The Jump Point

by Anthony James

  She touched the fingers of her right hand to her forehead then lips. She moved her hands cupped, outstretched toward the Flame of Life in the traditional gesture of respect, then turned and moved back down the slope toward the rude dwelling that served as home for both of them. She wrapped her arms about herself and bowed her head slightly as her bare feet padded through the yellowing grass. She kept her eyes fixed upon her feet and the blades springing up beside them as if by doing so she could avoid the inevitability she knew was to come.

  Mahra's eyes took a few moments to adjust as she entered the gloom of the darkened dwelling. She stood waiting as the familiar sparseness took definition, then stepped, almost reluctantly, toward the Old One's doorway.

  He was already old when Mahra was assigned to him; but his frail form belied the strength and power beneath. Others went through tutelage with him before her — several others — and she knew from his reputation when she first went to him that he would be wise in the ways of teaching. Others had told her and she had assumed that they were true. Her assumptions had been right, back then. Now, after the years spent together, it was time to move away from him, to break the bonds of dependence and establish her own self-sufficient life. She just wished that it could happen another way. It was too soon and she didn't want it this way. Taking a breath and biting her lower lip, she entered his room.

  The Old One lay on the narrow bed with his head propped up on thin cushions, just enough to raise his line of sight. His thin frame jutted with angles through the translucency of pale skin making him seemed roughly hewn from pale stone or shell. There was no movement, and for a moment Mahra's heart caught, a deep cold chasm opening in the pit of her stomach. No, it could not be; she had waited too long. She started to feel waves of despair sweep down on her but then she sensed something. His eyelids flickered, trembling, then slowly, slowly they rose. After a moment's pause, his ice-blue eyes. slightly clouded now, tracked wearily across the room to where she stood, framed in the doorway. His chest rose with a long hesitant breath, faltering as he held it for the briefest instant before speaking.

  "Come. Come closer, my child. I have waited for you. Almost too long I fear," His voice carried only traces of the strength she had known.

  She moved up to the bedside with dragging steps, her head slightly bowed. But why should it be so? How could she be reluctant to meet his eyes? Instead, she fixed her attention on the too-pale flesh of the hand that lay outstretched on the covers. She could map the tracery of his veins and the sharp definition of bone and sinew beneath the skin. She watched their interplay as a slight tremor ran through the fingers, giving the lie to their marble look. He had always been thin, but he was even thinner now, as if his body has consumed its own flesh over these past few weeks, making him disappear from the inside. There were hollows around more than just the sunken cheeks and eyes. It hurt her to see him like this.

  "Look at me, child. Do not avoid me. Look me in the face, at my eyes. I'm still the same person. Lift your head, girl," he said quietly, in almost a whisper. Traces of the old authority were still there, but tired, so tired.

  Reluctantly Mahra raised her head, looking slowly up across his robe to the familiar yet unfamiliar face. His eyes watched beneath hooded lids within his hawk-like face and they seemed even more accentuated by the wasting. Deep hollows marked the sharpness of his bones and made the face looked harder, sterner. They were the same eyes that have watched her over the years. Watched her play and watched her grow, but somehow no, they were truly different.

  As she watched, his eyelids drifted shut again and his laboured breathing caught, hesitated, then started. For a moment, she thought he might have drifted into sleep, but then his eyes fluttered open and he drew in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, then exhaled with a shudder.

  "My time is close, Mahra. It is very close. When it comes, do not have fear. Do not mourn, for there are things you have to do. I am only sad that it has come so soon — sooner than I had hoped. I wanted to be sure that you had already left to make your own path, but it is not to be. Soon you will be on your own. I have no fear for you in that regard. You are capable, an able student, but you should be careful. You are still young, and there are things afoot that you could not possibly imagine.” There was a pause then. “Ah, Mahra, I only wish I could have been here to see you through these times to come." He sighed and coughed, then slowly shook his head.

  She didn't really understand all he was telling her. She wanted to ask him to explain but couldn't. Too much emotion threatened to well up inside her. Hesitantly, she reached forward to touch his hand lying on the covers before her. She stroked the cool flesh, biting her lip, and trying to control the feelings that worked inside her. She didn't know what to say. She didn’t know what to do. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, to ask him, to demand of him.

  As she stood in confusion, he suddenly returned her touch, catching her hand in his and squeezing it as if to reassure.

  "You know I love you, Mahra. Always know that. Though I should not say so, you above all others .... I have been hard with you at times, but that has always been to make you strong. It was for you, not against you — to help you grow. Forgive me that. You are special, child. You are strong. But are you strong enough? That I don't know." He paused before continuing. "You will need all of that strength and more in the times to come. For a time, you should stay here, succeed me in the work, take my place. But then ... ah, who can say what will come? Until then, you will know what you have to do ..."

  His voice faded as he appeared to ponder what was ahead, then his attention wandered back, and he fixed her with his gaze.

  "In the chest at the foot of the bed there, you will find some things. You will need them. Also, there, for you, a gift. Take it and use it well, Mahra. Think of me when you do."

  She moved toward the chest but he gripped her hand more strongly, holding her in her place.

  "No, not now ... after ... the time. I only hope I have shown you enough." He frowned and gave a slight shake of his head. "The time is too short. Would that there were more. Enough to tell you all the things you need to know, for I fear you will know them whether I tell them or not. I'm too tired. I can do no more.” He went quiet for a few moments, then spoke in a low voice. “Leave me now, child. Let me rest awhile."

  "I love you, old man," Mahra murmured, feeling a patch of warm moisture trailing down her cheek.

  "I love you too, child," he replies softly. "Now go."

  She bowed her head in the gesture of respect and turned to make her way to the door. She barely heard the words he says.

  "Farewell, Mahra my child, and may you go well."

  Conceding to his wishes, she left the house. She walked out with heavy steps to the gentle, grass-covered hills rising away from the rear of their dwelling. Finding a spot at the top of a rise, she sat cross-legged, facing the mountains beyond. Deliberately, she placed herself with her back facing the place where she and the Old One had lived. She sat for several minutes, battling with herself until she could bear it no more and she gave way to the emotions welling within. The tears coursed down her face in silence, rolling one after the other to fall in the grass before her, as she gently rocked back and forth. For each of those tears, there was a memory.

  After a time, she could weep no more. She stared off into the distance, focusing on nothing, face stained and eyes reddened, oblivious to the wind that whipped the strands of hair about her head.

  Suddenly, she felt a deep wrench and she gasped. The pressure rose and something, something pulled with a feeling like thin strands were being torn from her mind. The threads wove and unwove, pulling more and more, feeling as if something was wresting at the very substance of her brain. The wind suspended the hair about her face, echoing the feeling in her mind. The pressure intensified then eased, then pulled afresh, stronger now, then weaker. It worked deeply at the fibres of her being. She threw back her head and tried to bring the strangeness under control. Her bre
ath came in short gasps and her throat started to feel as if it was being constricted. Once more the sensation intensified and grew tighter, more tense, as if invisible strands were being stretched to their limit. Desperately, she sought the still place, reaching for calm, struggling against the pressure.

  Then, abruptly, there was nothing. It was as if the strands had ripped free. Mahra felt a great emptiness wash down upon her. She seemed to hear the Old One's voice, far away.

  "Farewell, Mahra my child. Fare you well."

  She knew then with certainty what had happened, and a deep sense of loss flooded through her. The Old One was gone. For the first time in her young life, Mahra was truly and completely alone.

  She realised then, that she was unaware of the complexity and level of the bond between herself and the old man. The intricate mapping of their brains and their continued proximity, day after day had forged something far more than a mere relationship. Suddenly, the loss ached within her anew. She stumbled to her feet, turning around and around, searching with blank eyes for something to fill that hollow within. There was nothing to be found — nothing to make her whole again. What she had discovered, was already gone.

  ֍

  For the rest of the day and some of the night, she wandered aimlessly. She did not see where she walked, nor did she care. It was not until the early hours of the morning that she retraced her steps and found herself back at their dwelling. No, no longer the place they shared — no longer their dwelling; now it was hers alone.

  She staggered inside and, brushing against walls, dragged herself numbly into the Old One's room. She swayed slightly, listening to the silence, and watching the motionless form that lay upon the bed. After a time of standing there, she moved to the side and slipping to her knees, rested her head beside him. She watched his immobile face for a time, unmoving, and then, tentatively, reached up and traced the coldness of his skin. There were no more tears. There was nothing more to do. Eventually, she drifted into sleep, oblivious to the discomfort of how she sat, or the body that lay beside her.

  Mahra ached when she finally awoke. There was pain in her legs and in her neck. For a moment, she was confused, but then the realisation of where she was and how she came to be there found her, and the grief and the emptiness washed over her anew. Again, she wept, looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar face. She could see he was no longer there, that he was gone, but more importantly she could feel it. It was as if there are vast spaces inside her, empty and bare of life. Wiping her eyes and trying to marshal some self-control, she pushed herself to her feet and leaning forward, pressed her lips to his forehead.

  She knew what she had to do now. The traditions were there for her to follow and the Old One had taught her well. She could call for assistance, but these last remaining things that she could do for him, she would do, alone. She would be his final witness; Mahra alone would put him to his final rest.

  It took her the remainder of the day to do what was required. She was strong and fit, but it took all her energy and determination to move the body, to transport it to the hills and to lay him to rest in the specially prepared barrow within the hillside. He came into the world with nothing and he would leave in the same way, clad only in his simple homespun robe. She placed him there with care and respect, having struggled to move him into place, and she murmured apologies for the rough handling necessitated by her lack of strength. It was only his empty shell, she knew, but his memory demanded her respect. This was her farewell to the one who had shaped what she was.

  All that night she remained on the hillside and maintained vigil. Only with the first touch of dawn's light did she allow herself to sleep.

  ֍

  The chest at the end of his bed, her bed now, awaited when she returned. Mahra didn't know what was inside, and she was afraid she didn't really want to know. She forced her fears away and hesitantly, with some trepidation, pushed back the lid to investigate the contents. There was his comp of course. She'd use it soon to inform the rest of The Cradle of the Old One's passing. There was time enough for that later. There was also a sheaf of notes, mainly written to himself. Flicking through them, she noted the occasional reference to herself, comments on her progress, about the stages of her training and other things of less significance — all in that familiar spidery hand. She only skimmed them. Although she was curious, she was reluctant to delve into what must have been his private observations and thoughts.

  Samples of various plants and fungi sat in the bottom beneath the notes in clear bags with annotated tags and she pushed them aside. In the midst of the pile lay a plain, cloth-wrapped bundle. Gingerly she lifted it clear. It was heavier than she expected, and she lay it carefully on the bed, not wanting to drop it lest there was something fragile inside, though by its weight she doubted it. She stared at it for some moments trying to determine what it might contain. She shook her head and, pressing her lips tightly together, leaned forward to unwrap it.

  Fold by fold, the cloth came away like the petals of a flower opening to its heart. The fine cloth was smooth, unlike any of the homespun materials she was familiar with. Inside, finally revealed, lay a bundle of leather straps. Mahra frowned slightly, confused, not knowing what it was before her. What use could the Old One possibly have seen for her in this?

  One by one, she unravelled the straps to reveal what lay nestled in the protective web. Inside the hide cocoon was a finely tooled leather sheath, holding within it a blade — and what a blade. The handle was worked to a design subtly matching the contours of the hand. The mouldings were a little large for her still young fingers and palm, but she gripped it as best she could and slid the weapon free. The metal blade itself, if indeed it was metal, was like none she'd ever seen. It trapped the light, matte black and without shine.

  This had to have been the Old One's personal blade, his mark of attainment, yet she had never seen him use any but her own during training. He had had the skills, but this — she could sense it was special.

  Drawing out the gesture, deep in symbolism, she touched the flat blade to her forehead and mouthed silent thanks for so precious a gift. She'd keep it bound and wrapped to protect it from sight and only bring it out for practice sessions until she became accustomed to its weight and feel. Only then would she wear it, and she'd wear it with pride.

  With this thought, she returned the dull black length to its sheath, wound the straps about it as she had found it, then carefully folded the cloth, corner by corner, forming a neat package. Tomorrow she'd return to the hills to the Old One and leave her own blade there beside him. A gift for a gift as was proper. She'd take one of the spares as her own until she was worthy of the new one.

  Mahra reached into the chest and retrieved the comp. Now she had other duties to perform. She had to inform the other residents of what had transpired. There would be mourning, but she knew, as was proper, it would be mourning in silence. She keyed the sequence to access the network and invoked the bulletin area. There was nothing new there, nothing she had not seen. Taking care to enter the key strokes correctly she tapped out the message.

  Marisian has passed. Mahra Kaitan takes his place. End.

  The brief note would gradually filter through the rest of the community as individuals accessed their comps, one by one. They would note the passing and then move on with their lives. There was nothing special to be found in death.

  Chapter Six

  Mahra smiled to herself as she walked toward the battle pod. Who would have thought it? Here she was, surrounded by tech and for once actually enjoying it. Her early anti-tech training on The Cradle will have steered her right away from it. Aleyin would have been proud.

  Chutzpah loved the battle pod and chattered excitedly as she headed up the corridor. Mahra was not quite sure what the attraction was. She supposed it was a combination of flashing displays and the feeling of boundlessness the pod provided. His natural habitat was, after all, one of open spaces.

  She had taken to using the pod wheneve
r she found the opportunity, and not merely as a courtesy to her small companion. It gave her much needed practice and also kept her out of Sind's way, for, despite Timon Pellis's assurances, the little man's demeanour had not improved. Whenever they ran into each other, something hard to avoid on a ship this size, his manner was unremittingly surly. He might be good at what he did, but as far as she was concerned, that didn't give him the right to treat her like a piece of hull scraping. Life in the cramped quarters on board a ship the size of The Dark Falcon was hard enough. So, she had found her own solution to the problem and taken to avoiding him wherever possible.

  After one or another of their scattered encounters, she had tried to analyse the hostility. Sind and Pellis had been together for a few years now; that much as clear. She supposed she was merely an intrusion for Sind. Mahra was merely a short-hop sign on — a mercenary who suited their needs at the time. In that way, she supposed she could understand his lack of time for her.

  Pellis himself had been charming throughout the few weeks she had been aboard The Dark Falcon, playful advances aside. She could think of worse places to be. She pulled her weight aboard ship and he gave her recognition for that. True, all their engagements until now had been relatively trouble free and there hadn't been the opportunity for Pellis to see her full range of skills. But with some of their scheduled ports, she was sure it wouldn't be long before such a chance arose.