Page 59 of The Memory Wood

It’s not the right moment, but I can’t wait any longer. ‘I made something,’ I say, lifting my T-shirt. ‘I made something for us.’

IV

From my waistband, I remove a roll of paper. Careful to remain hidden behind my torch beam, I place it beside the iron ring and retreat to the far wall. ‘Can you guess what it is?’

Gretel regards my creation with eyes that have never seemed so dull. For a while, dismayed, I think she’s going to ignore it. Finally, she picks it up, unrolling it like a scroll.

The grid took me two hours to make, marking out the lines with a ruler I stole from Papa’s toolbox. I used a pencil to shade the darker squares, sharpening it six times before I was finished. Now, in the torchlight, the paper shines with graphite. ‘Eight by eight, just like you said,’ I tell her proudly. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s … a little smudgy.’

My tummy clenches as if I’ve been kicked. ‘There was so much colouring-in. I couldn’t help getting a few fingerprints on it. I tried my best.’

At that, something seems to wake in Gretel’s face. ‘It’s a pretty good effort,’ she says. ‘A really good effort, actually. Considering you did it all on your own.’

‘Well, I didn’t have any help. Not from Papa or Mama or anyone.’ My torch beam moves around the cell, landing onGretel’s bag of chess pieces. I can almost hear the whisper of rosewood. Licking my lips, I say, ‘We have a board now.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So … does that mean we can play?’

My question hangs in the silence. Already, Gretel’s fingers are shiny with powdered graphite. ‘Yes, Elijah,’ she says. ‘It means we can. Thank you. Thank you for doing this.’

My chest swells. I watch her place my makeshift board on the floor. She uses her palms to flatten out the creases, and then … and then …

For a moment, my horror is so overwhelming I can’t breathe. Due to the angle of my torch, I don’t notice the puddle of filthy water until it’s too late. The paper soaks it up like a sponge. When Gretel tries to whip it away, a sharp nub of rock tears it to pieces.

‘Oh,’ she says, distraught. ‘Oh, Elijah. I’m … I’m so sorry.’

Water drips from the ragged mess.

It’s not her fault.

It’s just a stupid, stupid accident.

‘It’s OK,’ I tell her.

There’s a pressure in my head, as if something’s bursting to get loose. I want to reassure her further, but my teeth grind together, making an awful squealing sound.

Gretel’s green eyes flare. She edges backwards, as if something in my voice has scared her. ‘I mean it, Elijah, I’m sorry. After all that work … this place … I just …’

My fingers flex and unflex. I watch her for a long moment. Gradually, the pressure in my head begins to ease. ‘I can make another one,’ I tell her. ‘It’s no problem.’

I don’t mention the cramp I got in my forearm while colouring in those squares. Or how much it hurt. Or how excited I was, bringing it down here. Or how she could have been a tiny bit more careful.

Gretel wipes her fingers on her dress. ‘If you want a boardthatbadly, you should write to FIDE. If nothing else, it’ll save you the pencil work.’

‘FIDE?’

‘The Fédération Internationale des Échecs, in France. Basically, the World Chess Federation.’

‘I don’t have money for stuff like that.’

‘You don’t need any. FIDE exists to promote chess. They’ll send a basic kit to any kid who writes them a suitable letter.’

I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘I promise you it is.’

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