Moon-Flash (12 page)

She sat back, frowning. “I don’t know if I want to go inside a strange house. They might try to send us back.”

Terje shrugged. The sun had baked his skin the color of the desert, giving him a dusty look. His hair was damp with sweat. “We can always run away again,” he said wearily. “Kyreol, you’ll have to get your answers from people, you can’t do it by yourself. Besides, maybe they’ll have something to eat besides fish.”

“Nut bread,” she said.

“Stuffed eggs.”

“Turtle soup.”

“Honey wine.”

She handed him the oars. “Here. You row faster than I do.”

As they rowed past the hills, men standing on the
top of them shaded their eyes with their hands as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Then they waved. Kyreol waved back shyly. The hills were there because the people were digging holes for some reason. They weren’t sad, as at a funeral, and nothing of value that Kyreol could see went in or out of the holes. They were just people, some dark, some pale, dressed in plain, skimpy clothes, digging holes in a desert under the fiery sun.

“It makes no sense,” Kyreol said.

The house was far more than a house. It was a huge high square with sandstone pillars beside the doors. Two half-circles of stone jutted out from its sides. Trees with delicate yellow flowers grew around the great house. The still river mirrored it, quiet and majestic against the blue sky. Yellow blossoms scattered across the reflection. The small boat sent ripples through the mirror and moored itself on the reflection’s front door.

They got out wearily, stiff from long hours of rowing. They waded through reeds and water-lilies at the edge of the river, and Terje pulled the boat up onto the bank. As they gazed up uncertainly at the massive, open doors, a man stepped out of the house, came down the steps to greet them.

It was the Hunter.

He was dressed in a light green garment that fitted closely all over his body, like a second skin. But it was, Kyreol decided, no more peculiar than fur and face masks. She recognized him almost before she saw his face, by the way he moved, silently, gracefully, poised for sound. A smile broke over his face. He took Kyreol’s
hand gently—a peculiar gesture—and led her up the steps as though she had never climbed a tree in her life.

“Orcrow,” she said in his own language. “I am happy to see you.” She saw the surprise in his face and laughed. She explained carefully, “I learned from the stone. From Joran.”

“Are you well?”

“Oh, yes. Very well.”

“And you, Terje? You’ve grown.”

“I know.” He put his arm beside Kyreol’s. “Look. I’m almost as dark as she is.” Kyreol shook her head, laughing again, her fingers closing over his wrist for comfort as they crossed the threshold. The cool stillness of the place eased over them like water. They stopped.

“It’s like the caves,” Kyreol whispered after a moment. “Only—”

There were statues, slabs of painted stone resting on pedestals, woven baskets, masks peering down from the walls, weapons and shields behind transparent walls, many things from many dreams. Kyreol felt uneasy, suddenly. Her bare feet shifted on the stone floor.

“Only what?” Orcrow asked gently.

“There is no—the story is all broken up.” She drew breath sharply, edging against Terje. Within one of the transparent cases on the far wall was a skirt of many-colored feathers. A betrothal skirt.

She put her hands over her mouth. How could such a thing from the Riverworld have travelled so far? “How—” Her voice caught. It was terrible to see, as though the Riverworld itself lay behind that case,
dustless and unused, a small thing in an unfamiliar place. Terje put his arm around her shoulders.

“It’s only a skirt.” But his own voice shook.

“But how did it get here?”

“It was given to this house,” Orcrow said softly.

“But nobody—no one in the Riverworld knew—”

“Kyreol, you aren’t the first curious young woman to leave the Riverworld.”

A thought touched her mind; she shook it away. “What kind of a place is this?”

“It’s a dream-house,” Terje said. His voice was certain again. “You see something in your mind, you make it real with your hands. After a while, it gets old, or broken, or you forget about it. Or else it makes its way here so other people can see the way you dreamed it.” He gazed at Orcrow calmly, his hand patting Kyreol’s shoulder, daring the Hunter to make the world more complicated.

But the faint worry in the Hunter’s face eased. “Terje,” he said in Terje’s language, “you are wise as a Healer,” and Terje blushed.

Someone else came to join them, then: a slender, red-haired man with a beard, wearing a body-skin like the Hunter’s, only black. Kyreol stared at him. She had never seen red hair before, and only old men wore beards. His eyes were bright blue, smiling; his whole face looked warm, delighted to see her for some reason, making her smile back at him. He said something in a strange language to Orcrow, who said gravely to Kyreol,

“Kyreol, this is Arin Thrase. He collects all these things here and takes care of them. He can answer any questions you have about them.” He paused, then
added, “He studies the story behind each object: who made it, what it means.”

Kyreol asked shyly, “What language does he speak?”

“The language of this part of the desert.”

“Then where is your world? Still farther?” She felt tired suddenly, bewildered. “How far do I have to go?”

The Hunter was silent, as she had first seen him, all his thoughts hidden as he looked at her. The red-haired man murmured something, and the Hunter answered in his language. Arin Thrase left them quickly, his voice raised, calling for someone. Then, down a corridor, they heard him singing, his voice booming cheerfully, echoing off the stones.

“He said you looked hungry.”

“Orcrow, where are we?” She pointed. “Is that my mother’s betrothal skirt?”

“Yes.”

There was a lump in Kyreol’s throat. “Why did—why did she take it with her?”

“She was very young,” the Hunter said gently. “Only a few years older than you. She left the Riverworld for many of the same reasons you did. Only she left alone. You left with Terje. She took a few things to remind her of where her home was. For comfort. Later, she gave this to Arin Thrase.”

“She was here.”

“No. She met him farther down the river.”

Kyreol felt dizzy. She wanted to sit down, but there was no place to sit except on the stone floor. She glanced at Terje, who was standing very still, looking as though he were dreaming with his eyes open. He
blinked, feeling her look, and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Then that’s where you have to go,” he said simply.

“Will you come with me?” Her eyes pleaded with him: If it’s not too far? If you don’t have to think about Moon-Flash?

“I won’t leave you alone,” he said. She felt the Hunter watching them then and gazed down at her fingers, then at him.

His face wore its remote, distant expression, as though he were listening to secrets. But he only said, “You need some clothes.”

He went out among the diggers while Kyreol and Terje ate with Arin Thrase. The food was strange but good: a spicy stew with tender meat in it, sticky, sugary fruit, bread that was white instead of brown, and some kind of boiled green leaves. They sat in a room full of woven rugs and tapestries, and Kyreol kept glimpsing stories among the patterns of the colored threads. But she could ask no questions until the Hunter returned, so they ate quietly, shyly. When Orcrow came in finally, Kyreol said, “Oh,” and pulled out the crystal. “I forgot.” She opened it. Arin Thrase was staring at her amazedly. “Joran. It’s Kyreol. We’re here, in the big house.”

“Good!” Joran said. “Have you met Arin Thrase?”

“Yes. He is feeding us. And the Hunter is here.”

“Orcrow!” the stone exploded. “I want to talk—” The Hunter took the stone from Kyreol’s hand.

“I’m here,” he said. Arin Thrase was chuckling.

“Where have you been?”

“Where do you think I’ve been? I’ve been tracking two children down the longest river in the world. It’s
the most miserable job I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m lucky I didn’t get eaten alive, in case you’re interested—”

“I’m not,” the stone said grudgingly. “You should have taken them home.”

“Why didn’t you? You knew where they were. You could have picked them up any time, instead of letting me burn myself to a crisp under the sun. Why didn’t you?”

“And do what?” Joran said exasperatedly. “Fly them home? To the Riverworld? In an air-shuttle?”

“All right,” Orcrow said. “All right, then. Don’t yell at me for coming to the same conclusion. It seemed better to let them go as far as they wanted.”

“Well, now what are you going to do with them?”

“Ask Kyreol.” He held the crystal out to catch her words.

“Kyreol,” Joran said. “What do you want now? Do you want to go back home?”

“No,” she said. “I want to see Orcrow’s world.”

“It’s not that much farther,” the Hunter said. The stone made a disgusted noise.

“Orcrow. It’s light-years away. To them. She asked me what the Moon-Flash is. How are you going to tell her?”

Orcrow sighed. “She’s the one who wants the answers. I’m sorry this happened, but she’s the one who followed me. She saw beneath my disguise, she asked the questions. She left the Riverworld. There is a precedent.”

The stone was silent. “All right,” it said more quietly. “You handle it. And check in with Domecity headquarters—they’ve been at me every day, trying
to locate you. You’re probably out of a job, but in view of your trek down the river to guard the children, they might let you scrape plates in a cafeteria somewhere.”

“Thanks,” the Hunter said drily. He added, “And they aren’t children anymore.” He closed the crystal, said something in Arin’s language, and the red-haired man shook his head, smiling.

Orcrow gave Kyreol a long white skirt and a loose white shirt she could pull over her head. The cloth was tightly woven, very soft and light. It seemed to come from neither bird nor animal, and she wondered how it was made. There were too many things to wonder about. Terje put on the same kind of shirt, and a pair of pants that came only halfway to his knees, like the ones the men who were digging had been wearing. She remembered the tiny, isolated dust storms, then, and had the Hunter ask Arin,

“Why are they digging out there?”

“They’re unburying a lost city,” Arin said; and when she looked blank, he explained slowly, “Many years ago, a city was built out of stone beside the river. The people who lived then are all dead, and the desert winds buried the city beneath the earth. The people digging find many things: cups, bowls, jewelry, weapons, statues, painted walls, even bones from burial sites. Most of the things are broken, but we piece them together, carefully, so we can see what the people made. Come, I’ll show you.”

They followed him down one of the quiet, delicately painted hallways.

“Why are there dust clouds on the hills with no wind?”

The Hunter translated, and Arin laughed. “You don’t miss much, do you, Kyreol?” He paused, then reached to a shelf and took down a small vase. “Suppose this were covered with dust. What would you do?”

Kyreol drew a breath and blew. The imaginary dust puffed into the air. She laughed, then looked surprised. “But I can’t blow a cloud that big.”

“No. But we make—things that blow for us out there. Very gently, so small things aren’t disturbed. Wind covered them up, so we let the wind uncover them. It keeps the diggers from breaking things with their tools.” He put the vase back and led them into a huge, sunlit room. It was, Kyreol thought, as if all the pots and knives and beads and bone bracelets, all the hunting traps and spears and carpets and children’s toys in the Riverworld had all been gathered into one place, to be sorted out again. Long tables held piles of beads, bits of pottery, small broken statues, all waiting to be mended. A couple of people sat at the tables, piecing things together. They glanced up, smiling, then went back to their work.

“This is what we gather out of the diggings.”

“But why?”

“To see how people before us lived. How they looked at this world. What they loved.”

He took them through a doorway into another room. This one held things that at first glance meant very little; nothing about them said what they were for. There were sandstone pillars with odd signs on them, small painted stones, paintings on leather, shapeless carvings of wood and bone, masks without
faces, fiery wheels of feathers. Kyreol, standing in the center of the room, felt as if she had suddenly gone deaf in a place full of chattering people. Arin watched her a moment, smiling. Then he took one of the stones off its shelf.

“What does that say to you?”

Kyreol held it in her hand.
Nothing.
The stone was as big as her palms, worn into a smooth oval, probably by the river. There was a black line down the center of it. “The story is in two parts,” she said tentatively. She heard the Hunter translate to Arin. She added, remembering her dream, “Maybe it’s a message to someone. On one side of the stone is a man. No.” She looked more closely. “It’s a woman. There are little trees all around her. Maybe that’s her sign. She lives among small trees. Then there is the black line. Then . . .” A blue line cut across the other side of the stone, with lean black smudges rising out of it and a tiny circle, like a black moon, rising over them. “I don’t . . .” The breath went out of her suddenly. “Oh . . . the faces. Beside the river. That’s the message. Moon-Flash. This woman who lived among the little trees is dead. She’s buried inside the faces.”

She looked up at Arin, who took the stone from her gently. He was silent for a moment, then he said something to Orcrow, who nodded. Arin set the stone down.

“You have seen the faces.”

“Yes.”

“You touched them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because—I wanted to know why people would make such huge stone faces. I just—I wanted to know.”

Arin sighed audibly. She felt Terje’s hand touch her, lightly. The Hunter said to her, “Arin has never seen the faces. He’s seen pictures of them. For most people, the journey there is forbidden. He said that you have a great gift for understanding things people want to say without words. He thinks you should stay here. He can teach you many things.”