Never Again

by Heather Starsong

  “When I was old, I could just be lazy, take everything slow. People didn’t expect much of me. But I felt as if I were doing something important, not in an outward way—inside. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe preparing for death, for the next cycle, whatever it will be. And now I don’t have time for that. I’m caught up in the life of a young woman. But I’m not a young woman. I’m eighty.”

  She listened and more poured out. “I don’t know how long I will live now. I’ve felt for years I didn’t fit in this world anymore, it’s gotten so impersonal and cyber-oriented. I was glad I’d be leaving it soon. And now—I might outlive you children. That’s a terrible thought.”

  Lisa took my hand. “If you could, would you go back to how you were?”

  I started. A shiver ran through me. That was a question I hadn’t asked myself. I was shocked at the relief I felt just hearing it. But I couldn’t answer it. I bent my face into my hands and began to cry. Lisa sat quietly beside me.

  “I understand,” she said. “You’re incongruent. You have the spirit of an old woman and the body of a young one. That must be hard.”

  I nodded, shaken by a fresh round of weeping.

  “But here I am,” I sobbed. “Here I am, and everyone says how great I look and how wonderful that I have so much energy, and my massage is better than it ever was, and I can do all these challenging yoga postures, and hike all day, and dance all night if I want to. I should be grateful, and I am grateful not to ache and be tired all the time. I love that part.” I spread my hands, an impatient gesture. “Anyhow, here I am. This is how it is.”

  A few days later Lisa and Phil and Jocelyn left to spend the New Year with Phil’s mother. I took them to the station and we stood together in line for the bus. Lisa clung to me as we said good-bye. “Take care of yourself, Mother.” The line began to move. Phil and Jocelyn hugged me. Lisa hugged me again, and they climbed on. They waved to me from the window, the bus pulled out, and they were gone. It might be a year or more before I would see them again.

  The house felt as empty as if a huge vacuum cleaner had roared through and sucked all the life out of it. I set about returning my studio from guest room to work place. As I carried a bundle of linens and pillows up the stairs, a single word rose in my mind.

  Incongruent.

  Chapter 6

  After I put the laundry in, I fled the empty house. It was beginning to snow lightly, fine flakes drifting down. I walked quickly, my staff in my hand, my cloak wrapped tightly around me.

  I had been so busy the last few days that I’d had little time to process my talk with Lisa. Now as it flowed back to me, I was haunted by her question. Would I? Would I want to go back as I was, a congruent old woman?

  I felt my strong, easy stride, my vibrant health, and remembered the constant low-grade pain, background for sharper pain, the unsteady heart, aching knees, fatigue. No. I didn’t want to go back to that. But…

  I circled the lake, gray reflecting the gray sky, snow melting into its surface. Wind moved across the open water, blowing snow into my face, sharp and cold against my cheeks. On the far side of the lake I took the path up the ridge. I climbed as fast as I could, my legs powerful, my heart robust, but I couldn’t outrun the question. At the highest point I sat down, settled my back against a lone, leaning pine, tightened my hood around my face, and stared out into swirling snow. Mid-winter dusk was already descending.

  I wish I could speak with the Elirians, I thought. I wonder if it’s true they don’t understand aging? I wonder how they’re doing, if they’re finding other people to study, what they’re learning. I hope they’re safe.

  I bent my head down on my drawn-up knees. A thread of song wound through my memory, their voices singing to me as we parted. We are with you always. You can call on us anytime and we will answer.

  Oh! I leaped to my feet. Before I even intended, I called. Kiria, Lillilia, Tirini, Rosiri, Merilea, can you hear me?

  Music flooded my heart, all their voices singing together. We hear you. We are near. We are returning a child to Earth. Then we will come to you. We see your light on the hillside.

  I will wait here for you. I sank down again, lost in wonder that they really had heard my call.

  Night folded around me and snow settled on my hood and shoulders, but I was not cold; the warmth of their voices lingered in my heart and spread through me. I tilted my head back against the tree trunk and looked up. I don’t know how long I waited, aquiver with anticipation.

  Then, all at once, among the swirling snowflakes, gleaming silver in the night, their ship appeared and hovered above me. The door slid open. I glimpsed the warm light within, and Kiria floated out. I stood, reaching my hands up toward her. She caught them with two of hers, drew me up to her and wrapped her other three arms around me. Cradling me close to her heart as she had on the night I was dying, she carried me into the ship. The door slid closed and the ship rose up. The other four gathered around and passed me from one to the other as if I were a newborn child. Each one held me close to her heart. Their voices wove, singing, Welcome, Clara.

  I breathed in the ineffable fragrance of the rainbow air circling around us and felt I would burst with joy to be with them again. As we settled in a circle on the soft, warm floor, Lillilia on one side of me, Tirini on the other, holding my hands, I looked into their deep, luminous eyes. They were smiling.

  How are you? I asked, remembering to still my voice and ask with thought. How does your work go? Have you found many people to study?

  Kiria sang. There are so many of you, like seeds broken from a seedpod, scattered over all the Earth. We in our ship study this continent you call North America. We have brought up many to study and heal. You told us truly that you are alike in the parts of your bodies and your organs, but you are all so different in other ways. It is wondrous how many of you there are, each singing a tiny, unique fraction of Earth’s song. So complex you each are, so very complex that song.

  The others joined in. We found a male who almost died going fast in the snow on a mountain on… skis, he called them. He hit a tree.

  Their songs poured through me.

  We have found children. Some are dying because they do not have enough to eat. They cannot live on light. We heal them, but then must put them back and fear for them.

  We brought up a female with her baby dying in her arms and healed them both and learned how a female feeds her child from her breast. As you told us.

  We have rescued some from crashes when your cars run into each other.

  It is harder to reach those in the cities. Our ship is shielded, but we are not, and there are so many people day and night.

  Oh, be careful! I broke in, terrified by an image of some ruffian seizing one of them and carrying her away, fur flying.

  We are. We have found some on rooftops, in parks, deserted streets. Everyone is different. People in cities have a different song than those in the mountains.

  Or the desert, or the farmlands.

  Some cannot hear our voices, cannot communicate with us, do not believe we are real, even though we heal them.

  There is so much sadness. Rosiri’s song dipped to a minor key. They don’t listen to the love in their hearts. Some do not even seem to know it is there.

  And fear, Merilea sang in her rich, deep voice. We have not experienced fear before. Its song is dark and acid. It withers.

  It is not their essence, Lillilia sang. But they have forgotten their essence. Except for a few, like you.

  They were silent. I saw in their eyes something I had not seen on my first visit. They had tasted the sorrow of Earth, and they grieved.

  Kiria touched me with her seven-fingered hand. You called us. There is trouble in your heart?

  Yes, I answered. Not terrible trouble, but I am confused, an old woman in a young body. Incongruent.

  Incongruent? They sang the
word back and forth, tuning in to me, seeking its meaning.

  Do you understand aging? I asked. On Eliria, do you get old, do your bodies wear out?

  No, Rosiri answered. Her song held a puzzled note. We sink back into our planet.

  They speak of pain, Tirini added, her gold-flecked eyes troubled. We feel their pain, but we of Eliria do not have pain of our own. We did not know of pain until we came here.

  What a blessed life you have! I exclaimed. How terrible Earth must seem to them. I thought of all the pain of incarnate existence—hunger, exhaustion, cold, high fevers, spasmed muscles, broken bones, headaches, heartaches. All the fears—losing your mother, snakes under the bed, being different from the others, not having enough money, being abandoned, being helpless, dying.

  Do you die? I asked. When your ulada is complete and you sink back into your planet, do you die?

  The council told us about dying and death on Earth, so we know of it. Lillilia’s pale pink fur fluttered. We knew you were dying when we found you, but we do not die.

  We sink into Eliria, they all sang together. We sink into her heart and rest until we are called again.

  And when you are called again, I asked, are you the same? The same iridescence, the same names?

  Yes, we must be, Kiria answered. We each hold a part of Eliria’s song.

  I sat silent. Then they didn’t know. They didn’t understand what they had done for me.

  Lillilia still held my hand. Tell us more. Speak to us of aging. We only begin to understand.

  When we are born, I explained, we are all new, though our bodies need to grow and develop. Then we are grown, in our prime we call it. Most of us mate and have children. Then our bodies begin to wear out. We get sick, our organs don’t work as well, our joints get stiff and hurt. That’s what we call aging. Finally something vital fails and we die. It’s like the seasons of our Earth—the newness of spring, the fullness of summer, the withering of fall, the death of winter.

  They were watching me closely, their luminous eyes puzzled and intent. So when you found me, I told them, I was old.

  We remember, Tirini sang. Your body did not express your essence. Only the light within you did.

  When you changed my body to express my essence, you made me young again. But inside I am still old. You said my ulada was almost complete, but I won’t die unless I get sick or hurt until I grow old again. It could be many years. That is the incongruence—my young body and my ulada almost complete.

  We sat in silence again. Outside the big windows I could see that the snow had stopped and stars shone between the scattering clouds.

  We have much to learn. Lillilia’s high, sweet song was muted. Speak to us of dying. What happens when you die?

  We don’t know.

  Their songs wove in puzzlement and concern. You don’t know? Do you sink into your Earth?

  We can’t sink in as you do. If we left a body lying on the earth—it sometimes happens when a person dies alone and is not found—then it would deteriorate and finally sink in. But there are so many of us and the body smells as it deteriorates, so we burn the body and scatter the ashes, or dig a hole and bury it. We have places we call graveyards. We mark the places where our people are buried with big stones carved with the person’s name, to remember them, because we don’t come back the way you do. When a person dies it is the end of that body, that name. That we know.

  A burst of song rippled through me, the Elirians exclaiming to one another.

  What we don’t know is what happens to the spirit of that person, I went on. Some say it dies with the body. Others say the spirit lives on. There are many ­stories. In spite of myself I felt them receiving images of blank blackness, angels on clouds, wheels of incarnation, tunnels of light. Some say it will be this way. Others say no, it will be that way. And many become frightened when they hear a story different from their own, because if that story is true, then maybe theirs isn’t. They may become so afraid they kill the ones whose story is different from theirs.

  You kill over a story? Merilea asked, her dark eyes wide with shock.

  Her incredulity touched a pit of despair within me.

  Yes, I answered. Because we are afraid. Because it is unknown. Much of the violence on Earth is because we fear death. We fight over things that we hope will protect us from death, but in the end nothing does. We walk on the brink of the unknown and try to hide from it, deny it. But inside we all know we will die, and most of us are afraid. Some aren’t. Some trust in their story and die peacefully. Some are so tired of sorrow and struggle they are glad to die and end it. And some seek to end it, to kill themselves, because they feel life is too hard, too painful.

  My throat thickened as I remembered a day when I had been so crushed by loneliness and despair that I had almost thrown myself into a rushing mountain stream, seeking a quick, cold death.

  The Elirians caught my image. Ah, they sang.

  It’s all right. I didn’t, I told them. As you see.

  I looked out the window, swallowing back the tears that clogged my throat even though that day had been thirty years ago. The clouds were gone, the sky pinpricked with the cold clarity of winter stars. I turned back to the warmth and love in the eyes of my companions.

  Sometimes, I told them, we humans think that because we are going to die anyway it doesn’t matter what we do. That nothing matters.

  They responded with a burst of song that rose, passed among them, and became a polyphony.

  It matters.

  When you hold the light,

  When you are kind,

  When you laugh and are happy,

  When you create harmony among you,

  The web eases.

  The whole universe shifts.

  The lines of words and melody interwove, repeating, until coming at last into a unison finale: It matters.

  The sweetness and power of their song loosed the tears I had been holding back. Many hands touched me, soothing me.

  Are you afraid to die? Rosiri asked me.

  Yes. No. Sometimes. I drew in my breath and wiped the tears from my face. But I fear also to live too long, to see my children die before me, to be out of harmony with the seasons of my life.

  A question was rising in me, pressing on me, a question far more fearful than the one that had pursued me up the ridge. I struggled with it, not wanting to face it, much less express it. Then I realized that the Elirians had known it for some time, perhaps from the moment I first called them.

  Could you… my thought stammered to them. Would you… if I asked… Could you put me back as you found me?

  They were silent, their loving, luminous eyes resting on me. Their fur fluttered.

  You were in such pain, Kiria sang.

  Yes. I shivered with the memory. I’m not asking you to, only asking if you could.

  We could. Rosiri touched me gently with her seven-fingered hand. We would have to fold time.

  We could, Tirini sang softly, but only when we are here circling your Earth.

  I shivered with fear, remembering the terrible night of paralysis, death descending. Could you put me back, but keep me from dying just then?

  Again song wove among them. Yes, Kiria answered. We could stay with you and keep you warm until your people came for you.

  We were silent then. They gathered close around me, their soft fur enfolding me, their hearts beating against me, their arms around me. So many arms to hold me.

  Is that why you called us? Lillilia asked. To ask us that question?

  Yes. I nestled my face against her silken pink fur. Yes. But I didn’t know when I called you; I only knew I was confused.

  It is possible, Kiria sang. But we sense that you don’t want us to change you now, maybe not ever. You are glad of the strength and health of your body?

  Oh, yes. I lifted my face fro
m Lillilia’s fur. Please do not think me ungrateful. I love being strong, not hurting, being able to dance and hike and work again, my heart beating steadily. You have given me a great gift.

  Their eyes were smiling. Lillilia stroked my hair with a gentle hand.

  We, too, are grateful. You have taught us more than any other we have found. It was Kiria’s song in my heart. The light within you is a gift, the same whether you are young or old.

  How long will you be here, circling Earth, studying us?

  Our ulada has called us here for one of Earth’s years, Tirini answered. The thread of the web we traveled on connects to your mountain. We will return there one year from the time we found you and from there we will leave Earth.

  I would like to see you again before you depart, learn how your mission went. Just be with you. I couldn’t bear to think of them leaving.

  We would like to be with you again, too, Lillilia sang. Can you come to us on your mountain, one year from the day we found you?

  Yes. Easily.

  Their voices blended. Then we’ll meet you there, hold you next to our hearts, and bid you farewell.

  Will you stay with us tonight? Kiria sang. We would welcome your presence. We are so glad to see you again.

  Yes. My heart spread wings. I never want to leave you, though I know we must take separate paths.

  Not until morning, they sang together.

  I slept in their arms, enfolded in their shining silken fur until the first red of sunrise brightened the meeting of plains and sky. Tirini brought the ship almost to the ground. I embraced them, touching my heart to each of their hearts. The door slid open. I jumped out onto the snowy hillside. As I watched their ship ascend and speed above the plains into the rising sun, their song still sang in my heart.

  Slowly I descended the ridge. The lake below was rimmed with snow, white against blue.

  “They could,” I whispered to myself, “but only until they leave the Earth. Only until my next birthday.”