It will work, she told herself. Risa and Jacklo just need to find me a way down.
She thought again of what it was going to be like to meet her first stranger, and wanted to be on her way. A new person! It’s going to be as incredible as seeing a waterfall.
Risa flew back first. “It’s worse that way. Sheer rock for miles. It will take at least two days to reach someplace where you could climb down safely.”
Mayka felt heavy, as if all the stone of her body wanted to sink into the earth. She’d been hoping to reach the valley by morning at least. She stared out at the valley—so close and so far, still so very far.
“Where’s Jacklo?” Risa asked.
Mayka pointed in the direction he’d flown.
“He knows how far he’s supposed to fly before he returns. We’ve done this before,” Risa said, landing on a root near Mayka. They waited for a few more minutes. “Sometimes he gets distracted.”
They waited some more.
Still no Jacklo.
Risa settled her wings around her. “I’m not going to look for him. I’m not his mother. He’s not my pet. If he can’t be responsible—”
Seeing a shadow slip through the sky, Mayka pointed. “There he is!”
He danced with the clouds, flipping and somersaulting in the air, clearly performing for them as he swooped in front of the cliff.
“Jacklo, that’s enough!” Risa called.
“Oh, but the wind is so wonderful! Can’t you feel it, Risa? Northerly wind! I could fly for hours in it!” He swooped past them again, and Mayka felt a breeze on her face as his wings were inches from her nose.
“The cliff, Jacklo!” Mayka called. “How far does it go?”
He did a figure eight. “Not sure. But I found something. Come see!” They followed him along the edge of the cliff for several minutes. Mayka climbed around brambles and ducked under branches. And then, without warning, Jacklo soared out over the cliff and plummeted down. Sighing, Risa flapped after him, while Mayka crawled to the edge and peered over.
As in the area close to the waterfall, vines were everywhere, woven like a rug over the rock. Lying on her stomach, she watched as the birds, working together, grabbed at vines with their beaks and pulled them backwards. Was that . . .
Jacklo crowed, “Stairs!”
Stairs?
But who would have carved . . .
Father.
It had to be Father. “Once upon a time,” she whispered, “there was a man who wanted to live in the mountains . . .” She didn’t know all of her father’s story, but she could imagine at least a piece of it.
If it was a story, she could begin to understand it.
He had to want to come here badly enough to climb this cliff. She looked out again at the valley—the distant city, if that’s what it was, was beginning to sparkle as shadows spread across the fields and rivers. The sun was sinking. The sky was still lemon yellow, but the low light made the rocks glow amber. “He encountered a cliff, and so he carved himself stairs . . .”
Reaching down, she began to yank at the vines near the top. Jacklo and Risa pulled others away, snipping leaves with their beaks, until they had exposed a step. It wasn’t a very broad step, and dirt had settled into its grooves. But Mayka knew stone, and she knew the chips in it weren’t natural. A tooth chisel had touched this rock. She stretched out her arm and touched the scratches filled in with dirt.
Working patiently, the two birds pulled and yanked and snipped at the greenery on the cliff as the sun set and shadows settled over the forest. As the moon came out, they kept working, clearing away greenery, while she waited at the top—able to hear them but not able to see much more than movement as they made their way down.
They worked through the night.
At dawn, as the moon faded from view and the sky lightened, she saw that the two birds were done: crude steps were revealed on the cliff face. The rising sun painted the rocks with yellow and rosy pink.
The two birds landed on her shoulders as Mayka began to climb down. They issued instructions: step here, watch that one—it’s loose—hold there, move a little left, now right . . . As she climbed, her fingers touched the grooves that her father had carved so many years ago. He’d climbed up these steps and never climbed back down.
Or had he?
Why did he make stairs if he never returned to the valley? He could have used ropes to climb up, or found a way around, but instead he’d carved permanent steps into the cliff. She wondered if he did return to the valley.
But no, he couldn’t have. One of her friends would have known if he’d ever left, and they would have told her. They wouldn’t have kept that story from her.
Maybe he didn’t return. But maybe he meant to.
She wondered what he’d think if he knew she was on his steps now. Would he be angry, or proud? She didn’t know. But she did know she was more determined than ever to see Father’s valley.
At last, she was at the bottom.
“See?” Jacklo said smugly. “We were useful.”
Risa fluttered her wings. “Now will you stop being all noble and silly, and agree to let us come with you the rest of the journey? You know we’re going to do it anyway.”
“Please, Mayka!” Jacklo begged. “Please, please, please say you want us with you!”
Of course she wanted them with her. They were her friends! She’d never been apart from any of them for more than a few hours. If Jacklo and Risa came with her, it would feel like bringing a piece of home. But was that a good enough reason to agree? She’d meant only to risk herself.
Dusting the dirt off her hands, Mayka looked back up at the cliff with its crude stairs. She couldn’t have done that without the birds, right? Maybe she’d been foolish to think she could do this alone. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as simple as she’d thought. She might need help, if she was going to return as quickly as she wanted.
Now, that’s a good reason! Even Nianna would have to agree with her logic, now that the birds had proved this wasn’t a task for only one. She grinned at her two friends. “Yes, I’d like you to come.”
The two birds cheered, and together, they continued on through the forest that covered the mountainside—down toward the valley.
Chapter
Four
Mayka walked out of the woods with two birds on her shoulders—and she stopped and stared. Ahead was a golden field, flat, so very flat, with soft stalks of pale yellow grasses that swayed in the wind. Beyond it was a river that cut through the land, and she saw trees on either side of the river’s edge. A wooden fence ran through the field, and sheep grazed on one side of the fence. She’d never seen a sheep, but Father had described them: fluffy white clouds with feet.
Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward, off the mountain. The dirt in the field was soft, and she sank into it. She drew her foot back—she’d left a print, but not a deep one. The grasses had bent and broken under her foot. It felt strangely significant.
I never meant to leave my mark on the valley.
She stared at her footprint and then began to feel silly for staring. It was just a dent in the dirt, but it felt like the most phenomenal step she’d ever taken. Come on, Mayka, move. You can’t just stand here.
“Ready?” she asked the birds.
“Of course!” Jacklo cried. “On to adventure!”
Adventures used to be only in stories told on a summer night, or in stories whispered to comfort your friends in the middle of a storm. She wasn’t supposed to have adventures. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have left home. Maybe I should turn around right now.
No, she told herself firmly. This will be a grand adventure, and I’ll love every minute of it. And then in a few days, it will be over, and we’ll be home safe and sound and with a stonemason.
Risa fluttered on her shoulder. “Jacklo, we should talk about what your definition of adventure is. I don’t like the lack of trees.”
“Aw, you
sound like Dersy,” Jacklo said to Risa. “What are you worried about? There’s plenty of sky for us to escape to!”
“But there aren’t enough trees for Mayka to hide in if she gets scared,” Risa pointed out. “And we’re here to look out for her, remember?”
“It’s okay,” Mayka said, before they could launch into another argument. “I’m not scared.” And she found that she was smiling. I’m really doing this!
She set off across the field, while Jacklo and Risa rode on her shoulders.
The wind blew gently across the valley, and the wheat bent as if it were brushed by the palm of an invisible hand. With a coaxing whisper, the wind curled around Mayka, unable to move her stone hair, but she felt it on her stone face and body. Unblocked by trees, the sun warmed her.
“Lots of sheep,” Jacklo said. “It’s a shame they can’t talk.”
Hearing him, one of the sheep raised its head and bleated, “Maaaaaaaah!” It sounded a lot like Father’s goats. Somehow she’d expected sheep to be . . . more elegant than goats. She’d heard plenty of stories with picturesque meadows full of sheep. Never goats.
Closer, the sheep looked more solid than clouds. Also dirtier, as if the cloud had been plunged into a mud puddle. But still, her first sheep! And there, beyond the flock, was a road, a dirt path that up close looked like an inverted riverbed, minus the river, winding through the field. She aimed for it.
Far wider than the deer path from the mountain forest, this road looked as if it had been trampled by many feet and wagons—tracks were worn into the dirt. Reaching the road, she knelt and touched one of the grooves. She wondered how many people had passed this way, where they were going, whether they were on an adventure too. From the top of the mountain, she’d never been able to see the travelers, only imagine them. But she hadn’t ever imagined she’d be one of them. She felt giddy, as if her stone head were filled with bubbles.
“Should we follow it?” Jacklo asked.
“There aren’t a lot of options,” Risa said. “I don’t think the sheep can help us.”
“This is the plan,” Mayka said. If there was a road, it had to lead somewhere. That’s how roads worked in every story she knew. Roads had purposes, and, with luck, this one would serve their purpose. “Find the road, find a guide, and find a stonemason.”
“We’ll scout ahead,” Risa said, and took flight.
“Ooh, wait for me!” Jacklo followed her. “Don’t worry, Mayka, we won’t fly far!”
On the left side of the road, Mayka saw a few person-shaped footprints, deep in the mud, and she stepped in them. The prints were large, and the walker had worn shoes. She placed her foot in the steps, hopping to match the long-gone traveler’s stride. Amazing, she thought. She continued along the road, enjoying the sensation of placing her feet where human feet had been. Usually in the forest, when she found well-worn trails, they were made by deer, sometimes bears. Not feet shaped like hers. She wondered if any of the prints belonged to stone girls. Maybe someone like her had passed this way.
The birds circled back above her. “Found someone!” Jacklo called.
“But I don’t think he can help,” Risa added.
They led her off the road, across the field, to where a sandstone boulder lay against a lone apple tree. As she came closer, she saw that the boulder was shaped like a horse. The carving was rough, but she could make out the intended shape. It lay on its side, with its head resting against the trunk of the tree. Its stone eyes were open, gray, and sightless. Just stone.
Moss grew on its back, and weeds wound around its folded legs. Its hide was coarse, as if the carver hadn’t known how to polish rock. More the idea of a horse than a horse itself.
“Hello!” Jacklo shouted at it. He landed on the horse’s head and turned his neck sideways and upside down to look in the horse’s eye.
“Oh, hush,” said Risa, landing on a branch in the apple tree above the horse. “He can’t hear you. Not anymore.” To Mayka, she asked, “Can you read who he was and why he’s here?”
The markings were on his back—or at least they had been. Mayka touched the grooves in the stone. Most had eroded so badly she couldn’t read them. She ran her fingers over them, trying to make sense out of what they could have been. “Strength,” she said. “I think this is the mark for strength. He was strong. And . . . tireless? Patient? He never tired.”
“Except that he did,” Jacklo said. He pecked at the horse’s ears.
“Don’t do that,” Mayka told him.
“Why not? He doesn’t mind.”
“It’s not . . . I don’t know. Just don’t.” She ran her hands over the horse’s back, feeling the chisel marks. The rock was raw. He’d been shaped quickly, more like one of Father’s early models than a finished creature, but he had marks etched into him. He’d been alive, as rough as he was. “I wonder why a stonemason didn’t recarve his marks.”
“It looks like the stonemason didn’t do such a good job on him the first time,” Risa said as Jacklo scurried forward and pecked at a bug that was crawling along one of the grooves.
“Be nice,” Mayka chided her.
“I’m only being honest,” Risa said. “It’s clear he wasn’t made by a master.”
She’s right. Still, no matter how rough-hewn he was, it was troubling that he’d just been left here in a field. Like Turtle. If there were stonemasons in the valley, he could have been fixed, his marks recarved, his edges smoothed, his shape fine-tuned. Maybe the stonemasons were too far away to find him. Maybe they don’t know he’s here, she thought.
Straightening, Mayka looked across the field. From up on the mountain, she’d been able to see the valley stretching out like a blanket, as far as the distant city of Skye on a clear day. But now she could see only field after field, rolling gently into the distance. “We should keep going.”
Leaving the horse, they headed back to the road and continued on. Mayka wondered how many more stone creatures there were in the valley. At least they’d found one, even if he was still and had been that way for some time. So that meant there must be more, didn’t it?
The sun trekked across the sky, journeying with them, and she felt it warm her shoulders and hair. The birds sometimes flew ahead and sometimes rode on her shoulders—they were never out of sight. The fields continued: golden grasses in some and brilliant green in others. The green grew in neat rows, with rich brown dirt between them. The river sometimes flowed through the fields and sometimes along the road.
She looked around her as she walked, memorizing it all so she could tell the others when she and the birds were home again. They’d want to hear about everything, and she wanted to remember everything.
Returning from one of her scouting trips, Risa reported, “There’s a bridge ahead.”
More evidence of people! Mayka supposed the neat rows of green and the fences were also proof of people, but a bridge was a sign of someone who could work with stone. We’re getting closer! She picked up her pace, hurrying in a loping kind of run across the rolling hills. Soon, at the top of a hill, she saw the bridge. “That’s it?”
It was made of wood.
Flat planks had been laid one after another to arch up in a rainbow-like curve over the not-very-wide river. She walked down the hill toward it. Wood posts supported the bridge from beneath. “Well, someone had to make it, even if it’s not stone.” At least that meant . . . something? Not much, she admitted. She didn’t need a woodworker or a bridge builder; she needed a stonemason.
She’d expected to find one by now. Or at least find someone.
Crossing the bridge, Mayka tried to tell herself that the wooden bridge was a good sign, since its existence meant there were people somewhere in this valley. The boards creaked under her feet, as if whimpering from the weight. Stone would have been a better choice for a bridge, but maybe the stonemasons were too busy to build a bridge out to where only sheep lived. Or maybe there aren’t any stonemasons, a thought whispered. No stonemasons to build a
bridge, no stonemasons to fix the horse, no stonemasons to save your friends.
She refused to believe that.
They traveled another hour before they saw the farmhouse. It too was built of wood, and it was nestled in a grove of trees. Around it were more gold and green fields. Mayka sped up—running didn’t tire her stone legs, and now that she had a clear goal, it was easy to race down the road toward the house.
Closer, she saw that it was actually a collection of houses, rather than a single home. Several of them reminded her of their chicken coop, but much larger: these were barns, with wood plank walls painted with spirals and geometric patterns. One building, in the center, was bright blue with a sunny yellow porch and lots of windows. Someone must live there!
As she drew even closer, she saw a man in front of the farmhouse. He was wielding an ax and chopping wood into smaller chunks. She couldn’t tell at first if he was stone or flesh and blood—he wore a red shirt and his hair was black, but he could have been painted stone.
Flesh, she decided as she approached the yard. His skin had a sheen of sweat on it, and he was panting in great heavy breaths. His chest was so broad that she thought he could bend a tree with every exhalation.
“Excuse me?” Mayka called from the road. “Hello!” Her voice sounded higher than normal. I’m meeting someone new! What would he say? What would she say? Would he like her?
The man looked up, wiped his brow, and squinted at her. The sun was behind her, aimed directly at his eyes. “Hello, my dear, who are you?”
“My name’s Mayka, and these are my friends, Jacklo and Risa.” As the last living sculpture Father had carved, she’d never had to introduce herself before. She reveled in the new sensation.