by Kevin Gordon
by a unique alignment of gravitational forces. Graid could feel his hair moving, his skin grow clammy, his sense of balance shifting as those forces came to bear on him.
Hello.
He looked under his hand, and a few small flowers bloomed in the seclusion of a ravine cut deep in the rockface. A brilliant blue, with flecks of yellow, they held his eye for a moment.
“Amazing, aren’t they?”
He turned, startled. It took a while for him to find the source of the voice. It was a man, reclining nearby.
“Yes, quite. How long have you been here?”
“For a little while. It is a marvelous view, watching the ribbons dance. Is this your first time?”
“Yes.” Graid climbed down a bit, to a wider precipice, and sat down, his legs dangling over the side.
“I remember coming up here as a child,” said the man. In his middle age, his hair grey hair was fleeing his head, leaving a great deserted wasteland above his forehead. He was a tough, sturdy fellow, hardy in appearance, with sun-weathered skin and forearms that were thick with daily toil. “It’s a long walk, from my village to here, but well worth the time. My mother and father would set out while the morning was still dark, laden with food made the roa before. It would be an all roa adventure, making our way up the mountain, washing our hands in the icy coldness of the river, finally to sit on the rim like we are now, and lose oneself in the spectacle.”
“You are fortunate to have grown up with such loving parents,” Graid said wistfully.
“Yes, I suppose so. These roas, children are rare enough, which is a shame. A shame not to show this to more young eyes, to fire their imaginations.”
Graid felt some bitterness well in his soul.
“But being up here is not for talking,” said the man. “If this is your first time, you should sit back. You better prop your feet against something—you wouldn’t want to slide down there!” Graid did as he said, maneuvering around for a while before he found a comfortable, safe position. “That’s better. Now, relax your body. Relax your muscles and skin, relax your very bones,” he said in a low, gravely voice. “Bring the mistress of sleep just in your arms, feel her touch, but not her full embrace. Close your eyes, almost, just so you can see out. Gravity does small miracles here. You’ll find you fall asleep, while your eyes stay open. And the dreams you’ll have, well, they’re nothing short of spectacular.”
Graid did as he said, relaxing his body, letting his eyes draw almost closed. The shapes he saw below, the ribbon folding and dancing, seemed to harmonize with his mind, fall into the same rhythm as his body. They made a noise, a song, as they curled and twisted deep in the valley, their mile-long strands dancing over the unseen ground. Graid forgot about the old man, forgot about Arciss, and Uonil. But a little of what the old man said next stayed in his mind.
“When you’re done, when you’ve had a good long, rest, come visit us. We’re a small, poor village, but you look like you’ve been wandering for long enough, and need a place to call home for a while. Circle around towards me, and follow the rim till it breaks. At the base of the mountain on that side, between the two rivers, you’ll find us.”
For the rest of the roa, Graid lay entranced by the oscillations of the gravity ribbons. His mind followed the strands, and began to associate thoughts with those strands. As the strands interconnected, he found the thoughts merging, giving him new perspectives on old problems. Under it all the void yawned, black and mysterious, waiting to swallow the ribbons as they fell too low. His thoughts invariably led to that void, and as he woke, he found himself more comfortable about what might lie within. He was slow to rise, as darkness had covered the land, making the spectacle beneath him all the more brilliant.
I truly could get lost here. But I need to move on.
He navigated carefully in the dark, making his way around the rim as the old man said. The ribbons faded behind him, but their light glowed in the darkness, appearing as some great fire roaring over the horizon. Graid found the break in the rim of the mountain range, and saw off in the distance a few lights of the village the old man spoke of.
Again back into the company of men and women. They look to be a simple lot—nothing but fields around, with little contact with the major cities. The roads look paved, but barely worn. I’ll bet they still use beasts to carry their burdens. There must be a hundred thousand villages such as this spread throughout Rell, barely changed since their conception after the Great Migration. Small people, with small minds.
His descent into the village was a long one—he steered around its perimeter for a long while. The fields held great tall stalks of corn, rising ten feet into the sky. He saw hundreds of different kinds of flowers, blooming along riverbanks, dancing among the leaves of the trees. He could hear some machinery as the sun peeked over the horizon, smelled the delicious aroma of roasting meat, and frying roots. He ventured onto a paved road that took him by a few humble yet comfortable homes. He spied a few people in those houses—quiet, simply dressed folk eating first meal, or working within their houses. He finally came upon a man just putting his tools onto a cart, and having a hard time with it.
“Hello there!”
“Hello.” The man still had his back to Graid, busy with his work.
“What’s the name of this village?”
“You mean, you don’t know where you’ve come into?”
“No, that’s why I asked,” replied Graid, trying to keep his good humor.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
Graid nodded to himself, trying to think of a different way to get what he needed. “Well, what’s your name?”
The man still fussed with his tools, and seemed to not even hear Graid, when finally he absently replied. “What’s yours?”
Graid gritted his teeth, and tried harder to keep his calm. “They call me Aidlev.”
“Who?”
“What?”
“Who calls you Aidlev?” asked the man, now engaged in moving some stones from in front of the wheels of his cart.
“Those who know me.”
“And they couldn’t tell you where you were going?”
Graid’s patience was nearing its end.
“Is everyone around here this intractable?” he demanded, almost shouting. The man turned, as he finished securing his tools to the cart. Graid saw his balding head with grey hair, and grinned as he recognized him. “It’s you!”
“Excuse me?” The man raised a suspicious eyebrow as if he just heard pure, distilled insanity.
“I’ve met you before. On the mountain. Near the gravity ribbons.”
“You must be mistaken,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“No, no, you were there,” Graid firmly replied. “You told me how to get here, to this village. You told me of your parents taking you up there when you were young.”
The old man thought for a moment. “I haven’t been up there in ten cas.”
Graid rolled his image over in his mind.
“I suppose I could have been wrong,” Graid said, beginning to doubt himself. The old man came over, and scrutinized Graid.
“No, no, you might be right. That place has a funny way about it. It seems to keep a memory of those who have visited it. It’s something with the electromagnetic waves, and the distortion of time, or something. I don’t know. All I know, is sometimes you see people who aren’t even still alive. The mountain’s like a thief, stealing images of those it likes, keeping them in its hold.”
Graid looked at him warily. The old man laughed.
“It is an odd place, but a beautiful one. My name’s Ilahon. Maybe the mountain will steal your image, and one roa, someone else will swear they met you on that ravine.”
“It’s good to know your name,” said Graid, a little relieved, now that progress was being made. “Tell me, is there any work around here?”
“Why, are you looking for work? You look like a wanderer.”
“What do you care?�
� retorted Graid flippantly. Ilahon just looked at him. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I need a job, because I need to eat, and a decent place to sleep.”
“Now that sounds reasonable,” he nodded, smiling. “A friend of mine is looking for some help—someone to do errands, fix a few things, clean up a few things. Sound like something you could do?”
Graid wanted to tell him all that he could do, how far beneath him it was to do errands for another. But another part of him remembered here he was not the Kal-Alçon, was not anyone of consequence. And in that sense, he should feel lucky to have any work at all. No one here knew him, for all Ilahon knew, he could be a criminal.
“I’ll be glad to help him.”
Ilahon began to pull his cart, then stopped and turned to Graid. “You seemed pretty angry back there.”
“And you seemed pretty irascible and intractable!” cried Graid, thankful to finally vent his frustration.
“Quite a vocabulary you’ve got, for us simple folk. Well,” replied Ilahon slowly, “sometimes we don’t always get what we want, right away, if at all, in one’s lifetime. A true judge of a man’s character is how well he copes with that fact.”
Graid straightened, as he knew wisdom when he heard it. He bowed low to Ilahon, who nodded approvingly.
“Follow me, Aidlev, and I’ll introduce you.”
Ilahon led him through the small streets leading into the center of the village. He seemed to know every bump or hole along the way, pointing out such obstacles to his amused companion. He related stories of the
