The Giant's Almanac by Andrew Zurcher (black female authors .txt) 📕

He didn’t want to look, so concentrated on his fingers where they gripped the stone slab as it rose towards him. It must have been heavy; they lifted it so slowly, and with such concentration on their faces – concentration and something else.

Horror. They’re horrified.

When the cover stood vertical, Fitz held it as Mr Ahmadi and Navy repositioned themselves beside him. Together they lowered the cover to the ground, so that it landed with no more than a tiny scraping – which nonetheless resounded around the expectant cavern.

The tomb was empty.

It wasn’t just empty of a body. It was empty.

So far as the eye could see into the darkness that it contained, it dropped and dropped, a chasm and an abyss that, for all that one could dream or divine, stretched beyond fathom into the earth.

But it wasn’t quite empty. On each of the four internal walls, positioned a little more than a metre below the level of the floor, hung one of the missing plates. To retrieve them, someone was going to have to climb down into the tomb.

Mr Ahmadi was already rolling up his sleeves. Navy had bound his cape round her waist like a skirt. Seeing Mr Ahmadi preparing himself, she turned back her own cuffs, and stepped forward.

‘I’m lighter,’ she said, ‘and more agile.’

‘This is my fight,’ Mr Ahmadi answered.

Navy put out her hand. Mr Ahmadi hesitated, then took it in a full bind round her wrist. Her fingers enfolded his. Stepping backwards, never taking her eyes from his, she positioned the tips of her toes on the short edge of the tomb, then took a step down, pushing against the wall hard with her toes while arching her foot. Step after step, she walked herself down, her right arm rigid in the air like an iron rod, the look of concentration on her face so severe it seemed to etch lines in her skin. Sweat gathered on her brow as she inched with her free arm towards the first plate – even as she threw her weight backwards, leaning against the force holding her legs to the wall. Mr Ahmadi had at first allowed his knees to bend towards a squat, then dropped one knee to kneel by the side of the opening. Now, with the plate in Navy’s fingers, he began to lift her, breathing hard as she skipped up the wall. She cleared the edge, and rolled, curling the plate into her chest and cradling it there as she came to a rest.

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Navy got to her feet, handed Fitz the plate, and shook out her arms. She tucked the hair behind her right ear, then her left, and smiled.

‘One down,’ she said.

Fitz set the first rete on the mater, and put them both by. Navy had taken Mr Ahmadi’s hand again. Once more, this time on the first of the longer sides, she began to step down the inside wall. First her legs, then her torso, then finally her head dropped below the level of the floor as she descended. Fitz heard her touch, then take the plate, and with his eyes closed marked the intensification of Mr Ahmadi’s breathing above Navy’s light footwork as she pulled herself a second time up. The third descent was faster still, this time on the far, long side, and now she had recovered three of the four plates.

But the last, Fitz could see, would be a problem. Both Mr Ahmadi and Navy were exhausted. As she reached for his hand, her own trembled; he was putting a brave face on the pain that had seized his own arm, shoulder and back, but Fitz could see the signs of it palpably enough – his wincing, the kink in his posture, the hobbled way in which he tried to shake out, then stretch his back before the final push. Fitz didn’t dare close his eyes.

Navy went down. Mr Ahmadi dropped to his knees. Fitz listened for the report of her contact with the plate. There was nothing.

‘It’s stuck,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t get it off.’

Mr Ahmadi groaned. His eyes were turning into the tops of their sockets.

‘Give me another few seconds. I can see it. I can do it,’ Navy called.

Mr Ahmadi was leaning as low as he could, without losing his balance. Suddenly, without warning, his back seemed to spasm, and he fell forward towards the opening. His left hand shot out, and as he fell he clutched at the far edge of the floor, catching himself even as his body flexed, concave against his spine, into the opening.

Navy shouted unintelligibly, flailing with her free arm and kicking with her feet – but through it all, regardless of the commotion and his own excruciating pain, Mr Ahmadi held his grip. Somehow, against all reason, he ended up lying athwart the opening, one hand on the far side, along with a shoulder and his head, while his shins and feet remained beside Fitz. He began to lift Navy, but without the ability to sit up, he couldn’t pull her very far.

Fitz had been watching, helpless. Now, seeing Mr Ahmadi’s back start to flex, sagging under the weight of the girl on his arm, Fitz jumped to his feet and sprinted to the boat. Mr Ahmadi had shipped the oars, and Fitz was able to lean in, pulling one into each hand. He was back under the canopy in seconds, and laid the first of the oars next to Mr Ahmadi. It took his weight, and immediately he pushed against it to lift Navy – but the distance was just too far, the angle too shallow, and their strength already entirely spent.

Fitz dropped the handle of the second oar down towards Navy.

‘My hands are full!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll have to drop it!’

‘Then drop it,’ commanded Phantastes from across the cavern.

Fitz tried to reach down, but there was no way he could make his arm meet Navy’s.

She looked up at