The Line by Teri Hall Page B

indulgent, not angry. Pathik was relieved; there would be no arguing that night.
    “Just remember, Pathik.” His grandfather held the trekker up by the bead he had trapped and flicked the other end with his finger, making the loose beads fly up and down on the twine. “As long as the sun has not set on a day, anything can happen.” Malgam exhaled a dramatic sigh, and Indigo laughed, reached across the small fire to muss his son’s hair. “Always the practical one, Malgam,” he said.
    “Somebody has to be, don’t they, Da?” Malgam reached into his pack, withdrew his spare knife. “Speaking of practical,” he said, “I think you’ll probably need this.” He tossed the knife to Pathik, who barely caught it, stunned at the casualness of his father’s action. Knives were hard to come by, at least real knives, from before. Malgam’s spare was a good knife; steel blade, sturdy handle. Pathik tilted it so the blade caught the light of the fire, traced the edge with his finger. He looked up at his father, who was studying him from beneath his hat brim, gauging his reaction. “Take care of it, Pathik,” he said. “I can’t give you another one.” Pathik felt something then, something tight, coming from his father. He was worried, Pathik thought, worried about the trek. First treks could be dangerous; more than one adolescent had not returned to base camp.
    “I’ll be fine, Da.” Pathik slid the knife into his own pack. “Thanks.”
    They spent the rest of that evening quietly, two men and a boy (though Pathik felt quite manly, since he was going on his first solo trek in the morning) gathered around a small campfire, each with his own thoughts, each tied to the others in the tenuous ways that had become all that was left, Away, of family—all that might be left of anything, really.
     
     
    TO PATHIK, HUDDLED now in the strange field he had been camped near for six days, that first trek seemed like it had happened ages ago. He had been on many since then, foraging for firewood, hunting, looking for better base camp sites. None of his other treks had had so vital a purpose though. Nor had any taken him this close to the Line. Kinec and Jab, his companions on this trek, didn’t like its proximity at all; both had refused, after the first night, to journey to the stand of oaks where Pathik waited now. Instead, they had remained at the camp by the stream.
    That first night the sight of the house made entirely of glass, something they had all heard stories about since they were little, seemed to unnerve them. Indigo had explained that the building was called a green house, that the glass allowed the sun’s warmth to provide a perfect environment for the orchids Indigo said grew inside. But Pathik had always secretly wondered if it was just one of Indigo’s stories.
    “It’s real,” Jab had whispered that first night, staring at the structure.
    “It’s just a building,” Pathik had retorted, though he too was awed by the sight of the house, all the glass intact, gleaming in the moonlight. He had heard about this house on many evenings, when they were all tired from a day of hunting, or hauling water to the corn plants, or stacking wood. It was a part of a favorite fire tale told by his grandfather—and here it was, come to life. Jab and Kinec had exchanged glances, not convinced by Pathik’s facade of nonchalance. The reality of the glass house made them think of other fire tales, not so happy as that one. If this house actually existed, then those other, far more frightening fire tales might be true as well.
    It had taken them four days to reach the stream, and they didn’t find the place where it disappeared into the ground until midmorning on the fifth day. It was just as Indigo had described it—one moment the stream was flowing lazily along; the next it was gone, replaced by marshy grassland. It looked like magic until you examined the area and saw the lush growth that indicated the stream’s