IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 45 Flying
Tuesday, July 21, 2708,
continued We go out into the last dim light of the setting sun, up
onto the slope into which the Don had built his school. “See?
I respect your privacy,” the Don says.
“No one will see you up here. No
one will know where to look.” He gives
me a hand up the rough landscape, as though I were the frail one, and his eyes
twinkle. “If you choose imprisonment in
secrets, of your own free will, far be it from me to argue.” Then he steps back to make room for me. “But the first step towards freedom is loving
who God made you to be.” He turns to
gaze across the landscape behind us, the final colors in the sky, solemn for a
moment, maybe even sad. And then
suddenly he turns to me, impish again.
“Did you think that we met by just a stroke of luck?” (Yes luck...it’s all
just luck, after all, for the Gates of Knowledge neither help nor hinder, just
compel us to face the truth, the uncompromising truth of... ...of this empty
theater? “You didn’t bring
me here to watch a play,” I say, staring into the glimmer of Merrill’s eyes,
flashes of faint green in the dark.
“There is no play.” I stand up. “You superstitious idiot! And you have the nerve to call me a savage!” The empty building
echoes slightly with my shout. He stands up, too,
as I storm down the aisle. “Zanne, I
haven’t called you that in years!” I stop, and turn to
him, with about a dozen seats between us.
“No, that’s right. You
haven’t. These days you fancy me
superior to you.” “Have you ever
doubted it, yourself?” “You don’t
understand! I’ve never wanted to be
better than you, only to be equal to you.”
I storm away again, and hear his footsteps follow me down the corridor,
so I keep talking. “You despise
everything about yourself. Others see
genius, but all you can see is a long-past sin in how you got your brains.” “Others see an
exquisitely handsome man, but all you see is short. Others see well-educated, but you act like
everything you know you stole!” “I did, Zanne!” “Others see a
strong man who works hard for every muscle, and all you see is asthma and
allergies. Others see your sensitivity
and you just feel ashamed of how easily you cry. Others see energy, where you see a
biochemical imbalance. Others see a hero,
but you see a murderer!” I swirl to face
him, shouting with all the agony in me, “How can I love you when you won’t love
yourself?” He stops, standing
there, small and forlorn, in the dim hallway.
“But Zanne, every negative thing you said is true.” I can’t hold back
the tears any longer. “But they’re not
the only truths! Every good thing I said
is just as true.” He walks towards me,
his arms outstretched, but I shriek out, “Don’t you dare comfort me! I have a right to mourn everything that you
reject!” And I run. I run away from my husband, sobbing, out into
the sunlight. And he stops in his tracks
and lets me. I hate him for letting me.) I step up onto a boulder and suddenly stop. “Why do I think of Zanne right now? So powerfully of Zanne?” I feel my eyes water and I don’t know why. (Jake lays down a
book, staring into space. I see a fly
land on his face and he doesn’t bat it away. “Jake? Are you okay?” “Why does she we you
she I tune in to Zanne? Over such a
great distance?” He turns to me,
unblinking. “Randy, do you remember when
Alroy braided our minds together, so many minds?” “I wasn’t actually
part of that tangle, but yes, I remember the incident.” So why do I feel a wee bit tangled now? I stand and walk slowly to him, taking him by
the hand, tugging gently till he rises to his feet. “It’s happening
again—or about to happen, only with missions.
All missions shall merge.” I lead
him to the console, and sit him down before it.
“And we shall meet with Zanne on the Unexpected Path.” “That’s nice,
Jake. Type it all down. Go on, Archives is waiting.” And he fits his
fingers to the keys and types.) (I run through the
streets, blinded by tears, stumbling on curbs and keeping on anyway, past
honking horns and through watery illusions, my feet following memory to more
familiar places, where arms suddenly grab me and a deeper voice than Merrill’s
cries, “Whoa! Whoa! Zanne, what’s up?” I stop, blinking up
at Don, Merrill’s best friend and my friendclan brother. The blonde hair looks disheveled, the sweet,
homely face concerned. I feel a rush of
embarrassment heat my face as I wipe my eyes and rearrange my own hair. “Nothing. Just a marital spat.” Yes, nothing—for that is exactly how Merrill
sees himself—no matter what he does to make something of himself. Rather like Deirdre, come to think of
it. Maybe those two should have married—if
Deirdre could ever figure out what to do with a man. And a sudden rush of warmth, affection for
this whole nutty, imperfect friendclan, eases the clench of heartache, here in
Don’s long arms.) “And who is Zanne?” the Don asks. “My friendclan sister,” I say. “A little thing, and yet a lioness—beautiful,
witty, glamorous, everything I’m not.
Why do I feel such sadness in her?
And yet the feeling fades a bit...”
I feel my brow knit, pondering. “Perhaps God lets you feel her sadness so that you will
cease to envy her,” the old man tells me kindly. “Don’t worry about everything you’re not, but
rejoice in everything you are.” He
smiles suddenly, almost slyly. “Can she
fly?” he asks. “No.” “Then fly!” And he
pushes me off the rock. (“I was looking for
Merrill, Zanne. I heard he’d be around
here—well, of course he’d be around here, you said a marital spat, so he...I’m
sorry, Zanne. I’m so sorry.” He quivers with what he tries to respectfully
repress. “Why?” I ask,
smiling up at the tall man. “Because
you’re happy? I could use a little
happiness.” I give him a playful poke in
the ribs. “You’ve got good news!” “Now Zanne,
remember, we’ve talked about Til’s laws on telepathy.” That makes me
laugh, and he seems gratified to see me cheer up. “I don’t need to read you to see that you’re
obviously just about jumping out of your skin trying not to dance. So what is it that you want so badly to tell
Merrill?” “I can fly again,
Zanne! He clasps my hands and then he
does dance me all up and down the street.
“I’ve been working on it in secret, you see, afraid to let anybody know
in case it didn’t work. But with
hypnosis, meditation, and desensitization exercises I’ve conquered the phobia—I
just got back from the airport. I took a
glider out, and Zanne, I flew!” “Oh that is wonderful news!
And I fling myself onto his chest in a great, big hug, both of us nearly
losing our footing.) I tumble onto the breast of the air, and it lifts me up, my
survival instinct kicking in before I even think about flying. And oh, it feels so good, to soar up and dip
among the mountain peaks, as the first stars twinkle in the sky around me and
the first lamps light up golden on the slopes below! I let the thin, icy wind whirl me about in a
violent lover’s tango, and I feel so powerfully alive! Sky and rock spin around me as I execute
barrel-rolls. And then I gyre like a
hunting hawk. And then I soar again,
like a rocket, and plunge down till I can barely pull back my momentum to keep
from shattering on the stones. And then
I drift, light and free, calmer now, just basking in my conquest of gravity. And I know that I am not Zanne, not Merrill, not Don, not
Lisa, not any of the people that I might think surpass me. I am Deirdre Evelynne Keller, and I can fly! (“I could fly you
over to Novo Durango, if you’d like”, Don offers, walking hand in hand with me
now. “Just a quick hop, to get your mind
off things. Would that make you feel
better?” “Thank you, Don, but...no.” I suddenly feel a desire vividly flare up in
me, as to where I really want to go. “I
just thought of what I need, and I have to go there alone. You understand?” “Of course,” he
says, wiping from my cheek a tear that I didn’t know I’d shed till he touched
me. He lets go my hand, and I walk away
quickly. I have preparations
to make, though it will take hours and hours before I can leave, late in the
night when good people sleep. I want to
sneak back into the sanctuary of the True Tilián one last time. Alroy said that my father died, but I want to
see if he lied. The Shaman of the True
Tilián would know how to advise me.) I land, lightly, on the stone before the grinning old
man. I lay a hand on his shoulder and
say, “Thank you. Thank you so much for
your wisdom. You have advised me beyond
my expectations. You have healed so much in me.” Still grinning, he nods in acknowledgement. “Just doing my job,” he says, and we go down
from there. “Don’t ever be ashamed of
flying, Deirdre Keller.” * * * Cyran doesn’t care about
the satisfying work-out that I had in the sky, after a long march and without
the rest that others have enjoyed. No, I
must confer with hir about the distribution of our refugees among the shepherds,
and after that nothing will do save to help hir sort them all out, each to
their own new herds—heaven knows how late the hour, now! They shall leave first thing in the morning,
in all different directions. The Don must really be an
oracle. He made the Hamallans delay the
lowland herding clear into winter, till we could join them. He even sent abroad for fodder, paid for from
his foundation’s funds, to make it possible.
(I can’t help but wonder, with a weary smile, if his foresight includes
reminding people when to clean their stormdrains?) So now my entire body aches
and my hair tangles on my shoulders (I lost the fasteners on the braids
somewhere in my flight) as I stumble down the hard brick road to bed, desiring
it with every muscle in my body. Pomona's jam-sticky kiss still lingers sweet
upon my mouth. Mori hugged me and made
me promise to look him up after the war; he'll find his way back to his old
roadside stand someday, he said, and we'll raise a toast in Sharane's
memory. He memorized her recipes and
hopes he gets it right, to brew chaummin maybe as good as hers. I told him that I knew he could. I must remember to leave
every stitch I own outside the door tonight.
Certain women promise not only to wash them, but to dye all of the
bright liturgical colors, by coffee grounds and teabags, nutshells and onion
peels, down to a mottled, camouflaging dullness, and have them fire-dried by
morning. I glance down at my
vestment-green skirt; it practically looks camouflaged already, between the stains
of motor-oil, dirt and blood. The others have gone to bed already, but Damien sits out on
a bench in the cold, already garbed in a borrowed robe, staring so glassy-eyed,
so body-slack, that I think he must be drunk.
But I smell nothing about him except for the sharp, rancid scent of
homemade soap. "It's so hard to be
good when you're a soldier," he murmurs as I pass. "Hard for a bard, too." "I know." I shake my head and smile—he just now
realizes this? "You just do the
best you can, kid, and hope that God covers the rest." He nods, gets up, and we both make our way to the
sleeping-quarters. |
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