Diversity Is Coming

by Nicolas Wilson

  ***

  When the last of Izkeh finally turned to ash, the Man Ang’Gals went back to their caves. Watchers flew to the Isles they sought to protect, as others readied themselves to return to work. Mama Oojeen and I stayed behind, and waited for Izkeh’s remains.

  “Have you determined where to scatter your brother’s ashes?” Mama Oojeen asked.

  I nodded. I had the perfect place in mind.

  The Diviner handed me a golden pouch. It was light and small, making me wonder how all of Izkeh managed to fit in. “Only a few of your brother remain,” the Diviner said, pleased. “Izkeh is now truly in Paradise. You did well, praying for him.”

  “It was hard,” I admitted. “But I managed.”

  “Good for you, child,” the Diviner said, pulling me in a tight hug. I stiffened, but eventually relaxed. Physical contact didn't feel as terrifying as it did before. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mama Oojeen smiling at me proudly.

  “I shall go back to the cave,” my aunt said. “Fly away, my niece. It is up to you to take your brother to final resting place.”

  I secured the golden pouch on my belt, and took a deep breath. As I exhaled, my wings expanded and my torso detached from my lower body. A thin film appeared over the exposed flesh, linking me to my severed part, keeping me alive while in Torso Flight. I flapped my wings twice, then launched for the sky.

  The wind blew on my ear like a whisper, urging me to fly higher. I heeded its call, but stopped just below the boundary separating the breathable air from the air that could knock me unconscious.

  Izkeh would not have wanted me to risk my life for his ashes.

  I kept myself afloat, and reached inside the golden pouch, taking a fistful of my brother’s remains. “Perfect,” I murmured. “Izkeh would love it here.”

  From this height, I could not see beyond the mountain ridge around the Floating Isles. But it gave a perfect view of the Colony, the best view of the Isle where Mama Oojeen and I lived. I could not see so far down, but I knew the Comb on my line of sight included our family’s cave. I smiled.

  My brother would be able to continue his Watching from here.

  I loosened my fist, allowing the ashes to slip through my fingers. The gentle wind caught each particle, carrying them across the sky.

  “Do not worry about me, Izkeh,” I whispered. “I will be fine.”

  I scattered the last of Izkeh’s ashes, closing my eyes as I basked under the warm sun.

  “Fly, brother. Fly, and be free.”

  Dedication

  For J.G.A.

  Breathe and bask in the sun once more. The wind carry you home. We will miss you.

  About Gail Villanueva

  Gail Villanueva is a web designer by day, and a writer by night — or by the crack of dawn, if the inspiration strikes. She enjoys sharing her imagined worlds through words and illustrations, and takes delight in entertaining young adults and middle-grade kids with her stories of science fiction and fantasy. Gail lives in the suburbs of Manila, Philippines with her husband and their menagerie of pets.

  For updates on her upcoming books and short stories, feel free to follow Gail on Twitter, Like her page on Facebook, or sign up for her mailing listing through her website, https://www.gaildvillanueva.com/.

  Herders of the Roof, by William Lenoire

  Their yurt was dim, lit only by the light of a small fire over which a stew cooked, its rich scent filling the chill left by the early evening. Winter was dying late, as it always did in the Roof of the World. Warmth was a precious thing, hoarded like a trader’s silver coins, hidden and bundled.

  The birthing season for the herds would begin soon, later than that of lowland animals. A soft tension filled the darkness, because at any moment a tauzak’s cry could need one of the tribe to come running, ready to make sure the birth went well and help the great beasts. Kanna laid on the edge of her woolen bedroll, left leg below her while her right, which ended at the knee, propped upward, and drank from her bowl. Beside her sat a pair of carefully carved wooden crutches, their dark steel caps gleaming in the firelight, the work of lowland smiths who had one home and did not walk the Roof. The girl’s hair was the black of a deep cave, and her eyes the brown of fresh-tilled soil, with skin tanned to nearly the darkness of her leathers by long exposure. A scar crossed her nose, a reminder of a fall when she tried too hard racing the other children.

  “Mom,” she said, her voice a reedy, high pitched thing. “Can’t you stay in tonight? The dri will be fine without you, just this once. Someone else can watch the births.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Your father is out with the guar to keep them from being nervous and causing trouble, as are so many others.” The older woman leaned over a small satchel, checking on her bandages and herbs. In the firelight her hair was the night’s sky to the absolute darkness of her daughter’s, with strands of early silver its gleaming stars. “Only the best of us are here to keep safe the birthing, the most skilled. I need to make sure that the tribe sets aside two of the calves for your keeping.”

  “But I can barely keep up with the other kids. How am I supposed to outrace two calves and keep them from fighting if they’re guar? Or worse, keep the guar from mating too early with the dri if they’re different genders?” Kanna crossed her arms and glared across the yurt.

  “Such doubt is unworthy of my daughter. If your spirit wasn’t up to the task, my Kanna, you would have been born to a lowland family that might have let you sit at home all day, tending nothing but a hearth. You are born to tend the Roof of the World with us and hold Kiritru’s sacred trust. You have helped me feed the tauzak since first you could handle your crutches, your arms are strong now, and you never drop yourself, or fall behind.”

  Kanna opened her mouth to respond, but it was cut off by a soft whistle from outside the yurt’s door. Mother and daughter looked over as the flap was pulled back to reveal an older man, warm furs wrapping around him. “Shari, niece, the herds are calm. Will you be ready for your watch?”

  “Of course, uncle. Kanna will be coming with me. She needs to be present for the birth of her calves.”

  “It’s good that she is so enthusiastic. Not enough children appreciate Jezhei’s lesson before they’ve learned it for themselves. Just make sure she watches where she waits.” A small nod and a swish of fabric sped the man away before another word could leave the youth’s mouth.

  “Mother!”

  “Don’t argue Kanna, don’t argue at all. Jezhei was not such a complainer, and neither should you be. She tamed tauzak with one leg.”

  “But she was a saint!”

  “No, she was a woman. We remember her as a saint, but first, before anything else, she was a woman. Let me tell you the first part of her story, the part children ignore, but you must understand. She was not always a saint. She was not always a leader. But her story is our story.”