I Only Have Two Hands

Root tips grit from the folded bark beside the sleeping fig, keeping one palm beneath its sagging crease while Curl reaches for the wet edge. She draws it back and wipes her sister’s mouth with her thumb; above them, flattened leaves remain caught in the low sleeping forks. “Here,” Thorn calls, catching Root’s wrist and pulling until she rises.

At the edge of the exposed channel, Thorn crouches and sets his fingertips beside small baboon prints crossing a broad, hardened adult footprint. Root follows him three steps, bends over the marks, then turns as Curl catches the edge of her hide wrap. She lifts Curl clear of the sunlit ground and carries her back beneath the fig.

“Hold,” Root says, pressing Curl’s hand into Knot’s and closing his fingers around it. Knot pulls Curl against his side while Root ushers the smaller children off their bright sitting places and into the remaining strip of shade. When Curl twists free of his shoulder and reaches with both arms, Knot plants himself across her path. Root tucks the empty bark against her ribs, steps beyond Curl’s fingertips, and catches Thorn’s shoulder to turn him toward the tracks.

Thorn catches Root’s wrist in the exposed channel and pulls her back toward a crooked root, where small toe marks turn uphill through ochre dust. “Here,” he says, placing two fingertips beside a faint print she has stepped beyond. Root turns her feet toward the climb, but when he opens his hand beneath the bark, she draws its folded edge against her ribs.

“Hold,” Root says, pushing a cluster of stems into his empty hand before ducking beneath them. Thorn braces the stems with his shoulder and keeps his stone flake clear while she steps over a charcoal-dark root. As he follows, one stem slips loose and taps the bark; Root catches its soft corner, then reaches back to press his hand more firmly around the remaining stems.

Higher on Baboon Track Rise, Root turns toward the fig, but the released stems spring across the last gap between its branches and her face. Thorn crouches beside smaller prints curving along a shallow bend, then points beyond the roots toward a steep bank. Root starts straight over the tangle instead, gripping a root with her free hand while Thorn squeezes around its end. At the bank’s rim, he presses his fingertips into a dark patch below the brittle soil and lifts them toward her; Root lowers the bark and crouches beside his mud-coated hand.

Root lowers herself beneath the steep bank, sets the folded bark across her thighs, and scrapes damp earth from a hollow barely wider than her hand. Behind her, Thorn slides down with both knees pressed to the slope, stopping whenever she turns toward him. “Stay,” Root says, pushing his knee away from the hollow; he wedges his foot beside hers and holds his stone flake against his chest.

Brown water gathers between her fingers, and Root lifts another handful of mud onto the narrow strip behind her heel. Thorn reaches toward the bark, but she shifts it beyond his hand and cups its sagging underside herself. “More,” he says, pointing into the hollow; Root scrapes beneath the recessed lip, then waits until water covers the marks her fingertips have left.

Root bends the supported bark into the hollow and tilts its edge until a shallow pool spreads along the fold. A bead of mud drops beside it, then another; Thorn lifts his knee, searching for room to move his foot. The lip splits before he can pull back, and a slab drops across his ankle, knocking his open hand against Root’s shoulder. “Foot!” Thorn cries, tugging his leg while Root clamps both hands around the bark and falling grains stipple its water.

Root shifts the filled bark onto one palm and claws earth from Thorn’s ankle beneath the broken lip of the bank. Above their heads, an elephant’s trunk sweeps through the stems and presses a branch down toward the hollow. “Stay,” she says when Thorn jerks his knee, but the soil slipping between her fingers covers the place she has just cleared.

“Take,” Thorn says, pushing his stone flake toward her with its blunt end first. Root catches his wrist, presses the flake into the ground beside his hand, and reaches back for the bark before its unsupported corner opens. She pushes the vessel beneath the recessed bank, leaving its filled fold resting against the loose earth, then thrusts both hands around his ankle.

Thorn plants his palms beside the flake and holds his knee still while Root scoops mud toward her belly. A clod drops onto the bark; its upper fold bends inward, and brown water runs across her wrists. She reaches past the collapsing edge without lifting it. With one hand clearing his heel and the other scraping along his shin, Root exposes the curve of Thorn’s ankle beneath the remaining earth.

Root drives her shoulder beneath Thorn’s outstretched arm at the cramped foot of the bank, planting one palm beside his uncovered heel. “Pull,” she says, and he presses down against her while dragging his knee toward his chest. His foot comes loose; he tips sideways, catching her hide wrap before she can lower him.

With Thorn clinging to her shoulder, Root snatches the stone flake from the soil and pushes its blunt end into his palm. An elephant forces apart the stems above the hollow, and she pulls Thorn down onto his hands before crawling toward the buttress root. He follows on one knee, dragging the freed foot until she reaches back and draws his leg around the root’s broad base.

“Here,” Thorn whispers, lifting his head toward a notch in their cover, but Root presses his shoulder down and folds herself beside him. Beyond the root, an elephant steps into the hollow and scrapes backward with a forefoot, widening the wet ground with a coarse dragging sound. Thorn starts to raise his head again; she closes her hand around his upper arm and keeps him tucked against her knees. Beside the newly opened water, the ruined bark catches beneath the elephant’s foot and flattens into the mud.

Root pulls Thorn around the buttress root as the nearest elephant turns across the widened seep, opening a passage toward Baboon Track Rise. She plants her feet between two charcoal-dark roots and draws him upright by his forearm. Thorn closes his fingers around the stone flake, sets his freed foot beneath him, and lifts his chin toward the climb.

“Come,” Root says, stepping backward uphill without releasing him. His heel touches down; his knee bends sharply, and his next step folds him against her chest. Root catches his ribs, but one foot slides until she braces it across a root. “Foot,” Thorn says, lifting the injured heel clear while she ducks beneath his arm and pulls it across her shoulders.

With one hand gripping his wrist and the other holding his side, Root pushes into the crowded stems; behind them, water splashes beneath an elephant’s scraping foot. Thorn hooks his fingers into her shoulder wrap, then reaches his good leg over the first low root. A stem catches across their joined bodies, and Root bends beneath it without letting go, lifting Thorn’s weight onto the next patch of ground.

Knot pulls Curl sideways beneath the sleeping fig, clearing the patch of sunlight that has reached her legs, and pats the ground beside the other children. “Here,” he says, blocking her with his knee while he draws another child closer to the trunk. Curl pushes against his thigh with her leafy twig, then slips behind him when he bends to move a pair of feet out of the sun.

At the muddy hollow, Knot catches her wrist before she can lower her mouth to the pressed rim. “Root,” Curl says, reaching along the channel, but he drags her back and seats her against a root. With his back between her and the hollow, he scrapes damp soil onto one fingertip and touches it to his tongue; grit catches between his teeth.

Curl watches him wipe his mouth, then gets up while he gathers the other children into the narrowed shade. Her twig draws a line through the leaves and out onto the exposed streambed before Knot turns. “Come,” he calls, taking the nearest child’s hand and beckoning the others after him, until their small feet cross the fig’s last strip of shade behind Curl.

Knot catches Root’s wrist as she lowers Thorn onto the exposed streambed, his injured heel held above the curled mud flakes. “Water,” Knot says, striking her wrist with his palm before pulling her fingers open one by one. Root spreads her other hand toward him; beside her knee, Thorn braces himself with the hand holding his stone flake.

Curl lifts both arms, her leafy twig caught against Knot’s chest, but Knot turns his shoulder between her and Root’s reaching hands. Root crouches beside them instead, and Curl catches the edge of her shoulder wrap. Pointing beyond Thorn toward the root-covered rise, Root says, “Water. There.” Knot tugs Curl’s hand free of the wrap, points back toward the sleeping branches, and starts pulling her uphill.

“Here,” he says, hauling Curl past a hardened adult footprint while Thorn pushes against the channel floor without getting up. Root steps after them, then drops to her knees in Curl’s path and cups the little girl’s cheeks between her empty hands. Keeping one palm against Curl’s face, Root takes Knot’s wrist and lays his hand on Thorn’s forearm; Knot stops pulling, and Thorn closes his fingers around Knot’s arm.

Knot lowers Thorn against a root beneath the Sleeping Fig, then catches his forearm when his injured heel brushes the ground and he tips sideways. Across the narrow shade, Root hooks her fingers beneath a loose bark edge and pulls, dropping chips beside her feet instead of a strip. Knot points up at the flattened leaves in the sleeping fork and says, “Here,” but Root presses her empty palm against the trunk.

“Take,” Thorn says, holding out the stone flake blunt end first. Root kneels beside him to receive it, then works its edge beneath the bark while Knot keeps Curl from stepping among the fallen chips. A sharp click stops her hand; a sliver of stone drops, and Thorn reaches toward the shortened flake before closing his hand against his knee.

Root lays the broken stone beside him and reaches for Curl, whose twig catches across her shoulder wrap; she lifts the branch clear and leaves it in Curl’s fist. “Come,” Root says, guiding the smallest child toward Knot, and Knot bends until she can settle the child against his back. He grips the small legs while Root lifts Curl onto her hip and gives Thorn her free arm. Beneath the empty sleeping fork, Knot straightens under his load and follows them out of the shade.

Root turns Thorn by his supporting arm onto the shallow bend of Baboon Track Rise, following his pointing finger between charcoal-dark roots. “There,” Thorn says, planting his good foot where small animal prints cross the ochre dust. At a root too high to step over together, she eases Curl into Knot’s free arm while he braces beneath the smallest child on his back. Root lowers Thorn by both forearms, then reaches up to receive Curl, whose twig catches between them until Knot lifts it clear.

Beyond the bend, Root settles Curl beside Knot and pushes through the last stems toward the seep, where an elephant strips leaves from a branch across their approach. It turns, spreads its ears, and takes a step toward her. “Back,” Root says, retreating without turning, but Thorn comes through the stems after her with his hand extended.

Catching his wrist, Root pulls Thorn sideways before his next step can carry him into the open. Knot backs toward the buttress root with the smallest child still clinging behind his shoulders, drawing Curl after him while Root supports Thorn around its broad base. She crouches across the opening, draws Curl’s projecting twig down against the little girl’s knees, and presses Thorn’s shoulder below the root’s upper edge.

Root lifts a hanging stem above the buttress root and leans through, exposing the broad wet depression beyond the elephant’s churned tracks. Across the approach, a fresh overhang projects above fallen soil; she draws back and presses Curl’s hand into Knot’s while the smallest child clings to his back. “Here,” Knot says, pinning Curl’s twig beneath his thumb when she tries to follow. Root sets one foot into the slope above their shelter and reaches for a buried root.

Her next foothold breaks, carrying both feet downward and spilling dry earth over the lip toward the water. Thorn catches her ankle from beside the buttress, his good foot wedged against its base and his injured heel lifted clear. “Hold,” he says, tightening both hands as Root drives her fingers into the exposed root. She pulls one knee beneath herself, lowers her other foot against Thorn’s palms, and crawls backward until Knot can catch her forearm without releasing Curl.

Back behind the buttress, Root reaches for Thorn’s shoulder, but he turns beneath her hand and points along a thick root curving around the bank’s edge. “There,” Thorn says; Root follows his finger on her knees and clears loose soil from the root until a narrow shelf and its broken outer edge lie exposed.

Root grips Knot around the waist and guides him along the exposed root, with the smallest child crouched against her knee behind them. “Hold,” she says as he stretches across the break, catches the fork, and draws himself onto the far shelf. Knot turns and opens both hands; Root lifts the smallest child beneath the arms and passes the child across until Knot can pull the small body against his chest.

Thorn crawls onto the root while Root keeps Curl behind her with one bent leg, her twig caught beneath her fist. His injured foot brushes the broken edge and drops, twisting him sideways as loose grit spills toward the seep. Root catches his wrist; “Here,” Knot says, reaching past the seated smallest child to seize Thorn’s other arm. Together they drag Thorn across on his knees, and he braces his good foot against the root before releasing Root.

Curl reaches over Root’s shoulder toward Knot, and Root lifts her without pushing either arm down. “Take,” she says, holding Curl across the gap until Knot has both arms around her and the twig lies against his shoulder. Thorn reaches back, closes his fingers around Root’s, and holds while she swings one knee onto their shelf. As Root pulls her trailing foot clear, a slab breaks from beneath the root and crashes onto the lower route, burying the footholds leading back toward the fig.

Root crouches at the shallow edge of the Crumbling Spring and sweeps floating leaves away from the patch where Knot lowers Curl, her twig held clear beneath his thumb. “Slow,” Root says, catching Curl beneath the chin when she pitches forward toward the brown water. Thorn settles the smallest child against his good leg, stretches his injured foot aside, and supports the child’s chest while they bend to drink.

Root reaches across to steady Thorn, then lifts her hand toward the broken bank as a few grains roll down its face. Knot shifts Curl against his knee and catches Root’s hovering wrist. “You,” he says, drawing her hand down until water covers her fingers. She braces her other palm beside his foot and lowers her mouth to the opening she has cleared.

Grit patters across Root’s wrist before she has finished, and she lifts her head as a narrow seam opens above the wet edge. “Away,” she says, taking Curl from Knot while he pulls the smallest child back onto firmer ground. Thorn reaches for Root’s free arm, and she waits for him to bring his good foot beneath him before they follow Knot beyond the bank’s projecting lip.

Root pulls down a low branch beyond the seep, testing it with her weight while Knot holds Curl beneath it and the damaged crossing disappears into dusk. “Here,” she says, climbing into the fork and reaching down for Curl, whose twig catches against the bark before Knot lifts it free. After Knot brings the smallest child within reach and climbs after, Root bends over Thorn, grips both his forearms, and draws him upward while he pushes with his good foot.

A call comes from beyond the rise, and Knot rises onto his knees to answer through the leaves, keeping one arm across Curl’s middle. His next call cracks; Curl twists toward the distant answer, and Thorn catches her wrist before she can pull free. “Hold her,” Root says, placing Curl’s hand beneath Knot’s palm before reaching for a higher branch. Thorn pushes a hanging stem aside for her, and she climbs until her shoulders clear the surrounding leaves.

Root locks her legs around an upright fork and calls toward the rise, pausing with her mouth open until an answer comes from the direction of the abandoned fig. She calls again; the answering voices move away from the fig, stop below the damaged bank, then approach along the unbroken ground beyond the seep. Knot points down through the branches as an adult reaches their trunk, and Root lowers herself to guide the reaching hand onto the branch beneath Curl.

Root braces Thorn beneath the arms at dawn and lowers him from the unfamiliar sleeping fork, setting his good foot between the roots beyond the Crumbling Spring. Beside them, Curl twists in an adult’s arms and stretches down toward Knot. He catches her hand, and the adult pauses while he steps around a root without letting go.

“Down,” Thorn says, sliding his hands from Root’s shoulders to her forearms. His injured heel touches the ground, but his knee folds before he can settle onto it; Root catches him against her and lifts his weight clear. “Wait,” she says, holding him while he wedges his good foot onto flatter earth.

The adults begin moving through the stems, and Knot follows beneath Curl’s dangling arm. Root turns toward their opening in the leaves, then shifts back beside Thorn and puts his arm across her shoulders. “Here,” Thorn says, pointing to a strip of bare ground around the next root. She moves her foot out of his way, and only when he plants his own does she step beside it.