was all the action of hands and mouth. Mt Voulden roared anew. A wind-borne scale began, a slow tonic progression.
Yo suddenly yelled, ‘In me! Do it!’
She guided him so there was no misunderstanding what she meant, and at last he entered her. She gasped aloud, a rasping shriek beside his ear. Her fingers and nails dug into his back, her mouth pressed hotly against his neck, her legs clamped around his back and buttocks.
The tunnel through the mountain attained the top of the scale, and the great interminable note began to grow louder. Yo climaxed with it, screaming, shrieking, the highest music of sexual pleasure.
Oy slumped over and across her but she continued to release her noise of pent-up passion. Every breath she gave was another note, sweet and high. She was waiting for the sounds from the mountain now, listening for its cue, breathing with it, harmonizing, a tuneful descant, a melody of the air and sky, of the winds that curled through the tuning plates and fanned the vents and crossed the seas and islands. Her voice was surprisingly pure and innocent, untouched by her violent moods and mercurial nature. She was at one with the music she created, and now she sang the wind.
Out there in the ocean of islands the winds that sifted the sand on the beaches, guided the currents and stirred the forests had their source. They arose from the doldrums, from the cooling impact of snow and the calving of bergs in the glaciers of the south, from the unpredictable high pressure systems of the temperate zones, the calm lagoons of humid air across the tropics. They followed the tides, swooped around the heights of mountains, changed the moods and hopes of the people they touched, brought rain and cleansing air, created rivers and lakes and refreshed the springs, they ruffled the seas. Nariva, Entanner and Benoon. Beyond them a score of others, trade winds and gales, hurricanes and monsoons and tempests, cooling squalls and the lightest of breezes, the warm winds of dawn, circling the globe, raising dust, making rhythms in memory, turning wind vanes and filling sails, inspiring love and windows and rattling doors. The winds of the Dream Archipelago blew wild and parching across barren outer cays and crags, enlivened the humid towns, watered the farms, swept deep snows into the mountains of the north. Yo’s clear soprano voice tapped this source, gave it a shape and a sound, a story, a feeling of life.
As the note from the mountain lowered in pitch, became quieter, then ceased, Yo’s singing ended. She was breathing quietly, regularly, and her eyes were closed. Oy extricated himself from her embrace, levered himself away from the bed, walked unsteadily to the open window.
A soft breeze was moving through the town. He rested his hands on the sill, leaned forward to take the warm air. His hair was matted to his head, his chest and legs were sticky with sweat. He breathed deeply. The breeze had come in from the sea and the islands, across the land, around and through the mountain, down into the clustered streets of the Old Town. It was the middle of the night, the early hours, long before dawn, still warm from the day, anticipating the next.
The street below the window was full of people. A crowd had appeared in the area outside Yo’s studio, spilling out along the street in both directions. More were coming from the houses and apartments close by, their faces turned up towards the distant mountain, a deep shadow against the night sky. They were listening for more of its music. A group of women were laughing together, children had come outside with their bedclothes clutched around them, lanterns flickered in the breeze, several men were going around with casks, pouring drinks.
Behind Oy, on the bed, Yo had fallen asleep. Her face in repose was unguarded, undefended by pride and ambition, now just exuding modesty and in a way he had never seen before, kindness. She breathed steadily and calmly, her chest rising and falling in a gentle motion.
Oy sat beside her until dawn, watching her sleep, listening to the happy crowd outside as the people slowly dispersed. The mountain was silent. As the sun came up Oy dressed, then walked down to the harbour. He did not wait for the Salay boat to come in, but caught the first ferry of the day, heading nowhere that he knew, out into the endless sprawl of lovely islands, down into the Archipelagian winds.
Fugue for a Darkening Island
Inverted World
The Affirmation
The Glamour
The Prestige
The Extremes
The Separation
The Dream Archipelago
