Our Dried Voices by Greg Hickey Page A

intact window, was now separated from the window by a certain region of space. And the wall, which may have once been a single continuous panel, was now divided in two by the space of the seam that ran along its length. And perhaps most importantly, this space could be filled once more. Though he lacked the words to articulate this realization, Samuel nonetheless felt as though he had come to understand something of great significance. He studied the latch for a moment, then turned and pressed its pointed edge into the seam in the wall.
    The latch fit snugly into the seam. Samuel wiggled it a bit, not entirely sure what he expected. He turned it over, reinserted it, wiggled it some more. Nothing happened. He stepped away from the wall, stared at the latch in his hand, then again at the seam. He turned and walked to one of the squares on the floor, crouched and inserted the latch into the seam and wormed it around. As he did so, he felt the latch catch in the floor with the broken end pointing toward the center of the square. The end of the latch seemed to have slipped underneath the floor itself, underneath a square panel bordered by the seam. He levered the handle of the latch downward and felt the edge of the panel nearest to him lift ever so slightly. Then, with a metallic clank from the opposite side of the square, it stopped. He pulled on the latch with all his might, but the panel, the edge nearest to Samuel a few millimeters above the plane of the floor, refused to move any farther. He relaxed his hold on the latch and felt the square sink back to the floor.
    Samuel shifted the latch to make sure its grip on the underside of the panel was secure. He lifted the section again but once more it stopped in the same place. He lowered it, gathered all his strength and pushed the latch to the floor as hard as he could. Again the square rose a few millimeters, at which point there came a much louder clank from the side opposite Samuel and the panel threw the latch from the seam as it slammed back into the floor. Samuel picked up the latch, walked around to the adjacent side of the square and inserted the tool into this seam. He pulled on the latch, but despite all his efforts, the panel did not budge. He shifted it to a different position along the length of the seam and tried again. Nothing. Undeterred, Samuel walked to the third side of the square, the side opposite where he had started. He inserted the latch and pulled, and the edge of the section began to rise, a few millimeters, then a centimeter, then just high enough for him to slide his fingers into the gap. He heaved at the underside of the panel, but he could not lift it alone. It fell back to the floor, nearly crushing his fingers.
    Samuel bolted from the hall and out into the meadow. He spotted Penny strolling across the empty field and raced up to her.
    “I looked for you,” she said.
    “Come with me,” said Samuel. He turned back to the meal hall and gestured for her to follow him.
    She started after him, struggling to catch up. She found him inside the meal hall, crouched on the floor, using the window latch to hold up the edge of the panel.
    “Come here,” he called. “Come and help me.”
    She went to him and slid her fingers into the gap between the floor and the edge of the square as he showed her. Together, with all their combined strength, they managed to lift the edge. Bit by bit they raised the panel, and as they did so the entire square section of the floor began to rotate with repeated clicking noises about a fixed axis, so that as they lifted their side, the side opposite them sunk into the floor. And as the panel turned, there came from the depths of the newly exposed space beneath the floor the thick slopping sound of some liquid being agitated. Soon they had turned the section far enough to see what lay underneath. Bolted to the underside of the square, and now rotating toward them as they lifted this panel, was a table surrounded by chairs,