Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 18 of 63

The storm sealed the cut like a shut door. Inside, the light went gray-blue. Bram unclipped the mechanical owl from his belt and set it on the gravel, where it folded and hissed. Parisa knelt by the pack, still holding the dented brass compass. The needle had not moved since they came in. It pointed past the back wall of the cut, deeper into the mountain. "It's still pulling," she said. She stood and walked toward the rear of the cut. The gravel gave way to a narrow crack in the rock, black and cold, wide enough for a person. "Parisa." Bram got up. "That's not shelter. That's a hole." "He's down there. Or something of his is." She turned the compass in her hand. The needle held on the crack. "You said you'd help me find him." "I said I'd fly for him. He fell four days ago. He went over the cliff. Sigrun has the one who lived." "Then whose compass is this?" She lifted it. "It knows where he is. It has been right every time." He stepped closer. The wind above the slabs sounded like an engine. "If you go in there and the storm holds three hours, I can't dig you out. I don't have rope. I don't have light past what's in my pack. I have a bird that can't fly in this." "Then come with me." "No." She took one step toward the crack. He caught her wrist. He felt her go still under his hand, and he knew he had one sentence before she pulled away for good. "Listen to me." He kept his voice low. "I flew off a route to find him. I put a prototype into rocks. I did what you paid for. He is gone. The compass points at a body, or at a coat, or at nothing. I won't lose you to a needle." Her eyes did not move from his. "Let go of my wrist." He let go. She did not step forward. She looked at the crack for a long moment. Then she closed the compass lid. The click was small and clear in the cut. "After the storm," she said. "We mark it. We tell Sigrun. Someone comes back with rope." "Yes." She sat down against the rock. Her hands were shaking. She pressed the compass flat against her knee to stop them. Bram sat beside her. The owl vented steam onto his boot. Outside, the storm dragged snow across the slabs and did not let up. He had held her back. He still had her. The compass was closed in her lap, and the crack in the wall waited, and his last package flew south without him. When the wind broke, he would have to choose again: finish the route, or go into the mountain with her.