Read Online Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods by Peter Rawlik, Jonathan Woodrow, Jeffrey Fowler, Jason Andrew - Free Book Online
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roseate glow.
“From over there, if you mean that in an immediate sense.” I gestured to where I had been standing when I first saw the gleam of her hair. “From the shanty past that hill, if you mean that in a more permanent sense.”
“From the shanty,” she repeated.
“Yes.” I wondered if she might be a bit slow. Perhaps she was a madling, though they do not venture near the dead. They are more interested in the living and in Those Above and Below. “Where are you from? Seawrack shanty?”
“Seawrack – no. No, I’m not. What d’you call this place?”
“Mooncrest. Where are you from that you don’t know the name of the shanty where you are bound? You are planning to pass the night there, yes? The open lands are dangerous after dark.” Everyone knows that. Only madlings leave the shanty after dark. But here I was, and I was no madling; there was nothing sacred about me.
What, then, was I?
“I wasn’t gonna hit the shanty.”
I blinked. “Then what are you doing here?”
“What’re you doin’ here? No shantyfolk come to these places.”
“No, not usually. It simply isn’t done. But then, I’m not terribly good at doing only what is done.” I smiled at her, small and wry.
She said nothing for a moment, only crouched there, thinking. Then she seemed to come to some manner of decision, for she sat, crosslegged, carefully to one side of the gravestone. “I’m Jonna,” she said. Her manner was grave, as though she bestowed upon me a great trust. With her gaze firmly upon me, I noticed that her eyes were grey, grey as stones. I began to understand.
“You’re not from any shanty, are you?” I spoke softly, almost whispering. There are humans who do not live in shanties, who do not revel, who do not sing. We tell stories of them, sometimes, in hushed tones. She shook her head, but said nothing, only watched my reaction. “What is it like?”
She smiled, only a little. “We’ve different songs,” she told me, as though she knew the course of my thoughts. “Beautiful ones.”
“There is no music more beautiful than the Ecstatica.” I believed that. I knew what it was to feel the drums and the flute wash over me, to feel the voices of my fellows lifting me, to be carried toward that brief glimpse of Those Above and Below that is all we who are cursed with sanity are permitted.
“You ever listen to the music without the communion brew?” she asked me. I shook my head, perplexed. “Try it. You’ll see it all different.”
“If I do, will you come here tomorrow night so I can see you again?” I felt my face grow flush at my own daring.
That startled her, for she laughed, very softly. But it was not a bad laugh, and I could see a change in the way she looked at me. She knew what I meant, knew it in a way Isana had not. Maybe it was done among the folk outside the shanties. Certainly there was something in her eyes, a heat, that I had previously only seen among men, and few enough of them.
“Go a day without.”
“The whole day?” She nodded. “And if I do that... if I do that, you will be here?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here.”
I looked at her again, at her paleness, at her steadiness, at the way she met my gaze without flinching. At the loveliness of her and at the soft look around her eyes and the firm set of her chin. I had never gone even a single meal without the communion brew that was part and parcel of shanty life. But I wanted to see her again.
“I will do it,” I told her. Her lips curved into something almost a smile, strangely sad.
“I’ll be here,” she repeated. And then, glancing up at the moon, “But I gotta go now. Be seeing you.”
I watched her leave, quick and careful in the dim light of the moon, and I wondered what tomorrow’s moon would show me.
* * * *
I did not sleep that night.
I crept back into my bunk and stared at the wood slats and thin mattress above me,
“From over there, if you mean that in an immediate sense.” I gestured to where I had been standing when I first saw the gleam of her hair. “From the shanty past that hill, if you mean that in a more permanent sense.”
“From the shanty,” she repeated.
“Yes.” I wondered if she might be a bit slow. Perhaps she was a madling, though they do not venture near the dead. They are more interested in the living and in Those Above and Below. “Where are you from? Seawrack shanty?”
“Seawrack – no. No, I’m not. What d’you call this place?”
“Mooncrest. Where are you from that you don’t know the name of the shanty where you are bound? You are planning to pass the night there, yes? The open lands are dangerous after dark.” Everyone knows that. Only madlings leave the shanty after dark. But here I was, and I was no madling; there was nothing sacred about me.
What, then, was I?
“I wasn’t gonna hit the shanty.”
I blinked. “Then what are you doing here?”
“What’re you doin’ here? No shantyfolk come to these places.”
“No, not usually. It simply isn’t done. But then, I’m not terribly good at doing only what is done.” I smiled at her, small and wry.
She said nothing for a moment, only crouched there, thinking. Then she seemed to come to some manner of decision, for she sat, crosslegged, carefully to one side of the gravestone. “I’m Jonna,” she said. Her manner was grave, as though she bestowed upon me a great trust. With her gaze firmly upon me, I noticed that her eyes were grey, grey as stones. I began to understand.
“You’re not from any shanty, are you?” I spoke softly, almost whispering. There are humans who do not live in shanties, who do not revel, who do not sing. We tell stories of them, sometimes, in hushed tones. She shook her head, but said nothing, only watched my reaction. “What is it like?”
She smiled, only a little. “We’ve different songs,” she told me, as though she knew the course of my thoughts. “Beautiful ones.”
“There is no music more beautiful than the Ecstatica.” I believed that. I knew what it was to feel the drums and the flute wash over me, to feel the voices of my fellows lifting me, to be carried toward that brief glimpse of Those Above and Below that is all we who are cursed with sanity are permitted.
“You ever listen to the music without the communion brew?” she asked me. I shook my head, perplexed. “Try it. You’ll see it all different.”
“If I do, will you come here tomorrow night so I can see you again?” I felt my face grow flush at my own daring.
That startled her, for she laughed, very softly. But it was not a bad laugh, and I could see a change in the way she looked at me. She knew what I meant, knew it in a way Isana had not. Maybe it was done among the folk outside the shanties. Certainly there was something in her eyes, a heat, that I had previously only seen among men, and few enough of them.
“Go a day without.”
“The whole day?” She nodded. “And if I do that... if I do that, you will be here?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here.”
I looked at her again, at her paleness, at her steadiness, at the way she met my gaze without flinching. At the loveliness of her and at the soft look around her eyes and the firm set of her chin. I had never gone even a single meal without the communion brew that was part and parcel of shanty life. But I wanted to see her again.
“I will do it,” I told her. Her lips curved into something almost a smile, strangely sad.
“I’ll be here,” she repeated. And then, glancing up at the moon, “But I gotta go now. Be seeing you.”
I watched her leave, quick and careful in the dim light of the moon, and I wondered what tomorrow’s moon would show me.
* * * *
I did not sleep that night.
I crept back into my bunk and stared at the wood slats and thin mattress above me,
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