Insides frantic, Sal lingered, squinting. Perhaps the piles had, just now, done their job at last and warped the line of him. That straightness that defined him, to which he’d clung forever. Impossible to bend it back.

      He should run, catch up and find them, but he’d seen this light and how it brightened up the piles. How it glowed on, unbalking in the dim. So, fighting a war inside him, Saltem Voyager split away and made that blasted trek—three grueling ups, three downs, grumbling all the way—to find what he could see.

      His frustration boiled into anger as he crossed the inbetweens, seeing footprints and how the dust had settled down inside them. He strained to hear, somewhere in the distance, that endless march: those weary shoulders that had slumped beside him. His only solace, gone.

      Going alone was not the way, here among the piles. This light—eerie, bright, and wrong—could not replace those masses. It offered no brow drawn low to match his own, no weighty pull into shared sorrow. Sal did not know how the inbetweens would guide him. Without the others, Saltem would not remember where he’d dug, nor would he have a minder. Who would take the greenthings he’d find—

      No, to be alone was to be lost out here. A single dot, wandering piles that roll on and on, above, below, and out and out and out. Ruminating thus, with thighs that screamed from climbing, Sal now stepped into its light. The orb, which seemed so small from far away, was half the size of him.

      All was still. He sank deeper into sulking. And then it started speaking: “’Tis said this world, before it fell, grew towers made of light that kissed skies of blinking stars…”

      Now, Saltem knew no tales of fallen worlds. Like any brute here among the piles, Sal, at twenty-eight, knew only dirt, the march, and how to spot a greenthing in the soil. He knew to pull it, roots and all, and to hand it over whole as the minders had required. He knew no stars, only clouds. Clouds that changed oh-so-little day to day—if there even were days: a concept surely remembered from somewhere else—and mostly in their stench…

      But the orb continued: “’Tis also said the men that fell once flew up to meet those stars—dared to dance upon that dusty disc pinned behind the clouds. Now they dig down deep, and deeper still—”

      “What!” Sal heard his holler bounce down into the hollows. “Bullshit,” he said, and spit into the dirt. “I’ll believe none of that…”

      It had been a useless trek. Sal knew he must go back now. So, afraid of losing time in finding enough of what he needed, with no choice but to show up all alone, Sal returned to digging.

§

      There had been a cost to join the march. He’d learned that, way back when. Saltem had walked alone once, though he could not be sure how long. (Here, darkness only ebbed and flowed; no sun rose to form the concept of a day.) He'd have to pay to join again! Two fistfuls of greenthings, turned over with a nod, once had earned him a place within the ranks of men. Now, desperate to return to how it was, he drove his bigfork home, adding violence to his labor.

      He kept the orb behind him.

      Pushing aside the long, white chunks of otherthings—things so long forgotten—Sal worked to reclaim his place. He dug alone so that he might dig with men beside him. With this work to do, Sal had hoped he’d have no room to feel, but the part of him that took measure shook its head, as resentment brimmed over what the orb had cost him.

      Later, as he passed greenthings from bloodied hand into the minder’s, hollow thuds of hope peeled in Saltem’s chest. Soon, he thought, soon I will be grateful. Joining again would busy his hands and make his mind go silent. Soon, he’d thank Tedium for stretching him too thin and kiss Drudgery for being there when all else was lost to him. He’d even kiss those filthy men, who, surely, would welcome Sal back in. They’d join in the sadness of a trade that rewarded everyone but them. Out here alone, Sal had found that this was worse than that, and only getting back to that would comfort him.

      But no! “Three more,” the minder said. “Out with you. Don’t come back without what’s needed.”

      Shrinking back, Sal said, “Surely, it was two—”

      The minder scoffed. “And, now it’s five. Tomorrow, maybe nine.” To make his point, he clocked Sal’s ear, and pain, sharper than his hope denied, gave Sal clarity about their order. He shoved Sal back and down. He fell hard into hard dirt, and no one said a word; no one was there beside him. Though fury rose at how things had changed, Sal paid no heed to what he felt. The way of things could not be altered. No way. Not by Sal. For the least of men among the piles, changing things would only ever happen to them.

      He left and struggled over ups and downs, avoiding inbetweens where the men might shame him. Those drones who dig only to give. Those men who walked away without him. I’ll show them all, thought Sal, I’ll find three more—and then return. Until then, my gaze will not be lifted!

      To make sure he’d meet this quota, Sal ventured out and out and out, to places no legion had dug before. Nine seemed impossible. But for what felt like weeks—or what would have been weeks, had there been days—Sal scraped longthings across cracked soil and pulled, roots and all, when greenthings could be found, hoping always that it wasn’t yet tomorrow.

      The silent wisp kept pace behind him.

      Out there, soft whispers of lights like his crept in, and Sal found company in the shadows of remembered voices. Hushed words from nameless men who’d once lain down around him in stretching, ceaseless rows of tangled limbs. “Do not believe the lights—those wisps,” they’d said, “nor chase them through the piles. Those who do are lost. Lost from this lost place. And lost thrice over is a bridge you can’t cross back again.”

      Perhaps Sal should have listened harder: his wisp made no offer to lead him out across a bridge. His orb offered nothing more than shining light, one that no one else could see.

      “Of course, it’s just gibberish for me,” he said. “It figures that I would find a worthless specter…” For surely, anywhere was better than life alone among the piles.

      Well, then, that green light that fell around his feet flared bright! As if he’d made it angry. In the flash, Sal noticed his twisted toes, his nail beds bloody. His ankles swollen, sore from slipping. And a mark above them, that looked as if he’d once been eaten. A violent wound healed over. One he did not remember getting. He did not turn, preferring his face in shadow, but, sure now that it listened, Sal asked the wisp directly, “Are you broken? Why don’t you lead me on, away from here? So far, you’ve only caused me harm.”

      Slowly, it began to whisper. At first, so quiet that Sal could barely hear, then it spoke aloud, and once unleashed—Oh!—She talked and talked! For months of days she talked. Just snippets of stories. All tales of men: those who fell and then climbed up again. And though she wove her tales, no plans for bridges were revealed.

      Always talking, Saltem thought. Although—how Saltem hates althoughs—when the wisp first waxed on about the moon, I couldn’t help but look for stars. And when going on about man-grown light, did my mind shine up with sparkles?

      And before too long, Sal found comfort in the wisp. Its tales passed the time, introducing new men inside his head. Strange stories of lives filled with something else than digging. To his surprise, Sal found that these stories made him like his wisp. Then something more than like. In fact, he didn’t know what he’d do without her, his…Willow. Yes, he bestowed on her a name!

      As luck would have it, on the night when he gifted her that name, the putrid clouds began to move, drifting in a way Sal had never seen. And a westerly breeze parted the smog just enough for a single moonray to fall to ground, guiding his bigfork’s aim. (Maybe moonlight, possibly the radiance of a certain wisp. Don’t ask Sal.)

      A hollow thunk. His bigfork glancing through the soil. The feel of something solid.

      On hands and knees, he scraped the dirt away, and Saltem Voyager retrieved an urn. An artifact. A someone else’s thing. Clutching it, he scurried back into the culvert he had dug for slumber.

      Crouched low there in his hollow, Sal gazed upon the urn. It was plain clay, a cork its only adornment. He went to pull it, but hesitated. Might he find the ashes of some small someone? To fit inside, they must be tiny. He braced himself for sadness, but yanked, and looking down the spout, Sal found it packed with some other tiny tittle. 

      With a twisted face, he poured these thousand worthless bits across well-tamped soil. Each bore a tiny dot. They rolled, forming small groups in hollowed soil of their own.

      “What could these be?” he said.

      “’Tis said before greenthings grow—”

      Quickly, Sal scooped them back into the urn and corked it.

      “Seeds,” he whispered, head on a swivel, glad for once that no one was there beside him other than his Willow. She continued, “—into them, words of love are spoken. Heart to heart, and world to world. When blooming love is worth crossing any bridge—”

      “In times of danger, you speak of love?” Sal shouted. “Growing is forbidden!” Sal slunk back, cowering in the shadow. “Here, we only dig…”

      From his body, he tore a rag, wrapped up that urn, and covered it once again in soil.

      However, one of Willow’s words stuck with him. Bridge, he thought. Again, that word. Then, for what Saltem considered days, Willow’s stories were all bridges, in different ways. She gave the word new meanings. Hadn’t the men mentioned such a bridge? Yes. But their stories, unlike Willow’s, said crossing it would strand a man out beyond redemption.

      Well, a ballyhoo! Saltem wins at last, for he had beaten them to that. Sal was already lost. Whether or not he crossed some bridge surely couldn’t matter. Though the thought of walking from the piles made Saltem fidget as he dug, he knew from Willow’s stories that this decision must be his. But by considering it, he thought, have I not made my choice already? So, again, Sal found his courage and asked Willow about the bridge, about crawling up again.

      “You will know it when you find it,” was all Willow said (at least, that was the gist of it). Sal was sure she meant to reassure him and went to work preparing. He grabbed the urn and looked about: that was it. No more preparation to be made. He had nothing here. No one to leave behind. No goodbyes to say.

      He even left his bigfork, when Saltem Voyager walked away.

§

      The giant hills subsided as Sal approached what must be the boundary of the piles. Caution softened every step, as if a minder might appear, blindside him again, and clock him in the ear. However, only dry, flat plains stretched on after where the piles had grown shorter. And out there were no piles, which meant no inbetweens to guide him. Taking it in, a strange dread befell him, as if something much worse than pain lurked somewhere out there, where anything could find him. This fear seemed to radiate across the plains before retreating inward.

      Like an echo in the hollows, it pinged inside his chest, trying to drive him back to where what he feared was known. Where moving bodies forced his choices. Here, the wide land seemed to stare back at him. And if the world perceived him, for a moment, Sal wondered if the piles now felt the loss of him.

      “I am not so sure of this,” he said to Willow, who had swooped out above the craggy land, somehow all the brighter. “I’ll be alone out there.”

      She replied, “You were alone back there. You simply couldn’t see it.” Though true, this offered little consolation, but he went out and walked on and on and on until his knees grew weak. When Sal thought he might fall down for good, just as the plains felt more evil than the piles, he came across some narrow planking. It could not be a bridge. It was too meager.

      Below stretched a gorge so deep, so dark, so vast that it somehow became alluring. For a blink, wondering if the wisp would miss him, Sal considered leaping. But he stepped out onto the plank, and when his balance faltered, just the once, his hand reached out for Willow. It passed right through the mist of her. He caught himself from tumbling.

      On the other side, Saltem finally raised his head, and the world settled into view. A market lay before him. Sparkling in the light of glass jars full up of blinking bugs, he found a place where one could trade their foundthings instead of simply giving.

      The habits of this place were strange, and for the first time, Willow was nowhere to be found. He slunk from stall to stall, all on his lonesome. His hands, pulling back his rags, revealed his tiny urn, but Sal was unsure for what it could be traded.

      Finally, at the sight of Saltem’s seeds, an old woman’s eyes lit up like all those blinking bugs. She pulled spotted hands from silken robes, saying she had magic words to spare. Sal hesitated, considering what magic words could mean, when she snatched the crook of his arm and pulled.

      Inside the half-walls of her stall, she said to Sal, “Let’s plant! See what you have brought,” and held up a cup of soil. Unlike the piles, her dirt was fresh and smelled of livingthings. She placed a single seed inside, muttered something Sal could not quite hear, and pressed her thumb into the soil

      Before their eyes, a greenthing grew into a blossom. From that white bloom spilled light so bright that everyone turned to look in awe (or perhaps with fear; Saltem wasn’t paying attention to them). In a warmth like sunlight, Saltem’s face rose, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile.

      But Sal’s seed

      did

      not

      stop

      Growing.

      Roots shot down, cracking into rocky ground, upending the woman’s wares. Everyone was shouting. The very earth trembled, as if upset by being broken, as thick, twisting, braided stems shot upward, sprouting brilliant flowers.

      An astonishing brightness erupted through the stalls. It must have lit the planes for miles. Hand to brow, Sal threw back his head and thought, That’s not right—it should be beans. Then he wondered why he’d thought that. But, sure enough, among the clouds, two silver disks seemed pinned, and one screamed down at him: “Climb, you idiot!”

      It was Willow’s voice, the one that led him here; he would follow it forever. So, Sal climbed up, gripping and stepping where stems met stock. For what felt like months of nights, he climbed—with Willow at his shoulder. And with each step he took, Saltem Voyager remembered.

§

      I came to in darkness. My jaw clenched. Small crystals crunched between my molars, like grains of salt. Their dust tasted like minerals—yes, like salt—yet lacked that pucker.

      It was earthy—

      It was dirt.

      On instinct, I opened my eyes, and soil poured in, clumping, blocking my vision. I’d been buried, I realized. Getting unburied was rather uncomfortable.

      No, I remembered, I’d asked her to bury me. I sat up, pawing at my eyes.

      Once I’d swiped the dirt away, I found the woman who had done it sitting on my right. I recognized her. She was old and lived in the camper park at the edge of the village. That’s where I was, inside her darkened mobile home. The soil had brought in the damp. I could not stop shivering. A few candle stubs cast her face in shadow. Behind her, next to a useless air fryer now used as a bread box, they fought the cold and provided the only light.

      I went to speak. Mud fell from my mouth onto the dirt piled over my body. She was angry. Or maybe impatient with me. As if I’d wasted her time and she’d been waiting far too long. I had done it against her advice. She, only because I’d paid her. Basically, forced her. She couldn’t refuse; she had so little. And I had to try.

      An awkward goodbye later, I went looking for my car. The old beast. I didn’t know where I’d left it, and an ’89 Wagoneer has no clicker. (Yes, that’s why it still worked.) Outside, melting snow had made everything wet. Winter was breaking, and I remember the air as refreshing, cold, and earthy in my nose. Perhaps that was the grave dirt. Back in the village proper, I hopped around puddles so black and shiny they looked like mirrors, afraid I’d fall through again.

      This was my failure. I had to own that, but on the drive home, my hands shook and my mind wandered like a wild beast—No, that’s not right. It wasn’t wandering; it kind of…skipped ahead, wholly without me—making it hard to look at the road, yet imperative that I do.

      Had I been untethered from my body? My mind. What had even happened? What—where was that?

      What would I tell Willa?

      Through the windshield, far across what was left of the moors, what had once been our little city twinkled, it’s cathedrals now dwarfed, I once lived a life walking around down there. A life where I’d get coffee, chat with coworkers, and do things like “go to lunch.” Until it came and all of that went away. Now it had, in fact, risen in towers built of light, kissing a sky of blinking stars. The towers, built after we left, glittered with the lights of antennae communicating across our world and, we assumed, those inside their processors.

      The towers are empty of people, now packed instead with wires and chips. Cocoons before they hatch. Aliens were supposed to come from the sky, but they came through the web instead. Conquered us all the same. We know every building in every city is full. We have no idea how they build the network or what happens in their virtual world anymore. Their minds are out here, but their lives are lived, we think, among the ones and zeros. Somehow, the network just spreads.

      At some point, Willa had said we didn’t have much choice. What else could we do? We left with the others and made a life out on the moors. Most took up old trades or grew what food they could. “Together, as humanity!” That’s what Willa said.

      What we didn’t expect was the Old Ways’ return. No, before the TVs went dark, the pundits’ predictions certainly didn’t include people returning to magic, of all things. But here we are. The way rises naturally. That night, candles lit every window where the village met the moorland. I was almost to our farm when it began to lightly rain.

      Limping through our pastures, I turned my head from our terrible tractor. I hadn’t touched it since. It would rust over before the time to till. Ambling—lopsided, as I do—behind the land where Willa grew her flowers, I slowly made my way down through the high-tunnels to the largest of them. From how her shoulders tensed, I knew she’d heard me enter. She worked by candlelight, clipping cuttings from last year’s tubers. Her plants and flowers often brought in enough during these in-between months to stretch us through the seasons. For a moment, I looked on, thinking myself lucky, but Willa wouldn’t turn. 

      “I was lost,” I said, a warble in my voice.

      “I know,” she replied. Her pruners snipped her words in sharp staccato.

      My fingers found some tat to play with on her bench. Then, curious, I dipped them in her rooting mix. This soil was her secret; she said it built the blooms.

      “I couldn’t find her…” I said.

      She did not stop snipping, but said, “I told you that you wouldn’t.”

      Around her feet, a circle of dried wax puddles had crusted over the gravel. So many candles. We’d never make it to spring without them. We’d have to trade for more. Everything would be tight now—I’d spent too much on magic.

I said, “You found me somehow.” It sounded like a question.

      “Yes. Somehow I did.”

      “I really thought that I could—”

      “Stop. She’s gone, Sal. Gone.”

      “Yes,” I knew then that my quest was over. At least I tried, my anger yelled inside me.

      “It’s too much. I shouldn’t—I can’t believe I had to go to the underworld to find you...” Willa said, her anger matching my interior. Still, she refused to meet my gaze.

      “My…the woman’s magic couldn’t save her—”

      “No,” Willa said, lifting her hands to indicate the obvious. “But, once again, mine saved you.”

      I said, “Yes.” Mostly to reassure her. “I trust you. You’re the smartest person I know.”

      “You’re smartest when you trust me,” Willa said, and at last she turned, pointing her pruners at me with purpose. “If you do that to us again, I’ll kill you for real.”

      Willa’s other hand rested on her navel.

      “We need you here,” she said.