The Stone and the Leaf
Faye came down the fern path with the warm stone held in both hands. She had found it up on the ridge, where the sun had sat on it all afternoon. Now the sun was gone and the whole valley was turning blue. Plum rode on her shoulder with her sleepy lids half down. The stone kept the day inside it, steady and heavy, like a small animal asleep. Warm rain had fallen earlier, and Faye's footprints behind her were slowly filling with water. Somewhere below, down where the mist pooled between the ferns, something small was clicking.
Faye stopped where the ferns grew tall. Cold came up off the hollow and touched her knees. The mist down there lay flat and white, like milk in a bowl. The clicking came again, small and quick and patient. Plum turned her head all the way round and looked into the white. Faye went down the slope one step at a time, holding the stone against her chest. The air got cooler with every step, and the stone felt warmer because of it. At the bottom, a stream ran through the ferns, breathing steam into the cold. On the far side, something small was shivering.
Faye knelt at the edge. The water was warm, warmer than her bath, warm as the stone itself. But the steam sat thick on top of it, and she could not see her own feet. That was the part she did not like. She said so out loud, to Plum, because saying it made it smaller. Plum blinked her heavy lids and shuffled down onto Faye's wrist. Across the water, the shivering thing clicked again. It was a little ridge-backed dinosaur, no bigger than a dog, sitting on the cold stones with its tail curled under it.
Faye put one foot in. The warmth climbed her ankle like a sleeve. One step, then wait. Then one more, she told herself, and that was how she went. The stones under her feet were round and friendly. Plum flew low beside her, wingtips nearly brushing the steam, hooting a small hoot each time Faye stopped. Halfway across, the water reached her knees and the mist reached her chin. She stood still there until her heart slowed down. Then she took the next step, and the next, and the stream grew shallow again, and she was on the other side.
The little ridge-back looked up at her. Its sides went in and out, fast, the way cold breathing goes. In the curl of its tail it was keeping something: a folded leaf, and inside the leaf a beetle with a green light in its belly. The light was very low. Faye crouched down slowly, the way you do with a bird. She held out the warm stone on both palms. The little one leaned its nose against it, then its whole chin, then its cheek. Faye felt the heat go out of her hands and into the cold animal.
She let go. The ridge-back settled around the stone like a hen, and its breathing slowed and went quiet. Faye's hands felt empty and light. Then the little one nudged the folded leaf across the stones toward her, and nudged it again, until it touched her knee. Faye lifted it carefully. The beetle inside shifted, and the green light came up a little, the way a lamp does when you carry it in out of the cold. Plum made the smallest sound in her throat. The hollow was still cold, but Faye was not shivering, and neither was anybody else.
Going back, the water was only water. Faye held the leaf high in one hand and watched the green light wobble on the steam. One step, then wait. Then one more. She said it anyway, because she liked how it sounded. Plum rode her shoulder again and leaned warm against her ear. On the bank she turned and looked back. The little ridge-back was a dark round shape in the mist, curled tight around the day's heat, asleep already. Faye climbed the slope. The air grew warmer with every step, and the ferns closed softly behind her.
Her sleeping place was a hollow of moss between two old roots, still holding the afternoon in it. Faye lay down and set the leaf beside her cheek. Plum settled by her ear with her feet tucked away. Rain began again, warm and slow, pattering on the broad leaves overhead. The beetle walked one small circle in its leaf and folded itself up. One step, then wait. Then one more, Faye whispered, with her eyes already closed. The green light dimmed, and dimmed, and went out, and the dark was as warm as her hands had been.
