The Daughter of the Sea and the Sky

by David Litwack

  She took his hand.

  Kailani had stopped at the bottom of the stairs and was waiting for them to catch up. When they were a few paces away, she rushed toward them. With a squeal of joy, she squeezed between them, grasped each of their hands, and led them up at a respectful pace.

  Helena glanced down at the little hand in hers, then across to the other hand lost in Jason’s. The three of them climbed the steps to the Knob as she and her parents had done years before. Finally, she looked at Jason.

  He smiled as if he’d been watching her the whole time.

  At the top, the scrub spread in a half circle, which sheltered the rock dome from the wind but opened up where it faced the sea. Several visitors strolled about, taking in the views of the ocean to the north and east and of the harbor to the west. Most nodded as they passed but stayed silent. If anyone spoke, they did so in whispers.

  In the center, a young couple walked with their baby daughter toddling between them, secured by a grip on each parent’s hand. When she lunged for the ground, the mother lowered her to all fours, and she began to crawl. After a moment, she glanced up and smiled at her parents—mostly to be sure they were watching—then raised her butt and rose to a wobbly freestanding position. She teetered, unsure whether to attempt her first step. She tried three times before conceding and plopping back down.

  Helena’s own knees wobbled and she spread her arms for balance, as if the child’s failure had been her own.

  There was a tug at her thumb. She looked down to see Kailani patting her hand.

  “Don’t worry, Helena,” the girl said. “She’ll walk the next time she tries. You may not believe it, but it’s the nature of the Spirit to rise up and walk on our own.”

  Helena stared at her. “How do you know these things, Kailani?”

  “My mother, the sky, told me.” She became thoughtful, her eyes misting. She looked to the broad expanse of ocean and sky, both so achingly blue the horizon between them virtually disappeared, and stared out as if trying to see all the way to her homeland. “She told me when the wind first arose and tried to walk.”

  ***

  Jason was reluctant to leave the Knob, afraid to let the moment go, but it was mid-afternoon and even Kailani was hungry.

  He drove the short distance to Albion Village and parked near the shore to ease the transition. From there they walked the last few blocks, past stacked shell fish traps and fishing nets hung out to dry, until the smell of the sea gave way to the more civilized aromas of the town.

  A seaside resort, Albion Point teemed with tourists in the summer, but it was also a university town, dominated by the Polytech. The combination drove demand for high-end restaurants, but also quaint cafés, stores filled with ocean kitsch—colorful buoys, harpoons and other relics once used by real fishermen—but also bookstores and pubs.

  As they strolled down the main street, Kailani’s chin drooped to her chest and her eyes focused on the cracks in the pavement. She seemed to smile only when in sight of the ocean.

  She perked up when they wandered beneath the maroon awning with the drawing of the steaming kettle that marked the entrance to Molly’s Tea Shop. She gaped through the window at the pyramid of cookies, and the cakes and pies lined up in a row. She beamed as she inhaled the scent of baked goods wafting through the open doorway.

  “I think we’ve found our place,” Jason said.

  Inside, a hostess told them to sit anywhere. As they headed for a table in the corner, Kailani dawdled over to the pastry display.

  The waitress behind the counter, a round woman who looked as if she enjoyed sampling her own wares, smiled at her. “Would you like a slice of cake or pie?”

  Kailani checked with Helena. “May I?”

  “You should have lunch before—”

  “Of course you may,” Jason said. Anything to cheer up that sad face.

  The discussion became animated as Kailani and Helena considered their options, finally selecting the lemon burst tort and a slice of the seven-layer chocolate cake. Then they settled down to the challenge of choosing tea from the five-page menu.

  Tea pervaded the place, with tins of every shape and size lining the shelves, along with an assortment of tea services. Paintings on the walls told the story of the tea trade’s history, with images of five-masted schooners pulling into port with their precious cargo, giving lie to the mythmaker’s claim that the races had been created apart. Ancient charts showed sailing routes from the lands to the east, before the world was divided.

  Jason and Helena ordered the Island Essence, described in the menu as having a big, fruity, berry flavor. Kailani picked the Lady Catherine’s blend for no other reason than she liked the way it sounded. The tea came in pots wrapped in flowered cozies, each with its own unique design. The waitress turned over a small hourglass that stood in the center of the table and told them to let the tea steep until the time was up.

  Kailani stared at the hourglass. “What’s that for?”

  “It measures time,” Jason said. “When all the sand has run through to the bottom, our tea will be ready.”

  Kailani studied the sand until half the grains had passed through the narrow neck.

  “Is that what time looks like? Can I touch it and see how it feels?”

  Jason fumbled for a reply. Kailani could be a little too otherworldly for his engineer’s temperament. “It’s sealed and can’t be opened. Besides, those are just grains of sand, the same as you’d find on the beach. Someone’s measured how long it takes for that much sand to pass through the neck.”

  “If I turn it upside down, will the time start over?”

  Jason sighed. “Time’s a concept we have no control over. It only goes in one direction, forward, and always at the same rate.”

  Kailani stared at the hourglass. “Then why does it have to be measured?”

  Jason pictured himself running, with an hourglass strapped to his wrist in place of a sport watch. Why must time be measured? To know how fast you’re running. To make sure life doesn’t pass you by.

  Helena rescued him by removing a cozy and pouring Kailani a cup of tea, even though the sand had not run out. “Careful now, it’s hot.”

  Kailani took the cup in both hands, her fingers too small to lift it with just one. She lifted it to her nose, sniffed, and her eyes lit up.

  They drank their tea, ate their cakes and pies, and ordered seconds. The afternoon passed easily and their spirits lightened—until Jason checked the time. The department was an hour’s drive away, and he’d promised Carlson to have Kailani returned by five.

  “Kailani,” he said, “we’ll have to leave soon. Would you like a piece of cake to bring back with you?”

  “Back where?”

  “To the department.”

  The room grew still, with no sound except the clink of cups on saucers, now unnaturally loud. Jason watched Kailani. He was sure she’d heard him, but she went on drinking like a kitten licking milk. He took a last sip of his own tea. It had gone cold now and had a bitter taste. He turned to Helena for help, but she looked as if she were the one being sent back.

  Finally, he spoke. “Didn’t Mr. Carlson explain that we were only taking you out for the day?”

  Kailani shook her head so hard, the long hair swished about her shoulders and a strand fell across her eyes. “I don’t want to go back. Why can’t I stay here with you?”

  Jason brushed her hair aside. “It’s just for now. Someday, you won’t have to go back.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will it be a long time?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  She ventured a hand across the table, tipped the hourglass upside down, and stared as the sand flowed through its narrow neck.

  “That must be,” she said, “why people measure time.”

  Chapter 6 – The Blessed Lands

  The Minister of Commerce struggled up the stairs to the sandstone arch marking the entrance
to the marketplace. With the sun at its zenith, he’d find no relief until he reached the shadowed alleyways of the suq.

  As he paused to wipe his brow with a well-used handkerchief, he drew the scrutiny of a guardsman, who clicked his heels together and made a formal bow. “Excellency.”

  He offered a half nod.

  The guardsman stiffened. “Are you sure that you’re in the right place, Excellency?”

  “I’m sure.” He’d been through this before.

  His white suit and leather shoes marked him as a modernizer, and of a different class than those who frequented the market. He’d stood out everywhere he’d searched. Being accosted by guardsmen was uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he hadn’t let it dissuade him from his mission.

  The guardsman held out his hand. “Your papers, please?”

  The minister reached into his jacket and produced his identification papers in a waterproof pouch. He watched the man’s eyes to see which way his soul was inclined—supporter or critic. He was a symbol of change, and change polarized people.

  The guardsman unfolded the papers, glancing up while he read them as if to make sure the minister was still there. His eyes told the story. A supporter.

  When he finished, he made a second, deeper bow. “Forgive me for not recognizing you, Excellency. Men who come here dressed as you are usually up to no good—smugglers and such.” He tucked the papers into the pouch and handed them back. “Please, sir, you should know this marketplace is far from the corridors of power. You must be aware you have enemies.”

  The minister put the papers away, and dragged the handkerchief across his face one last time before pocketing it as well. “I am, but I have urgent business that won’t be deterred by such concerns.”

  The guardsman stared toward the harbor, squinting at the flashes of sunlight off the waves. “Sir, I’m not permitted to leave my post, but if you’d wait an hour until I’m off duty, it would be my honor to accompany you.”

  The minister did his best to smile, a gesture he’d used so little these past months. “Thank you for the offer, but your presence would only complicate my task. I’ll be careful.”

  “Please do, sir. You’re doing wonderful work for our people. There are those of us who pray you’ll become the next Supreme Leader.”

  With this, the man straightened, gave an informal salute and stepped aside.

  ***

  While little sunlight penetrated the alleys of the suq, the press of warm bodies more than offset the cooling shade. The minister, possessing a bulky frame, did not glide easily through crowds. He was constantly bumped and jostled, forcing him to keep one hand on his papers and wallet.

  It was late afternoon. How many shops had he searched that day? How many villages and towns had he visited this past month? The stubbornness that had brought him so much success sustained him, along with a desperate faith that he was only one clue away.

  He chose his next target, a shop for apparel and sundries. Pushcarts bracketed the doorway, stacked high with the loose-fitting smocks favored by his more traditional countrymen. Overhead, bright-colored headscarves hung from an awning and swayed in the breeze created by bustling passersby. A young man with thick eyebrows slouched in a seat by the door.

  The minister entered.

  In the far corner, an old man sat on a rocking chair and sipped coffee the color of tar from a tiny cup. He glanced up, almost surprised to see a patron, but as soon as he took in the minister’s features, his expression darkened—a critic. He set down his cup, pressed hard on the arms of his chair, and rose on unsteady knees.

  Once upright, he extended a bony finger at the minister. “You.” The palsy in his hand sent tremors through his body. “You have brought a curse on our land with your soulless ways.”

  The young man who’d been sitting by the door rushed in and positioned himself between the minister and the old man. “Be at peace, Father. I thought the Holy Book teaches hospitality to guests.”

  “This is no guest. This is the devil.” The old man spat three times on the dirt floor.

  His son pressed his palms together in front of his chest and bowed. “Forgive him, Excellency. His eyesight is poor, and he’s mistaken you for someone else.”

  The old man tried to shove his son aside. “It’s you who are blind. Can’t you see who this is?” He turned and fumbled through a stack of government bulletins on the table behind him. Finding what he was seeking, he waved a crumpled page in front of the young man.

  The son took the paper and glanced from the imprint on the front to his new guest. His eyes narrowed. Without further argument, he grasped the minister by the arm and led him outside to the front of the shop.

  When they were out of earshot from the old man, he bowed again and smiled. “Forgive my father, sir. He’s of the old school. Those of my generation understand what you’ve done, how you’re bringing us a better life. Now what may I do to make up for my father’s behavior?”

  A better life.

  When the Supreme Leader came to power thirty years before, he preached the value of happiness in this world as well as the next. Since the Great Separation, the blessed had stagnated. Through too strict an interpretation of dogma, they’d fallen behind the soulless in things that mattered to people’s lives—medicine, transportation, communication. Quietly, the Supreme Leader reached out through back channels provided in the treaty, seeking expertise from his former enemy.

  He’d established modern, more secular institutes of learning, and identified the most gifted children to train in a pragmatic mix of the spiritual and physical. The minister was among the first so educated. Hardworking and practical, unburdened by ideology, he rose quickly through the hierarchy. As a mid-level official, he negotiated an agreement with the soulless, allowing his country to import the knowledge to build self-powered wagons. Then he used it to start an industry that quickly flourished, producing motorized carts that let farmers more easily bring their produce to market. He was promoted to the newly created position of Minister of Commerce—a hitherto unthinkable role—where he introduced more aggressive reforms, becoming a legend among modernizers.

  But now, all his accomplishments were like a handful of sand.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the waterproof pouch, then withdrew the well-worn parchment with the portrait so lovingly drawn by the Poetess. As he unfolded it, he turned it toward the man.

  “Can you tell me,” the minister said, trying to sound official while hoping for a miracle, “have you seen this girl?”

  Chapter 7 – An Episode of Irrationality

  It was mid-September and Helena could feel the summer passing. Afternoons along the cliffs were still warm, but the evenings brought an offshore breeze that chilled rather than refreshed, and every day the sun set a few minutes earlier.

  She trudged down the corridor to Kailani’s cell, a walk she’d come to dread more with each visit. At least the circumstances had improved; Carlson had managed to bend the rules enough for Helena to be declared a family friend, a status that allowed for longer and more frequent visits. She went as often as possible—at least four days a week.

  She and Jason met for dinner most nights, but he made the trip to visit Kailani only on weekends. His weekdays were consumed by his new project, developing the communicator that would change the world.

  It was odd. When they were younger, he’d been the unfocused one, filled with whimsy and preposterous dreams, while she’d been grounded, committed to the goal her father had set for her. Now, the grown-up Jason knew what he wanted from life and had a plan to achieve it, and Helena was adrift. She’d abandoned all pretense of studying and rarely opened the textbook anymore. With only two weeks left until the exam, the chances of keeping that promise to her father were slim. What interested her—no, obsessed her—was Kailani.

  When she reached the locked door that led to the row of cells, she smiled a greeting to the matron, who’d become more accommodating since Helena’s new legal designa
tion. Yet something was different today.

  The matron thrust out her jaw and wrapped her arms tightly about her chest. “Morning, Ms. Brewster. May I have a word?”

  Helena fell back a step and nodded.

  “I’ll have to limit you to ten minutes today.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Mr. Carlson needs to speak with you.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m just the messenger.”

  She led Helena down the hallway, then hesitated at Kailani’s door. As she turned back to Helena, her stern demeanor softened.

  “I can understand how you feel, Ms. Brewster. I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years and never met anyone like her. I hope you can help.” The matron unlocked the door. “I’ll knock when ten minutes are up.”

  Kailani sat on the bed with her legs dangling, ankles crossed, and hands folded in her lap like a model student. But this was no schoolhouse, and she was no student. Her gaze was cheerless and blank.

  “Hello, Kailani.”

  “Helena.” She looked up, her smile more tenuous than usual. “It’s been two days since I saw you last. I’m getting better at counting days. I have a calendar now.”

  She gestured toward the wall where an oversized calendar had been stuck above the bed, featuring a picture of an ocean view at sunset. Beneath it were the words Albion Point Board of Trade.

  “That’s lovely,” Helena said. “Where did you get it?”

  “Mr. Carlson brought it, so I could see the ocean.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “He brings sweets too, every day—ever since I told him about Molly’s.”

  On recent visits, Kailani would jump up when Helena arrived, giving her a squeeze of the hand or, on good days, a full hug. Now she was listless, waiting for Helena to fill the gap between them.