forever. Had she been alone, the prospect of spending an entire day walking away from every familiar sign of life would have terrified her. As it was, she felt a desolate ache at the sight of the rising sun ahead of her, with the realization that even when it set she would still be heading in the same direction.
Yalda looked toward her father. He said nothing, but he met her gaze reassuringly, quelling her fears. She glanced down at Dario, but his eyes were closed; he’d drifted back to sleep already.
They passed the morning trudging through farmland, surrounded by fields so similar that Yalda was driven to hunt for patterns in the pebbles by the roadside just to prove to herself that they really were making progress. The idea that they might have lost their way and circled back was fanciful—the road was straight, and they’d been following the sun—but spotting these private signposts made a welcome diversion.
Around noon, Vito roused Dario. They turned off the road and sat in the straw at the edge of a stranger’s field. Yalda could hear nothing but the wind moving through the crop and the faint hum of insects. Vito produced three loaves and Yalda offered one to Dario, who remained on her back; for a moment he appeared to be preparing to make a new limb for the occasion, but then the tentative bud on his shoulder disappeared and he used an existing hand to take the food.
“Have you ever been in the forest before?” Yalda asked him.
“A long time ago.”
“Why were you there? Was someone sick?”
“No!” Dario was scornful; he might be willing to play along with Doctor Livia’s ideas just to keep his family happy, but no one would have countenanced such nonsense in the past. “The forest was closer then.”
“Closer?” Yalda didn’t understand.
“Bigger,” Dario explained. “Some of these fields weren’t fields back then. When we weren’t busy with our own work, we used to help clear new fields, at the forest’s edge.”
Yalda turned to Vito. “Did you go too?”
“No,” he replied.
Dario said, “Your father wasn’t around then. This was in your grandmother’s time.”
“Oh.” Yalda tried to imagine Dario as a vigorous young man, plucking trees right out of the ground, her grandmother working beside him. “So the forest reached out to where we are now?”
“At least,” Dario said. “The trip only took us half a morning. But then, we weren’t carrying anyone on our backs.”
They finished their loaves. The sun had passed its highest point; Yalda could see their shadows slanting to the east. Vito said, “We should get moving again.”
As they set off down the road, Yalda kept her rear eyes on Dario to be sure that his grip didn’t falter. She could always wrap him in arms of her own, if necessary. But though he appeared a little drowsy from the meal, his eyes remained open.
“The forest was different in the old days,” he said. “Wilder. More dangerous.”
Yalda was intrigued. “Dangerous?”
Vito said, “Don’t frighten her.”
Dario buzzed dismissively. “There’s nothing to be frightened of now; nobody’s seen an arborine for years.”
“What’s an arborine?” Yalda asked.
Dario said, “Remember the story of Amata and Amato?”
“I never heard that one,” she replied. “You never told it to me.”
“I didn’t? It must have been your cousins.”
Yalda wasn’t sure whether Dario was teasing her or if he was genuinely confused. She waited until he asked innocently, “So would you like to hear it?”
“Of course!”
Vito interjected a hum of disapproval, but Yalda gazed at him pleadingly until it decayed into a reluctant murmur of acquiescence. How could she be too young to hear a story that her cousins had been told, when she was the one carrying its teller to the forest on her back, not them?
“At the end of the seventh age,” Dario began, “the world was gripped by a terrible famine. The crops were withering in the ground, and food was so scarce that instead of four children, every family had just two.
“Amata and Amato were two such children, and doubly precious to their father, Azelio, because of it. Whatever food he could scrounge went first to his children, and he would only eat when they swore that they were satisfied.
“Azelio was a good man, but he paid a high price for it: one morning he woke to find that he’d gone blind. He had sacrificed his sight to feed his children, so how could he find food for them now?
“When his daughter Amata saw what had happened, she told Azelio to rest. She said, ‘I will go with my co into the forest, and bring back enough seeds for all of us.’ The children were young and Azelio didn’t want to be parted from them, but he had no choice.
“The forest wasn’t far, but the plants closest to the edge had been stripped bare long ago. Amata and Amato kept going deeper, hunting for the food that no one else had reached.
“After six days, they came to a place where no man or woman had been before. The branches of the trees were so close together that it was impossible to see the sun, and the flowers shone without rest, day and night. The wild mother of wheat still grew there, and Amata and Amato filled pouches with its seeds, eating enough to keep up their strength, but determined to bring back sufficient food to restore their father’s sight.
“Above them, in the trees, the arborine was watching. He had never seen creatures like this before, and it filled him with rage to see them come into his garden and steal his food.
“Amata and Amato gathered all the seeds they could hope to carry, but they were weak from their journey so they decided to rest before setting back for the farm. They hollowed out spaces in the soil and lay down to sleep.
“Like the flowers around him, the arborine never slept, so for a long time he didn’t understand the intruders’ condition. But when he finally realized that they were blind to the world, he crawled onto a branch above them and reached down to wrap his arms around Amata.
“In his anger, though, he’d misjudged his strength; lifting her up wasn’t easy. Amata was halfway into the trees when she woke, and the arborine’s grip faltered. She fought him and broke free, falling to the ground.
“When she hit the ground she was too stunned to move, but she called out to her co to flee. He rose to his feet and began to run, but the arborine was faster, darting from branch to branch above him. When Amato tripped on the root of a tree, the arborine reached down and took him. Unlike Amata, the boy was light enough to lift… and small enough to swallow.”
Dario hesitated. “It’s not too frightening for you?” he asked.
Yalda was squirming inside at the scene he’d described, but she suspected that Dario was merely making fun of Vito’s qualms. She gazed down at him as calmly as she could and replied, “Not at all. Please go on.”
“Amata was mad with grief,” Dario continued, “but there was nothing she could do. She ran through the forest, trying to imagine what she would tell her father. He had lost his sight to save their lives; this news would kill him.
“Then Amata’s way was blocked by a fallen branch, and an idea came to her. She smashed two rocks together until she had a shard sharp enough to cut the wood. And she carved the branch into the shape of Amato.
“When she reached the farm, she dropped all the seeds she’d gathered on the ground in front of her father, and he rejoiced at the sound. Then she told him, ‘Amato is sick from his travels; as you lost your sight, he has lost the power of speech. But in time, with rest and food, you will both recover.’
“Azelio was filled with sadness, but when he touched his son’s shoulders the boy still felt strong, so he tried to stay hopeful.
“In the days that followed, they feasted on half the seed, and Azelio took Amata’s word that both his children were sated before he ate. Amata planted the rest of the seed in their fields, and it began to grow. With her strength restored, she managed to gather more food from the edge of the forest, and the two of them saw out the famine.
“Azelio’s sight did not return, but he was reconciled to that. What he could not accept was Amato’s unbroken silence.
