambling forward. Rachel couldn’t discern anything but movement for a long time. She held her breath, listening as the sounds got nearer. Slowly, a form began to take shape—a human form. It was extraordinary to see it, out in the meadow where nothing had ever been but birds and trees, on the
other
side of the Line.

At first, Rachel couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. As the distance between them narrowed, she could see through the gloom of twilight that it was neither. It was a boy, about her age. She could tell that he saw her—he was walking straight toward her. He came to a halt three feet away from her. He seemed unwilling to get too close to the Line.

They stared at each other for a time, eyes wide.

“Hello.” He spoke quietly, and she was somehow surprised that the sound of a voice could penetrate the barrier of the Line, though she had often heard the birds singing beyond it.

“Hello,” she whispered. She could make out tousled brown hair. He was taller than she was, and very lean. But he looked no different than any boy in Bensen, really, except for the way he was dressed. He wore a shirt and pants made of some thick, rough fabric. They had no ornamentation of any kind, unless you counted the buttons down the front of the shirt. He carried what looked like a jacket crumpled under one arm. In his hand was a lantern, made of real glass surrounded by a rusty metal framework. Rachel flicked on the minibeam and adjusted it to the brightest setting.

“Turn that thing off!” The boy dropped as if he had been shot. “Do you want us both dead?”

Rachel fumbled with the switch and extinguished the light.

“Sorry.” She felt bad for being careless, but at the same time she didn’t care for his tone. Pretty bossy for someone who needed her help. “I just wanted to see better.”

The boy stayed low to the ground, looking all around in a way that reminded Rachel of an animal, sniffing the air. Finally, he stood up again, scowling. “Yeah. Well . . . not a good idea.” He brushed off his pants and picked up the lantern he had dropped.

“My name is Pathik,” he said.

“Rachel.”

Each seemed to be stunned at the fact of the other, standing just a few feet apart, yet separated by so much more than that few feet. Rachel wished she could turn on the minibeam and see him more clearly.

“I got your message,” Rachel said. She kept her voice low.

“Indigo said you would.”

“Who is Indigo?”

Pathik looked troubled. “He thought you might know.”

“Was he the voice on the corder? Half the message was gone.” Rachel watched, fascinated, as Pathik turned his head this way and that again, sniffing. He cast about as though he was trying determine the source of some odor. “What are you doing?”

Pathik ignored her question. “I think we should sit.” He lowered himself to the ground in one smooth motion.

“Look, I don’t know how long I can stay out here,” Rachel said, sitting down. “My mom will be worrying. So you better fill me in, if you can. I know somebody needs help. But that’s about all I know.” Her voice sounded normal, but her heart was beating awfully fast. One of the
Others
was close enough that she could touch his knee if she stretched a bit. Well, she could have if the Line wasn’t between them. She could see Pathik’s chest move when he breathed. She could hear the lantern’s handle clink against the glass when he set it down. It seemed like there was nothing separating them. Yet some part of Rachel was glad the Line was there. Pathik
looked
like a normal boy, but she felt something she couldn’t identify coming from him. Something mesmeric, that she didn’t like. It felt dangerous.