Mrs. Hansen's Arc

Chapter 15 of 15

Mrs. Hansen touched the necklace at her throat and looked past Mr. Hansen at the greenhouse. The shaft opening yawned inside, still leaking cold air from the collapse. She told him what she had seen before the floor gave way. The steel chest. The clay containers. The pale green shoots pushing up through the seed heads, alive after who knew how many years underground. Mr. Hansen wiped his hands on his overalls. "They'll die down there," he said. "No light. No water once the passage seals." She nodded. The passage was already shifting. She had heard stones falling behind her as she ran. If they were going to save the seeds, it had to be now. They walked to the barn together. Mrs. Hansen lifted the trap door she had climbed out of an hour before. The air below smelled of wet earth and old stone. Mr. Hansen brought a lantern and a damp burlap sack from the feed room, its weave soft with moisture, its mouth tied loose. Damp cloth would keep the sprouts alive on the trip up. He handed her the sack and took the lantern himself. "I go first this time," he said. She did not argue. He climbed down the ladder into the passage and held the light for her. The tunnel groaned above them as they walked. Dust sifted from the ceiling in thin lines. When they reached the collapsed chamber, Mrs. Hansen knelt by the steel chest and lifted the clay containers one by one into the damp sack. The shoots were fragile, no thicker than thread. She worked fast. Mr. Hansen stood with the lantern and watched the low overhang where a stone had already dropped since her last visit. "Move," he said, quiet. A crack ran along the wall behind her. She tied the sack, cradled it against her chest, and followed him back the way they had come. Behind them, a beam gave way. The sound was flat and final, like a door closing. By the time they climbed out from under the barn, the passage to the chamber had sealed itself in rubble. Mrs. Hansen carried the sack to the greenhouse and set it on the bench. She untied the mouth and lifted out the clay containers, one by one, into the light. The shoots were still pale, still standing. She pressed her thumb into the soil of the first pot and felt it give. She would plant them here, in the ground the old inhabitants had prepared, in the greenhouse she had built with her own hands. She had spent her savings on feed. She had refused the money from her sister. She had gone down alone into the dark and come back up with what mattered. The farm would feed her family through the spring, and next year it would feed them from seed older than any of them. Mr. Hansen stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He looked at the pots, then at her. "You did it," he said. That was all. He turned and walked back toward the house to start the coffee. Mrs. Hansen stayed with the seeds. She fastened the necklace tighter at her throat and set to work.