Delphine Fernside's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

Della knelt at the mouth of the hollow and watched the salamander on his shelf. He had not moved. Her crates sat cool against the clay wall, packed with moss, full of fruit that would have spoiled in the sun. She had taken his roof for her own use. She would take it again tomorrow, and the day after, every time she came back for berries. The thought sat heavy in her chest. She could not keep borrowing without giving something back. She crawled out and looked around. Past the fern curtain the ground opened into a damp stretch of dark moss, threaded with bare roots and small puddles caught in the dips. Tiny shapes moved at the edges of the water. A second salamander watched her from under a root. A third slid across a wet stone. This was their place, the whole patch of it, and the hollow was only one door into a larger house. Della sat back and thought about what salamanders ate. Grampy had told her once. Soft things. Slugs, grubs, beetles. She had nothing like that in her pockets. But she had her eyes, and she had time before Grampy came back. She searched under the flat rocks where she had pulled the moss. A fat slug curled against the cool underside of one stone, its body soft as pudding. She lifted it carefully onto her palm. She needed a dish for it. She remembered the small tin she carried for seeds, empty now at the bottom of her apron pocket. She set the slug inside. It settled against the rim without fuss. Then she looked for something bigger, something that would last past today. A short way off she found a fallen log split lengthwise, its inside hollowed soft by rot. She dragged it close to the fern curtain and scraped the groove clean with a stick. Into the groove she tipped a handful of grubs from under the bark, two pill bugs, and a beetle she shook from a leaf. She placed the tin beside the log, at the very mouth of the hollow, where the salamander on the shelf could see it without leaving his stone. Then she pulled an acorn from her pocket. She had picked it up days ago because the cap fit so neatly. With the point of a twig and a smear of strawberry juice she drew a small lopsided salamander on its side, yellow blotches and all. She set the acorn beside the tin. It was a poor drawing. She meant it anyway. The salamander on the shelf blinked once. The slug stayed in its tin. Della crawled out, brushed the dirt from her knees, and stood. The hollow was still his. But now she had paid her rent, and tomorrow she could come back without feeling like a thief.