“I pushed a beam aside and went into the nursery, where I’d left a few belongings. I saw a tiny wooden hand reaching out from beneath a charred timber that once had been a bed.
“It was Gahoostawik, her charred corpse. Her face was burned away, she’d lost one arm and both her legs were broken and hanging oddly, but I recognized her anyway and I hugged her close. And cried—I should have returned her to the sea before, instead of letting her live to see such pain.
“I remembered something Suko said—every moment is a door, and once you pass beyond it, it is locked to you forever. Whatever happens, it is done; like my birth, it is part of my experience. I could not go back and do it right. It was fact, and I was here and had to make the best of it. Today I knew my childhood was over, the door to it was gone. My body would confirm that. Somewhere in the twenty days since Option, I’d passed my second blush, almost unnoticed—I could feel the tenderness of my breasts and nipples announcing that my body had followed Reethe while my soul had followed . . . no one.
“I stood there in the ashes of my home, not knowing where my family was, too dazed and dumb to cry. I just wandered, holding little dead Gahoostawik and wearing smudges of her charring on my face and hands. I went out into the garden, black-baked dirt and again the ever-present ash. There were markers there for all the souls we had known. Grand-Uncle Kossar, Baby Kiva, Toki, Baby Leille, Yasper, Fellip, Dardis, Thoma, Baby Nua, Kinam, Potto, Kirstegaarde and Suko. It was like something slamming into me. Half the people that I loved the most were dead.
“I screamed. I wailed. I sobbed. I ranted and I cursed. I swore and stomped and hollered. I raged and moaned and heaved my grief in racking gasps. And finally, exhausted, I collapsed before those markers. There was hope here anyway—someone had loved them enough to put these markers up—that meant someone still survived. Hojanna? Porro? Kuvig? Orl? Who? . . .
“I realized I couldn’t stay. The sun was climbing toward eclipse that wouldn’t happen. The day was getting warmer. I still carried my foolish little doll—why hadn’t she been smart enough to go? And yet, I was still glad to see her even as she was—had she been as dumb as I? I had traveled fourteen days across the sea to get back here; had she waited here for me, knowing that I had to come? It had cost Gahoostawik her silly wooden life, it had cost me my Choice.
“I wrapped her in one of Kuvig’s hangings and placed her in Thoma’s dinghy. I untied it from the dock and pushed it toward the sea. ‘Take it please . . . ‘ and said a prayer to Reethe. You might outgrow your toys, you don’t stop loving them. “Good-bye, little friend. Wait for me on the other side.’ And also, ‘Please take care of her, Mother Reethe; she’s a good child.’
“And then I was on my boat again—directionless, drifting on a hot black sea that smelled of rot and garbage. The wind was as dead as the island—as if the world held its breath in the fear of fire to come. I was tired, frustrated and frightened—unsure of where to go—and then an otter climbed aboard the boat, so huge it must have been the Great Otter of all the otters in the sea. She looked at me with huge dark eyes, and blinking water from them, she wiped her whiskers and studied me. I offered her a fish, but she just continued to regard me impassively. Finally, she cleared her throat and asked, ‘You are Jobe?’ I nodded. ‘Sail west,’ she said. ‘Sail west and north.’
“‘Deeper into the circle? I asked—but she had turned and disappeared back into the water, leaving not a ripple, only a wet place on the canvas decking of the boat.
“And then, as if in confirmation, there came a cry from overhead—there was a bird, like none I’d ever seen before; all large and white, too big to be a gull, too sweet of voice—and crying like a newborn infant gasps for air. Distressed. She came hurtling from the east behind me, as if created from the Nona Shield—but she wasn’t flying; she was high and being hurtled by a spinning wind; she was wrapped in strange debris that whirled round her, tumbling her as well. The bird was fighting to break free of her air spun prison, but was failing—crying, like an infant, and hurtling westward, ever west, beyond herself, her self-control was illusion. Her cries hung in the air long after she was gone. I sailed after her. I don’t know why.
“I sailed west, into the Empty Reaches west and north. The sun reached zenith and refused to disappear. I painted my body with oil and ash to protect me from its glare. When the heat grew too much, I dipped into the water for a while, a rope around my waist, and swam or walked behind the boat. The seas were even shallower on this side; the only deep water near Kossarlin was on the north side of the island; the Cold Shelf where once I’d been caught in an undertow.
“I dipped into the water to cool off, then oiled myself again, then dipped again, and oiled again against the sun—alternating like that, I sailed steadily west. The sun remained at zenith and the temperature passed sixty and kept on climbing. I might have passed out . . .
“When I came to, the sun was still above me, still bright and burning whitely—but a cold breeze swept across my body like a wraith. I was conscious, first, of thirst, and leaned over the edge of the boat to drink my fill of the sea’s fresh water. My throat was parched and aching and I kept my face and cracking lips immersed as long as I could; I couldn’t drink enough, it was so sweet and cold. Only slowly did I become aware how cold the air around me was. I stood, curiously, naked and black and oily, covered with ash, and looked around. The sun was still has hot as ever, the sea and sky were blue as stingfish eyes. But the air was fiercely cold. I shivered in the middle of a burning sunday and wondered if this were a miracle of Reethe to save my life.
“It was not a miracle—it was a warning of a greater disaster still to come. However, I didn’t know it at the time; to me it seemed reprieve, as if the hand of Reethe had reached down to shelter me as she had sheltered Lono and Rurik in the legend. But I wasn’t ready yet to die; I used what strength I still commanded to set my sail for the Bogin Circle; beyond it lay the Astril, perhaps safety. I set my motor for the highest speed, no matter if I burned it out. Some inner voice told me to escape the Lagin as fast as possible. The cold air chased me west, getting colder all the way, leaving me shivering—I’d brought no blanket, the robe was not enough. I dipped into the water to keep warm, tied to the boat so it wouldn’t get away from me. The wind grew strong around me, driving me before it, stinging me with drops of ice and rock. Behind me something roared and growled—
“What had happened was this—the heating of the Lagin Circle had triggered storms around the borders of adjacent circles. The storms had triggered earthquakes—the crust of Satlin was still nervous from the pounding it had taken half a thousand years before—the quakes had triggered new volcanoes; high ones pouring ash into the sky and magma into oceans. The Southern Rift reopened as far south as the polar cap; part of it must have fractured, great chunks of ice avalanching into roaring magma—and turning into steam. Explosions, violent, roaring, ocean-ripping—billions of tons of ice turning into steam—the heat fracturing the shattered crust of Satlin once again—breaking off still larger pieces of the polar ice, until—finally, the great sheets of frozen ground cracked and shuddered and collapsed. Uneasy on their base already, they slid off their sloping shelf into the sea, into the raging fires and steam, exploding with a force as vast as that created by the crash of any ice asteroid. Vast winds of cold air swept outward in all directions, chased by clouds of super-heated steam and fog and raging fire. Churning walls of water were already heading north. The cold air I felt was just the first breath of Reethe’s revenge against the sun—she could be violent when she was angered, even more than Dakka ever could be. The islands behind me would be flattened when the walls of water finally came, smashing mountains down before them. The whole Southern Reach was struck—Cameron was decimated, Fire Wall was crushed, Wullawen was scoured, the Swale Friend and all she carried were never seen again. Hard Landing disappeared beneath the waves, Kossarlin was—
“The cold air had saved me from the sun—only that I might die in the storm to
follow. The air turned gray, then muddy, then darker still—the sky flashed with wind and thunder as great masses of charged air rolled and argued across the world. The water flung itself in great lazy crashing waves and stung itself against my skin—the boat tossed and tumbled—when the sail fell, ripped from the splintering mast, I climbed back aboard and wrapped myself in canvas folds, I tied myself to its broken spar and prayed that we would ride the crest of waves to come—I was afraid to pray to Reethe, she was angered enough already—there were hailstones pelting from the sky like icy spittle.
“The storm grew worse and I lost consciousness again. I remember waking on a still, gray sea while rainfall splattered around me, but whether it was darkday or shrouded sunday, I couldn’t tell. I sipped water—it tasted ashy, there were things floating in it, and I passed out again.”
“I came to in a hospital in Astril Circle. I didn’t know how I had got there; they had no record either. I suppose some rescue vessel found me. When I recovered, I stayed there for a while to help with other refugees; it was the least thing I could do. Sometime, during those days, I must have passed my final blush; I hardly noticed. Dimly, I must have realized I was a woman, a bearer of responsibility, a source of strength, a piece of Mother Reethe upon the earth. And I didn’t want to be, I didn’t want it. All that responsibility, I despaired for I was burdened with it whether I wanted it or not. I wanted to be Dakka, I wanted to be free. And I wanted to go looking for my family, so I could cry in Mamma’s lap.
“Eventually, I did move on. They couldn’t save me from myself. I spent long hours lost in prayer, walking the stations of the Oracle, counting beads and chanting, trying to obliterate all sense of my identity in the larger timelessness of prayer. I wondered if I should become Watichi—a holy person. Watichis never need to own, because Watichis never need. You must feed a Watichi before you feed yourself, because she has given up her life to be a moment of the gods. I had the capability, I thought, I’d shown it when I’d been Enchanted—but when I’d been Enchanted, I’d released an evil voice upon the world, a huuru thing. I’d heard it howling in the storms; someday it would come back to me. What kind of Watichi could I be if I was haunted so?
“I went crazy for a while. In that I was not alone. There were many who survived the Lagin fire only to go crazy—not Enchanted, that, at least, was gentle—this was crazy, savage, vengeful. I moved in hurt, and I struck out at all around me. I wandered aimless on the surface of the world, across the surface of my life, not touching anything, not being touched in turn. Hate was a wall to hide behind. It was not a way to live, but it was a way to survive, and in those terrible, terrible days, just surviving was enough.”
Allabar was opened to the refugees; there was a deep harbor there, and several long docks for a mining operation that had never started. It was on the inner side of Nolle Crescent, and there were agricultural settlements at Cinne, Rann and nearby Mairel, so there would be food; there were industrial villages at Gowulf and Trask, so there would be machinery, labor and support for the refugee camp. Across the bay, at Sandar Crescent, there was Wandawen, which had an Access terminal to the files at Authority. A wire was extended to the Service Center at Allabar dock, and several consoles were installed for the use of refugees.
Jobe registered her name, but no bells chimed when it was entered in the banks; there were no messages waiting, no one had inquired after her. Nor was there any record of a Kuvig, Hojanna, Dorin, Orl, Rue or Marne surviving. Not even Aunt William.
“But don’t lose heart yet, little fish,” counseled the paunchy Dakka at the terminal. “This file is only for the Astril and the Bogin Circles. It will take some weeks to correlate with all the other circles; perhaps then there might be something.”
Jobe took her papers and turned away, making room for the next person in the line. Allabar was a barren place; its hills were brown and scrubby-looking, its cliffs were white and chalky. Dirty bushes clung tenaciously to rocky slopes. Hot winds plucked at canvas tents; sand and grit crept into food and clothing.
The camp was on a naked slope, a parched dry stretch of rock. There wasn’t food enough to go around, and if Jobe wanted to eat, she had to be at the cook tent early. Authority was urging everyone to eat one meal less; go to bed a little hungry, they would say, so the next person might have something too. Hunger once had been a novelty to Jobe, a curious kind of pain; now it was a companion, a full belly would have been the novelty. There was rationing. Jobe stood in line with all the others to receive her allotted slabs of paste and curd and protein loaf. Sometimes there was stew of fish and biscuits, sometimes there was rice, but more often there was paste and curd and protein loaf. Jobe wanted food she recognized, fruit and vegetables, pig-fish in sauce or oils, filets of finlets, clams or crawlers, slices of melon, pickled roots and tubers, anything. Authority was talking of reseeding areas decimated by the Southern Scour—not the Lagin yet (if ever), but adjacent shields certainly—they would have to turn a lot of crops to seed. The populace was being told to eat a little less today, so we can eat our fill tomorrow. But the food that came to Allabar was not food, merely kinds of protein that would store without decaying—like paste and curd and protein loaf. They looked like things the Erdik ate, and tasted every bit as bad.
She slept in a commonhouse near the docks. When there was cloth available from the commonstore, she made herself a new kilt. She washed herself at the public baths, and she carried everything she owned in a canvas bag fashioned from a piece of sail.
She tried putting a call through to Strille on the Weeping Crescent under the Tartch umbrella, but Porro’s family didn’t exist; whether they had moved or broken up or died, Jobe didn’t know; they weren’t listed anymore. There was no Porro.
Jobe wished for—hope. Something to live for. A goal. Even revenge would have been enough if she could have had it.
She spent her days waiting in line. She waited in line for food. Then she waited in line at the Access to see if there was any news of Grandpere Kuvig or the others. She waited at the commonstore for medicines for the cough she had developed and the sores along her legs. Sometimes she waited for clothes. Then she waited in line for food again. Lines were something new to Jobe; they were new to Satlin. Jobe didn’t like them, she cursed them as another Erdik intrusion.
Sometimes she went down to the beach and listened to the minstrels and the songlers. Sometimes she slept in one of the lean-tos there. Authority didn’t want a shanty town growing on the beach, but as fast as they knocked the shelters down, the refugees rebuilt them. Sometimes Jobe shared her bed with another lonely person, hardly noticing whether she was Dakkarik or Rethrik. It didn’t matter. It was an echo of her churning days on Tarralon.
She began to learn anew of sex. It wasn’t always fun and it wasn’t always sharing; sometimes it was just—something to do. Sometimes it put more distance between two people. They’d use each other’s bodies for their own satisfaction, each pretending to be happy for a while, but they were lies instead of love and even though Jobe knew it shouldn’t be like that, it was.
Lono and Rurik must have been a lie, she decided. She could not imagine such devotion happening in real life. They were outcasts, that was all—that was why they stuck together; nothing more. She imagined Lono reaching out or Rurik in the middle of the night and being met with words mumbled, Please, leave me sleep.”
Mostly Jobe slept alone.
One day, she saw a familiar sail in the harbor. It was wide and square, bright red, and in the center was a yellow sun with an eye inside of it.
“Sola!” Jobe fairly flew across the wooden dock, shouting all the way. “Sola! Sola!” and collapsed crying into Sola’s arms. Sola seemed taller now, and stronger—where before she’d seemed made of silk and pudding, now she was wire, supple and bound in leather. Jobe held her tightly.
“Jobe—little Jobe! What are you doing here? Are you all alone? Who else is with you? Oh, let me hold you! I thought you were lost—let me look at you! How big and pre
tty you’ve grown. Great Reethe, what a fine woman you are, Jobe!”
But all Jobe could do in response was hang on to Sola as hard as she could. She poured out her grief in great racking gasps and sobs. She was so happy to see her—so relieved that someone she still knew had survived—yet saddened with the knowledge that Sola might be the only one.
Sola stroked her hair and murmured, “Easy, Little One. Easy. I’m here now.” And she hugged her tightly back. “My little Jobe—the last time I saw you, you were leaving for Option. How did you get here?”
“I don’t know—I just sailed west—like the otter told me.” Jobe managed to get a few words out, but she was still too happy crying.
“I was in the north,” Sola said. Her face was shining. “Authority has finally decided to set aside an island for—for persons like myself. An official retreat. Asylum, that’s its name. I’m going to build a house, Jobe. A place of my own! That’s why I came here—there are some people that I know who might want to come there too.”
“Who—me?”
Sola laughed. “Don’t be silly. We’re just friends; but outcasts have to stick together.” She added self-consciously, “Maybe in the future perhaps . . .”
Jobe wiped at her nose and looked at Sola—she seemed both taller and smaller; taller because maybe she was, she was certainly leaner; smaller because—well, Jobe was a little taller now. But there was something more—Sola was a pearl; before, she’d been veiled in melancholy, now she shone with inner glory—as if she’d decided she was going to be proud of being Sola; she stood tall, that was it. She didn’t try to pass for either Dakkarik or Rethrik, as some outcasts did; her clothes were honest and simple, a kilt and a vest. Oddly, it increased her beauty—Jobe could see both Reethe and Dakka in her, and both were gloriously expressed. “Sola—“ she asked, “my family—do you know anything about them? Kuvig, Dorin, William, my mother—?”
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