from the bottom to the foundation. They did not pull but were carried—and Vimbai cried out and opened her eyes once she discerned the beasts that did all the pulling.
“She’s in shock,” Maya said to the ghosts, and patted Vimbai’s hand. “Hang in there, sweetheart. You’ll be fine, you just have to warm up a little.”
Vimbai just shivered in response, thinking of the monsters—giant, ancient—pulling the house along. Monsters that left deep gouges in the sand, barnacles on their cracked carapaces, their eyes rotted out, their tails broken. They moved on clawed legs covered in cracked exoskeleton, exposing rotting bits of their flesh. Hagfish followed them, occasionally swimming up and ripping out chunks of putrid flesh, and still they moved—gigantic, undead horseshoe crabs, animated by some ancient and unknown will.
The vadzimu took Vimbai’s hands into hers. “What have you seen, granddaughter?”
Vimbai shook her head and looked away, afraid that the terrible vision would leak from her eyes into her grandmother’s. She did not want to share, not just yet—sometimes one had to be alone with knowledge to absorb the enormity of it. Sure, a burden shared was lighter, but sometimes one needed to appreciate the entire weight so that the future relief would seem all the more precious. So Vimbai swallowed and stared out of the window, feeling blood pulsing in her lips, warming them.
The kettle blew a sharp whistle, and Maya hurried to make her a cup of tea. Vimbai swallowed the scalding fluid, not caring that the skin in her mouth peeled, her stomach filling with warmth—filling with life, and the sensation was enough to chase away the terrible image crowding her mind.
She tried to make sense of it, as she always did—when she was little, she was taught that any problem had a solution, and if one just jiggled the pieces a little and squinted, looked at them sideways, then the general pattern would become apparent and everything would fit, suddenly, in a flash.
When she became older, she learned that some problems resisted such treatment—they were solved not by a flash of inspiration and sudden insight but by tedious, boring work—and too often, one did not truly solve them, just demonstrated enough of the ability to think to earn a passing grade, but the solution of the problem remained unknown.
But neither inspirational nor incremental approaches helped her to deal with the undead crabs. She was willing to accept that the house and the three housemates plus assorted ghosts fit together, that the horseshoe crabs were their allies and the fishes who devoured souls were enemies; she could live with her ability to control the crabs, just like she could forgive Maya her half-foxes and Felix his desiccated heads. But she could not move past the simple acceptance and start finding answers to why and how and who and for what purpose. She could only shiver in front of the stove and drink tea.
The two worldviews were at an impasse again, and there was not much Vimbai could do besides trying to incorporate them both; pinning them against each other so that either one would yield answers seemed far beyond her capabilities.
“Why did you jump into the water?” Maya asked, apparently judging Vimbai to have recovered enough.
“I couldn’t take the stairs,” Vimbai said. “I was attacked by the shrubs, and didn’t have a knife. I called, but no one came. There were prickly shrubs chasing me all the way to my room, and they smelled like a hospital.”
Maya arched her eyebrows. “I haven’t seen them, but if you say so. It was still a stupid thing to do.”
“I know,” Vimbai said. “But it’s not like there were other options.”
“There are always other options,” Maya said. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room, and I’ll show you a workaround for the stairs. And then you’ll go to bed and sleep and feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” Vimbai agreed and stood up, still shivering, clutching
“She’s in shock,” Maya said to the ghosts, and patted Vimbai’s hand. “Hang in there, sweetheart. You’ll be fine, you just have to warm up a little.”
Vimbai just shivered in response, thinking of the monsters—giant, ancient—pulling the house along. Monsters that left deep gouges in the sand, barnacles on their cracked carapaces, their eyes rotted out, their tails broken. They moved on clawed legs covered in cracked exoskeleton, exposing rotting bits of their flesh. Hagfish followed them, occasionally swimming up and ripping out chunks of putrid flesh, and still they moved—gigantic, undead horseshoe crabs, animated by some ancient and unknown will.
The vadzimu took Vimbai’s hands into hers. “What have you seen, granddaughter?”
Vimbai shook her head and looked away, afraid that the terrible vision would leak from her eyes into her grandmother’s. She did not want to share, not just yet—sometimes one had to be alone with knowledge to absorb the enormity of it. Sure, a burden shared was lighter, but sometimes one needed to appreciate the entire weight so that the future relief would seem all the more precious. So Vimbai swallowed and stared out of the window, feeling blood pulsing in her lips, warming them.
The kettle blew a sharp whistle, and Maya hurried to make her a cup of tea. Vimbai swallowed the scalding fluid, not caring that the skin in her mouth peeled, her stomach filling with warmth—filling with life, and the sensation was enough to chase away the terrible image crowding her mind.
She tried to make sense of it, as she always did—when she was little, she was taught that any problem had a solution, and if one just jiggled the pieces a little and squinted, looked at them sideways, then the general pattern would become apparent and everything would fit, suddenly, in a flash.
When she became older, she learned that some problems resisted such treatment—they were solved not by a flash of inspiration and sudden insight but by tedious, boring work—and too often, one did not truly solve them, just demonstrated enough of the ability to think to earn a passing grade, but the solution of the problem remained unknown.
But neither inspirational nor incremental approaches helped her to deal with the undead crabs. She was willing to accept that the house and the three housemates plus assorted ghosts fit together, that the horseshoe crabs were their allies and the fishes who devoured souls were enemies; she could live with her ability to control the crabs, just like she could forgive Maya her half-foxes and Felix his desiccated heads. But she could not move past the simple acceptance and start finding answers to why and how and who and for what purpose. She could only shiver in front of the stove and drink tea.
The two worldviews were at an impasse again, and there was not much Vimbai could do besides trying to incorporate them both; pinning them against each other so that either one would yield answers seemed far beyond her capabilities.
“Why did you jump into the water?” Maya asked, apparently judging Vimbai to have recovered enough.
“I couldn’t take the stairs,” Vimbai said. “I was attacked by the shrubs, and didn’t have a knife. I called, but no one came. There were prickly shrubs chasing me all the way to my room, and they smelled like a hospital.”
Maya arched her eyebrows. “I haven’t seen them, but if you say so. It was still a stupid thing to do.”
“I know,” Vimbai said. “But it’s not like there were other options.”
“There are always other options,” Maya said. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room, and I’ll show you a workaround for the stairs. And then you’ll go to bed and sleep and feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” Vimbai agreed and stood up, still shivering, clutching
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