Flight To Exile

by Chris Reher

  “Aletha!” she was greeted by one of the men, who smiled wide and gap-toothed in greeting. “Have you come to be my bride, at last?”

  Aletha laughed. “Of course!” she said and embraced the man fondly. “But mostly I've come to see Minh.”

  The man's expression changed to one of regret. “She and her brood are out gathering her remedies Aletha,” he said. “We don't expect her for a few more days. She’ll be back for the harvest feast.”

  Galen sighed. While he was more and more reluctant to return to the launch site that would take them home, a stay in this village did not appeal one bit. Although he felt no hostility from any of these people, here, in the close silence of the forest, their every move seemed watched and scrutinized. Even now he felt curious eyes stare at him from doorways and dense vegetation. How far more enticing a prospect, he thought, to travel onward alone, with only his silent, unobtrusive twin to disturb their newfound need for privacy. Aletha pinched his arm affectionately, perhaps guessing his thoughts.

  “Well, then we will wait,” she said. “Do you have room for us?”

  Their welcome in this village seemed assured. The man led them to a nearby hut, his disappointment obvious when he saw that Aletha would not be sleeping there alone. It was a one-room affair – not one of the interesting-looking tree houses but one in a row of smaller buildings along the raised walkway. It contained little more than a large sleeping platform covered with brightly colored blankets, a few shelves and storage containers, and a central brazier venting through a hole in the roof. A clever turret above this opening kept the constant drip from the treetops from entering the hut. As in other parts on the moon, people here tended to crouch or kneel when at rest and instead of chairs there was a scattering of padded mats. Chor was shown to a similar cottage next to this one.

  While Galen inspected their new quarters, Aletha rummaged through a large basket to find something suitable among the dry clothing kept on hand for visitors. “Here, put this on.”

  After watching her discard her traveling clothes in favor of a colorful wrap, Galen shook out the bundle she had handed to him. “I can't wear this,” he said. He held up the sarong she had given him. “Not that I mind wearing a skirt, but I rather not walk about bare-chested.”

  “Why not?” she asked, puzzled. “Oh, you mean your scar? Does it bother you when people see it?”

  He nodded with some reluctance. “I’m shy, truly.”

  “Is that a new thing with you?” She handed him another piece of clothing made of a deep blue material. “We do have shirts here, too, you know. But with all this rain it's just easier to get your bare skin wet than wear damp clothes all the time.”

  “I think I've figured out the trick of keeping my clothes dry on this sponge you call a moon.”

  She grinned and ran her fingernails lightly across his bare chest. “Yeah, but I like you better undressed.”

  * * *

  Several days passed during which they did nothing except spend pleasant hours in the company of the villagers, explore the surrounding forest, or make love. Aletha was completely at ease here, a creature of the forest like the others, in her element of water and damp earth. The twins got used to the constant presence of her people, an easygoing lot with a great love of poetry and music. They did not subsist merely on what the forest had to offer but exported well-made carvings and musical instruments, some of which Galen even recognized from their short stay in Phrar. He learned that these people lived out here by choice, having migrated from the seaside towns set up by the first colonists on Thali. With the emergence of the emissary sect, they had simply left the coast to try a simpler existence in the wilderness of the barrier islands. His careful mental explorations revealed a number of Descendants among the villagers, many of them more gifted than the people of Phrar.

  Even here small risers vented from the overgrown ground, albeit weak ones. Galen continued to train Aletha, showing her increasingly difficult feats, knowing that the pupil would soon outpace the teacher. He tried again to persuade her to learn to use chi’ro as a percussive force, useful in combat to strike out at an enemy, or as a source of fuel to create fiery explosions in battle. She refused stubbornly, too appalled to even consider using her talents to crush internal organs or shock a mind into irreparable damage. She seemed more excited by her discovery of how to keep the leeches and stinging insects away without even needing to draw upon a riser.

  Resigned, Galen shifted her training to medicine and began teaching her how to use her gifts to hasten the healing process of almost any ailment. Chor contributed to her studies by helpfully stepping on a poisonous insect, enduring without complaint when Galen drew out his discomfort to make sure that Aletha understood the injury before attempting to treat it.

  They also continued to explore their ability to join their minds, not only to perceive the other’s moods and sensations, but also increasingly able to communicate without words, even if not as easily as he was able to speak to the La’il. Predictably, their experiments often led to less scholarly explorations of their bodies, but Galen realized that he valued their cerebral couplings as much as their physical ones. He had known other prime adepts, both mentally and otherwise, but none had Aletha’s powerful, yet utterly uncomplicated gifts.

  Daily, Aletha goaded him into a mental battle in which he was forced to expel her from his thoughts or suffer an unending stream of unpleasantries ranging from an onslaught of nauseating images to cloying poetry. It was easier to keep her out of his thoughts than to force her out and these exercises often left him shaken and exhausted and unwilling to continue. Gradually he became more adept at controlling the degrees of intrusion permitted and the amount of chi’ro required to accomplish this.

  For his part, Chor refused to join their games. Unflappable and thick-skinned, he was less prone to La’il’s assaults and rarely allowed her to enter his thoughts. Although Aletha worried, Galen did not press him to change his mind.

  * * *

  “It’s a harvest day mask!” Aletha exclaimed. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Four days after their arrival at the village, Galen and Aletha had strolled down to the lake to investigate the preparations for a celebration that was to take place at the shore a few days from now. One of the colossal harith trees had fallen during a recent storm and everyone capable of such work had been busy cutting its dense, black wood and hauling it over a great distance back to the village. The islanders did not cut living wood and occasions like these supplied them with raw material for their trade to last for years. Even the twins had been recruited to help store the timbers and rounds in shelters every bit as protected from the damp as their own living quarters.

  The day’s heavy labor done, several craftsmen had gathered around a wheezing, smoky fire near the water steps, intent on their carvings, occasionally joining in the soft, rhythmic humming that often accompanied their work. One of them had held up a mask he was crafting for their inspection.

  Galen and Aletha dropped into the sand near the group to admire the fine workmanship. “These masks are made of the harith wood,” Aletha explained. “It’s part of the celebration. Look how carefully these shells are embedded.”

  Galen had to agree that this piece, carved only with a straight blade, was evidence of remarkable skill. He turned it over in his hand and as he did so noticed dirt under his fingernails. Some beaded leather thong was wrapped several times around his wrist, looking like it had always been there. His hands and feet were cut, chafed and bruised from exploring this forest barefoot and using his hands to help with chores instead of relying on chi’ro. He let his gaze move over the small group on the beach. Already, he recognized some of these people on sight, knew their names, and understood their habits. Tuarin had brought his flute and its plaintive song now joined the craftsmen’s baritones to send a melancholy mood over the lagoon. How peculiar, he thought, that he would follow these villagers’ ways so easily. Squatting barely dressed on a damp beach, skin and hair p
erpetually wet, eating raw fish; only yesterday Chor had climbed a tree to reach some tender shoots whose sap was considered a delicacy. Were they taking this vacation just a bit too far? He no longer bothered to comb out and tie his hair and instead let it hang unbound in curling strands over his shoulders. On the Homeworld most of his friends would think it strange to see his hair out of place or some stain on his clothes. His combat-ready body was the result of carefully calculated physical training and precise mental disciplines. Here it was exercised by hikes and rowing and climbing. He grinned down at his sand-encrusted feet, shaking his head.

  “What?” Aletha smiled.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Nothing. Feeling good. I used to love shaping wood as a boy. We don’t have such fine timber, though.” He leaned back to nudge one of the artisans to ask for a piece of the material, a half-finished carving discarded because of some flaw. Taking Aletha’s hand, he rose to walk a little further along the beach where they sat down again. “Watch.”

  His hands turned the smooth wood to explore its shape and texture. He began to rub it, following its natural shape, applying gentle pressure here and there as if to test its resilience.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shh,” he said. “Pay attention.”

  She leaned forward to see his long fingers stroke the wood, pressing it a little more now, and gasped in astonishment when the wood began to change, subtly at first, but soon taking on a new shape. His hands seem to compress the wood like a potter would shape a measure of clay. Before her eyes, the piece took on the contour of a crane they had seen this morning among the reeds. “That is amazing!” she marveled, watching the slender legs form without splintering the wood.

  He looked up briefly before returning his attention to his handiwork. “Look closely.”

  She did, her eyes on his thumb as it stroked the wood, making only minor changes to the smooth surface. Mesmerized, she followed the movements of his hands. “Uh,” she grunted, unable to manage more than that. She could feel his mental touch and now she was the piece of wood in his hands, feeling the gentle motion of his fingers not with her skin but with her mind. Her breath quickened and she gripped her lower lip with her teeth, intent on the pleasure he gave. He applied a little more pressure, watching her taut face as she responded to the rhythmic friction. A small whimper escaped her when he lifted the wood to his lips.

  “By the gods, are you without common sense today?” a harsh voice suddenly intruded.

  Galen looked up just as someone snatched the sculpture from his hands. It was one of the elders, his name was Lyros or Laros or something like that, who had come upon their somewhat intimate pastime. Something was most definitely worrying the old man although Galen suspected that it had little to do with their mental fondling. The elder examined the bent wood, his dismay clear. “Just look at this! Look what you’ve done to the grain! Have you any idea of the danger you can bring down upon us all if this were to find its way back to the city?” He waved it at Galen, who flinched, both puzzled and amused. “This wood grows in few places and you mark it as clearly as though the word Descendant were engraved upon it! Have you no sense?” He stalked away and thrust the sculpture into the fire made by the carvers, nearly dislodging a pot of tea balanced above it.

  “He’s in a bad state,” Aletha marveled, still befuddled by the moment they had just shared. Galen bit back a chuckle and nodded in solemn agreement.

  The elder returned to them, still ranting. “Have a care, son, or you’ll bring the emissary down upon us for certain!” He seemed less worried about a demon in their midst than any evidence of the fact lying about.

  Inexplicably, Galen felt a great liking for the irate man who, for all his indignation, seemed to count the strangers as part of his village-clan, which included the privilege of reprimand when called for. It had been a long time since Galen had been so casually included – as a prime adept he stood forever apart and above those who might otherwise be peers. And here he was, yelled at by a skinny old man for misbehaving. A bubble of laughter welled up inside him, barely suppressed. No wonder he felt this strange sense of kinship here – to these villagers, as Aletha’s companion, he simply belonged.

  “If you have nothing more to pass the time than to bend wood into peculiar shapes, perhaps the both of you can help with the preparations for the evening meal. More hands are needed there.” Grumbling, the elder turned away before remembering the reason he had come to the beach. “But first you ought to go to Minh’s lodge. She has just now returned.”

  “Minh!” Aletha exclaimed and sprang to her feet. Barely waiting for Galen to follow, she sprinted back toward the village.

  Galen caught up with her, Chor at his side, just as Aletha arrived at Minh’s cottage. He saw a woman there, younger than he had expected, surrounded by a swarm of children. They scattered when Aletha flung herself into her mentor's arms, crying joyful tears over seeing her again. Galen watched from a polite distance while the woman fussed over her foundling, admiring her hair or some minor change of her figure, only to embrace her again. Some of the children also clamored to be the first to greet Aletha.

  A considerable amount of time passed before Minh discovered the twins nearby. She froze, staring first at Galen, then Chor, for an interminable moment. His smile of greeting wavered under her intense scrutiny.

  Aletha was startled by the suspicion on the seer's face. “Minh, this is Galen and Chor. They’ve brought me to see you.”

  Minh's eyes moved slowly to Aletha. “You have much to tell me, it seems.”

  Aletha nodded brightly. “I do, love, so very much.”

  Galen raised his hands and smiled good-naturedly. “I see you have a lot to catch up to. We’ll bow out of the women-talk, if you don't mind. We’ll be down there, scraping fish or pounding seaweed or something. I think we’re having silt worms tonight.” Catching a peck on the cheek from Aletha he turned and walked back the way they had come, Chor close behind him.

  Minh watched them go, and then turned to Aletha. “The day has come, then,” she said finally.

  Aletha frowned. “What day? What do you know about this?”

  Minh's eyes traveled upward to the sky, although neither Chenoweth nor the Homeworld could be seen this time of day even if the dense forest had allowed a clear view. “I only know you're destined to leave Thali, dear. But I cannot see where you're going.”

  “They say I belong to the Homeworld.”

  “So you may. But is that where you want to go?” Minh's pale green eyes gazed beyond Aletha, to the place where the twins had turned a corner. “Those men share the power of the Old Ones. I feel it. They have taught you. You know about the magic.”

  Aletha nodded. “They call it chi’ro. Why have you never told me?”

  Minh smiled sadly. “I am only a wet woods seer who reads the weather and predicts the harvests. What can I teach you? Would I tell you about such wonder only to have you frustrated by your inability to use it? Draw attention to yourself by failed attempts at magic?” She shook her head. “I've sheltered you for as long as I could. They have found you now. And so you must go.” She ran her hands through the younger woman’s unruly curls, her smile wistful. “Now, let me put my things away while you tell me all about your years in the city!”

  * * *

  Galen cursed under his breath when he felt the La'il like a tap on his shoulder. It was late, but Aletha was still with her mentor at the other side of the village. Gritting his teeth, he lifted aside the barriers he had placed against the La’il within his mind and promised himself to remain composed.

  “You are too kind,” she sent sarcastically, floating into view. She was dressed in a tight-fitting suit and her hair was wound securely around her head. Combat-ready, Galen thought. Her expression did not disguise her opinion of his current appearance. Chor, lounging nearby, returned her frown with a bland smile. “Gone native, I see.”

  Galen shrugged.

  “Why are you not on your way
north? I am expecting you. All of the Homeworld is expecting you.”

  “Why the rush?”

  The La'il's eyes narrowed. “Why the rush? While you are playing in the forest, Chenoweth is preparing to launch their conduits and conquer the Homeworld! How dare you put your own interests before all of us here?”

  “She and I—”

  “You and she are nothing! Chenoweth has almost succeeded in opening the seals. You have to get her out of there now or all will be lost. Leave for the mountain tomorrow. If you miss another orbital alignment it’ll take me twice as much chi to reach you.”

  “I had no idea things were going that badly. We had to detour because those emissaries were after us. Barely made it out of Phrar.”

  “Emissaries? You mean those priests?”

  “Hundreds of them, but I’m not sure I’d call them priests. They’re a zealous bunch. Nothing to do with ministering to the faithful.” He told her about the unsettling incident at the harbor temple.

  “Fanatics!” La’il spat. “Another reason for you to pry yourself loose from your new playmates and come home.”

  “I will,” he promised. “But why do we have to use the launch in the mountains? There is a crystal right in Phrar Thali.” He sent her a mental image of the temple. “You could have brought us back days ago.”

  “Interesting. I thought the other sites were all under water by now.” She probed carefully. “Well, no risers anywhere near there. No wonder it’s not detectable from here. It’s useless to us. The launch in the mountains is the only one that will do.”

  He stretched out on the comfortable sleeping mats covering most of the hut’s floor. “Fortunate for me. You know, I’m rather enjoying this vacation. Boating, hiking, plenty of sleep and fresh air. Not to mention the dazzling quality of naked-time.” Galen felt a mean satisfaction when La’il briefly turned away, hiding from him any reaction she might have displayed at this barb.