Nefaria

• Lucinda Evatt, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2018

When the first flood hit Madagascar, soon to engulf the entirety of Africa, everything changed. Arrangements and signals were made globally, the only choice to go underground and that was the way it went. Communications with the rest of the world died down within a matter of months, leaving us with not a clue how many floods have been and gone from the seven intended.

The gentle rhythm you perform with your broom sets both the tempo and arouses grey clouds from the grimy hallways you sweep, drifting up then to the ground to sleep once more. The room next door talks of the outer world, things that those speaking would not affirm right for young ears like your own to take in. Pressing yourself against the wall, you slide down, easing closer to what could be your future.

“As we feared, it’s closer than expected.”

You remain in your spot, both transfixed and outraged. This can’t be right. Something tickles your bare calf, and before you can stifle it, a hearty giggle escapes from your lips. Morgy’s black tail twitches teasingly, the glossy coat she grooms with such care catching the light. The voices drop silent. A chair creaks. Before doomsday strikes, you furtively rise towards the first unlocked door. Heart charging at the rate of a steam train, a cold sweat coating your palms and forehead. You realise, the only way to survive this is to get out.

You run your fingers along one of the bookcases that line the wall, the action blanketing them in a film of dust. In the shallow light, the jagged shadow of a tired desk looms. Documents splayed out across the floor, all draws teetering on the edge of their rails. All draws expect one. Just as curiosity killed the cat, you lift your knees high above the debris of paper surrounding you, reaching a nimble hand out to clutch the brass handle. It opens with an exasperated sigh, and there lies a single scroll of paper held by a frayed brown thread along with a tattered box of matches awaiting your lead and the remnants of a candle.

A map. An expanse of routes and passages, like veins to human, or rivers to the earth. Three words have been pressed into the thick paper. Out, In and, top centre, Nefaria. Your finger traces a path starting near the edge where the lines are far denser… You stop, the realisation hitting you hard. This is the underground.

You find yourself right at the edge of the map, where the trail begins. You peer around the room finding a small door, left ajar. You lower self to all fours and crawl through its narrow opening, to continue down the ominous passage.

Several minutes later, you reach a dead-end. Your tired, shaking body concaves apon the sludgy surface below. You manoeuvre yourself around the tight grotty space, the candle’s flame swaying wildly, threatening to throw you into darkness. You discover yet another door, which your map claims to be Out.

You take a long, shuddering breath, the map clenched in your clammy fist. You realise that this, now, is your only chance. The only hope that you will survive whatever it is that lies ahead. Another breath. You twist the knob and you’re out.