Immanent Strangers

Previous: Part 1
Next: Part 3

The rain turns to a fine mist. The mist lasts till twilight. Then a wind comes with the cycle and takes the clouds away.

The last daylight of the firmament passes over and the stars come out between shifting sheets of color.

The woman shifts, stretches. She works the kinks out of unused muscles, and leans back against the tree trunk.

Through the leaves she can see the stars. The temperature is dropping rapidly and the firmament is very clear. Above her is the Lion, roaring rampant in the dark. Ahead of her, edgeward, the Chorus has just come into view.

The night is quiet. Even the birds and insects have fallen still. Their small bodies lie, stonelike, in the dark.

The woman stands. She shakes herself awake. She takes up a pack and a staff.

The last of the day’s rain drops from the tree. It patters on the ground, carrying on that rain’s sound. Puddles lie still, showing the stars through the world.

Her trek begins north and east. Edgeward.

The only light comes from the shimmering curtain of the firmament. Great spaces of dark come between the ephemeral fires, casting shadows on the land. She sticks to the shadows, watching the firmament carefully to try and gauge where darkness will pass.

The firmament is like the surface of a great sea, but she looks up from beneath the waves. The stars wink from beyond, and she could be at the bottom of the ocean. The firmament’s lights are of all colors, but the light they cast is not white daylight. The night light is different. Quiet and peaceful. She has always liked the night.

When she was twelve she fled the destruction of a city. She walked in a long line of weary people. They had nothing but the clothes they wore. Their hope was far ahead of them, west, towards morn. Behind them: death.

As they trudged mile after mile they became aware of the beating of hoofs. The horde was behind them, and coming up fast. The city was burned, but the day was not done for those on the horses. They took the stragglers a few at a time, slaying and laughing. Then they came up the line. They didn’t bother to swing their swords. They trampled in blind fury and sickened joy, ready for their lives to end, taking other lives instead.

She heard the screams behind her and she knew her life might soon end, but the line was long. It was hours before the raiders drew near her place in the line, and the cycle had passed into night. It was a bright night. As the swords and hooves bore down she looked up at the firmament and began to pray, as she had been taught by the now-gnarled father in the one-room house.

Then she saw the green flame in the sky above, and the darkness that followed after. She read its speed, judged its slow-shifting dance, and when the shadow came fluttering across the ground she slipped into it, around a corner, between some boulders, and out of sight.

The raiders passed on, keeping to the light. And she lived out the night.

Now she passed from shadow to shadow, walking with the aid of her staff, eyes on the firmament. Eyes on the lights that gave her darkness in their absence. Eyes on the darkness that gave her life.

Next: Part 2

The rain is soft. A green tree sits on a hillside. Covered with dew, the branches grow heavy.

She is sitting under the tree, sheltering near its bulk.

There is a bird in the branch above her. It peers out into the rain. Its head is shrunk down onto its shoulders, keeping the cold out, keeping the rain off.

The creak of unoiled wheels as a cart comes round the corner. Mud splashes out of ruts and pockets in the road. There is a driver. He hunches down within a cloak. He is old and grey. His hands, gnarled, grip the reins, and the weary horse plods on, lonesome.

As the cart passes, the woman looks up briefly.

The man on the cart looks. Their eyes meet.

Long ago, in another place, they were father and daughter. The little girl laughed and listened to her father’s stories. He was young then, spry, strong. She was young then. Her hair was yellow like corn silk and she wore it in fancy braids.

His hands were strong and straight. Now years, or cares, or something else have twisted his fingers. He can barely grip the slick reins with the rain dripping off them. They (his fingers) harden into claws, grasping, grasping.

He sees her, but does not recognize her.

She sees him, she knows him, but her cares are not with him. Not yet. She’ll let him go about his business for another day or two. Perhaps she can give him longer.

It’s been so long since she walked through this town that not even her father recognizes her. Her own mind works feverishly, and she never forgets. First comes recognition, then the memories themselves flood in, of golden childhood, of the man looking over her, watching her and her sisters. He kept her safe from harm until the day the strangers took her away.

What did he think, so long ago? Did he search for her? Did he know who had taken her? If he did, did he care? It would have been impossible to get her back. Little wonder he did nothing. Little wonder she heard nothing of him through all the rest of her childhood, if it could be called that. Now she was a woman with a lost childhood, looking at the father she had not know since she was six. He would be well into his fifties now, surely. He was ancient. It was a wonder he was still alive.

His bored gaze passes on, the cartwheel creaks. He’s gone.

The rain pours down. The bird above takes flight suddenly. It flies to a nearby bush and takes shelter there.

Why did it move? She wonders.

She sinks back into reverie, lowering her head again, pulling her hood down low to let the drops form a curtain in front of her eyes.