Ammonite

Marghe hefted her pack and looked at Thenike. They started walking.

By midday the sun had burned the clouds away; they walked at a good pace, and by the time the grass became striped with streaks and patches of burn they were sweating. They detoured around the field of nodding olla flowers, but the thick, sweet scent made breathing difficult. They tied scarves around their noses and mouths and slowed their pace a little. They were in no rush.

Evening. The grave was visible from a good distance: a brown mound rising from black. Their footsteps were loud as they crunched over the plain of cinder.

In the eight days since the grave had been dug, there had been winds from the southwest, and the base of the mound was lightly dusted with pinkish yellow pollen. Marghe knelt, pulled down her scarf, laid a hand on the mound; under the powdery burned smell lurked the scent of sun‑dried dirt, a light, end‑of‑summer scent.

The end of many things.

There was something sharp under her palm. She poked at the dirt with an index finger, then picked up several tiny white shards. Broken shells.

Thenike knelt and wrapped her arms around Marghe from behind. “This used to be a lake, an inland sea. Long, long ago.”

They listened to the warm soughing of their breath, reeling muscles warm and alive over strong bones. After a while, Marghe put the shells back; the grave did not seem complete without them.

When the sun set, the night turned cold, and they built a fire. Marghe set two bowls of dap to warm by the fire, then settled down to toast a piece of soca on her knife.

After a while, Thenike dipped a thumb into the nearest bowl. “Dap’s hot.” They sipped, staring into the flames.

“They’re like the sea,” Marghe said, “always changing. I never get tired of watching.”

Thenike put her bowl down by the fire to keep warm and took her drums from their case.

“A song?”

“For you, Marghe Amun.”

She sang softly of a woman who walked the shore of a long‑forgotten sea, collecting seashells, shells she would string to make a necklace for her love. The woman took the shells home and washed them carefully, and dried them. Some glimmered blue and pearl, like her lover’s eyes; others glowed pink and caramel, like her skin; one shimmered blue‑black, as mysterious as the sea at midnight…

Marghe thought of the suke hanging around her neck, the ammonite Thenike had carefully remembered and reproduced for Leifin to carve, and smiled.

Thenike sang on, and while the drum beat softly and the flames danced, Marghe set her face north, toward Ollfoss. Toward home.

Acknowledgments

This is a first novel. It took a while to get to this point. I want to thank the following people for their help along the way: Lyall Watson, from whose Gifts of Unknown ThingsI borrowed ideas; the students and teachers of Clarion ’88; David Pringle; my sisters, Julie and Carolyn and A

Special love and thanks go to: Carol Taylor for all those years of faith, love and encouragement and my parents, Margot and Eric Griffith, for everything.