by Clay Gilbert
It is what Spirit compels me to do, Annah told herself. And so, I will have the strength to do whatever I must do. That was what she would have said, Annah knew, had she been there. Her guardian. Annah could not even bring herself to say the name. It is because of me that she is no longer here. And so I must do this, even though I fear I cannot. I will reach inside myself and find the strength to bridge the gap between my vision and my fear.
And that, Annah remembered, was precisely what she had done. She opened her eyes, now, looking at the table of heart-stone at the circle’s center. I was so afraid when I first brought it here; so afraid when I first brought Holder here, and afraid when I knew Jonan had discovered this place. But no longer.
“You have the Pattern of Knowing within you now, Annah,” Serra said. “That is as it must be. Now, use it. Walk the threads of Knowing within your heart and remember the day the last Shapers sang our world back out of darkness.”
Annah nodded, putting her hands on the heart-stone table as carefully as if she were reaching out to touch the face of one of the First Ones themselves. She closed her eyes again, feeling the peace of the trance and the newfound foundation of the Knowing, and opened herself to Vision.
It is done, now, Annah thought, and was amazed to find herself looking down on the newly reborn world below as if she were high in the sky above. Of course, the ships; the ships Serra told me about. One by one, the ships slowly descended and the survivors-all those left of Evohe’s people-made their way back to the ground. They had stayed in the Sea of Stars until they were sure the humans were satisfied that their work was done, and only began the work of Restoration when they were sure it was safe. They had done something else too, she realized. They had woven a veil around Evohe, when they had finished the work they began, so that it would remain unseen and undisturbed— perhaps not forever, for even the Workings of Shapers did not last for all time, but perhaps long enough for others in the Sea of Stars to forget the planet was there.
They did it the same way I wove the gate to hide the heartplace, she realized. And the world had remained hidden and apart, for a hundred cycles: safe, for all that time. But there had been a price for that safety. Annah looked down at the faces of the survivors, and nearly every one wore the same expression. They look as though they do not know where they are. As if their thoughts are a blank page; as blank as the missing Memories of this world.
“And it has stayed that way, for almost all,” Serra said, resting her hand onAnnah’s shoulder.
“The brokenness is everywhere,Annah.”
“But, Serra, it is not.” Annah looked up at the elder Shaper, frustrated. “Oh, but it is. I was there, child. We saved our world. We brought it back. But we could not heal it completely. Even I, one of the oldest of the Shapers still in the waking-world, can do none of the things I once did, before the Restoration. All I can do now is teach the old ways to others, and few cared to learn, before you.”
“That is what you were meant to do,” Annah said, feeling the pulse of the First Pattern; the shine of the Knowing rise within her, like one of the Bright-Sun blooms that grew in the Groves to signal that the first season of a new Cycle had begun. Annah saw the look of disbelief on Serra’s face, and giggled. “You did say you had something to show me, here,” she said. “And you did. Now, let me sing for you?”
Serra smiled. “I would like that very much.”
* * * “They’re coming, now,” Goodman told Holder and Morgan over the ‘com at the base’s main observation station. “The signals are a lot closer.”
“How much time do we have?” Bey asked.
“Twenty minutes, tops,” Goodman said. “Are the charges in place?” Bey asked over the com to Holder, who was still outside the station, tethered to a small runabout pod.
As he heard Bey’s words, Holder set the last of the tiny, black cubes into place around the base of the great Portal. I’ve never seen one so close, he thought. Or so large. But that’s why they want it, of course. It’s not like destroying it will stop what they’re doing. But it’ll slow them down; give us time. “Everything looks good,” Holder told Goodman. “I want to do one more perimeter check; make sure of all the charges.”
“All right,” Goodman said. “I’m going back to base. If you see the Portal blaze up, hit those charges and blow the thing. Just make sure you’re clear first.”
“How much time do I have, Goodman?”
“Not much time at all,” Holder heard his friend reply. “If the clock in here is right, and it always is.” Holder tugged on the tether that linked him with the runabout. Still holding. Good. Might as well be stable, since I can’t seem to get away from Recon work, no matter what I do.
* * * Annah was amazed at how much her knowledge of her heart-song had grown, and in so seemingly short a time. She had begun with the parts she knew, those strands of melody, high and bright in the beginning, then darkening as she remembered her parents’ going to their rest, and then a tender soprano passage evoking her time with her guardian after that, when she was alone, and then a rich, maturing melody attending her memories of her early days with Holder; a melody out of which the rest of the song stretched and grew, conveying the new strength she had found within herself, and in their love, and in the new purpose she felt welling within her. The melody flowed from Annah as if it were a bridge of light lowered to the shadowed ground by the moon or sun, at turns low, soft and sweet as the summer shadows in the groves, then high and bright as first-light’s gold.
Annah opened her eyes for a moment and saw a pale blue glow flowering forth from the heart-stone table. She continued to sing, breathing in the melody like air, and exhaling new harmonies to strengthen the tide of music, the notes seeming to renew her as they flowed. Can this come from within me? she wondered.
Of course it can, a voice spoke in Annah’s mind—a voice she never thought to hear again. You are still only learning what and who you can be.
Annah recognized the voice that spoke: it was the voice of her old guardian. Or at least it sounded like it. You? Annah asked in thought; afraid this was some delusion of grief or self-appeasement. I thought you died. I thought you died because of me.
I am not dead, dear one, the voice said. Do you still remember my name, Annah?
They will have wanted you to forget my name, the voice in Annah’s mind said. To forget me.
Oh, I have not forgotten, Lilliane , Annah told her wordlessly, almost expecting Serra to chastise her for even thinking the name, for she knew the Elder Shaper could hear what was being said. I could not forget you. I am sorry.
Sorry? Lilliane asked. She laughed, and the sound of it in Annah’s mind was gentle; merry, but not mocking. What have you to feel sorry for?
What I did, Annah answered, feeling confused. Lilliane laughed again, and this time, Annah felt a rush of comfort at the sound. You have done nothing, Annah. Then or now.
But so many in the Grove said you died, because of me. Because I am strange—so strange that your closeness to me infected you, and you went not merely to your rest, but to your end.
Lilliane laughed. My dear one, you already know that is not so. I will tell you what truly happened. I have wanted to tell you, for long cycles past, but I did not have the strength. I barely have it now. But what you did at the heart-place, and the song you sang there strengthened me.
I wish I could see you, Annah said. I remember you so clearly, although I was only a bloomling still, when you— when you left me.
One day you will see me, said Lillianne. But I must take my rest a while longer yet. For your peace of mind, though, Annah, let me tell you the truth of what happened.
Oh, said Annah, I would like that very much.
As Annah thought the words, Lilliane’s form began to appear before her, inside the stone circle. Annah stole a look back at Serra, who only looked surprised, not angry. Lilliane’s form was not fully solid; it looked like some kind of trick or illusion that might fade at a moment’s notice. But Lillian
e looked exactly as Annah remembered, as best she could tell: the small, curved body, the flowing hair dark as midnight, and her glittering green eyes. Annah could only truly see the eyes clearly, so her own memories helped to supply the rest, but the eyes were there, clear and bright as the light of the mother-moon.
I could not help leaving you behind, Annah, said Lilliane. I fell ill, and no skill of mine could stay the poison’s course. It was not your fault, you must know. I have heard what they said of you—what some of them still say.
“Then what happened?” Annah asked, speaking out loud now that she could see Lilliane before her, even somewhat. “What kind of illness was it?”
Not a common one, that is certain, Lilliane said. It is a failing of the blood; a taint carried in the very veins. It is a legacy born from the Breaking of our world—and I am sure I was not its only victim.
“Enough poetry,” Annah said, then, shocked by her own harshness, said more softly, “Please. I do not understand. I want to understand.”
Of course you do. You always have. That has been one of your difficulties, I expect. That sort of hunger, especially in the young, frightens some people. I was the same. It is one of the reasons I agreed to take you in when Llew and Danae went to their rest. It is one of the reasons I-came to love you, so much.
“Please tell me,”Annah said, her voice sounding frayed.
“I was one of those chosen to leave this world, when the Shapers warned us that the Breaking would come.”
Annah nodded. “Go on.” “We were foolish. We knew that the great ships would shelter us from what was to befall our world, but we did not realize the energy from below could still leave its mark on us.”
Annah’s eyes widened. “There was nothing in the Memories about that. At least not in mine. I am still young; perhaps it is something I have yet to remember.”
“It is in no one’s Memories, because there were neither words nor melody that could make sense of it. And it was just so, when the symptoms of what the death-energy of the Breaking had done began to appear: fear was the only reaction, because it made sense to no one. Annah, don’t be so afraid. It is in the past now.”
Annah felt herself shuddering, and forced mind and body back to stillness. I am a Shaper, and I must allow myself to see all. I must feel my fear, and yet not let it overburden me. “When it was sung of, which was seldom, it was called-” Lilliane sang and sustained a single note, its tone so discordant, so distorted that it made Annah want to call out for her to stop. Mercifully, a moment later, she did. “I heard that the sickness befell many of us who had been aboard the five great ships that day, looking down from high above our world as so many of our people passed from existence. And out of every one of us who fell ill, there was not a single one who had not been there, then.”
“But why was this not known?” Annah asked, furious. “Or at least met with some sympathy? How could the people of our Grove not try to understand what was happening?”
The kindness in Lilliane’s face nearly made Annah ashamed of her anger. “Laughing Waters Grove is small, Annah, compared with some of the settlements of our people. The forest Groves are never large; it is part of an understanding between the land and us, that we may draw life from it without draining it, as one who is thirsty may too deeply delve into a source of water.
“And sometimes, in the small places of the world, that which is strange is not well understood. In the Flatlands, where our people are more plentiful, the sickness that befell those of us who survived the Breaking might have been better understood, and perhaps it was. Dear one, the Breaking itself could not be fully understood by those who were not there to see it. And so, when I fell ill, I tried to explain to them what was happening. But they would not listen; could not understand. They blamed you, because you looked strange to them, and because you were alone. There were even those who said that you had brought the sickness not only upon me, but upon your own parents as well. I know, dear one, that it was not so. I tried to tell them. But they would not listen.”
Annah was no longer listening, herself. Her guardian’s words, the gentle sense of Serra’s presence, sitting by her side in the heart-place, and now, even the Shaper’s trance itself, all had begun to recede in the wake of what Lilliane had told her. She found, too, that she no longer felt like singing. The song—her song—seemed lost. Annah opened her eyes and looked around her at the stone, soil and grass of the heart-place. This place always seemed so beautiful. I built all of this, and for what?
“You know why you did it,” Serra said. Annah looked at the Elder Shaper. “I am not sure I know anything, anymore. The people here, my own people, blamed her, and they blamed me, for something neither of us had even done. They blamed me because she passed on, and I lived. I did not ask for that to happen. I did not will it. With all they have done to me, why should I want to do anything for them?”
“What we do as Shapers,” Serra said, “we do not do expecting anything in return. We do not do it because others have been kind to us. We do it because it needs to be done, and because we are the ones who can.”
“Serra, I do not know if I want to be a Shaper anymore. And I have wanted it all my life.” Annah half-expected to see a look of disappointment in her teacher’s eyes. The look of understanding she found there instead was even more hurtful.
“Annah,” Serra said, “I can only show you what you are capable of being. I cannot force you down the path. You must walk it on your own.”
“I do not know any longer if I can,”Annah said.
“I know that you can,” Serra said. “But it is not enough that I know.” Annah said nothing more; only made her way down the hill away from the heart-place. Somewhere in her mind, she could hear Lilliane’s voice pleading with her. Dear one, do not blame them. They did not understand.
Annah shut the words away behind a wall of anger, colder than the first touch of streamwater on the day of Greatsun, the warmest of the year, in the heart of Suntide. In another moment, Lilliane’s voice was entirely gone, and Annah was alone with the silence and her confusion, like the gathering grey of a great storm.
Annah caught sight of her parents’ hearth-fire when she was still a half-measure’s distance away. She remembered how, in the days after Lilliane’s passing, she had come to stay here again, although her parents were gone. Somehow, she had thought being here would make things right again. But she had been barely a seed-maiden then, just across the threshold of Becoming, and she had had very little idea of what to do. Still, I managed. And I will again. I only need
My daughter, I have missed you.”
Annah smiled as her mother wrapped her in a tight embrace. “And I, you.”
“But why have you come home? Have you given up your training?” Annah thought for a moment. “No. It is still the path I was meant to follow. But I learned something today. I was— upset-and with Holder away, I—I wanted to be somewhere I belonged.”
“I am glad, my Annah,” Danae said. “Come to the fire, and let us talk. When your father wakes, he will be most pleased. But now, I want to hear what troubles you.”
* * * One more left, Holder thought, and then I can go inside. He remembered, for a moment, being given chores to do as a child; his liberty contingent on the completion of the tasks he’d been assigned. He’d wondered, at the time, what use any of it would be to him. “Gary,” his father had said, “in this life, we have to be willing to depend on others, and others have to be able to depend on us. Alot of people, son, want to pretend they’re the only people in the world; that they don’t need to rely on anyone else or trust anyone else. Bad thing about that is that if somebody doesn’t want to trust in you, it makes it hard to trust in them.”
Holder tightened the seal on the last of the charges just as he saw the Portal flare blaze blue. “Sometimes, trust is a gamble,” his father had told him that day. “Sometimes, we have to give of ourselves, whether or not we’re sure we’re going to get anything back.”
Got to do th
is, Holder thought. There won’t be much time to get clear. The ship’s not far—I should be able to get there. The tether should snap right back. But whether I make it or not, I can’t let them get through.
Annah, he thought, I want to be home with you, at our camp; by our fire. I love you. You changed everything for me.
It was the last thought he had time to think before the charges blew the Portal wide, dragging him down to darkness.
* * * Annah sat upright, startled out of her sleep by the nightmare. There was no trace of slumber left, only a painful clarity and a knot of fear in her gut. It had to have been a dream. There had been fire, blue fire: a circle of light opening in the darkness. Holder had been there, floating in the Sea of Stars—doing something, with only a thin line between himself and the ship he’d come in, like the birth-cord attached to a new bloomling’s seed-pod. And then the blue flame had turned red, and he had been lost from her sight. And she had awakened, and the dream—it must have been a dream—had been gone, but a more frightening realization waited in its place. I cannot hear him, Annah thought. I cannot feel him. It is as though he has been erased from the song of the world.
“Where’s Holder?” Bey asked Goodman, soon after his arrival back on the station’s command deck. Goodman had been dreading this question, and the only answer he had for it, for the three hours since he’d seen the Portal gate go up in a cloud of cobalt-colored flamestouched off, he knew, by the charges Holder had been out there putting in place.
Two Homesec battlecraft had been in the process of phasing through the Portal when it went, and there’d been a cheer from everyone on the command deck when the blue fireball had risen, engulfing the ships along with the Portal itself. When the fire had finally been extinguished, and the site examined, there was no trace of Holder or the runabout pod he’d taken out to place the charges. “He’s gone, Bey,” Goodman finally said, his voice betraying him and cracking as he tried to form the words. Holder had been the closest thing to a best friend Goodman had ever allowed himself to have, even though they hadn’t known each other long. “He’s gone,” Goodman said again, as if the repetition would lend the idea more reality. “But he went out doing what he’d always wanted to do: making a difference.”