The Index

“You have given every row a number,” Nyra said, leaning over the girl’s shoulder. “And now you want each number to point somewhere.” The girl nodded and tapped the fresh column she had ruled down the margin.

“An index is only a set of promises,” Nyra said. “It says, the thing you want is on this page. But it does not carry the thing itself.” She turned to a leaf near the back and let the girl read the single word written there.

“Then what good is it,” the girl asked, “if it holds nothing?” Nyra closed the cover gently. “It holds the way back,” she said. “When you have forgotten where you buried the late seed, the index remembers the path, not the seed.”

The girl pressed her finger to the column and read each entry aloud, slowly, the way you learn a road by walking it twice. “Beans, page four. Thaw, page nine. Quiet, page none.” She looked up. “Quiet has no page.”

“Some things keep no page,” Nyra said. “You will meet them, and you will want to file them, and they will slip the net every time.” She set the pen in the girl’s hand. “Write the index for what returns. Carry the rest yourself.”