Moon-Flash

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  His hand came out of the fur, closed over her fingers. She lay looking at him, dark and silent, until his hand rose, ran over her face softly, like the wind. She bent her head very slowly, a new movement, something her body had decided to do. Their lips touched lightly, like leaves.

  She sat up again, feeling the blood rush into her face.

  “Terje.” Her voice sounded husky.

  “What?”

  “When is the Moon-Flash?”

  He drew breath silently, loosed it just as silently. Then, abruptly, he rose. “I don’t know. Ask the stone.” He took two steps away from her, then knelt down beside her, held her arms. “Kyreol,” he said softly, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well,” she said bleakly, her hands rising to his shoulders. His skin was warm, damp from sleep, his muscles hard from rowing. She swallowed. “I don’t either,” she whispered. “Maybe, if we are patient, the river will tell us.”

  He said nothing more. He waded into the water until it covered all of him like a skin, then he dove deep, surfaced farther away, dove deep again. Kyreol gathered wood, puzzling over the problem. She wanted Terje, wanted him with her always. She wanted to breathe the air that he breathed, dream the same dreams, grow so close to him that she wouldn’t be able to remember whose face was whose. But there was Korre. And there was Jage. And if they did grow so close, she and Terje, there would be no place for them within the familiar life and rituals of the Riverworld.

  Terje came back finally and took the boat out to fish. He was gone a long time. She searched the trees and bushes and found birds pecking at small red fruit on a tree. She picked one and tasted it. It was sweet, juicy, with a single pit inside. She climbed the tree and tossed handfuls down to the ground.

  By the time she jumped down from the tree, she felt better. We can ask my father, she thought. He’ll know what we should do. She gathered the fruit. Terje had returned; he was whittling twigs to spit the fish on. His face looked calmer. She felt shy of him suddenly, unable to meet his eyes. But he sensed that. He laid aside his knife and stood up to kiss her cheek. When she looked at him finally, he was smiling, and they could talk again.

  The world loomed in front of them, vast dangerous, and even more mysterious than before. They went on because it didn’t seem time, yet, to go back. There were too many questions unanswered; they hadn’t come to the Hunter’s world, yet. The moon’s eye closed and opened, alternately watching and dreaming. By day, the sky blazed above them, so taut and blue-white it might have been made of crystal. Once, twice, during the long journey, things disturbed it. Tiny things no bigger than insects, silver, red. Kyreol, lounging in the boat while Terje rowed, a big leaf over her head to shield her eyes from the sun, followed the flight of one of the glittering things. It left a gossamer scar across the sky like a spider’s casting.

  “Terje,” she said, waving her leaf at it. “Is that thing very tiny or very big?”

  Terje gazed upward. The oars stilled in his hands; the boat drifted. His mouth opened a little. “I don’t know. Sometimes stars do that…but not so slowly.”

  “Well, are stars tiny or big?”

  His mouth closed, curled upward. “How would I know? I don’t know more than you do.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “How could I?”

  She nibbled on the leaf-edge, searching for words. “For you, the world is one big piece, and all the little pieces you see already fit somewhere into your big piece. I just see the little pieces, all jumbled up, all different, with nothing making much sense.”

  “You’re not making much sense.”

  “Now you sound like Korre.” As soon as she said the name, she was sorry. Their eyes met; little questions passed between them. Will you go back to Korre? What will you do if I do? What will you do if I don’t?

  The river seemed to flow forever through a flat, gold land with no people and few animals. All days became the same day, peaceful, uneventful, until it seemed they had entered a timeless country; they were trapped in the endless boundary of the world. Only the growing collection of new words the stone taught them made one afternoon different from another. Then one day the river curled unexpectedly back into time, making them realize how far they had come from the Face.

  Kyreol was rowing, looking ahead for the Hunter’s world while Terje fished for dinner, his face toward the past. Kyreol, trying to stay awake under the glittering sun, watched the oar bend into a crooked line beneath the water and wondered why it did that. She watched their shadows lengthen slowly and wondered why people stayed at one height during the day, but their shadows grew constantly big and small. She watched a bird dive for a fish and wondered why the First Bird, who dwelt in the air, had decided to eat its First Fish, who lived in water. She made up a story about an argument between them that grew so heated the bird ate the fish to make it stop talking. It made Terje laugh. Then something she had been watching without thinking about for a long time began to grow bigger and become strange.

  Ahead, the bare land wrinkled into small hills. There seemed to be a dust storm around them, but there was, she realized, no wind. Yet dust flew off them in little puffs. As she leaned forward, unconsciously putting more strength into her rowing, she saw something walk over one of the hills.

  “Terje.”

  There were more movements. She stopped rowing suddenly and reached for the stone. Terje turned around.

  “People,” he said, surprised.

  “Maybe it’s another burial ground,” Kyreol said nervously. She opened the crystal. “Joran.”

  “Kyreol,” the stone said, and asked immediately, as always, “where are you?”

  “Stone, there are some little hills in front of us. Dust is blowing across them, but there’s no wind. And there are people. Is it dangerous? Are they burying their dead?”

  The stone was silent. Kyreol waited, then peered into it, then shook it. “Stone—”

  “I’m here. I can’t believe you’ve made it so far already.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Kyreol, I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

  “That’s all right, Stone. I don’t either. But what—Will we be safe?”

  “Oh, yes. Very safe. Just row past the hills, and—”

  “What are they?”

  “You’ll see a house. A big house made of sandstone. Stop there. The man there will be able to answer your questions. Talk to me again when you get there.”

  “Whose house?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

  “All right.” She paused, eyeing the fragile threads inside the crystal, and asked in spite of herself, “Joran, how do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Put your voice into the stone.” The stone sighed. “Also, we saw some little tiny things high in the sky. They flew—”

  “Kyreol, I must go. Orcrow will explain everything. He’d better. Don’t worry—”

  “But where is he?” Kyreol asked. The stone didn’t answer.

  She sat back, frowning. “I don’t know if I want to go inside a strange house. They might try to send us back.”

  Terje shrugged. The sun had baked his skin the color of the desert, giving him a dusty look. His hair was damp with sweat. “We can always run away again,” he said wearily. “Kyreol, you’ll have to get your answers from people, you can’t do it by yourself. Besides, maybe they’ll have something to eat besides fish.”

  “Nut bread,” she said.

  “Stuffed eggs.”

  “Turtle soup.”

  “Honey wine.”

  She handed him the oars. “Here. You row faster than I do.”

  As they rowed past the hills, men standing on the top of them shaded their eyes with their hands as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Then they waved. Kyreol waved back shyly. The hills were there because the people were digging holes for some reason. They weren’t sad, as at a funeral, and nothing of value that Kyreol could see went
in or out of the holes. They were just people, some dark, some pale, dressed in plain, skimpy clothes, digging holes in a desert under the fiery sun.

  “It makes no sense,” Kyreol said.

  The house was far more than a house. It was a huge high square with sandstone pillars beside the doors. Two half-circles of stone jutted out from its sides. Trees with delicate yellow flowers grew around the great house. The still river mirrored it, quiet and majestic against the blue sky. Yellow blossoms scattered across the reflection. The small boat sent ripples through the mirror and moored itself on the reflection’s front door.

  They got out wearily, stiff from long hours of rowing. They waded through reeds and water-lilies at the edge of the river, and Terje pulled the boat up onto the bank. As they gazed up uncertainly at the massive, open doors, a man stepped out of the house, came down the steps to greet them.

  It was the Hunter.

  He was dressed in a light green garment that fitted closely all over his body, like a second skin. But it was, Kyreol decided, no more peculiar than fur and face masks. She recognized him almost before she saw his face, by the way he moved, silently, gracefully, poised for sound. A smile broke over his face. He took Kyreol’s hand gently—a peculiar gesture—and led her up the steps as though she had never climbed a tree in her life.

  “Orcrow,” she said in his own language. “I am happy to see you.” She saw the surprise in his face and laughed. She explained carefully, “I learned from the stone. From Joran.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Oh, yes. Very well.”

  “And you, Terje? You’ve grown.”

  “I know.” He put his arm beside Kyreol’s. “Look. I’m almost as dark as she is.” Kyreol shook her head, laughing again, her fingers closing over his wrist for comfort as they crossed the threshold. The cool stillness of the place eased over them like water. They stopped.

  “It’s like the caves,” Kyreol whispered after a moment. “Only—”

  There were statues, slabs of painted stone resting on pedestals, woven baskets, masks peering down from the walls, weapons and shields behind transparent walls, many things from many dreams. Kyreol felt uneasy, suddenly. Her bare feet shifted on the stone floor.

  “Only what?” Orcrow asked gently.

  “There is no—the story is all broken up.” She drew breath sharply, edging against Terje. Within one of the transparent cases on the far wall was a skirt of many-colored feathers. A betrothal skirt.

  She put her hands over her mouth. How could such a thing from the Riverworld have travelled so far? “How—” Her voice caught. It was terrible to see, as though the Riverworld itself lay behind that case, dustless and unused, a small thing in an unfamiliar place. Terje put his arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s only a skirt.” But his own voice shook.

  “But how did it get here?”

  “It was given to this house,” Orcrow said softly.

  “But nobody—no one in the Riverworld knew—”

  “Kyreol, you aren’t the first curious young woman to leave the Riverworld.”

  A thought touched her mind; she shook it away. “What kind of a place is this?”

  “It’s a dream-house,” Terje said. His voice was certain again. “You see something in your mind, you make it real with your hands. After a while, it gets old, or broken, or you forget about it. Or else it makes its way here so other people can see the way you dreamed it.” He gazed at Orcrow calmly, his hand patting Kyreol’s shoulder, daring the Hunter to make the world more complicated.

  But the faint worry in the Hunter’s face eased. “Terje,” he said in Terje’s language, “you are wise as a Healer,” and Terje blushed.

  Someone else came to join them, then: a slender, red-haired man with a beard, wearing a body-skin like the Hunter’s, only black. Kyreol stared at him. She had never seen red hair before, and only old men wore beards. His eyes were bright blue, smiling; his whole face looked warm, delighted to see her for some reason, making her smile back at him. He said something in a strange language to Orcrow, who said gravely to Kyreol,

  “Kyreol, this is Arin Thrase. He collects all these things here and takes care of them. He can answer any questions you have about them.” He paused, then added, “He studies the story behind each object: who made it, what it means.”

  Kyreol asked shyly, “What language does he speak?”

  “The language of this part of the desert.”

  “Then where is your world? Still farther?” She felt tired suddenly, bewildered. “How far do I have to go?”

  The Hunter was silent, as she had first seen him, all his thoughts hidden as he looked at her. The red-haired man murmured something, and the Hunter answered in his language. Arin Thrase left them quickly, his voice raised, calling for someone. Then, down a corridor, they heard him singing, his voice booming cheerfully, echoing off the stones.

  “He said you looked hungry.”

  “Orcrow, where are we?” She pointed. “Is that my mother’s betrothal skirt?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a lump in Kyreol’s throat. “Why did—why did she take it with her?”

  “She was very young,” the Hunter said gently. “Only a few years older than you. She left the Riverworld for many of the same reasons you did. Only she left alone. You left with Terje. She took a few things to remind her of where her home was. For comfort. Later, she gave this to Arin Thrase.”

  “She was here.”

  “No. She met him farther down the river.”

  Kyreol felt dizzy. She wanted to sit down, but there was no place to sit except on the stone floor. She glanced at Terje, who was standing very still, looking as though he were dreaming with his eyes open. He blinked, feeling her look, and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Then that’s where you have to go,” he said simply.

  “Will you come with me?” Her eyes pleaded with him: If it’s not too far? If you don’t have to think about Moon-Flash?

  “I won’t leave you alone,” he said. She felt the Hunter watching them then and gazed down at her fingers, then at him.

  His face wore its remote, distant expression, as though he were listening to secrets. But he only said, “You need some clothes.”

  He went out among the diggers while Kyreol and Terje ate with Arin Thrase. The food was strange but good: a spicy stew with tender meat in it, sticky, sugary fruit, bread that was white instead of brown, and some kind of boiled green leaves. They sat in a room full of woven rugs and tapestries, and Kyreol kept glimpsing stories among the patterns of the colored threads. But she could ask no questions until the Hunter returned, so they ate quietly, shyly. When Orcrow came in finally, Kyreol said, “Oh,” and pulled out the crystal. “I forgot.” She opened it. Arin Thrase was staring at her amazedly. “Joran. It’s Kyreol. We’re here, in the big house.”

  “Good!” Joran said. “Have you met Arin Thrase?”

  “Yes. He is feeding us. And the Hunter is here.”

  “Orcrow!” the stone exploded. “I want to talk—” The Hunter took the stone from Kyreol’s hand.

  “I’m here,” he said. Arin Thrase was chuckling.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Where do you think I’ve been? I’ve been tracking two children down the longest river in the world. It’s the most miserable job I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m lucky I didn’t get eaten alive, in case you’re interested—”

  “I’m not,” the stone said grudgingly. “You should have taken them home.”

  “Why didn’t you? You knew where they were. You could have picked them up any time, instead of letting me bum myself to a crisp under the sun. Why didn’t you?”

  “And do what?” Joran said exasperatedly. “Fly them home? To the Riverworld? In an air-shuttle?”

  “All right,” Orcrow said. “All right, then. Don’t yell at me for coming to the same conclusion. It seemed better to let them go as far as they wanted.”

  “Well, now w
hat are you going to do with them?”

  “Ask Kyreol.” He held the crystal out to catch her words.

  “Kyreol,” Joran said. “What do you want now? Do you want to go back home?”

  “No,” she said. “I want to see Orcrow’s world.”

  “It’s not that much farther,” the Hunter said. The stone made a disgusted noise.

  “Orcrow. It’s light-years away. To them. She asked me what the Moon-Flash is. How are you going to tell her?”

  Orcrow sighed. “She’s the one who wants the answers. I’m sorry this happened, but she’s the one who followed me. She saw beneath my disguise, she asked the questions. She left the Riverworld. There is a precedent.”

  The stone was silent. “All right,” it said more quietly. “You handle it. And check in with Domecity headquarters—they’ve been at me every day, trying to locate you. You’re probably out of a job, but in view of your trek down the river to guard the children, they might let you scrape plates in a cafeteria somewhere.”

  “Thanks,” the Hunter said drily. He added, “And they aren’t children anymore.” He closed the crystal, said something in Arin’s language, and the red-haired man shook his head, smiling.

  Orcrow gave Kyreol a long white skirt and a loose white shirt she could pull over her head. The cloth was tightly woven, very soft and light. It seemed to come from neither bird nor animal, and she wondered how it was made. There were too many things to wonder about. Terje put on the same kind of shirt, and a pair of pants that came only halfway to his knees, like the ones the men who were digging had been wearing. She remembered the tiny, isolated dust storms, then, and had the Hunter ask Arin,