made a girl part of the mountain. She would have to be a tunneller or live at odds with herself for the length of her days. It would be a cruel thing, with such a name, to spend your life baking or ploughing fields. But still, not so different perhaps from the many girls given names meaning “slender” and “slim” who grew far beyond their family’s hopes, and ended up doing the same.
She looked around the table.
We
, Papa Dietz had said. That word again.
“It’s perfect,” she said finally.
Mama Dietz reached for her hand once more. “I’m so glad you like it.”
Papa Dietz and Kari put their hands in too, placing them on top.
“Ailin.” Papa Dietz gave the name a finality, as if something that had been shifting had now settled, taking on its final shape.
“Ailin,” Mama Dietz repeated softly.
Jena imagined her saying it thousands of times in the years to come.
Ailin, breakfast is ready. Time for bed, Ailin. Ailin, this needs to be tighter. Just one more mouthful, Ailin.
Keep your head down, Ailin. Follow. The others will show you the way. It is a day. Thanks be. The rock has allowed it.
“Ailin,” said Jena, and the word sounded right and good on her tongue. “It’s perfect,” she said again, and prayed it would be so.
Jena is four, perhaps five.
No, she is five.
Her birthday has slipped past unremarked upon. Unnoticed.
There has been no present – no doll stuffed with dried beans or straw. No rough-cut chunk of rabbit roasting on a spit in the hearth.
It is all right,
she tells herself. She doesn’t need a doll, because she has something better – a tiny sister, all her own.
Priya. Alana. Sian.
She has so many ideas but when she tells Papa, he shakes his head.
It is too early,
he says.
The baby is weak. The weight of a name will be too heavy upon her.
Still, they tumble through Jena’s head, weave quietly through her dreams.
Ilona. Caren.
Some are pretty and others strong. It has something to do with the way they end – some are open, reaching into sky, while others are sure and steady, like stone.
Give my sister a strong name,
she thinks.
Give her a name that will keep her here with us.
It is two moons since Mama went in the ground. There is a chill in the air and a ring of white on the tips of the mountain’s fingers.
Sometimes Papa takes Jena to the place where she lies. Jena strokes the pebble they have chosen from the spring. Rollers are allowed too, and crumblers – stones the mountain has released from itself. But water stones are the best. They are cool and smooth. They come from a quiet place and that seems right for Mama, for this.
Papa sits there too long, the Mothers say. She has heard them talking while she lies in the Centre. It will be Wintering soon; he should be climbing across roofs with his hammer and nails, plugging holes, crisscrossing planks of wood one upon the other.
I’m five,
she says to Papa one morning. It is important that he knows. She may not get a doll or a rabbit, but nothing can stop the numbers. She is glad to be five. It is one year closer to seven and seven is what everybody wants. Seven is when you start training in the maze, then the shallow tunnels. Seven is one year away from taking your place in the line, if they choose you.
They will choose her. Jena knows it as surely as spring follows even the longest of winters. As surely as the numbers that move upwards year upon year.
She has been good about her wrapping. She has lain still at the Centre without squirming or complaining. And when she is out, she has been keeping her muscles strong, doing all the exercises the Mothers say she must.
But when she tells Papa, his face is blank. He looks through her, his eyes somewhere else.
Later, he comes to the Centre. She hears his voice and turns her head but there are beds in the way, and cribs after that. She can’t see anything but she knows it is him. She strains her ears towards the sound but a baby is crying and it is hard to
She looked around the table.
We
, Papa Dietz had said. That word again.
“It’s perfect,” she said finally.
Mama Dietz reached for her hand once more. “I’m so glad you like it.”
Papa Dietz and Kari put their hands in too, placing them on top.
“Ailin.” Papa Dietz gave the name a finality, as if something that had been shifting had now settled, taking on its final shape.
“Ailin,” Mama Dietz repeated softly.
Jena imagined her saying it thousands of times in the years to come.
Ailin, breakfast is ready. Time for bed, Ailin. Ailin, this needs to be tighter. Just one more mouthful, Ailin.
Keep your head down, Ailin. Follow. The others will show you the way. It is a day. Thanks be. The rock has allowed it.
“Ailin,” said Jena, and the word sounded right and good on her tongue. “It’s perfect,” she said again, and prayed it would be so.
Jena is four, perhaps five.
No, she is five.
Her birthday has slipped past unremarked upon. Unnoticed.
There has been no present – no doll stuffed with dried beans or straw. No rough-cut chunk of rabbit roasting on a spit in the hearth.
It is all right,
she tells herself. She doesn’t need a doll, because she has something better – a tiny sister, all her own.
Priya. Alana. Sian.
She has so many ideas but when she tells Papa, he shakes his head.
It is too early,
he says.
The baby is weak. The weight of a name will be too heavy upon her.
Still, they tumble through Jena’s head, weave quietly through her dreams.
Ilona. Caren.
Some are pretty and others strong. It has something to do with the way they end – some are open, reaching into sky, while others are sure and steady, like stone.
Give my sister a strong name,
she thinks.
Give her a name that will keep her here with us.
It is two moons since Mama went in the ground. There is a chill in the air and a ring of white on the tips of the mountain’s fingers.
Sometimes Papa takes Jena to the place where she lies. Jena strokes the pebble they have chosen from the spring. Rollers are allowed too, and crumblers – stones the mountain has released from itself. But water stones are the best. They are cool and smooth. They come from a quiet place and that seems right for Mama, for this.
Papa sits there too long, the Mothers say. She has heard them talking while she lies in the Centre. It will be Wintering soon; he should be climbing across roofs with his hammer and nails, plugging holes, crisscrossing planks of wood one upon the other.
I’m five,
she says to Papa one morning. It is important that he knows. She may not get a doll or a rabbit, but nothing can stop the numbers. She is glad to be five. It is one year closer to seven and seven is what everybody wants. Seven is when you start training in the maze, then the shallow tunnels. Seven is one year away from taking your place in the line, if they choose you.
They will choose her. Jena knows it as surely as spring follows even the longest of winters. As surely as the numbers that move upwards year upon year.
She has been good about her wrapping. She has lain still at the Centre without squirming or complaining. And when she is out, she has been keeping her muscles strong, doing all the exercises the Mothers say she must.
But when she tells Papa, his face is blank. He looks through her, his eyes somewhere else.
Later, he comes to the Centre. She hears his voice and turns her head but there are beds in the way, and cribs after that. She can’t see anything but she knows it is him. She strains her ears towards the sound but a baby is crying and it is hard to
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