Forever Shores

by Peter McNamara

  Such a hard leave-taking, though little was said, and better for all once it was happening at last. Harder for Rynosseros turning away, angling off along the Gaenea to rejoin the Quaeda Si, to seek miracles and answers another world away.

  Learning that the ship-core of Rynosseros had died had been hard. Knowing ID-5982-J had fallen. That Traven had, and Anoki and aerotropts and so much else. This was the hardest.

  Scarbo did what he could to make business, found real tasks to distract them all, all but Tom, who was left to the never-enough of his dilemma. The crew worked quickly and well, took Rynosseros to a 100 k’s in record time, put speed and ever more distance between them and the Air, getting beyond the beginnings and into the doing. This ship. This deck. This time. Hardest for them, too, in all the different ways, none of it spoken. Only the doing mattered now.

  Carlyr saw the tree on its rise, standing back from the Road where it turned by some old rocks. He glanced once at his harness settings, unnecessary, habit and instinct playing out, just what you did. Nothing could be left to chance.

  Soon now. Not even five minutes. The Road had followed the old watercourse for the last five k’s. Now it made the gentle rise to the tree. All easy.

  The stoneman appearing atop the rise surprised him, but was hardly an issue. The rocks had been hiding him was all. He hadn’t moved on.

  Carlyr had his weapons, his readiness, his training. It was the recognition that did it, made him hesitate. How could it be—that stoneman, that smile, the hand raised in greeting?

  By the land! Rocky Jim! It was! But here. Here!

  How could it be? He had been, what?—ninety k’s away at least! Would have needed time, more time than he’d had, would have—

  He had been brought!

  Even as Carlyr reacted, the man’s sling was there, spinning in the hot air, making its blur, its lightning flash.

  Not now! Not like this! Carlyr thought. Not before—

  But the lightning was there, small, hard and shockingly real, and all that Carlyr had hoped and dreamed and ever sought to be snapped back into night.

  They were running hard when Strengi called up from com. ‘Lucas is hit!’

  Tom gripped the rail. ‘Down?’

  ‘Burning. Still running. A distance strike. But they’re closing. Committed.’

  Lucas.

  Scarbo laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘They understand, Tom. They’re giving this. You deserve answers too.’

  Tom’s hands never left the rail. ‘Aye. But Lucas.’

  Words so simple that again there was silence of a fashion, accepting, caring silence set in the flow of wind, the roar of wheels on sand, other ship-sounds, ineffably dear.

  ‘Forget the three hours!’ Shannon said, dealing with the moment. ‘I figure two and a half if we push it; two and a half getting back!’

  Tom looked about him, saw the talk for what it was, that they truly and keenly understood, knew this too was right. That more than one thing could be. More than one. Accepted that it wasn’t the choosing now, just the working through.

  But there was the deck, and the wind in the lines, and the sun drawing the kites—that kite!—into the empyrean, and the new drumming thunder of the wheels. Sunlight flash off mica and gypsum. Red gibber. Life and light. Choosing after all.

  There is no right time. No perfect time for any of us.

  And behind, when he did look back through scan, there were the closing lines of ships, battle canopies flung like toys, startlements, deadly gardens upon the blue, with twisting, spinning death-lamps, so many diamonds in the fiery white gold of the day.

  The only moment.

  It took him back, forward, completed itself.

  As human does.

  ‘Hard about, Ben! Bring us round!’

  ‘But Tom!’ Scarbo cried. ‘This is—’

  ‘Hard about!’ Tom was grinning, laughing. ‘It doesn’t matter!’

  ‘But we understand. We all do!’ Shannon cried, even as Scarbo worked the helm and the ship slowed and began the turn.

  ‘I know you do. I know.’ He brought up his hand, open palm. ‘See what I have, Rob. See what I already have!’

  There were frowns, smiles, nods, acceptance, all in moments as the ship completed its one-eighty and plunged back along the Gaenea. Simple. All simple now. The clear, simple words of a lonely tree in another time.

  What is in the empty hand but the universe entire,

  What is in the eye but all there is.

  What is for the heart but the only fire,

  And for the soul? The only moment. This.

  Now Rynosseros ran, sending out proclaimed intent—this is what we do!—so that all could hear. The Gaenea still flanked the Air; a thirty degree adjustment was all it took.

  The crew plundered the kite lockers, something else they could lay their hands to. The ship ran under a blossoming mantle, two score kites and more as Scarbo, Rim and Hammon sent them aloft: parafoils, Haikkokus, bright Sodes and Demis, Chinese Hawks, Jacob’s Ladders climbing on the sky in tiers, one, then another, with angels, wind-thieves, suncatchers and racing footmen and, highest of all so the tribes and sats could see, the rhino head, blue on ochre. Colour ship here!

  They were at 120 k’s, heading for 130. Boiling behind was a rooster tail, bloody red becoming white as they entered the Air at last, ran on, on, towards the converging battle lines. The wheels roared, the lines thrummed their own travel song. Deep down the ship cores, the nested, borrowed lives, sang and sang.

  The other Captains and crews read her approach soon enough, read choices, more than one, allowed not just closure but slowed their advance so Rynosseros would reach them in time. They did more, trimmed their battle canopies, sent up their own signatures and brights as well, their best and finest in tiers and blossoming geometries, so the six ships—the seven!—were like crowns, birds, brilliant flowers, confections of light and colour.

  And while—late to the dance—Tom would have kept to the left of the line, two words from Afervarro at centre, first Colour, Gold, flashed on com: Take point, and led Rynosseros to the middle of the chevron. It was a beautiful manoeuvre, done perfectly this once (such is the irony of desperation!), saw the chevron extend and Rynosseros plunging in tandem with Anna on Manticore, then ahead, needfully ahead, taking point.

  Oh, if you could see them as they ran, the seven against the dazzling thunder of the thousand, a few bright stars before the crackling storm, six kilometres becoming five, four, steadily falling to nothing in the beat, beat, beat of the dance. Oh, if you knew how all across the land we sang in our thousands, not unison, no, fervent discord, sang and sang, all of us that lived, the greatest and the least, startling nomads, travellers, vagrant stonemen, delighting so many who had forgotten to remember we were always there.

  And if we could show you how it was at that moment. Our Captain knew with all his heart, how it was at the last, before the fleets met and the sky, yet again, rained fire and ruin, and the chevron plunged into the fire we made—the belltrees—how the tribes, the humans in their pride and disregard, had forgotten that, having tasted life, we too would strive, learn, borrow, use everything we had, would rise up and protect our own, what we had made.

  Our Tom Rynosseros. Ours.

  Stone Gift

  Robert N. Stephenson

  Myulli gazed awestruck at the distant Kyjihm mountain range. Her young eyes were wide and glistening as she stared at the craggy peaks. The great, black walls frowned under the weight of the billowing dark sky. ‘It brings Gallerra,’ whispered Myulli.

  ‘It will bring nothing but much needed rain,’ growled Fiali, Myulli’s uncle. He wore orange robes, was tall, lean and cantankerous.

  ‘But the message on the stone of coming? Gallerra prophesied …’

  ‘You know nothing about the stone, child,’ growled her uncle. ‘Every storm brings with it the prophecy of Gallerra and the Waiters’ usual claims to have seen it foretold in the stone.’ Fiali looked down on the g
irl. ‘The Waiters are fools, Myulli, and the sooner you see them for what they are the better.’

  The storm clouds embraced the mountains, cutting off their tops. They swallowed the sky like a growing, angry mouth. The range was shrouded with dread. A vibrant contrast against the black and grey cliffs were the Pellin tree forests, their brilliant red foliage spread out like a fluorescing fan at the foot of the ranges. It was through this forest that Gallerra had fled during the Great Expulsion.

  Fiali turned to look down into the girl’s face. ‘Not since the Great Storm sixty years ago has anything come from such prophecies.’ The memory of the time eased back like a drop of water over parched earth. He knew these clouds. He shook his head and looked down at the girl. ‘All the sky has ever brought is rain.’ He offered a faint smile. ‘Today will be a wet day, let us go inside and throw some bones to pass the hours.’

  ‘No!’ Myulli stamped her bare foot. ‘Jashm showed me what to look for, Uncle. She knows things about Gallerra.’ Myulli’s eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement at the mere mention of the ancient oracle. ‘As a Waiter, she knows the signs, she knows …’

  ‘Enough of this foolishness, child. Your sister has filled your head with her misty truths and bleary-eyed visions. If this is Gallerra’s return where is she? Where is your all-knowing sister?’ Myulli looks more like her father each day, he thought. The tightness of the girl’s square face and the liveliness of her green eyes, even the subtle wave in her shoulder-length hair resembled her father’s dark locks.

  ‘Jashm knows!’ Myulli stamped her foot again. She winced as her bare foot scraped against the raised edge of a paving stone. ‘You’ll see it is so, Uncle. You will see.’

  Fiali turned from the girl, shrugging off her childish indignation and started back towards the house. He knew the truth about the Great Storm, he knew the truth behind Gallerra and he also knew it was best kept secret.

  The family dwelling stood barren amongst the orchard of blood fruit trees, its windowless walls of ochre stone and mud mortar deepened in colour and texture under the fading light. Fiali watched as the matted leaves of the thatched roof shivered under the caress of the increasing bluster. ‘Come now, child, before it rains.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I said enough!’ Fiali stood, his back towards Myulli, facing the heavy slatted wood door. He waited for the following steps of his niece, but all he heard was the strengthening breeze brushing against the wide leaves of the blood fruit trees. Foolish child, he thought to himself as he headed to the door.

  Beneath the dim light of an oil lamp, Jashm wove the thick strands of spun balla ox hair. A small loom, held deftly in her slight hands, held a good day’s work. Jashm hoped to finish the hat before the next harvest gathering so that her father would not suffer under the parching heat of the sun. From beyond the door she heard her Uncle’s voice bellowing. What has Myulli done now? she wondered. With haste she stowed the half-finished hat under her thick woollen clothing. Maybe her father’s early return from the fields had hastened Uncle Fiali’s coming inside. Jashm turned on her stool to face the door.

  ‘Jaja,’ called Fiali, opening the door and pulling back the draft curtain.

  ‘Yes Uncle,’ she answered. Her voice was soft, so as not to disturb the peacefulness of the room. Jashm’s bald head shone under the flickering yellow lamplight and her blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the small flame.

  ‘What have you filled that girl’s head with?’ Fiali growled, crashing through what she had tried in vain to preserve. ‘She’s standing waiting for the rain again.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Uncle. I have told her nothing other than truths.’

  ‘Truths! Do you call the prophecy of Gallerra truth? Myulli is at this moment standing out in the courtyard waiting for the approaching storm to bring a legend to life.’ Fiali rubbed his arms with vigour. ‘It grows colder by the moment,’ he huffed. ‘That girl will catch the sniffing death if she does not come inside.’

  Jashm stood from her stool and handed her uncle a blanket.

  ‘What storm?’ she asked. Jashm fought her excitement. Can it be? ‘Why didn’t you tell me a storm was coming. You know the signs, you know …’

  ‘I know nothing, Jaja.’ Fiali snatched the blanket from her and wrapped it around his shoulders. The old man sagged and his aged grey eyes closed. ‘There is a storm approaching from over the mountains,’ he said. He opened his eyes and stared into Jashm’s face. ‘It is just a seasonal rain storm, nothing more.’

  ‘Is it as black as the night?’ Jashm asked, as she pulled a small cloth sack from inside her vest. ‘Do the clouds swallow the sky?’

  ‘Yes, as do all storm clouds,’ he sighed. ‘Why do you Waiters persist in your quest?’ Fiali scowled. ‘Gallerra will not return.’

  Jashm stiffened in defence. ‘You forget, Uncle, that Gallerra was a great teacher, a diviner. He brought us prosperity from out of the fires of despair.’

  ‘He was a fraud who stole the village’s wealth,’ Fiali scoffed.

  ‘He is the promise of the future,’ Jashm cried. ‘When he left he gave us his promise and left a stone engraved with the scene of his return.’

  ‘Gallerra was a thief and the stone is loot he could not carry,’ grunted Fiali. ‘It is only coincidence that his leaving saw the arrival of the rains again.’

  ‘And the rains still come on time each year,’ Jashm felt angry with her uncle. He would never believe in the prophecy and this saddened her.

  ‘You worship a thief!’

  ‘Lies!’ Jashm felt her face reddened with rage. ‘You disbelievers spread lies about Gallerra and have failed to stop us Waiters. Gallerra will come back to us and he will bring with him great wealth to share with his people, as he has promised.’ She clenched her fists. ‘He will come and the stone does not lie.’

  Fiali looked long and hard into her eyes before he broke contact. ‘Go,’ he breathed, ‘Myulli waits for you.’

  Jashm nodded once at her uncle, stepped around him, pulled back the curtain and slipped out the door. The stiffening wind that swept down the courtyard to the house halted her. A smile spread across her face. The sky overhead was a rich blue but the coming darkness was consuming its colour with its rolling, thick clouds. Leaves, dancing together, filled the air with hissing. It was the singing of nature’s song, as was prophesied.

  ‘Is it the sign?’ called Myulli standing at the edge of the courtyard, one hand holding a branch of an old blood fruit tree.

  ‘Can you see the path?’ Jashm called, as she braced herself against one of the stone pots that dotted the courtyard. She leaned forward against the wind, her slight body trembling with the bracing cold. The Waiters had taught her the signs over the last five years and they were now clear in the heavens and the earth. She patted the offering she’d collected from the secret place—the place in the mountains the Waiters said couldn’t be found. ‘Faith,’ Jashm laughed softly to herself. Her faith in the secret place had driven her to search, and the voice of Gallerra from the sky made it possible. The voice guided her through the mountain forests to a white-stoned clearing barely three paces across. Here she found her offering, and now she would be the one to greet Gallerra.

  ‘Yes, I see it.’ Myulli’s small voice, picked up by the wind, was thrust into Jashm’s ears. She was facing the shadows at the base of the mountains. Myulli shielded her eyes from the dust-filled air with her hand.

  Jashm pushed against the wind to stand beside her sister. Both took shelter behind the thick trunk of the tree. They looked towards the base of the mountain. Jashm recalled her return from the mountain forest only yesterday and she was disappointed at not being there now. The crooked line of a path lay out in the distant tight foliage of the pellin trees. It glowed white within the shadows. Jashm dropped to her knees and began chanting the song of welcome, casting out each word like a ship on a rolling sea.

  From beyond the walls

  of yesterday’s promise

  Y
ou bring to us a new dawn.

  From beyond the walls

  that imprison our hearts

  You bring freshness to our lands.

  Gallerra we wait.

  For the spirit of rebirth.

  Gallerra we chant.

  For we are the Waiters.

  The keepers of your stone.

  ‘Is it Gallerra?’ Myulli called.

  ‘Yes, little sister, it is.’ Embracing her, Jashm’s eyes filled with tears of joy.

  Fiali scooped another ladle of soup into his bowl and sat on one of the stools arranged around the central stone table. The walls of the room were cluttered with shelves, filled with pots, bowls, boxes, furs, clothing, everything that its four occupants owned—it pressed against him with the warmth of memory. This place, of all places, always calmed his heart, eased his mind’s wanderings into the past. The only other place he gained comfort from was the other room, the place where they all slept. During the bitterly cold nights they would all huddle around its central pit furnace. Dank smoke rose through an iron flue in the middle of the ceiling to stain the crisp night sky. It was in this room that they would whisper secrets to each other until sleep claimed them. Fiali longed for the return of those nights. Perhaps today’s weather will bring a shard of it back this evening, he pondered as he sipped his soup.

  On the second mouthful of the rich spicy soup Fiali felt a tingling in his mind. The storm was awakening something deep within his guts, the familiarity of the clouds. The secret he was forced to keep by his father and the curse promised by his grandfather. He remembered the night his father had come down from the Kyjihm Mountains. His face bright with the excitement of discovery, and Grandfather—yes!—Grandfather had cried and cursed father for his foolishness. He remembered the truth behind the Great Storm. Fiali could see the scene as if it had happened this morning.

  It was the day of the Great Storm. Grandfather thought he was sleeping, but he heard his tale of the ancient mountaintop clearing, of Basstel and the mysteries of the past. He spoke of the secrets of the Kyjihm Mountains. He admonished his father. Fiali paused. His spoon hovered above the bowl. The thick brown soup trickled over its edge to fall on the table in soft splashes. He could see Grandfather snatch a cloth bag from his father’s hand and shake a gnarled fist in his face.