In a final surge of strength, he wriggled upward a few more inches and got his arms free of the shaft, levering his body out and onto solid earth. For a moment, Dani simply lay on his back, willing his muscles to uncramp. The sky overhead seemed enormous, a vast black vault spangled with a million stars, and Arahila’s moon floating in it like a pale and lovely ship. In the distance there were mountains, tall and jagged, but all around there was nothing but grass; a sea of grass, sweet-smelling, silvery in the moonlight, swaying in waves.

“All right, lad!” Thulu’s words echoed faintly from the shaft “My turn.”

Dani rolled onto his belly and peered down. “One inch at a time, Uncle.” Reaching to one side, he tore out a handful of grass. “Just keep moving.”

It was impossible, of course. He had known that before he’d made it halfway up the shaft. Uncle Thulu, he suspected, had known it all along. He was thin enough to fit in the shaft, but too big to make the climb. His longer limbs would be too cramped. His muscles, supporting his greater weight, would begin to quiver. He would be forced to give up and tell Dani to continue on his own. Dani should have given him a drop of the Water of Life. Now, it was too late.

Sitting upright, Dani began plaiting grass.

It was not as sturdy as thukka-vine, but it was strong and pliant. Head bowed, he worked feverishly. Over and under, fingers flying. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru learned. From time to time he paused, wrenching up more handfuls of the tough, sweet-smelling plains grass, weaving new stalks into his pattern. Arahila’s moon continued to sail serenely across the sky, and a length of plaited rope emerged steadily beneath his hands.

“Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s voice, low and exhausted, emerged from the shaft. “Dani, lad.”

“I know.” He peered over the edge and saw his uncle’s figure lodged in place. Thulu had not quite made it halfway. “Stay where you are.” Kneeling, he paid out the rope, hand over hand. It dangled, a few inches too short. “Can you hold on a little while longer?”

“Dani, listen to me …” Angling his head, Thulu saw the rope and fell silent. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Ah, lad!”

“Hold on,” Dani repeated, coiling the rope. “A little while.”

The words of the Song of Being whispered through his mind as he worked. Although his lips were silent, he spoke them with his fingertips, plaiting grass into rope; each strand, each loop, each growing inch a prayer to Uru-Alat. He did not measure a second time. The rope was a prayer. It would be as long as the prayer. That was the length that was needed.