by Tanith Lee
I spent the first hours walking along the avenues among the canals, the region my information had secured for me. The pale green sky, no darker than some young leaf of Earth, was flocked with paler clouds. The sun rayed brightly through into the green crystalline liquid of the canals, so pure the undersides of ships shone brilliantly as fish, and deeper still, things that had, centuries since, been cast in there — old urns, a broken statue — glowed up through twenty feet of water clear as the day. Cuzian willows of great height rose from the canal-sides and poured back to them. The old stone houses stood behind, where now many races live, even the exiles of Earth. Somewhere here she, too, had made her home.
Then, the first hours were gone. I had only this one day and suddenly an anguish fastened on me. Could it be that after all we should not meet? In fact I knew so little — the planet and the area of her domicile. Her occupation. Her age I knew. And somehow it seemed I knew also things I had not been told — of a pet cat that walked on leash; of a child, not mine, born in the intervening years. And the color her hair would be, having altered. But her new name I did not know, the new name of this new life of hers, where maybe I had no right or justification, even for an instant, to intrude.
So, relaxing into dreariness, I entered a baroque café that dropped in terraces to the water. Possibly five minutes, I sat there, thinking my blank sad thoughts, reproaching myself, seeing the reflection of my face — so changed, and yet, not so changed after all — in a glass of transparent wine. Then I looked up and saw — her.
She had come in, walked by me, and now seated herself across a distance of a few feet. Her companion was with her, a lovely woman with long fiery hair. And the cat, smoke-colored, on a leash, sat like a dog on a third chair. Telepathy, then, had been in operation. More. She did not look about, my Lyselle (no longer mine, though always mine), yet she had come here, intuitively seeking me, it seemed, as I had sought her.
Her hair was black and curling. I had known that would be how she wore it now. As if it were some game we had arranged to play, long, long ago.
I stood up. I went over. An excuse was there to hand, easy and acceptable. Here on Cuze, the children of Earth might be expected to turn to each other. My credentials were perfect, for I could bring them news of the homeworld.
I spoke to her companion first, in politeness. And yet I sensed here, too, immediately, a renewed greeting rather than that of some friendly alien. This auburn girl and I — there was a warm rapport, as if we had been comrades formerly. She welcomed me graciously, and I knew at once she would place no barrier between me and my goal, not feel from me any threat. For I was no threat to her. Could be no threat. In this fresh found knowledge my courage finally lay down and rested. One does not attempt to destroy the happiness and security of the person one has loved best. I, so selfish in almost all my dealings, was astonished and reassured by the sound unshakable truth of this.
Then, as I looked at her at last, I saw she knew me. Her eyes, which were changed, and yet which were the same, had startled into surprise. I should proceed carefully now. We had parted in trouble and misery, and in terror. Were these the memories that would flood back to her? Her pain, it occurred to me, I could not bear. If this were to happen I must go away instantly. But it seemed the memory was not unpleasant. Perhaps there was no memory as coherent as this sheer recognition of me that so startled her. She was not even uncomfortable; she too was welcoming.
It was the most natural thing in all the worlds to sit down with her and her companion, and the charming cat, to drink wine together and begin to talk earnestly of ordinary things, which had nothing to do with some inner conversation, which also then began, unheard.
When was I so happy? Well, I have been happy sometimes. But this had its own fundamental joy. The afternoon went by, dreamlike, as we strolled, feeding the water-birds, letting the cat roam free in the hanging-gardens of the parks, to mount at length and to sit imperious on the head of a white stone nymph. Fearlessly talking. No abrasion. The girl with red hair augmented, ornamented, but did not impede our dialogues. It was plain to me we were all — mentally, spiritually — known to each other in some way. And I believe she quite understood, our redhead, without any embarrassing revelation on my part. She understood and was ineffably gentle. Even, she awarded us certain spaces together alone, Lyselle and I — going off to cajole the cat on the nymph-pillar, to buy flowers from a floating barge — such spaces were necessary, perhaps. Never brief enough to be furtive, nor long enough to allow the seals of my private confessional to give way. And I was grateful also for that. Some things cannot be said. Or, if said, lose all their inner power in the strengthlessness of the words.
I dined that night with the two of them, high up on the roof of the elegant old house, the sunset flowing slowly, in pulses of oceanic gold, across the drowned vistas of Cuze on every side. There was an easel set up on the parapet among the tall pots of flowers, a painting half-born, very spare and fine, Lyselle’s work, that occupation I had been told of. Her talent delighted me. I looked very long at the painting, as I did at everything. I knew I should only see her once, this past love of mine, and those things of hers and of her life, which was so apt and serene, they must be gathered up, and fixed into my recollection like small jewels. But how could I forget? I never had forgotten her, the way she had been. Blonde as I was now, where I had been dark as now was she. A fragile doll of a girl, my Lyselle, with such steel within, such bravery.
When I had waited those last days in prison, time after time she had come to me, her slim little hands on the bars under mine, and her skin, warm where mine was ice, giving up her vitality to me. She had told me then, if I must die, she would find a way to come after me. I had begged her to live. Yet it consoled me. I had a terror of loneliness, then.
There was one moment, somewhere in the cool streets that took me back toward the port, one moment only when my heart shuddered. I wept as I walked, but not the tears of any wounding, and not even of regret. I had sobbed like a child for her, before. This was only a libation to that god of partings. Perhaps my grief for the first, where before it had been his, tumultuous and dreadful, with no promise of an end. His grief, that man I had been a hundred years before my birth.
There is a look in my face, my woman’s face, that sometimes I see, a look of him, the thin young man who was freed the hard way, dying with thirty bullets in him from the executioners’ guns. Just as, in the little portrait of Lyselle, whom he loved so much, there is a look — about the eyes, behind the forehead — of the tall, dark man Lyselle, in this life has become. No longer Lyselle, no longer mine. But happy and at peace. Loving and loved. They hanged her then, a trumped-up charge that she, mourning, abetted. My fault — no, his fault. My poetic friend, my former foolish self. Or so he thought. He has carried that grief like a cross, and so I have also carried it. But no more.
She is alive, my friend, and living in Cuze five galaxies away. She is alive, and will live forever, as indeed so shall we all.
Tonight I can sleep quietly.
Stalking the Leopard
From a Future-Urban Myth by John Kaiine
Avly leaned her slim white arms on the balustrade, her ruby bracelets dripping along the stone. She was young, beautiful, and rich, and lived in one of the most picturesque cities of northern climes, Dophan, beneath the great, man-made rainbow known as The Arch.
Still lit up after dark, its seven burning colors glowed across the dusk sky. More subtly, its rays painted the parks, tree-hung boulevards, and mansions below, including Avly’s balcony, her pale skin, and fashionably short black hair.
How bored she was, this elegant young woman.
Nothing engaged her interest. Avly had known only attractive and glamorously stimulating things all her twenty years. By now, even the rainbow itself, at which tourists would stand gaping, both on the ground and in the jeweled flying vehicles, had become, for her, samey.
One of these vehicles, however, now dipped toward the balcony. She sa
w, with slight affront, it was the private car of her most recent ex-lover. They had parted amiably, and at Avly’s wish — perhaps for that very reason she did not want to ride with him to this evening’s party.
“Avly! Glimmering creature. Do get in, we’re late.”
Avly got into the car and sank back on the cushioned seat. A glass of champagnist alighted in her hand. She sipped and glanced sidelong at her handsome ex, who wore a silk cloak. Whatever had she seen in him? But oh, what had she seen, ever, in any of her several lovers?
The driverless car whirled them through the sky, under The Arch, deftly and automatically avoiding other similar traffic, most of it intent on pleasure.
They landed on the roof of a brightly lamped mansion. Massive trees grew from stems of water set into concrete. Polished diamonds winked in tiles. Fortunately another woman came at once and claimed Avly’s cast-off. Now Avly stood again, bored and lethargic, at one more balustrade, staring across into the shining apartments over the way, where similar parties raged. Was there anything interesting there? No. Everything might as well be a mirror. Including this roof-garden.
“Oh look! Look at that — down in the Violet Quarter!”
The quarters of the city were named for the colors of The Arch, but Violet, like Indigo and Orange, was one of the poorer, shabbier areas.
Party-goers poured in a tide across the garden, and Avly went indifferently after them, not expecting to see very much. However, from the north side of the roof, she and everyone else soon stared exclaiming at a distant but colossal column of smoke and fire.
“Several of the old houses on Velvet Street must be burning.”
“Let’s go and see.”
Accidents and disasters were rare in Dophan. The last vehicular crash had happened before Avly was born, the last fire when she was ten — and she had been interested then. But now this ghoulishness irritated her, and she wanted to decline the offer of the two nearest guests, who were already guiding her into the flow of persons hurrying back towards the vehicle-park.
“Avly, come on. What a spectacle it must be — you can’t miss it — and the horror — perhaps there are several dead!”
Ennui, distaste even, strangely decided Avly on non-resistance. She allowed them to pull her into the car, and moments later they were zooming north across the city. From many buildings around, countless others did the same.
What would she feel? Alarm, sympathy, fear… Would she feel anything? People, as a rule, no longer seemed quite real to Avly — that is, when she thought of them in any depth.
The fire, though, was impressive. It towered into, and presently dominated, the sky. Black and purple smoke, sequined by embers and sparks, plumed two blocks of flaming masonry. Even as the car settled on an adjacent landing-pad, one of the houses collapsed with a roar, and a mixed swarm of darks and lights shot upward.
Sightseers piled out of their transports, carrying Avly with them, helpless and contemptuous. Shouting and laughing, the crowd struggled to approach as close as possible to the safety barriers already erected in the street. No firefighters or medical vehicles seemed in evidence. Only a street marshal stood by with some twenty of his men. They were there simply to maintain order.
Another house collapsed.
“They don’t bother with them now, you know,” someone said. “These poorer streets can’t afford any insurance.”
Avly found herself pressed to the high, transparent, fire-resistant barrier. No smoke stung her eyes or ash stained her frock. Like everyone else, she gazed fixedly into the heart of the fire.
Was it only beautiful? Or only terrible?
Had anyone survived?
Startling her, at that very moment Avly saw a tall figure emerge from the crimson hell.
She was astounded. He was dressed darkly, and his long, fashionable cloak flared away from him like a single black wing. His hair was also long and black. From this distance, through the slight distortion of the barrier and the unfelt ripples of heat, she could not make out his features, save for a dark bar of brows, eyes —
He strode from the conflagration — untouched. How was that credible? All around him, the cascading flames — sparks swirling through his hair, the wild wing of the cloak brushing against a crumbling mass of brickwork and fire. Was he wearing some extreme protective clothing? He did not look like either a firefighter or a medic. Down the charred tumble of the steps he walked, with unlikely ease, into the street.
Without a backward glance, he strode away.
“That man,” said Avly.
The woman beside her remarked, “Yes, I thought I saw somebody too — a survivor, perhaps. I couldn’t be sure. Where is he now?”
Avly stared. She could no longer see the man who had walked out of the fire. He must have entered the crowd, been lost there among the many other young, tall men with long hair and cloaks.
The woman said to Avly, “An optical illusion, actually, I now think. Have you ever seen a fire before? Illusions can happen. I wasn’t sure, myself, if I really saw anyone.”
Avly was sure that she herself had.
Just then, the last buildings gave way together. A golden bombshell of curdled fire hit the sky, then the black dust started drifting, even finally across the tops of the barriers. Careful of its garments, the crowd began to disperse.
During the night Avly had a recurring dream. It was of the man who had stridden out of the fire. In the dream she had detached herself from the crowd and now walked after him, taking some care not to be seen, and so keeping to the shadows beyond the streetlamps. Always he stalked some eleven or twelve meters ahead of her. Following, pursuing him with stealth and tenacity, Avly experienced a continual frisson of — excitement.
Never, since earliest childhood, had she felt such a thing. She had, probably, forgotten until now, what excitement did feel like. Besides, there was another element, beyond anything childish. It was, she realized on waking, both romantic and sexual.
What was happening? Really she did not mind what it was. It had been — quite amazing. Was it still? Yes. She tried, accordingly, to return into sleep in order to undergo the pursuit, and the emotion it entailed. But now sleep eluded her.
She spent all day, as usual, in the most unimportant, superficial activities. Lying down at midnight, which was very early for her, she waited, tingling at the chance of dreams. But that night, she dreamed of nothing. Nothing at all.
Avly was in a store that was hung with crystals, strolling about with two acquaintances. A fountain played unwetly over all. Avly was not bored.
The moment she had left her apartment, she had begun to look out for him, the man from the fire. It was ridiculous; really made her inwardly laugh — something too that recently had seldom occurred. How could she ever hope to locate one man, unnamed, unknown, amid the teeming sprawl of Dophan? All she could assume was that he was fully rich, even though he had stepped from the fire in rundown Velvet Street. His clothes, his hair, his demeanor had conveyed complete assurance and security — therefore wealth. Avly had not lived among them for twenty years without coming to recognize her own clan. Although, if anything, the stranger was more princely than any man of Avly’s class she had met, more arrogant.
A doll of the store, in the form of a tawny lion-beast, trotted over and presented the tray of perfumes, wines, and stimulants resting on its back.
Each woman plucked something up. The air filled with scent and bubbles.
But Avly’s eyes slid to the edges of all the rooms, trying to find the man. After the three women had been right through the ten storeys of the store, and she had looked everywhere in it — “But, Avly, whatever are you looking for?” — unanswered — she was eager to go back outside. Once there, she quickly sloughed her companions and began to patrol the boulevards alone. It was mid-afternoon, the sunlight brilliant and The Arch rainbowing down the most succulent mixed tones of color on pavements and burnished trees. Avly looked everywhere but pavements, trees, and sky.
Nev
ertheless she did not see the man at all. Not even anyone who resembled him. It had been, perhaps, foolish to suppose that he would simply arrive in her vicinity. No, she must take the initiative and mount a proper search.
What did she have to go on? Frankly, only one thing. Which was that, since he was rich, he must live either in the Yellow, Green, or Blue Quarters to the west of the city. Maybe he had been sightseeing in Violet on the night of the fire.
If only she knew something else about him, or better still, possessed something personal of his — for those who could pay, a DNA register was available. But she lacked either kind of clue.
A minute’s intense disappointment flooded Avly. This in turn interested her, however. Was she — was she “In Love”? But she had been in love with many men, a few women too. It had never felt like this — this desperate electric hunger — this excitement and anxiety.
Avly summoned one of the individual public air-cars. As it swooped towards her, a silvery shiver ran up her spine. She swiftly got into the car and ordered it to fly her to the Green Quarter.
Between the glamorous greenstone mansions, Avly wended her way and never saw her quarry. Here and there, in be-glittered bars and stores, she paused to make conversation with groups of her peers. Into each brief chat she inserted leading questions. She had heard, she said, from one of her friends, that an eccentric man from this quarter liked to play the tourist in the rundown areas of the city. But everyone she spoke to looked at her in bewilderment. They had heard of nobody like that. What, anyway, would be the point of visiting such slums? “Oh, during the fire in Violet,” supplied Avly vaguely. “My friend thought she saw him there.”
