She was wearing a blue tunic and managed to be lovelier to my eyes than the day before. So unlike me with my spare flesh stretched over a tall frame, she comes but to my shoulder and is womanly, with womanly fullness, rose-tinted skin and swelling curves of breast and hip, small hands and feet . . . hands of great delicacy and grace as I had discovered when she played her reed, and of astonishing softness, as I had learned when she brushed away my tears at her music, and when I took the hand she offered, surprised and awkward before her loveliness, the morning of Anniversary Day . . . She had worn yellow then, enhancing the golds of her gold-brown hair; but on this day the dark blue of her tunic drew notice to her eyes, light blue and so clear and direct in their gaze that they seemed transparent, taking mine into a limitless depth . . .
She came in with two containers that opened into trays, their contents permeating the room with intoxicating aromas. She said softly, placing a tray before me, “I understand that earlier today Farica and Venus presented most interesting discoveries on the continent of Nin.”
I had planned to call up their presentation from information storage that evening. I asked, “Would you like to view this with me?”
“Very much,” she said eagerly.
We sat companionably, I enjoying a meal even more delicious than its aromas suggested, she sitting with her legs curled up under her, the folds of her blue dress gathered around her, bare arms resting on the sides of her tray; occasionally and absently she ate her food as she raptly watched the lumiscreen. Afterward, as I took the trays away, she said that she would enjoy nightfall and then return to play for me.
I called up coordinates for the drones tracking the path of Laurel’s shipmates, and scanned Danya’s surveillance reports. Nothing unusual. Then as is my habit I walked down to Damon Point, and found Laurel seated with my fleece drawn up around her against the chill, watching the night deepen. We both sat in silence as the waves crashed, as the moons rose into a clear sky limned with brilliant stars and gauzy fluorescent stardust, until regretfully I broke the silence, knowing that the nocturnals would soon begin.
At my house she sat on the floor, her gaze distant, listening to the winds play over Zandra’s carvings, smiling at tonal qualities that pleased her. Then she played for me . . .
Her appeal lies not so much in her loveliness—she is doubtless no prettier than many women—except for those eyes . . . and that hair . . . It is her nature that pulls me to her, a nature that extracts the goodness, the sweet essence from what she sees. She has somehow managed to set aside her Earthly upbringing to enjoy the beauty of our world, to joyfully watch our games, our ballet, our art—even the sculpture in the adults’ discussion room that so took me aback with its erotic impact, for which I was so ill-prepared . . .
It was this nature in her that led me to bring her to Nepenthe, treasured place of our beloved dead, because I knew her response would endow that place with a full degree of honor.
From the beginning she has seemed at ease with me, displaying none of the gravity and veneration of our women that is so discomfiting. She regards me as I have always wished, with the respect due my responsibilities—as I respect theirs in their responsibilities—and with informality and comradeship and humor. Especially humor.
Our second night together, as I set up the trays for our dinner, she asked if I had ever seen Vesta cook. When I nodded, she mimed the dreamy manner Vesta acquires as she concocts her dishes, as she adds and combines ingredients in trance-like slow-motion, aware of nothing but the culinary vision in her head. I found myself laughing. Then, during the nocturnals, after we had returned from watching the nightfall, she mimed Hera, her haughty walk and disdainful manner and flamboyant gestures. And even though Hera is my deeply revered kinswoman, I could not prevent my laughter.
The third day, I came back to my house after my usual morning swim already anticipating Laurel’s presence that evening, only to see her waving to me from a parapet of my house, a hand shading her eyes against the morning brilliance. She had brought breakfast. I set up a table and chairs outdoors.
“This was not part of our agreement,” I said, immensely pleased.
“I came on another errand,” she said mysteriously, “which I will explain after breakfast.”
I sat in contentment, savoring the varied tastes and textures of a fine breakfast, and her unexpected company. She gazed off into the horizon, only sometimes remembering to eat, watching storm clouds gather. Soon those clouds hurtled toward us and I hurriedly removed our meal indoors before the rains drenched us. But when I called to her she gestured for me and took my hand, preventing both of us from taking shelter, and laughed in sheer delight as the warm rain pummeled us.
She warmcombed her hair, soon restoring its soft curl, its warm colors and sensuous texture. Knowing I should be tending to my own hair and then off and about my duties, I instead succumbed to the pleasure of watching her.
“I’m going to dress your hair now,” she told me firmly. “You said you were disturbed by young women wearing similar hairstyles. A way to change that is to change your own hair, at least somewhat. Let me try. If you don’t like what I’ve done, you can easily change it back.”
I had worn my hair in the same fashion all my life, but curious, I submitted. She used several settings on the warm-comb and lingered over my hair, her fingers stroking through it, a soft hand cupping and upturning my face as she inspected the effect she was creating. Then warm gentle hands held my face for a long time as she gazed; and so intense was my pleasure in her touch, so held was I by the transparent blue of her eyes that I had to close my own eyes.
Finally she murmured, “See how you like it now.”
I inspected her handiwork in a reflective edge of the angular sculpture Zandra had given me many years ago, which I proudly keep in the very center of my house. To the crown of my hair Laurel had added fullness; she had pushed the waves back from the side of my face giving my cheekbones more prominence and revealing the lower curve of ear.
“I like it very much,” I said truthfully. Aware of my deficiencies in such matters, I added ruefully, “I’ll never be able to duplicate it.”
“I’ll come each morning,” she said promptly. “With our breakfast, and to dress your hair.”
I would have argued, had I not been still so weak from my pleasure in her touch.
It is ten days today since Anniversary Day. Five days before Laurel’s shipmates return. Laurel knows she may remain here on Maternas but thus far has kept her own counsel, and I will allow the full five days before I ask. If she voices a desire to live among us before her crew returns, I will no longer have even scant justification for continuing to indulge in the pleasures of her “services.” But she must be allowed maximum time to reflect whether happiness is possible for her with us, whether she can leave Earth forever behind as we have—and whether she can love and be loved by a woman. Happily, she has never spoken of any binding tie with Earth. But if she chooses not to remain . . . I retreat from thoughts of the anguish I will suffer, my utter and inconsolable desolation . . .
Precious few days remain to me. If she joins us, she will then belong with the women of this colony, in her own occupation or another of her choosing; she will begin a new life without me. No longer will I be able to protect her from the acquisitive Venus . . . And there will be no lack of other enticements. . . On Anniversary Day she was oblivious to the many glances that lingered on her in interest and admiration.
Our evenings have lengthened. Selfishly, greedily, I have kept her with me late into the nights. Mostly we talk, and read, or she watches holograph recordings of classes involving the children. Her love for children is great . . . Perhaps if she remains among us she will teach them her profession . . . That would effectively remove her from Venus’s presence. I keep Laurel with me until her exhaustion is evident; then I send her off to Vesta, and filled with anticipation for the next day, go off to my own bed.
With difficulty I extract from my duties the tim
e to be with her. Having to condense activity into even lesser hours, I have learned something unaccustomed to me: delegation, a discretionary judgment that tells me when I do not have to decide something myself. I have always acted whenever my judgment seems required, but the talented women of our Unity are more than competent—and willing—whenever I delegate my decision-making.
Strangely, I sleep longer. It is as if a balm has settled over my spirit and eased my restlessness. I sleep for several hours at a time—a pleasure unknown to me before—and rise to perform tasks until I become weary and return to my bed to sweetly sleep again.
Five nights ago I awakened and did not know the time and had to place the positions of the moons to reset my internal clock . . . Such a thing has never happened before . . .
I become increasingly disoriented when she sits beside me in the mornings and begins, with those gentle fingers, to brush the hair back from my face. I sense that she lingers more and more over my hair—but I am uncertain, so great is my disorientation. There is always silence between us at this time. She concentrates on her task, I suppose, and I—I simply cannot speak.
On Anniversary Day I knew that she had entered my heart. And I also knew that I had never conceived of love, that what I had felt for Venus so many years ago was but a foreshadow of this piercing sweetness, this joy at the sight of her, this quiet exhilaration in her presence, this desolation when she leaves me.
I have looked at the art in our council chambers many times since viewing it with her. It affects me profoundly, as never before, warming my body . . . But I do not need other images to suggest how I would love Laurel. I hold one central image in my mind: Laurel, in my bed, in my arms, her hair spread over my throat and shoulders.
Last night she fell asleep before I realized her exhaustion. I came to where she lay on the chaise, a graceful arm extended above her head, a hand resting lightly where I longed to place my own hand . . . on her breasts . . . I gazed for a time at the creamy smoothness of her brow, the tender set of her lips, the sweetness of her sleeping face. As I reached to awaken her, involuntarily I took strands of her hair into my hand, the silken curls caressing my fingers . . .
She awoke and caught me like a thief. “I was . . . just a awakening you,” I said lamely, and released her hair and moved quickly away from her—because she had looked at me with those eyes and in another instant I would have taken her into my arms.
My love for her will be forever the treasure of my heart, a love that will never be given, or spoken. Many years ago I gave my word—no less sacred now than then. And I have greater responsibility than to my own happiness. I owe a greater allegiance.
But I love her so . . .
VIII
Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith
2214.2.28
Megan will ask my decision tomorrow. I could have told her before, but had no doubt that her sense of duty would compel her to send me from her.
I shall be forever lonely for my family, but little else ties me to home. Alienation from Earth has increased during my months in space and during my time here. But I must be here, on this wondrously unfolding new world. I must be near the person I’ve grown to love with all my being.
Loving her has come so easily. This proud woman with her sophisticated grasp of even most complex problems has in her the simplicity and tender nature of a child. Her mind with its keen hard edges has won my respect and admiration—but her innocence has melted my heart. And like a child she needs caring for, needs tender loving.
One evening after we’d enjoyed our meal together, the message screen blinked with a request from Erika to consult her. For some time she and Erika discussed a schematic of bewildering dimension displayed on the lumiscreen, part of the plans for the new colony of Kendra. As she spoke, Megan touched the flower I’d placed on her tray, her long fingers stroking its stem, its petals. Afterward, we went down to Damon Point to watch the nightfall, she tall and straight beside me, walking with her confident stride—and I saw that she’d placed the blossom in the pocket of her white shirt.
How very much I love her . . . How could I not grow to love her?
Often I’ve been at her house when she’s gone—to feel her presence there, to feel near her. All the houses in Cybele are open—there’s no reason to be otherwise—but all have privacy shields. A shield is frequently up around Vesta’s chamber where she treats her patients, and around the bed-chamber next to mine when she and Carina make love—a shield which may prevent entry but doesn’t muffle Vesta’s sounds. But shields are never up in Megan’s house, and I wander freely, often going into her bedchamber to gaze at the place I most long to be.
I dare come no closer to this proud and revered leader of the women of Maternas, no further than I already have; only she can take us beyond. And it was quite by accident that I discovered her desire to do so.
When I play my reed I turn slightly away from her because her beautiful eyes disconcert so, they so easily disturb by concentration. It was four nights ago that I sat turned away from her as before, but in a different place—facing the great sculpture in the center of her house. And I saw her reflection in one of its many lustrous sides, a side so intricately angled that her reflection was visible to me but not to her. And I saw her look at me. Look at me in such a way that I faltered and almost stopped playing. But I did play—surely dissonances—and my body turned to hot liquid under the emerald gaze that caressed me, caressed my hair and throat, lingered for many moments on my breasts before slowly drifting down to my thighs . . .
And so I know she wants me.
Why won’t she let me give her my nights—even if only one night? It would grieve me if there was only one—but at least there would be the one.
I’ve never felt for another this desire to give, not take, pleasure. To give her my breasts that she stares at with such desire. I long to hold her slender body to mine, to love her body with mine . . .
There was an opportunity. I’d fallen asleep, and feeling her hand touch my hair I awakened; but she released the strands as if they burned her, and murmured an excuse, her face stricken. I gazed at her, reached to take her into my arms—but in a single instant she’d risen and was gone from me.
These past four days I’ve tormented her. Because she torments me. Because our time together is ending. And because I don’t understand why she won’t come to me. And I don’t know what else to do—only to make her want me more, to make her reach out for what I long to give—before she must send me away.
I’ve grown pitiless. As I dress her hair I caress her as lovingly as I dare. Always she sits with eyes closed, but now she sometimes catches her lower lip between her fine teeth as, supposedly to inspect my handiwork, I allow my fingers to stray over her throat before cupping her face. I clasp a slim shoulder lightly as I brush through her hair; trace her delicate ears with my fingertips as I shape her hair there; caress the soft nape of her neck; finally cup her beautiful face in both hands and gaze at her, yearning to draw her to me, to bring her lips to mine.
Pitiless, I’m pitiless. Tonight I played for her the composition I’ve worked on these past days—the tonalities of my love for her. I played from my depths, seeing in the sculpture her want of me, pouring out through my reed the love I can’t speak. Afterward she rose, her face averted from me, and murmuring something so faint I couldn’t hear, she walked from her house. After a time I searched for her at Damon Point but couldn’t find her. An hour later she returned and did not speak when she came in, but went to her chaise and only then asked wearily, “Do we have wine?”
On this, our last night, I would not take pity on her. I gave her wine and sat beside her and asked, “What you wear around your neck, may I see it?”
She reached, but I was too swift for her. My hand was inside her shirt. Slowly my fingers slid down and searched lingeringly, caressingly over small firm breasts and between . . .
With equal slowness, reluctantly, I drew out the object I sought, and then stared at a crystal stre
aked with coral and gold, and warm, warm from her skin.
“It is the first object I picked up when we landed,” she said huskily, her voice almost inaudible, her eyes closed. “Janel polished it and created this for me.”
“It’s truly beautiful,” I murmured, forgetting for a moment my purpose in seeking it.
“I give it to you.”
“No,” I exclaimed, astonished. “No, I—”
“Allow me the pleasure of giving it to you,” she said, reaching to take the chain over her head.
I stopped her hands. “You honor me,” I said, deeply moved. “But I could never accept anything with such meaning to the history of this world. Its value is inestimable. Please understand that I can’t accept it.”
She nodded, but as I took my hands away she clasped one, and traced a fingertip over the emerald ring I wore. “This also is rare. No such stone has yet been found on our world. The color green is a great rarity.”
“Yes.” I gazed into the eyes that matched my ring, that had so utterly bewitched me.
She looked at me with a childlike wistfulness that closed my throat with love. “I’m so tired,” she whispered.
Defeated. Defeated, I had no choice but to leave, and I was suddenly exhausted myself. I said as I rose, “Tomorrow, Megan
. . . the men return.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a distant murmur.” A day of . . . decisions.”
lX
Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith
2214.3.1
I was desolate with the knowledge that a short time earlier my shipmates had landed not far from here, and that Megan would now ask my decision and end our time together. But she was silent, her face closed, her thoughts distant from me as she unfolded the trays for our breakfast together.
Daughters of a Coral Dawn Page 17
