The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  Katja worked alone, in the highest room of the monastery tower, afternoon light streaming in through the stained-glass windows. On the left side of her heavy wooden desk was a large stack of handmade paper, covered in her own writing. To her right was a pot of tea, now cool, delivered by a monk several hours earlier.

  Zoë had brought her to the monastery only a few days ago, but it felt like much longer. Time passed slowly when you were working alone.

  Katja put down the pen and flexed her hand. Zoë said that she clenched it too tightly. When she concentrated on her grip, she could manage it, but when her attention shifted to the material (she wrote out the algorithm, over and over again), her grip tightened, leaving her hand cramped and exhausted.

  “Can you change my hand so that it will not tire?” she had asked Zoë. “It is not a real hand, after all.”

  “I could,” Zoë had answered, “but writing is a good skill. You might as well learn it correctly. It might come in handy afterwards.”

  Afterwards. That’s how Zoë referred to the time when she would initiate the algorithm within the Crucible, destroying herself and all her constructed worlds in the process. Katja would probably die as well. She would likely freeze to death immediately, unless the Crucible ejected itself from her body in time. If she managed to survive that process, there was still the question of the threads. Had they already taken over her vital functions, like breathing? If they had, she would die within minutes. And even if her body could still function on its own, she would be deaf and blind, probably unconscious, and completely helpless. Unless someone found her and helped her, she would die of exposure.

  Still, they said afterwards, as if they were planning for real events that would really take place. For now, they were ignoring the certain fact of Zoë’s end, and the almost certain fact of Katja’s.

  She stood and stretched, then descended the spiraling stone staircase to the bottom of the tower. On the ground floor, she passed a monk sweeping the floor.

  “More tea, Lady Katja?” he asked, in Norse. He was young, bald, clean-shaven, and wore a thick, gray robe.

  “No,” said Katja, before quickly leaving the tower. She found it awkward to converse with the monks. Were they real or not? Zoë had said that their conversational skills were limited. They had no feelings or thoughts. But they seemed real; their speech seemed fluid and natural. She was the one limiting the conversations; she did not want to interact with them at all. She felt guilty for leaving quickly, for being rude when the monk had been polite. But the monk himself – at least according to Zoë – felt nothing.

  Zoë was working in the garden, pulling weeds from between the carrots. Zoë had designed the weeds to be ‘biologically accurate,’ and now she dirtied her hands pulling them from the earth. She had also created the dirt itself; it teemed with worms and ‘microbes’ (extremely tiny creatures, too small to see, which did something good for the soil). Katja did not pretend to understand Zoë’s obsession with creating things that already existed, but she was beginning to accept the trait. Her new friend was an artist, or at least a crafter. Zoë reveled in making things that worked, things that looked and acted real.

  “I am done,” said Katja. Zoë looked up and pushed her hair aside, leaving a smear of dirt across her forehead.

  “You know it? You can write it?”

  “Forward and backward,” Katja answered. It was true. She had memorized the algorithm. She even knew what some of the symbols meant. Zoë had taught her the numerals zero through nine, and even how to write larger numbers using those numerals. She had learned the entire Greek alphabet as well. Most of the mathematical symbols still meant nothing to her, but she at least knew some of their names (and the ones she did not know, she could still draw the shapes).

  Zoë stood and brushed her hands on her pants. “Show me,” she said.

  They returned to the tower, where Katja demonstrated that she could correctly transcribe the algorithm from memory. Zoë was pleased.

  Later, at dinner (which they shared with a dozen or so monks), Zoë conversed and laughed with the men in a language Katja did not understand. “What tongue is that?” she asked.

  “Latin,” said Zoë. “And some Italian – the jokes at least. I didn’t program that bit, how they switch up their language use. It’s interesting. It makes me want to spend more time with them.”

  Zoë had said that the grounds and the monks were based on an eleventh-century monastery in Italy (a place directly south of Happdal, but quite far – perhaps half a year’s march). The real monks had kept important scientific and historical knowledge alive during the ‘Middle Ages,’ copying manuscripts by hand. Katja had had to learn a great deal of Builder history just to understand what the Middle Ages were. As she studied the various historical eras, characterized by types of materials (ceramics, bronze, iron, steel, plastics), centers of power (warlords, kingdoms, dynasties, churches, corporations), and forms of communication (speech and song, writing, printing, invisible messages sent through the air), she began to see herself as part of a larger continuum. ‘Builder’ history was really her history. Human history. In any case, the monastery was an appropriate setting for Katja’s work: the memorization of Zoë’s algorithm.

  “Pass the roast beef,” said Zoë. Katja did so, but not before helping herself to a large pink slab.

  After dinner, they relaxed in a small courtyard illuminated only by a crescent moon, starlight, and a few torches flickering in their sconces. The monks smoked long pipes, burning a floral, damp tobacco. They had offered a pipe to Katja, which she had turned down, but now she regretted that choice. The smoke had a delicious, seductive smell. She accepted the drink they offered, grappa, but regretted that as well; it burned her mouth and tasted foul. Zoë seemed to like it, and drank enough so that her speech began to slur.

  “Maybe I’ll delay the algorithm,” Zoë mused. “Will you stay a little longer, if I do? This is nice here, isn’t it?”

  “The longer I stay, the less chance I have of living,” said Katja. “Is that not right? You told me the threads would take over my breathing, my heartbeat – all the things my body should do on its own.”

  “Yesh,” said Zoë, disappointed at having been reminded of the obvious.

  “Or do you think my real body is already beyond saving? If so, you should just tell me.”

  Zoë shook her head. “No, you’re right. We should do it as soon as possible. There’s still a chance you’ll live.”

  “What if I could get Raekae to make my body go to Happdal? Then, once I am there, you could start the algorithm. My real body would be among my friends and family…they could help me.”

  Zoë stared at the ground as if she had not heard. “How?” she finally asked.

  “Perhaps I could convince him somehow.”

  Zoë shrugged. “It’s worth a try, I guess. You should be careful. I can’t protect you when you’re with him. Here, in the worlds I’ve built, he’s locked out. But he knows you’re here.”

  “What can he do to me?” asked Katja. She noticed that the monks’ conversation had paused. With her, they spoke Norse, so potentially they could understand her conversation with Zoë. Except that they were not capable of understanding. Maybe they had just run out of things to talk about.

  “Raekae can manipulate your perceptions – he can change anything about your environment. Depending on how deep the threads have gotten, he can inflict pain.” Zoë took another large sip of grappa. “Or invoke fear.”

  “Henning was scared, when we paid Raekae a visit. But I was not.”

  “That was days ago. The threads hadn’t yet gotten to your amygdala. That might be different now.”

  Katja stood, feeling restless. “I can control my emotions. I am not weak-minded, like Henning. I will go to Raekae, and trick him into taking my body to Happdal. Even clever men can be tricked.” Katja strode over to the young monk w
ho had greeted her earlier in the tower and took the pipe from his hand. The other monks laughed. She put the stem to her lips and pulled the sweet smoke into her mouth. It tasted as good as it smelled.

  “And another thing I wish to do – warn the others. Franz and Stian were kind to me. I like Stian especially. If they are to die, they should have some warning. Perhaps one of them would have me take a message to their descendants, should I survive. If I can learn your strange symbols, then I can also remember a line or two for each of them. I might even extend the offer to Henning.”

  “Whatever you tell them, that knowledge may make its way back to Raekae.” Zoë seemed sober now, almost instantly. Perhaps she had simply decided to no longer be drunk.

  “Henning may be traitorous, but I trust the other two.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust. Raekae can peer into their minds at will. He can become them, merging his own consciousness with theirs. He controls the metamind.”

  Katja handed the pipe back to the young monk. “I heard Raekae mention the same word.”

  “It’s a software layer within the operating system of the Crucible. Practically, it allows one mind within the Crucible to gain information from the others, or build a bridge between two minds. Telepathy, of sorts, but not always in both directions.”

  Katja knew about mind-reading. Ilsa – the healer crone – often it seemed as if she could read thoughts. The same was true of her own mother. “I heard voices in my head, before I was transported to this place. I remember hearing Franz’s voice in particular, telling me about the rings in the sky. He said people lived on them.” She looked up at the night sky above the monastery and saw thousands of stars, and the bright crescent moon, but no rings.

  “That was Raekae using the metamind, building a bridge between your mind and the others. The threads had probably just begun to penetrate your auditory nervous system.”

  “Raekae seemed worried that someone could take over the metamind. He said Haakon – Kaldbrek’s jarl – might try, if he were to use him as a host.”

  Zoë nodded. “I could have taken it over. Raekae would have been relegated to a mere mind, the same as Henning and Stian and Franz.”

  “What stopped you?” asked Katja. The monks had fallen silent again.

  Zoë took a long moment to answer. One of the torches popped loudly. Finally she spoke. “I didn’t want to be a jailor. And I didn’t want to die, either. So I just locked him out, and started to build my own worlds.”

  It seemed a fair answer. Soon after, Katja asked Zoë how to return to the hut with the green door, to Raekae’s world. Zoë told her. Katja bid her goodnight. She thought that it might be goodbye as well – depending on what happened when she confronted Raekae – but saying goodbye seemed too difficult.

  * * *

  She made her way through the jungle again, swatting aside both plants and insects, and finally found Zoë’s hut. She passed through the door, and once again found herself disoriented. She was still outside of the structure. But now she stood on a well-manicured path, surrounded by landscaped gardens, breathing cool, dry air. The look of the place was different: the colors were less vibrant, details less vivid. Zoë was the better world-maker, she decided.

  She found Stian first, sitting on a bench, a book on his lap. Once again the big smith reminded her of Jense, and she felt a pang of loneliness. Stian looked up and grinned at the sight of her. “What is it about?” she asked, motioning to the book. She still could not read, but the idea of reading a book for pleasure no longer seemed odd.

  “Vikings,” he said. “A Builder people. They seem similar to our kind – the people of the Five Valleys – but I do not know why.”

  “You will injure your mind if you think too hard,” she advised.

  Stian stood and embraced her awkwardly. She allowed it, but did not move her arms from her sides. “I have missed you,” he said. “How was your journey? Did you find the hermit? Henning said you left to seek her out.”

  “I did. She is powerful – more powerful even than Raekae. More god than woman.”

  Stian raised an eyebrow but did not contradict her. “My memories of her are dim,” he said. “I knew her before I learned to read, and my impressions were colored by my ignorance. But even then I thought she was keen-witted.”

  “Where are the others?” asked Katja. “I have grave news – you should all hear it together.”

  Katja told them to meet in her own hut. Henning came last, looking wary. “Sit,” she told them, and they did so: Stian and Henning at the small table, Franz cross-legged on the floor. She remained standing, and looked at each of them in turn, letting the silence linger heavily. Franz adjusted his spectacles. Stian fiddled with his beard. Henning, reclining in his chair, wore his usual smirk. She would watch his face while she delivered the news, and see if she could wipe his smile away.

  “I have found the hermit. As I told Stian, she is godlike in her powers. She intends to destroy this world, and all the worlds she has created, to begin anew. You will all die when this happens. It may be soon.”

  No one said anything at first. Franz looked out the window thoughtfully. Stian scowled. Henning looked incredulous. “She is bluffing,” he said. “Why do you think she has such power?”

  “I saw her change the world at will. Raekae has no power over her. She knows what this place is – she calls it the Crucible – and she knows how to control it.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Henning. “If there is a god here, it is Raekae. He can reach into our hearts and fill them with fear.”

  Stian nodded. “This is Raekae’s place – we are mere guests here.”

  “You are prisoners, not guests!” Katja thundered, slapping the table with her palm. “I should cut off your beard, smith. You talk like a frightened boy, not a man.”

  Stian shrugged. “What can we do? We have tried to fight him. He cannot be killed.”

  “Zoë can kill him,” she said. “She will, too. This place is ending. All of it.” She put her hand on Stian’s broad shoulder, and continued more calmly. “All of you will die. But as the host, I might survive. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. If I live, is there anything…is there a message you would have me take back? I could remember words from each of you, and deliver them.”

  There was a long silence, which Franz finally broke. “Everyone I know is dead,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I have no message.”

  “The same is true for me,” said Stian, “but if there is a smith in Happdal, send him my greetings.” Katja smiled at this. Both Jense and her brother would delight in a greeting from Stian, if she ever had a chance to give it.

  “What about you, ancestor?” she said to Henning. She had no love for him, but her dislike was tinged with pity. If he had words for someone, she would take them back if she could. But he merely stared at her coldly.

  “I didn’t believe in an afterlife,” said Franz, from his floor seat, “but I found myself here. Maybe I will live again in another world.”

  “Perhaps I will finally see Valhalla,” Stian said. “I am cheerful enough in this place, but deep down I tire of it. I tire of you two especially,” he said, looking to Franz and Henning in turn.

  Franz nodded. “The feeling is mutual,” he said without rancor. “And I don’t fear death – at least not yet. It will be a change at least, even if only to oblivion.”

  Henning said nothing throughout this, but Katja was satisfied to see that his smirk was gone. “Why so sad, Henning?” she teased cruelly.

  To her surprise, he answered honestly, with tears forming in his eyes. “I am sad for my wife. If she still lived, I would ask you to bring her greetings from me, and to tell her that I missed her fiercely for many years, and to say that I am sorry. She never knew why I left, and I could never tell her. Now she is dead, and my children are dead.”

  Katja had nothing more to sa
y after this, and soon after Franz and Henning left. Stian lingered, which she did not mind, and they spoke of Happdal. But after a stretch of silence fell between them, the smith also bid her farewell.

  Two days later, while Katja was walking alone in the woods, she felt a cold pain in her gut, and doubled over. She clutched her stomach and rolled onto her back. It was noon, but the sky itself dimmed, and the trees around her froze in place, as if they were mere paintings. “What is happening?” she said to no one, and no one answered. Her last thought, as her vision dimmed, was of the emerald ocean, and swimming with Zoë, with the tail of a fish.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ilsa’s house had not been so full in years, not since her children and their many friends had roamed the halls and warmed the beds. She remembered young Arik, her sister’s boy, leading the pack even then. Her own children and the rest of their little tribe had followed Arik because of his fairness and thoughtfulness. His temperament had stayed steady over the years; Happdal was lucky to have such a jarl. They had prospered because of it. Men and women devoted their energies to growing and building things, instead of fighting and raiding.

  Their friends in Kaldbrek were not so lucky. Ilsa wondered, as she mixed the tonic, what Karl’s fate might be. Ilsa was no fool – she knew how Elke used the village boys as instruments in her own plots. Karl, filled with righteous anger – he was the one she would send with Haakon’s gift.

  The gift: a paste made from viper venom, extract of spotted hemlock, crushed thornapple fruit, and a powder of green death cap. If Karl had delivered it to Haakon, then Kaldbrek’s future had changed. Would it be a brighter one? It was impossible to say. But murdering Haakon could not be a bad thing. At least that is what Ilsa told herself, and hoped was true.

  Now she made the opposite, a mixture that would heal – or so she hoped. First she ground the ingredients into a paste: crystallized honey, crushed garlic, dried sage, fresh mint, a dash of red rock powder. Then she stirred in mead until the concoction was of a drinkable consistency. In truth, she had no idea if the tonic would help. All three of her wards were in dire shape. But the medicine was unlikely to cause harm. Watching Esper as he tended to the small brown woman, Ilsa knew she had to try something. Elke’s boy was in love.