Mark's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Mark had promised her a home by nightfall, and the sun was already low. He stood at the edge of the clearing with no hammer, no nails, and no saw. They had run here with only what they could carry. The people who wanted them apart were still out there, somewhere behind the trees. Mark looked at the woman he loved, shivering beside their small pile of blankets, and knew he could not let her sleep in the open. "I'll get a wall up," he said. He kept his voice steady for her. "One wall tonight. More tomorrow." He found a young tree at the clearing's edge and set to work with his bare hands. The bark tore his palms. The trunk would not break. He threw his weight against it until his arms burned, and the tree barely leaned. Night was coming fast. He had no tool to cut a single board. Then her cat slipped past his legs. The sleek black animal trotted toward a flat gray stone half-buried in the dirt. It pawed at something beside it, then sat and stared at Mark with bright green eyes. Mark knelt. Under the stone lay a chunk of flint, long as his forearm. Someone had shaped it into a blade, jagged and keen along one edge. He tested the point against his thumb and drew a thin line of blood. A tool. A real tool at last. He dragged the flint blade across the young tree's trunk. Chips flew. The work was slow and ugly, but the wood gave way. Mark cut one pole, then stripped its branches. He cut a second. His hands cramped and bled, yet the pile of poles grew. The cat watched from the warm stone. The sun touched the treeline. Mark had enough wood for a frame, but no time to raise it and no twine to bind it. The wall he promised would not stand tonight. He pressed the blade flat against his knee and let out a long breath. He had failed to beat the dark. He turned to tell her the truth. She was not looking at him. She was looking past his shoulder, her mouth open. Mark spun. Where the clearing had been empty, a small shelter now stood. Pale stone walls. A curved roof shingled in blue. Strange marks glowed soft along the doorframe, and carved vines climbed the wood. It had not been there a minute ago. The cat rose and walked toward the glowing door as if it knew the way. Mark gripped the flint blade and stepped in front of her. The shelter offered them a roof tonight. But he had not built it, and he did not know who had. He could not sleep in a thing he could not explain, and he could not keep her in the cold. "Stay behind me," he said, and reached for the door.