“You can—you could have—” I said, “—if we had trained our youth as we should have.”
“Maybe I’ll learn,” said Lytha, her eyes intent on the feather. She sighed deeply and dissolved the feather into a faint puff of blue smoke. “Maybe I’ll learn.” And I knew her mind was not on metal-melting.
She turned away and then back again. “Gramma, The Love—” She stopped. I could feel her groping for words. “The Love is forever, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Love This-side is part of The Love, isn’t it?”
“A candle lighted from the sun,” I said.
“But the candle will go out!” she cried. “Oh, Gramma! The candle will go out in the winds of the Crossing!” She turned her face from me and whispered, “Especially if it never quite got lighted.”
“There are other candles,” I murmured, knowing how like a lie it must sound to her.
“But never the same!” She snatched herself away from my side. “It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair!” and she streaked away across the frost-scorched meadow.
And as she left, I caught a delightful, laughing picture of two youngsters racing across a little lake, reeling and spinning as the waves under their feet lifted and swirled, wrapping white lace around their slender brown ankles. Everything was blue and silver and laughter and fun. I was caught up in the wonder and pleasure until I suddenly realized that it wasn’t my memory at all. Thann and I had another little lake we loved more. I had seen someone else’s Happy Place that would dissolve like mine with the Home. Poor Lytha.
The crooked sun was melting the latest snow the day all of us Old Ones met beside the towering shells of the ships. Each Old One was wrapped against the chilly wind. No personal shields today. The need for power was greater for the task ahead than for comfort. Above us, the huge bright curved squares of metal, clasped each to each with the old joinings, composed the shining length of each ship. Almost I could have cried to see the scarred earth beneath them—the trampledness that would never green again, the scars that would never heal. I blinked up the brightness of the nearest ship, up to the milky sky, and blinked away from its strangeness.
“The time is short,” said the Oldest. “A week.”
“A week.” The sigh went through the Group.
“Tonight the ship loads must be decided upon. Tomorrow the inside machines must be finished. The next day, the fuel.” The Oldest shivered and wrapped himself in his scarlet mantle. “The fuel that we put so completely out of our minds after the Peace. Its potential for evil was more than its service to us. But it is there. It is still there.” He shivered again and turned to me.
“Tell us again,” he said. “We must complete the shells.” And I told them again, without words, only with the shaping of thought to thought. Then the company of Old Ones lifted slowly above the first ship, clasping hands in a circle like a group of dancing children and, leaning forward into the circle, thought the thought I had shaped for them.
For a long time there was only the thin fluting of the cold wind past the point of the ship and then the whole shell of metal quivered and dulled and became fluid. For the span of three heartbeats it remained so and then it hardened again, complete, smooth, seamless, one cohesive whole from tip to base, broken only by the round ports at intervals along its length.
In succession the other five ships were made whole, but the intervals between the ships grew longer and grayer as the strength drained from us, and, before we were finished, the sun had gone behind a cloud and we were all shadows leaning above shadows, fluttering like shadows.
The weakness caught me as we finished the last one. David received me as I drifted down, helpless, and folded on myself. He laid me on the brittle grass and sat panting beside me, his head drooping. I lay as though I had become fluid and knew that something more than the fatigue of the task we had just finished had drained me. “But I have to be strong!” I said desperately, knowing weakness had no destiny among the stars. I stared up at the gray sky while a tear drew a cold finger from the corner of my eye to my ear.
“We’re just not used to using the Power,” said David softly.
“I know, I know,” I said, knowing that he did not know. I dosed my eyes and felt the whisper of falling snow upon my face, each palm-sized flake melting into a tear.
Lytha stared from me to David, her eyes wide and incredulous. “But you knew, Father! I told you! I told you Gathering Night!”
“I’m sorry, Lytha,” said David. “There was no other way to do it. Ships fell by lot and Timmy’s family and ours will be in different ships.”
“Then let me go to his ship or let him come to mine!” she cried, her cheeks flushing and paling.
“Families must remain together,” I said, my heart breaking for her. “Each ship leaves the Home with the assumption that it is alone. If you went in the other ship, we might never all be together again.”
“But Timmy and I—we might someday be a family! We might—” Lytha’s voice broke. She pressed the backs of her hands against her cheeks and paused. Then she went on quietly. “I would go with Timmy, even so.”
’Chell and David exchanged distressed glances. “There’s not room for even one of you to change your place. The loads are computed, the arrangements finished,” I said, feeling as though I were slapping Lytha.
“And besides,” said ’Chell, taking Lytha’s hands, “it isn’t as though you and Timmy were loves. You have only started two-ing. Oh, Lytha, it was such a short time ago that you had your Happy Day. Don’t rush so into growing up!”
“And if I told you Timmy is my love?” cried Lytha.
“Can you tell us so in truth, Lytha?” said ’Chell, “and say that Timmy feels that you are his love?”
Lytha’s eyes dropped. “Not for sure,” she whispered. “But in time—” She threw back her head impetuously, light swirling across her dark hair. “It isn’t fair! We haven’t had time!” she cried. “Why did all this have to happen now? Why not later? Or sooner?” she faltered, “before we started two-ing! If we have to part now, we might never know—or live our lives without a love because he is really—I am—” She turned and ran from the room, her face hidden.
I sighed and eased myself up from the chair. “I’m old, David,” I said. “I ache with age. Things like this weary me beyond any resting.”
It was something after midnight the next night that I felt Neil call to me. The urgency of his call hurried me into my robe and out of the door, quietly, not to rouse the house.
“Eva-lee.” His greeting hands on my shoulders were cold through my robe, and the unfamiliar chilly wind whipped my hems around my bare ankles. “Is Lytha home?”
“Lytha?” The unexpectedness of the question snatched the last web of sleepiness out of my mind. “Of course. Why?”
“I don’t think she is,” said Neil. “Timmy’s gone with all our camping gear and I think she’s gone with him.”
My mind flashed back into the house, Questing. Before my hurried feet could get there, I knew Lytha was gone. But I had to touch the undented pillow and lift the smooth spread before I could convince myself. Back in the garden that flickered black and gold as swollen clouds raced across the distorted full moon, Neil and I exchanged concerned looks.
“Where could they have gone?” he asked. “Poor kids. I’ve already Quested the whole neighborhood and I sent Rosh up to the hillplace to get something—he thought. He brought it back but said nothing about the kids.”
I could see the tightening of the muscles in his jaws as he tilted his chin in the old familiar way, peering at me in the moonlight.
“Did Timmy say anything to you about—about anything?” I stumbled.
“Nothing—the only thing that could remotely—well, you know both of them were upset about being in different ships and Timmy—well, he got all worked up and said he didn’t believe anything was going to happen to the Home, that it was only a late spring and he thought we were silly to go rushing off
into Space—”
“Lytha’s words Timmyized,” I said. “We’ve got to find them.”
“Carla’s frantic.” Neil shuffled his feet and put his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders as the wind freshened. “If only we had some idea. If we don’t find them tonight we’ll have to alert the Group tomorrow. Timmy’d never live down the humiliation—”
“I know—‘Touch a teener—touch a tender spot,’ ” I quoted absently, my mind chewing on something long forgotten or hardly noticed.
“Clearance,” I murmured. And Neil closed his mouth on whatever he was going to say as I waited patiently for the vague drifting and isolated flashes in my mind to reproduce the thought I sought.
—Like white lace around their bare brown ankles—
“I have it,” I said. “At least I have an idea. Go tell Carla I’ve gone for them. Tell her not to worry.”
“Blessings,” said Neil, his hands quick and heavy on my shoulders. “You and Thann have always been our cloak against the wind, our hand up the hill—” And he was gone toward Tangle-meadows and Carla.
You and Thann—you and Thann. I was lifting through the darkness, my personal shield activated against the acceleration of my going. Even Neil forgets sometimes that Thann is gone on ahead, I thought, my heart lifting to the memory of Thann’s aliveness. And suddenly the night was full of Thann—of Thann and me—laughing in the skies, climbing the hills, dreaming in the moonlight. Four-ing with Carla and Neil. Two-ing after Gathering Day. The bittersweet memories came so fast that I almost crashed into the piney sighings of a hillside. I lifted above it barely in time. One treetop drew its uppermost twig across the curling of the bare sole of my foot.
Maybe Timmy’s right! I thought suddenly. Maybe Simon and the Oldest are all wrong. How can I possibly leave the Home with Thann still here—waiting. Then I shook myself, quite literally, somersaulting briskly in mid-air. Foolish thoughts, trying to cram Thann back into the limitations of an existence he had outgrown!
I slanted down into the cup of the hills toward the tiny lake I had recognized from Lytha’s thought. This troubled night it had no glitter or gleam. Its waves were much too turbulent for walking or dancing or even for daring. I landed on a pale strip of sand at its edge and shivered as a wave dissolved the sand under my feet into a shaken quiver and then withdrew to let it solidify again.
“Lytha!” I called softly, Questing ahead of my words. “Lytha!” There was no response in the wind-filled darkness. I lifted to the next pale crescent of sand, feeling like a driven cloud myself. “Lytha! Lytha!” Calling on the family band so it would be perceptible to her alone and Timmy wouldn’t have to know until she told him. “Lytha!”
“Gramma!” Astonishment had squeezed out the answer. “Gramma!” The indignation was twice as heavy to make up for the first involuntary response.
“May I come to you?” I asked, taking refuge from my own emotion in ritual questions that would leave Lytha at least the shreds of her pride. There was no immediate reply. “May I come to you?” I repeated.
“You may come.” Her thoughts were remote and cold as she guided me in to the curve of hillside and beach.
She and Timmy were snug and secure and very unhappily restless in the small camp cubicle. They had even found some Glowers somewhere. Most of them had died of the lack of summer, but this small duster dung with their fragile-looking legs to the roof of the cubicle and shed a warm golden light over the small area. My heart contracted with pity and my eyes stung a little as I saw how like a child’s playhouse they had set up the cubicle, complete with the two sleeping mats carefully the cubicle’s small width apart with a curtain hiding them from each other.
They had risen ceremoniously as I entered, their faces carefully respectful to an Old One—no Gramma-look in the face of either. I folded up on the floor and they sat again, their hands clasping each other for comfort.
“There is scarcely time left for an outing,” I said casually, holding up one finger to the Glowers. One loosed itself and glided down to clasp its wiry feet around my finger. Its glowing paled and flared and hid any of our betraying expressions. Under my idle talk I could feel the cry of the two youngsters—wanting some way in honor to get out of this impasse. Could I find the way or would they stubbornly have to—
“We have our lives before us.” Timmy’s voice was carefully expressionless.
“A brief span if it’s to be on the Home,” I said. “We must be out before the week ends.”
“We do not choose to believe that.” Lytha’s voice trembled a little.
“I respect your belief,” I said formally, “but fear you have insufficient evidence to support it.”
“Even so,” her voice was just short of a sob. “Even so, however short, we will have it together—”
“Yes, without your mothers or fathers or any of us,” I said placidly. “And then finally, soon, without the Home. Still it has its points. It isn’t given to everyone to be—in—at the death of a world. It’s a shame that you’ll have no one to tell it to. That’s the best part of anything, you know, telling it—sharing it.”
Lytha’s face crumpled and she turned it away from me.
“And if the Home doesn’t die,” I went on, “that will truly be a joke on us. We won’t even get to laugh about it because we won’t be able to come back, being so many days gone, not knowing. So you will have the whole Home to yourself. Just think! A whole Home! A new world to begin all over again—alone—” I saw the two kids’ hands convulse together and Timmy’s throat worked painfully. So did mine. I knew the aching of having to start a new world over—alone. After Thann was Called. “But such space! An emptiness from horizon to horizon—from pole to pole—for you two! Nobody else anywhere—anywhere. If the Home doesn’t die—”
Lytha’s slender shoulders were shaking now, and they both turned their so-young faces to me. I nearly staggered under the avalanche of their crying out—all without a word. They poured out all their longing and uncertainty and protest and rebellion. Only the young could build up such a burden and have the strength to bear it. Finally Timmy came to words.
“We only want a chance. Is that too much to ask? Why should this happen, now, to us?”
“Who are we,” I asked sternly, “to presume to ask why of the Power? For all our lives we have been taking happiness and comfort and delight and never asking why, but now that sorrow and separation, pain and discomfort are coming to us from the same Power, we are crying why. We have taken unthinkingly all that has been given to us unasked, but now that we must take sorrow for a while, you want to refuse to take, like silly babies whose milk is cold!”
I caught a wave of desolation and lostness from the two and hurried on. “But don’t think the Power has forgotten you. You are as completely enwrapped now as you ever were. Can’t you trust your love—or your possible love—to the Power that suggested love to you in the first place? I promise you, I promise you, that no matter where you go, together or apart if the Power leaves you life, you will find love. And even if it turns out that you do not find it together, you’ll never forget these first magical steps you have taken together towards your own true loves.”
I let laughter into my voice. “Things change! Remember, Lytha, it wasn’t so long ago that Timmy was a—if you’ll pardon the expression—‘gangle-legged, clumsy poodah that I’d rather be caught dead than ganging with, let alone two-ing.’ ”
“And he was, too!” Lytha’s voice had a hiccough in it, but a half smile, too.
“You were no vision of delight, yourself,” said Timmy. “I never saw such stringy hair—”
“I was supposed to look like that—”
Their wrangling was a breath of fresh air after the unnatural, uncomfortable emotional binge they had been on.
“It’s quite possible that you two might change—” I stopped abruptly. “Wait!” I said. “Listen!”
“To what?” Lytha’s face was puzzled. How could I tell her I heard Simon crying
“Gramma! Gramma!” Simon at home, in bed miles and miles—
“Out, quick!” I scrambled up from the floor. “Oh, hurry!” Panic was welling up inside me. The two snatched up their small personal bundles as I pushed them, bewildered and protesting, ahead of me out into the inky blackness of the violent night. For a long terrified moment I stood peering up into the darkness, trying to interpret! Then I screamed, “Lift! Lift!” and, snatching at them both, I launched us upward, away from the edge of the lake. The clouds snatched back from the moon and its light poured down onto the convulsed lake. There was a crack like the loudest of thunder—a grinding, twisting sound—the roar and surge of mighty waters, and the lake bed below us broke cleanly from one hill to another, pulling itself apart and tilting to pour all its moon-bright waters down into the darkness of the gigantic split in the earth. And the moon was glittering only on the shining mud left behind in the lake bottom. With a frantic speed that seemed so slow I enveloped the children and shot with them as far up and away as I could before the earsplitting roar of returning steam threw us even farther. We reeled drunkenly away, and away, until we stumbled across the top of a hill. We clung to each other in terror as the mighty plume of steam rose and rose and split the clouds and still rose, rolling white and awesome. Then, as casually as a shutting door, the lake bed tilted back and closed itself. In the silence that followed, I fancied I could hear the hot rain beginning to fall to fill the emptiness of the lake again, a pool of rain no larger than my hand in a lake bottom.
“Oh, poor Home,” whispered Lytha, “poor hurting Home! It’s dying!” And then, on the family band, Lytha whispered to me, Timmy’s my love, for sure, Gramma, and I am his, but we’re willing to let the Power hold our love for us, until your promise is kept.
I gathered the two to me and I guess we all wept a little, but we had no words to exchange, no platitudes, only the promise, the acquiescence, the trust—and the sorrow.
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