by Julian May
She saw an unmoving silhouette deep within her mind. Behind it the imprisoned lights inside the neatly stacked imaginary boxes seemed to flare in mockery at the foolish question to which she already knew the answer.
Her mind cried out to him: I didn’t want to eavesdrop on Grandad’s thoughts. Why don’t you help me so I don’t have to listen to bad things that make me sad and afraid? Now I know that Daddy doesn’t want me. And Grannie is worried about us living here, and still thinks I might be a head. Even Kenny is thinking awful thoughts about me. I hate being able to read minds. I don’t want this power. It’s awful! Please take it back. Please!
The angel was silent. The boxes glowed, three of them open, including the big new violet one, and all the rest shut.
Angel, I want Daddy to love me! Tell me how to do that if you can’t do anything else.
For a long time there was no response. The angel was entirely wrapped in his wings, hidden as completely as a cob of maize within its shuck. Finally his mind-voice bespoke her reluctantly.
You will have to be the kind of child Ian Macdonald finds lovable: quiet, obedient, uncomplaining, useful. And you must give no hint of your operant metafunctions nor even of the latent ones, for they will frighten your father.
Frighten? … But Daddy is a grownup man! The powers scare me, but—
Grownups can also be frightened by them. And it is impossible to love what you fear.
At least help me keep the closed boxes shut up tight forever!
Someday you will need what is inside them, and so will many other people. Not for a long time yet, but someday. And when all the powers within the other boxes are freed you will have to become a grownup yourself and leave Caledonia and learn how to do your life’s work.
No! I’ll stay here forever! I will I will and I HATE my rotten powers and I’ll always keep them hidden so that—
Enough. Be still, little Illusio. Rest behind your blue rampart. Sleep in the peace of your rosy pool.
I don’t want to! I won’t! You’re not my good old angel at all, You’re HIM and I don’t like you anymore!
Sleep. Forget …
She felt herself sinking, sinking into warm calmness walled round with impenetrable safety. She forgot the angel, forgot the man called Ewen Cameron who seemed to speak through her mind’s guardian, forgot all the things that had vexed and worried her.
Dee did not awake until hours later, when Grandad landed the egg for lunch on the continent of Strathbogie.
They came down in the crowded public egg park of a compact town situated on a bay between two curved promontories. A number of large container ships were moored in the deeper water and many smaller craft—commercial fishing vessels, motor sailors, and a few private yachts and runabouts—were tied up at the docks or moving slowly about the harbor.
It was raining lightly. Torn swatches of cloud straggled down the slopes of immensely tall mountains that seemed to shoot up almost vertically a kilometer or two inland. The close-packed houses and shops were painted in bright colors, as if to liven the somberness of the landscape. Many of them had fences of whitened stone, and coleus trees and cheerful flowers had been planted in the dooryards and on the median strip dividing the busy high street.
“This is Portknockie,” Kyle said. “We’re still nine thousand kloms southwest of Beinn Bhiorach continent, and there’s naught but a few strings of volcanoes between Strathbogie and there.” He took Gran Masha’s arm in spite of her disapproving look and led the way into the bustling town center. The heads of both men and women turned to stare at the striking female visitor in her haute couture.
“Hee hee hee!” The writer strutted along the sidewalk, smirking with pride. “The ladies will be dashing for their sewing modules and the men cranking the shank over the glamorous sight of you, Maire.”
She shook off his arm and drew the cape closer about her without saying a word. Kyle was unfazed.
“There’s a seafood house on the quay that I fancy. Let’s have a leg-stretch and a good lunch, since it’ll be six hours or more before we put down at the farm. The damned express Vee-route between here and BB is out of service, and it’s unsafe to fly free in stormy weather. You have to expect that kind of thing, the farther away from Clyde and Argyll you travel. The other ten inhabited Callie lands fall pretty much into the wild frontier category.”
The groundcars on the streets of Portknockie were mostly pickup trucks, Ford Broncos, Toyota Land Cruisers, and other sturdy vehicles suited to primitive roads. In spite of the drizzle, large numbers of people were going about their business on foot, not bothering with umbrellas or minisig shelters. Their dress was more extravagant than that of the Clyde folk. Both men and women were as likely to wear kilts or gaudy trews as ordinary street clothes, and some had tartan plaids wrapped around their shoulders, fixed in place with huge Celtic brooches studded with amethysts, cairngorms, and striking colored pearls that Dee exclaimed over.
“You probably know that pearls are one of Caledonia’s principal exports,” the writer said to the children. “Portknockie is one of the pearling centers of this continent, and there are gold and silver mines in the outback as well. Jewelry-making is a big cottage industry here. Would you like to stop at one of the shops and look over the whigmaleeries? I’d been meaning to get you some welcome-to-Caledonia prezzies, and a body gets better value for the money here at the source than at the big stores in New Glasgow or the pokey little places at the Muckle Skerry Mall on Beinn Bhiorach.” He turned to the professor. “What d’ye say, Maire a gaolach? There’s a fine shop right here.”
They had paused at a window display that seemed to Dee like the open mouth of a pirate’s treasure cave. Strings of richly glowing pearls in every color imaginable hung from perches and gleamed in overflowing baskets. There were pearl bracelets, pearl earrings, armlets, pins, hair ornaments, and rings designed for humankind, while fantastic collars of woven seed pearls, wedding diadems with gems the size of cherries, and enormous pearl pendants larger than hen’s eggs were intended to lure Poltroyan tourists.
“How kind,” said the professor, not bothering to hide her lack of enthusiasm. “But I think not. Perhaps you can find something less extravagant for the children later. These things are much too ornate and expensive.”
Kyle shrugged and they continued on to the restaurant. It was an unimpressive-looking place that stood on rickety pilings in the tidewaters, but the food turned out to be delicious and very Earthlike. Gran Masha had a bowl of hog-clam chowder and hot soda bread, while Grandad had a platter of local oysterish crear tures that he called eisire and gobbled raw, winking at Gran all the while and sending very odd thoughts at her. Ken and Dee had something called portan au gratin on toasted muffins, which tasted just like the best Dungeness crab with melted Cheddar cheese. The milk served to the children was still primrose yellow, but the pot of tea that the writer insisted Masha share with him was authentic Twinings Darjeeling with slices of real Brazilian lemon.
The professor shook her head disapprovingly at the extravagance. “Twenty dollars for a pot of real tea! The menu has Caledonian mint for a tenth of the price.”
“Or two wee drams of the local deoch làidir for half.” Kyle’s eyes were twinkling and Dee knew he was talking about whisky. “But I remembered how you love tea, and you won’t get it at Ian’s. He’s dead set against letting Thrawn Janet serve expensive food and drink—not that Miss Vinegar-Moosh would have any notion how to cook gourmet goodies if you gave ’em to her. Or other food, for that matter. Only Scots cook I’ve ever known who always ruins the scones.” He sighed. “But she’s a stone whiz with computers and keeps the hired hands and the nonborns toeing the mark.” If only she’d face up to the fact that Ian’ll never fancy her for sweet houghmagandie!
The image that accompanied Grandad’s appended thought was so extraordinary that Dee nearly gasped aloud. Her grandmother caught the involuntary remnant of farspeech, too, and another sharp argument in Gaelic commenced. But Dee had had eno
ugh of grownup squabbling and overhearing nasty secrets. She shut both the spoken words and the thoughts of the adults out so she could enjoy her food in peace.
Dee had come to the conclusion that Gran Masha was not nearly so hostile toward Grandad as she pretended to be. Why then did she continue arguing and pretending to be stuck up? It was baffling.
Toward the end of the meal the writer excused himself, saying he had an errand to do and would meet them back at the egg. He was gone before the professor could object. Gran seemed to have some idea of what he was up to, however, because her face tightened into a frown, and on the way back to the parking lot she let slip into the aether a surprising string of powerful subvocal profanity that Dee could not help perceiving. The words were new and interesting.
The reason for Gran’s ill temper became evident when Kyle reappeared at the egg carrying a string bag with three parcels in it. Grinning like a wolf, he thrust one package into Dee’s hands, one into Ken’s, and tossed the third carelessly into the backseat with the professor. Then he lit up the egg and sent them rocketing into the sky.
The children exchanged glances and opened the presents. Dee’s was a delicate gold chain with four iridescent peach-colored pearls spaced on it. Ken received a little silver model of a Strathbogie decapod sea monster. Its claw-studded tentacles writhed realistically and its six eyes were black pearls.
“Thank you, Grandad!” the children chorused happily.
Gran Masha said nothing and her gift was left unopened. But she used her deepsight to inspect it, and Dee suddenly heard a farspoken exclamation: Kyle you fool you obstinatebloody fool! And for the briefest instant the girl beheld what her grandmother’s ultrasense perceived—a curiously wrought necklet shaped like the letter C. It was formed from thick twisted strands of gold and at the ends were two dragon heads facing each other. The eyes of the beasts were glowing crimson pearls and their teeth held two diamonds.
During most of the remainder of the journey, their egg flew at an altitude of ten kilometers in a lonely zone of sky having an undulating floor of unbroken rain clouds and a ceiling of very thin cirrus. From time to time they saw strange atmospheric phenomena that Kyle said were common on Caledonia: vast elliptical rainbows suspended above the cloud deck, brightly colored haloes and arcs drawn in the ice-haze that veiled the sun, and patches of luminescence near the solar disk called parhelia or sun dogs, which sometimes appeared to jump magically about the sky.
Toward the end of the afternoon, when both Ken and Gran Masha were napping in the backseat and Dee was thoroughly tired of watching game shows, cartoons, and news broadcasts on the egg’s Tri-D, the sea of cloud below began to break apart, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a deep-green sea and occasional strings of islands clothed in sparse vegetation. Then a formation of towering clouds reaching all the way to the cirrus ceiling appeared ahead of them and to the left. In the midst of the cloud-mass was a billowing shape that appeared darker and somehow more solid than an ordinary thunderhead. As the course of the egg brought them even with the heaped clouds the sinking sun, which up until then had resembled a whitish paper cutout or a dazzling ball made fuzzy by ice crystals, was completely blotted out. When the sun reappeared it had turned an amazing azure blue color.
“Oh, Grandad! Look!” Dee exclaimed.
“It’s the dust from that erupting volcano floating in the stratosphere that does it,” he said. “The mountain’s name is Stormking. We’re flying around sixty kloms east of the Reekie Isles, an active chain south of Beinn Bhiorach. A major volcanic zone extends northward all along the western rim of the continent. There’s even a small belcher called Ben Fizgig a hundred kloms or so from your Dad’s farm, in the Goblin Archipelago.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Nay, it puffs off harmlessly now and then and the prevailing winds carry the ash out over the sea. The only habitation anywhere near it is the Daoimean Dubh Mines, and they’re safe enough tucked in a gorge of the Tuath Peninsula. But there are other volcanoes in southern BB that bear careful watching. Not only for lava flows and ashfall, but because their eruptions can melt snow and glacier ice and cause lahars—terrible fast-moving mudflows. The reason Beinn Bhiorach was the last continent to be settled is because it has the most active volcanoes. But they do good as well as ill. Their gases and drifting bits of mineral dust help make good soil in some places and also nourish the airplants. It’s when the fiery mountains are quiet that the luibheannach an adhair grow scarce and the airfarmers have hard times.”
“Has—has it been hard like that for Daddy?”
Kyle nodded. “He’s been struggling in poortith for over five years, not even able to afford a full slate of workers. It’s been a long dormant period for the local firepots. They’re cooking nicely now, though, and things will be fine at the farm once this bonanza harvest is safely in. But listen to me, lass. You mustn’t shame your Dad asking questions about the bad years.” It was one of the reasons your mother left him.
“Oh, no! I’d never do that.”
Dee was silent then, thinking about what Grandad had told her and sometimes watching the view of Beinn Bhiorach below. Frequent openings in the clouds revealed an elongated landmass with high mountains and glaciers calving icebergs into the sea. More volcanoes, smoking gently, appeared now and again along the continent’s western coast or among the islands offshore. Masha and Ken awoke and admired the blue sun, which gradually became greenish, then golden, then brilliant vermilion. As it finally sank beneath the thickening cloud deck great fan-shaped rays of purple and red appeared, expanding until nearly half the sky was dyed the color of burgundy and the backlit dark clouds nearest the western horizon looked like a bed of glowing embers.
The navigation unit of the Porsche chimed and said: “ETA Glen Tuath Farm airspace five minutes. Cirrostratus veil eleven-pip-three kloms, broken stratocumulus layer two-pip-three with base at zero-pip-niner. Visibility below clouds twenty-one, precipitation none, sea-level wind north one-zero, sea-level air temp plus zero-eight. Attention! Abundant aerial vegetation vicinity Goblin Archipelago, Daoimean Mountains, Loch Tuath, Rudha Glas, and Tuath Peninsula between eight-pip-three and six-pip-seven kloms altitude may constitute a hazard to unshielded rhocraft, reaction-engine flyers, and powered aerostats. Please select auto or free flight landing option now. Failure to exercise navigation decision within five minutes will result in your vehicle being inserted into a holding pattern.”
Kyle keyed the RF communicator. “Eesht, Glen Tuath! It’s Kyle Macdonald here ready to drop down your chimney with some rare cargo! Ian! Are you there, laddie? Can I fly in free as usual?”
“Janet Finlay comin’ back,” a grating female voice responded. The accent was strange—definitely not Scottish or British. “Ian’s still out but he and the rest of the crew have full cargo cells and we expect ’em any minute. Use the auto landing option and be damn sure your sigma is activated this time.”
Kyle rolled his eyes, but his voice was cordial. “Why certainly, Janet, luvvie. I wouldn’t dream of frying the darlin’ wee floaters! Tell me you’ve set aside a plass baggie of the finest for the two of us to share tonight.”
“Save your lame humor for your sleazy books,” the voice snapped. “Glen Tuath out.”
Kyle burst out laughing and Gran Masha said to him in Gaelic, “You should be ashamed of yourself, teasing the poor woman like that.”
Kyle replied in kind. “Och, Thrawn Janet will survive, whether or not she ever succumbs to the lure of the flirting-weed.”
“You will not discuss the pharmacology of airplants or make vulgar jokes about them in front of the children! Is that understood, you great blabbermouth?”
The egg navigation unit said: “ETA Glen Tuath airspace one minute. Please select auto or free flight landing option now. Failure to—”
“Aye, you bloody thing,” Kyle growled, using Standard English. “Auto landing. Go!”
What in the world had Gran Masha and Grandad been talking about in Gaelic? Dee h
adn’t a clue, but it didn’t matter. The egg was plummeting down and soon she would meet her Daddy.
“Watch now!” Kyle exclaimed. “You see those patches of greeny-pink fog? There, we’re into it. It’s the airplants!”
Dee and Ken plastered their faces against the transparent part of the egg’s dome. But they were descending so rapidly that the drift of strange organisms seemed to flash past in an instant. This time there were no destructive flashes; the slick sigma force-field Kyle had turned on deflected the plants without igniting their flammable gases or otherwise harming them.
“I see something bigger out there!” Dee exclaimed. “A bird!”
“Likely a faol na h-iarmailt, a sky-wolf. But he’s not after the weeds. Those things prey on the daoine sìth—the tiny grazing creatures that feed on the airplants. Their Gaelic name means ‘fairy folk’ and they’re fascinating and a wee bit dangerous as well. Sky-wolves are usually harmless to people unless they catch a pilot climbing around on the superstructure of the flitter. Then they can be vicious devils, dive-bombing you with their stony excrement and trying to bite with their toothed beaks.”
“Slow the egg down, Grandad,” Ken pleaded. “We want to see the fairies and the airplants close up.”
“Sorry, laddie. We’re in the grip of the farm’s NAVCON and Thrawn Janet would wax my tail if I did an override. You’ll see processed specimens of the airplants soon enough, and when your Dad has a free moment he’ll likely enough take you up in the big flitter to see the whole aerial ecosystem live.”
Hesitantly, Ken asked, “Who’s this Janet, Grandad? And what does that word ‘thrawn’ mean?”
Kyle began to hem and haw and looked embarrassed. Gran Masha said reprovingly, “It’s a derogatory term in Scots dialect that your grandfather mistakenly thinks is funny. You children are never to use it in connection with Citizen Janet Finlay, who is your father’s house and office manager. She—she seems rather a stern person, from what little I know after talking to her on the teleview, but you are to be polite and respectful to her. Is that clear?”