by Yoon Ha Lee
I can’t leave Irim here.
Her fingers shook, but by Sirin’s grace, the driver-side seatbelt gave her no trouble. Pelisma gulped down panic and turned away, walking her hands across the dashboard to the passenger door. The latch clicked open easily enough, but the door was jammed. She threw her shoulder into it; on her second attempt, it popped open, and she shoved it outward. Already the smoke had her useless eyes stinging. By the time she got back to Irim, the air tasted thick. Coughing, she worked his nearer leg out of the seat, pulled at his arm and squatted to get him over her shoulders. Grip assured, she put her legs into getting him out. Some part of him was stuck; she heaved until her knees shook.
Sweet Heile, don’t let me break him . . .
At last he came free, and she fell face-first into the passenger’s seat.
She lay, panting and wheezing into the cloth. It was almost better here, but worse disaster was coming, and they might have only seconds. Thank heavens Irim was not a large man. Pelisma lifted him, but couldn’t stand—only managed to flop the two of them out the door into the brush. Bushy vegetation scratched at her face and hands, but the air was breathable. She wriggled out from under Irim and hauled at him again. Won them maybe a foot. Hauled again. A little more.
The fire was now a dreadful wall of heat, crackling and popping as it advanced. Surely it had already ignited whatever vines and leaves were about, possibly also the tree that they had struck. She fought for a better grip under Irim’s shoulders and surged backward, two steps, three, four, then turned her ankle and fell with Irim’s body across her legs.
She lay, chest heaving, limbs throbbing, waiting for death to find them.
All at once, the fire went out.
Wysps. Pelisma held her breath.
It was an eerie inverse of explosions underground. The wall of heat had vanished, as if sucked straight out of the universe. There was no more wild shapeless light; the hissing and popping had stopped. Pelisma put her arms around Irim as best she could. He was the one who had first explained to her the pattern of the survivor tales: having extinguished a wildfire, wysps could grow a hundredfold—not merely identifying anyone close enough to have caused it, but pursuing them mercilessly and punishing them with flame, while leaving the wilderness untouched.
On the surface, wysps ruled absolutely.
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She surrendered, breathing in loud gasps. Maybe she should have been angry to be delivered to the mercy of the wysps just when progress had seemed within reach, but all she could feel was remorse. For Irim—thoughtful, faithful Irim, lying here in her lap about to die because of her own rashness.
A flicker came into her vision. Not just a shift in the trees overhead, because it grew brighter, until her eyes filled with light. Mercy—if she could see the wysps so well, imagine how big they must be! She tensed for the oncoming flames. Remorse swelled beyond measure, flooding her, drowning her.
Oh Irim I’m so so sorry how could I have brought this upon you?
Irim groaned.
“Irim!” She sat convulsively, patting over his head, shoulders, and back as if to fight the wysp-flame—but there was none. “Irim,” she cried. “Irim, are you all right?”
The weight of his head lifted. “Pelism . . . ” It turned into a sigh, and he fell back into her lap. But he wasn’t screaming. There were no flames, and the light in her vision faded again to shadow.
The wysps had spared them. But why?
In the forest, there were no reasons. The ground felt like solid ice, leaching heat through her too-thin clothes. The air was a turbulent ocean of sound, in which she could detect nothing familiar. Pelisma rocked back and forth, stroking Irim’s head. He was unconscious again, but he was warm. He was solid.
She was less so. Remorse, panic, hope and despair shuddered through her in waves.
Help us, o Wanderer, don’t let us die here; bless our path, and show us a way to return!
What if a predator smells our blood?
Elinda, don’t take Irim from me! What will I do without him?
That sound—could it be a vehicle? No, it must have been a bird’s wings . . .
After a thousand such waves, she could scarcely find words in her head to describe the tides overwhelming her reason. The air darkened, and the temperature continued to drop.
We’re going to die . . .
“Irim,” Pelisma called, shaking him. “Irim, please.”
Still, he didn’t answer. She leaned over him, sobbing, until she was too exhausted to continue. Long shuddering breaths didn’t seem enough to pull her fully together.
What had become of her ability to stay rational in the worst of situations? Even facing the cascade and the destruction of her city, she’d been all focus, all action. But she had to face up to the truth. Since the blindness—really, since the wysp problem—she’d been increasingly emotional. Maybe this was age affecting her mind . . .
No, you can’t afford to say that. You’re not dead so long as you can still think.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Yrindonna forest was vast, and not all of its trees were cold. Shinca trees, too, had their crowns here, and those gave off warmth in every season.
Though logic suggested there must be one somewhere nearby, she felt no evidence of heat in the air. Swirling breezes made it impossible to be sure what lay beyond the reach of her hands. That meant she’d have to search, in such a way that she wouldn’t lose Irim. She shifted his weight off her legs, and instantly felt ten times colder.
How can I leave him? What if I can’t find him again? He’ll die! I can’t let Irim die—
Irim moaned.
“Irim!” she cried. “Can you hear me?”
“Pelisma . . . ?”
“Oh, blessing of Heile. We need to move, Irim, or we’ll freeze. Can you move?”
He grunted. “I . . . can try. Where to?”
“Tell me if you can see the light of a shinca crown anywhere near.”
Irim was silent for several seconds. “Yes. I do.”
“But?”
He panted a moment. “You know, we will have been expected in Herketh by now. They’ll have sent back a radiogram and the Firstmost will send searchers to our last registered waymarker . . . ”
“Irim . . . ” She reached for his hand, and found it, sticky with blood. “I’m not sure we have time to wait.”
He made an uncomfortable sound. “Shinca crowns attract wysps. More than you ever see in the city-caverns.”
More chances to roll the same deadly dice. “Irim, the wysps have left us alive so far,” she said. “Maybe—” She took a deep breath. “Maybe we should consider that their mercy.”
That silenced him. Finally he said, “All right.”
On their first attempt to get him up, Pelisma lost her balance and nearly landed on top of him. Picking herself up for a second attempt, she braced herself better; Irim hissed in pain but managed to stand, leaning against her shoulder. They stumbled along for a few feet, but then she turned her bad ankle on a stone and fell to hands and knees, nearly bringing Irim down with her.
Carefully, now. They couldn’t afford a bad fall, or Irim wouldn’t be able to get back up.
“Let’s slow down,” Pelisma said. “Don’t lose your balance trying to guide me; talk me through. Tell me what obstacles you see.”
“All right.”
She reined herself to a creep, testing with her feet as though navigating a limestone tunnel with an uncertain floor. Irim’s instructions were halting, and he often paused for words, but they were a way to navigate the uncertain dark. Slowly, so slowly, light grew around them.
“Almost there,” Irim panted. “There’s a big fallen tree. Let me rest a second; we’ll have to climb over.”
They leaned against it for a moment. Its bark was rough, covered with ticklish moss. When Pelisma regained her breath, she felt her way over it. A wind came rushing through the forest, bringing with it the distinct wickering sound of wings. This time it al
so brought the breath of warmth that promised the presence of a shinca tree.
No sooner had she reached the other side than there was a sharp pain on her left wrist. She slapped her hand to it, and discovered the prickly body of a large insect between her fingers. Other tickles along her skin were suddenly explained; she tried to brush the bugs off, but they clung and bit, forcing her to crush them one by one. Heile’s mercy but they could bite!
Suddenly the sound of wings came at them in a rush.
“Pelisma!” Irim cried. He reached her, seizing her arm just as the flood rushed over them. Bird bodies bumped against her, wings struck, and feathers whipped against her face.
Then they were gone.
“Are you all right?” Irim asked.
“Yes.” In fact, there was a distinct improvement. “I think they’ve eaten those bugs.”
“There are thousands of birds,” Irim said. “They’re all perched up in the shinca’s branches.” The flood of wing-sounds began again, but this time grew quieter, as if the birds had gone off in another direction. “A whole crowd of them just flew away, but more keep coming.”
She could only guess from his tone that they must not look actively dangerous. “Perhaps they need the warmth also,” she said. “If we stay low beside the ground, I hope they will let us be.”
“I hope so, too.”
Nearer the shinca, her eyes filled with formless light. The ground felt softer, flat and springy with something that might have been moss. The green scent of it heightened with every step, and the warmth drew her nearer until she touched the shinca’s glass-smooth trunk. Marvelous, marvelous heat! She set her back against it and sank down onto the moss.
Ahhhh!
For an instant, nothing existed in the world except heat, light, and the life pounding back into her frozen limbs.
“Pelisma!” Irim cried.
She shook herself, and tried to shove the feeling away—but the warmth was too wonderful to ignore. “Irim, are you all right?”
“A wysp,” he stammered. “A wysp—it came so close, and it was so big—it was full of fire!”
“But it’s been hours since our fire . . . ” Could it have been following her all this time? The thought made her shudder.
An explosion of wings burst from the shinca crown above, drawing an invisible arc in the forest air before them. Amidst it came a feral growl, and then a shriek, before the arc completed its circle behind their head.
Pelisma pressed her back harder against the shinca. Now was not the time to lose touch with reality. “Irim, something is hunting the birds.”
“Cave-cat,” Irim muttered. “I can’t see it clearly, but I doubt one bird will satisfy its appetite. We’re not safe here.”
“How can we move? At least here, we have the shinca at our backs.” A cave-cat was definitely fierce enough to overpower one old woman and one half-broken man. The only mercy was that it was tangible. What could anyone do against an intangible predator?
How small we are here! Lost, surrounded by wilderness, cut off from all human help, and that cave-cat could pounce any second—we’ll be erased—
The lonely fear spiked, overwhelming her.
“Get!” Irim snapped. “Get away!”
She shook her head. “What—?”
“Wysp,” said Irim grimly. “Same one I saw before—it’s bigger than my hand. Look, as far as the cave-cat goes, we’ll be all right. The weapon I brought is still in my pocket. But for the wysp I’m not so sure.”
“A weapon?” That turned her stomach. “Irim, that’s dangerous!”
“What choice do I have?”
“Cave-cat or no, an energy-thrower will only make the wysps more deadly.” She cast about for something to give him pause. “What if they’re souls I failed to save in the Trao flood, and they’re following me to take revenge?”
Irim grunted. “I think you’d be dead already.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Still, what if you miss the cat, and set the forest on fire instead? Our miraculous escape from the crash will be for nothing.”
“Groundbreaker—I’m not sure we’ve escaped at all.”
So he sensed it, too. She shivered despite the heat at her back. “Why?”
“That giant wysp is still here. Hovering, like it’s waiting for us to join it.” He grunted in pain. “And see? The cave-cat is back . . . ”
In her mind, the wysp seemed to be Mother Elinda’s herald, announcing her intent to take their spirits into her peace-giving arms. Would she bear them upward to the heavens, or would they remain here to haunt their own city for eternity?
I’m not ready to die!
In defiance of the vision, she asked, “Can you tell me what it looks like?”
“What what looks like? The cat?”
“The wysp.”
“Why do you care what it looks like?!”
He sounded near panic. She reached out and found his arm—unfortunately, not the one with the weapon. “Irim, give me the weapon. Please.”
“I should just shoot now. The cat’s close enough.”
She tightened her grip on his arm. “The wysps will kill you if you miss.”
“Hey, I know!” he cried suddenly. “I’ll shoot the wysp!”
“You’re not serious—”
“I am. It’s big enough to hit, and whatever discharge it creates should also scare the cat away.”
“Don’t.”
“Groundbreaker, you know all about taking risks to defy the odds. When the river came into Pelismara, you stopped it with the most incredible explosion anyone had ever seen! Besides, I’d happily give my life to save yours.”
He must still be concussed, not thinking clearly; if the wysp survived the hit, it might easily kill them both. Will it be fire that destroys me? Or teeth and claws? No, she had to keep her head, not give in to fear . . . . “Irim, please, humor a blind woman. Just tell me what the wysp looks like.”
Irim gave an exasperated sigh. “It looks like—I guess, like a tangled ball of spider-silk set on fire.”
The image blossomed unexpectedly in her head, a gorgeous conspiracy of memory and imagination. “Beautiful,” she murmured, and in an instant the feeling exploded out of her control.
Great heavens, what I would give to see it, really to see this beautiful, warm, miraculous thing!
The weird desire was so strong it brought tears to her eyes, and throbbed within her like ripples nudging against a riverbank. Was her mind finally crumbling?
“No,” Irim cried. “Get away, you!”
The wysp—it was still here. It was so brilliantly clear in her imagination, and the desire so strong, it seemed larger than she was. Let me see it . . . see it . . .
“Irim,” she murmured, “Do you feel anything?”
Irim’s voice tightened. “Pelisma, move away!”
Thinking was becoming difficult; moving, impossible. “No.”
“But it’s too close to you—I can’t shoot it!”
She shook her head. “Irim, don’t try. Don’t worry about me. Protect yourself—you’re young, accomplished, and I’m just an old woman who can’t even see a wysp . . . ”
Let me see it . . . see it . . .
His voice quivered. “But I have to save you. You’re the hero of our city.”
If only she could wrest the weapon from his hand! “Irim,” she pleaded. “I didn’t save Pelismara with dynamite and explosions. I saved it by creating an outlet. By letting the river flow through.”
Let me see it, oh please, let me see it . . .
Wait. Flow through? She could feel her control eroding in the flood. If she just let go, would the surge pass by and become manageable? Or would she lose her sanity forever? She wouldn’t surrender without praying for one last bargain.
O Wanderer, I’m ready to give myself up; only help poor frightened Irim home.
She stopped fighting.
Searing heat stabbed into her head and spread outward in a shock wave of agony. Faint
ly, she heard herself scream.
Everything was lost in light.
Pelisma opened her eyes.
Glory blazed above her. A shinca crown: one perfect crystalline column dividing in two, then in two, then in two again and again, a glowing fractal tree transforming into a cloud of needlepoints against a solid black sky.
I’m dead.
But she could still feel her body. If anything, her blood felt, not cold, but too warm. It hummed, and there was more of it than there should have been, filling her to the brim. Maybe that wasn’t her blood at all.
“Breathe,” Irim’s voice begged. “Don’t leave me, Pelisma, breathe!”
She drew a breath, surprised it had anywhere to enter, with her so full. She couldn’t look away from the perfect clarity of the shinca crown. If she moved, surely this apparition would vanish, shrouded again by the vague shadows of her vision.
She whispered, “Irim . . . ?”
“Thank Heile!” he exclaimed. “When that wysp flew through you, I thought you were dead for sure. But it’s gone now.”
“It . . . ” Her voice sounded normal enough, but words came slowly. “It flowed through?” The pain was gone, and the strange desire too, but a feeling of presence remained. Had that emotional deluge not been her own at all? Had it been the wysp manipulating her?
How delightful!
But it wasn’t, it wasn’t! It shouldn’t be possible to feel anything resembling innocent excitement in such circumstances!
Unless the feeling wasn’t her own.
“Irim, the wysp flowed in,” Pelisma said. “I don’t think it flowed out again. It’s still here.”
“Heile have mercy,” Irim said. “Has the spirit spoken to you?”
“Spoken!” she cried. “It doesn’t speak at all!” Icy panic shot down her nerves, but melted inexplicably before it could reach her fingertips. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to hold someone and apologize. She hugged herself, looked down instinctively—
And saw a glowing golden shape against the black.
Was this her imagination? It couldn’t be sight—but the shape was that of her own body. Her clothes, her fingernails, even the wrinkles on her knuckles, all lay like a tracery of dark lace over a golden glow within. She held her hands up, considering the folds of her palms for the first time in months, hardly daring to blink. If it wasn’t sight, then what was it?
