The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  The message ended without any sign-off. Car-En advanced to the next.

  “Why are you still offline?” Adrian sounded irritated, perhaps even a little hurt. “I’d like to discuss my hypothesis with you. Also, I heard back from Academic Conduct. Contact me as soon as you can.”

  Car-En emerged from the cave. It was the middle of the night; light from the three-quarters moon filtered through the canopy. It was enough to see by, so she switched off the torch. She found a flat spot and unpacked her tent, instructing it to assemble and mask. Shivering, she crawled in, pulling her rifle and pack in next to her. “Standard night security,” she muttered to the swarm, rummaging in her pack for a nutrient bar. Only five left. Tomorrow she would hunt and gather, and learn whatever she needed to learn to make herself a decent meal in the wild. She unwrapped the bar and bit off a dry chunk. Even with frequent sips of water it was hard to swallow. Despite her underweight condition, she had no appetite. After choking down a few bites, she called Adrian. He answered immediately.

  “Where have you been?” he snapped.

  “Exploring a cave. I found the remains of a Survivalist camp. They built a reactor. It must be the source of the radiation pollution. Of the water supply. Happdal’s.” She was having trouble putting a clear sentence together. She needed to sleep.

  “Hmm. Interesting. But you can’t go offline for that long. I was worried.”

  Touching. She was touched. She wondered if it was true, that he had worried.

  “I spoke with Academic Conduct. They’ve issued an official warning, but you’re free to continue your research. For now.” The same neutral tone. Was he happy for her or not? And how did she feel? There would be no comfortable bed, no wine, no Lydia.

  “Good,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’m really tired. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

  “Fine,” he said, and disconnected.

  Her hip ached. After some tossing and turning, she discovered that if she lay on her right side, with her left knee pulled slightly up, the pain was bearable. As she drifted off to sleep, a plan formed in her mind. It made her laugh. What if she actually did it? It was the right thing to do. She was a good person, and good people did the right thing.

  Chapter Eight

  The path looked vaguely familiar. After a hundred paces, Katja remembered its name; she was on the Silver Trail. The Nyr Begna was to her right – she was heading west, the same direction as the water. She’d once walked to the end of the Silver Trail to explore the ancient castle ruins. Her brothers had told her about the place but never let her tag along on their adventures. So she went alone. She had seen giants, and told them, but they had laughed at her.

  Her throat hurt, as did her shoulder. She had a headache. Everything ached. Why was she here? She considered stopping, even turning around. “Keep going,” said a voice in her head. A familiar voice, though not her own.

  She had been eating a piece of meat at Bjorn’s Burning. She had won a fight, besting Lars. With a stick! She laughed aloud. It had been night, now it was high noon. Where had the time gone? Why was she walking west on the Silver Trail? As she contemplated these questions, her vision dimmed and narrowed. She could still hear the river to her right. Also the distant hammering of a woodpecker. Was she still walking? She could no longer feel her legs.

  Katja looked up at the stars. She lay on the damp forest floor, no blanket to cover her, yet she felt warm. Heat radiated from her core to her extremities, all the way to her toes and fingertips. Her entire body itched, but it was a deep itch, beneath her skin, that she could not scratch. Her headache had subsided, as had the pain in her shoulder. Her throat still hurt, but overall she felt better. Warm, and tingling with energy.

  Why was she lying on the ground in the middle of the night? Did it matter? Who was she to question? She felt alive and strong. Nothing would ever hurt her again. It occurred to her that she would never die.

  She relaxed and took in the beauty of the clear night sky. There were so many stars, and a few rings as well. The stars moved, as did some of the rings, but a few of the southern rings held their position through the night. What were they? “People live there. Tens of thousands of them,” said a voice in her head. It was a different voice than before. What a ridiculous thought. She drifted off.

  She awoke to bright sunlight shining through her eyelids, coloring the membranes a deep orange. She sat up, squinting. She was seated in a strange reclining chair, fabric stretched over a flimsy frame. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a broad wooden deck beneath her, and an artificial rectangular pool just ahead. Her hardened-leather armor and dirk had been taken. In their place she wore a white linen gown. It was full-length, and comfortable, but the material was light and thin – she felt exposed. Her feet were bare.

  Katja stood, taking in her surroundings. Past the large pool were several smaller pools, one of them steaming hot. The water gave off a sulfurous smell. Beyond the pools were some squat buildings that vaguely reminded her of Builder ruins.

  A tall man approached, climbing a winding stone trail. The large flagstones were set among neatly landscaped flowers and ferns. He ascended a short flight of wooden stairs and came across the deck, smiling.

  Katja glanced around for a weapon. There was nothing to grab, not even a rock or a stick. Trying not to be too obvious, she shifted her right foot back into a fighting stance, rolling the shoulder that had been bludgeoned by Lars’s sword. She vaguely noticed that the pain was now entirely gone.

  “Relax,” the man said. He was tall and striking, with long, ashen-blond hair and gray-blue eyes. She knew him, but could not say from where. “I am a friend, and family too. You will want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Close enough,” she said, extending a hand in warning. If it came to it, she would defend herself with her fists (the gown not ideal for throwing kicks). “I know my family well, and you are not one of them.”

  “But do you know the faces of your ancestors? Your grandmother, Mette…do you remember your mormor’s face?” He stood, hands on hips, in a confident stance. A flimsy, short-sleeved shirt revealed lean, muscular arms.

  “I remember a wrinkled old crone who was fond of throwing things,” said Katja.

  He laughed. “Yes, that sounds like my Mette. She was my youngest, and fiercest.”

  “Your youngest what?”

  “Daughter. And child. I am Henning, morfar of Elke. I am your mother’s grandfather.”

  Katja frowned. “Your skin is smooth and your back is unbent. You age very well, or you lie poorly.”

  He smiled slyly. “Have you considered that you might be in another world? Asgard, perhaps? A world where you could converse with the gods, and the dead?”

  “Are you dead?” she asked.

  He nodded. “In Midgard, yes. But only recently. And I only know because you arrived. I was the most recent, until today. I felt sad, when I first saw you, because I knew that my body had finally perished. But also happy, because it has been so long since I spoke with someone new. And family, no less!” He seemed genuinely happy to see her.

  “How do you know who I am?” she asked.

  “We have spoken before. When you were walking, before you crossed over.”

  Without taking her eyes off the man, Katja took a few steps toward the edge of the deck. The pool area had been constructed atop a hillock, surrounded by light forest. At the bottom of the slope there were half a dozen small houses, connected by stone trails. Scattered among the trees were flowerbeds, stone statuettes, decorative fountains, and a meandering brook crossed by several arched wooden bridges.

  “Asgard, I think not. Álfheimr, perhaps, the land of the elves.”

  The man laughed. “Yes! This place has needed a name for eons. We shall call it Álfheimr. Will you come with me?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away. Not sure what els
e to do, she followed, ten paces back. He skipped down the stairs and continued down the hillside trail.

  “How do I get back?” she asked. “I need to go home. My family will worry, and they will not rest until they find me. Especially my brothers.”

  “Hmm,” he said, but did not answer her question. Well, she would find her own way back, if necessary. She did not believe she was in another world, and she did not believe this man was her great-grandfather. But for now she would follow him; her curiosity was piqued.

  “There are six of us, including you and Raekae,” said the man over his shoulder. “He was the first, and he controls the host.” The trail narrowed at the bottom of the slope. The air was cooler here, in the shade of the trees. They passed by towering tree ferns and spiky succulents. “Of the remaining four, one is a hermit – she rejects the group entirely. And Raekae visits only rarely. So since I arrived, I’ve had only two others for company.”

  They came to a small, neatly built house, not much more than a hut with windows, with a door painted bright red. Katja tried to peer through the glass as they approached. The interior was dark; all she could see was the edge of a table and a blue ceramic pitcher. The man who called himself Henning knocked on the red door. She heard a muffled “Enter!” from within.

  Inside, as her eyes adjusted, she saw two men seated at the table near the window. One was broad and bearded, perhaps Jense’s age, and similar in appearance to the Happdal smith. Thinking of Jense, she felt a pang of loneliness. The other man was slender, and wore a device on his head, circles of glass suspended in wire. Behind the glass circles his blue eyes appeared unnaturally large. The smaller man stood and extended his hand.

  “Franz Schultz. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She gripped his forearm firmly. He withdrew his arm, wincing. The bearded man laughed.

  “Someday you will learn to make a proper greeting, Franz.” The bigger man stood and gripped her forearm. “My name is Stian. And you are the most beautiful sight I have seen in nearly a century.”

  Katja pulled her arm away. She wished she had more to wear than a flimsy white gown. “Mind your manners, blacksmith,” said Henning. “Respect our new host.”

  “I meant no disrespect,” said Stian, “but what I said is true. I have had only this to look at” – he gestured at Franz, and then at Henning – “and that, for many, many years. The sight of your face makes my heart sing. You may smack me in the head, or poke out my eyes.”

  “No need,” said Katja, “because I will not be staying.”

  Franz, the smaller man, nodded sadly. “That’s what I said too, when I first arrived. I spent years looking for a way out. There was no one to guide me, when I came. The first host had already gone into seclusion. I caught a glimpse of her now and then, like a ghost. After a few years Raekae explained the situation to me. I didn’t believe him at first.”

  “Are you thirsty?” Stian asked. He took a clean glass from a nearby shelf and filled it with water from the blue ceramic pitcher. He offered her the glass, returning her glare with a friendly smile. The big man seemed harmless enough. She took the drink and sipped; the water was cool and sweet.

  “You will find that your body is different here,” said Henning. “You will feel thirst, and hunger, but if you go without water and food, your bodily urges will fade away.” He turned to Stian. “Katja has found a name for our little world. Álfheimr!” Stian laughed uproariously. Franz looked confused.

  “Indeed, this place is magical,” said the big bearded man. “Once I cut off my own finger, to see what would happen. By the next morning it had grown back.”

  Franz offered her a chair and sat back down himself. “Do you have questions for us?”

  “Questions for three crazy men living in a hut? No, I have no questions. This place is your home, not mine.” She planted her bare foot on the chair and shoved it away. “I will take my leave now. Goodbye to you all.” Franz’s eyes widened. Stian grunted.

  Henning stepped aside to let her pass. “We will be here when you return,” he said. “It is the only house with a red door. The house with the yellow door is your own. You will find your belongings there, and clothes that fit you.”

  Katja left the hut, slamming the door behind her. She looked down at her bare feet. It would be nice to have her boots back. She could see several houses from where she stood, but the only visible door was green. She wandered along the stone path, ferns brushing against her gown, and turned left at a fork. She examined herself as she walked, and found herself uninjured. In fact, her body was in a pristine state. There was not a single bruise or scratch or smudge of dirt on her skin. She touched her scalp, seeking out the familiar contours of a scar she had received during a childhood game of catch-the-hatchet with Trond. Her fingers touched only silken hair and smooth skin.

  She saw a hut up ahead – the back wall had a single small window. The path curved around to the front of the tiny house, revealing a small garden: pink and white roses and a miniature tree bearing orange fruit. The front door was painted yellow. She knocked, waited a few seconds, and hearing no response, tried the handle.

  The inside of the hut consisted of a single room. Toward the back, near the window, was a squat black iron stove. A cord of firewood was neatly stacked nearby. On top of the stove was a large covered iron pot, emitting steam and a mouthwatering smell. She lifted the lid and peered inside – a meat and vegetable stew. Who had cooked it?

  A ladder led up to a loft bed. Below that was a finely crafted chest of drawers, where she found her clothes, clean and pressed, and other shirts and trousers that looked as if they would fit her. In the bottom drawer she found her leather boots, cleaned and polished to a high sheen, and her long steel dirk. She tested the edge with a fingertip. Someone had sharpened the steel. It was a mudsteel blade, made and gifted to her by Trond long ago. A little heavy, and not balanced for throwing, but familiar and reliable. Still, she longed for the godsteel sword Jense was making her. That would be a truly fine weapon. She had a name for it ready.

  She dressed, donned her boots, and tucked the dirk into her belt. She found a wooden bowl and spoon on a high shelf and filled the former from the iron pot. She had no idea how far she was from Happdal; she might as well eat while she had the chance. The stew was delicious, filled with tender chunks of lamb, sweet onions, carrots, and forest herbs. She ate a second bowl. After so much food she expected to feel sleepy, but instead she felt alert and refreshed. Perhaps she should explore this place a little longer before heading home. Where was the hermit that Henning had mentioned, and what did she have to say for herself? And who was this Raekae fellow? She already had a good story to share, but there were many unanswered questions. Esper and Trond would give her no end of grief if she told them of this mysterious place but neglected to explore it. Her brothers would mock her, as they had when she fled home, excited and scared, after seeing the giants in the castle ruins.

  Leaving the hut, she stood in the garden for a moment, inhaling the bouquet of the roses. A sweet smell, but she did not trust it. Esper and Trond could come back and explore this place for themselves. It was time to leave, now, to return home before her mother worried herself into an early grave. And before this place seduced her with its easy comforts, or the men took her as a prisoner.

  The sun was high in the sky – early afternoon. She checked the moss on some nearby trees and walked in what she guessed was a northerly direction. She vaguely remembered walking on the Silver Trail, with the river to her right. To the north of the Nyr Begna were steep mountains, but there were no mountains in sight. So she was most likely south of the river. If she could find the Nyr Begna, she could make her way home easily enough.

  She left the landscaped area and continued into the forest. She recognized the gnarled, sprawling oaks, but there were many trees and plants she did not know. Perhaps she was far to the south. In that case she might first reach the Long Lake, o
r the South River. That would be a longer trek home, but she could still find her way. She looked behind her. The huts and gardens were already out of sight. She listened for running water but heard only birds. She had not taken a drink since Stian had offered her water from the pitcher, and there had been no wineskin among the various supplies in the hut with the yellow door. Thirst could become a problem, if she had far to travel. She remembered what Henning had said about hunger and thirst, and wondered if it was true. How could it be? A person could not live for long without water – a few days at most. The stew had been well-salted, and she began to feel thirsty.

  She pressed on, walking for an hour or two. The ground was mostly level, but always the trees blocked her view. There were no towering spruce or thick-trunked beech here, only the broad oaks, and spindly, leafy trees that would not offer a high vantage point. She reviewed her plan to continue north and could find no flaw with it. Soon enough she would reach either the South River, the Long Lake, or the Silver Trail. But where were the mountains? Still walking, she closed her eyes and tried to recall details from before she awoke near the sulfurous pools. She had been heading west on the Silver Trail, with the river on her right. The sound of a woodpecker. Sleeping under the stars. A voice in her head, telling her that thousands of people lived in the shining rings above. A familiar voice, not unkindly. A face came to mind. Big blue eyes behind circles of glass. Franz, the small man in the hut.

  Katja stopped and opened her eyes. There was something ahead, through the trees. She broke into a jog and soon came to a hill, with a structure on top. She scaled the hill quickly and carelessly, sending bits of rock and dirt cascading down behind her.

  She smelled her destination before she saw it. Sulfur. Her heart sank. She clambered onto the wooden deck and regarded the pools with dismay. The long, low chair was still there. Across the deck, Henning sat on the stairs, facing away from her.

  She spat onto the deck. “What trick is this? Is there no escape from this place?” Henning turned and gazed at her, his expression grave. “Well? You had better give me some answers.” She gripped the hilt of her dirk. “I am in no mood for riddles, or tales of Álfheimr.”