THE ROOT IN THE DRAIN

Back up a little, said Célia, and Antônio drew back from the crack with earth in his hair. The pan knocked against the wall by Ilva's hip. Nael raised two fingers, asking for silence. From the other side came a low sound, irregular, like someone blowing into a bottle. It grew until it drowned out the vibration of the optical line. The water came in first through the sole of Antônio's sandal. A dark thread went round his foot, found the low part of the corridor and brought three narrow leaves, still green. The second surge reached his shin. It came warm, with shining grains that stuck to the burned skin of his fingers when he tried to steady himself with his hand. Célia drew back into the recess. Her wounded foot touched the wet ground and gave way. Ilva held her by the arm, while the pan slipped, turned once and came to rest against the cable. The lid opened. The last of the corn mash received that water before anyone could lift it. Nael crouched before the crack and brought his ear to the stone. He could not speak during the visit. He pointed upward, then closed his hand and opened it three times. Antônio knew that count from the survey days, three pulses before a dammed discharge. Back then, Nael was paid to drive drilling rigs and warned the operators by striking a tool against the casing. There, without a tool and without an authorised voice, he tapped his fingernail on the wall. The third pulse tore clay from the opening. A pale root appeared in the current, thick as Célia's wrist. It had grown inside the old drain, squeezed between the mineral piping and the rock. At its tip came living filaments, covered by a reddish film. The root advanced another hand span, pushed by the water looking for a way out. The ceiling let go of two clods. One fell on the optical line, the other into the pan. Antônio wanted to go in again. Nael put his forearm across Antônio's chest and showed him the root. Ilva brought her face close without touching. She recognised the leaves brought by the flow, they were buriti shoots, smaller and paler than the ones found near the Lajes. Ilva followed the root with her eyes to where it disappeared under the optical sheathing. The water rose to the rim of the pan. Each wave removed a little of the mash and left metallic sand in its place. Célia picked up the lid. Then she looked at the visor kept against her body. The screen received access through the visit profile and projected a minimal notification. The guesthouse's technical tariff had consumed the equivalent of two meals since they entered the corridor. It would stay open while the inspection remained under way. Antônio read without coming closer. Behind the charge there was another notification, from his son. The projection offered the public transcription of the first four words. Saw your message just now. He turned his face away before the rest could open. The current grew wider. Ilva took off the outer band from her leg and passed one end around the pan. The pressure marked the skin more deeply, but the metal stopped knocking against the cable. Célia held the other end. Together they pulled the food to the higher part. Less than half was left, stained by the mud. Nael pointed to a ledge to the left of the crack. Under the crust was a narrow channel, built before the optical sheathing. Antônio scraped the surface with the spoon. A stone gully appeared, closed by fine roots and ore sediment. If they removed the plant, the water would go on down the corridor. If they kept it, they would have to open the old drainage again. Célia tried to use the lid as a shovel. The metal bent on the first scrape. Ilva used the rim of the pan to loosen the crust, sacrificing the mash still stuck to the bottom. Antônio dug with his burned fingers, first one furrow, then another. Nael took out the stones and stacked them under the cable, raising the optical line above the current. They worked without command, four bodies adjusted to what the root imposed. The mud revealed a cut pipe. The mining operation had severed it when installing the telemetry, many years after Nael showed where to drill. The cut had diverted the seepage to beneath the bar. Nael pushed two fingers into the pipe and pulled out a crust of ore, dead roots and shining sand. The channel at last received the flow. First a film. Then two. The current turned left, went round the root and disappeared under the stone. The level dropped to their ankles, exposing white insects that clung to the cable's sheathing. One of them fell, swam against the water and reached the living wood. The optical line stayed lit, but the earth behind the crack gave way until it closed the passage they would have followed. The visit was still under way. The path was not. Antônio opened his son's message. The voice came out low, mixed with the draining water. Saw your message just now. I can talk before work. He listened once. The time given would end in twenty-three minutes, less than what was needed to clear the crack and get back to the bar. Nael pointed to the newly opened channel. There was room for one person to crawl beside the root. Antônio handed the empty pan to Célia, lay down in the shallow water and went in through the diversion.