Lords of the Sky

clouding his vision like tears: he wiped at his face, his concentration breaking. He ground his teeth and shook his head lest he weep, unaware that innate pride shaped the movement, glancing up to see the sun risen higher, wondering how much longer he could last.

Not long; not without shade and fresh water, food. Already his lips cracked, and it seemed he could feel the swelling of his tongue, the engorged flesh cloying to the roof of his dehydrating mouth, tender against his teeth. Soon his skin would blister, likely the relentless shimmer of sky and ocean would blind him, and then …

I shall have you, said Death.

“But not yet,” he answered.

Why not? demanded the unseen speaker, gently. You must come to me in the end, and what reason is there to prolong this suffering?

“I do not know who I am,” he said. “I want to remember.”

Is that a reason? Death laughed, dismissive as the softly echoing sea. Does it matter who you are? You are a man alone on a rock in an unknown sea. What more need you know?

“Who I am,” he said. “What I am.”

You are nothing, said Death. You are a sack of flesh stretched over bone that soon will scorch and wither and come to me.

“Then wait,” he said. “Wait until I am ready.”

You draw out your agony, said Death. No more than that. You condemn yourself to needless suffering. There is no one to witness this, no honor in it

Honor: he felt the sharded strings of his memory tugged. “There is me,” he said.

And you are no one, Death countered. Come to me.

“No!” He shouted now, the sound startling him, so that he looked up and saw the sun had passed its zenith and was moving toward the western horizon. “You see?” he told his adversary; told himself. “I have survived another day.”

Death did not answer, and the man slumped afresh, his breath a ragged panting that seared his lungs until the sun once more touched the water, a great ball of burning gold that lanced flame over the soft undulations of waves, the sky darkening to the east, as if the descending orb drew behind it a curtain. It disappeared, and for a little while the sky was a glory of crimson, of salmon, of coral. Then blue velvet pricked with stars and the slender crescent of the moon. The air cooled, and he sighed, luxuriating in that benison, heaving unsteadily to his feet, that he might feel the faint breeze that briefly wafted the air over all his tortured body. He felt his sweat dry and become cold; something splashed, unseen in the darkness. He groaned, lowering himself, and curled upon the rock, closing eyes that still saw the sun, reminding him that so long as he clung to life, he must face it again.

Finally, he slept.

The next day, he woke as the first rays spread like molten metal over the sea.

His lids were heavy, the orbs beneath hot, itching as though their moisture were leached out and drawn into the sun. He thought of rising, but the effort seemed too much and he lay watching the water grow brighter, until it became too bright, driving pinpricks of pain into his skull. His skin, too, felt it, crawling with the heat, and that galvanized him to action: he husked a curse and tottered to his feet. Perhaps there would be crabs again in the pool. Slowly, delicate as a dancer or a drunken man, he moved toward the farther end of the rock. The fifty paces had become eighty now, and the incline steeper. His muscles felt drained of moisture, knotting, movement painful. He halted at the rim, closing his eyes against the nausea that gripped him, fighting the dizziness that roiled his senses as he lowered himself cautiously to his knees.

The pool remained empty, as if the taking of the two crustaceans had rendered it forbidden territory to their fellows, the clear water shimmering, pricked with myriad points of brilliance that stabbed his vision, inflaming the dull ache inside his skull so that it pounded against the confining bone.

This is quite pointless, said Death. You will find neither food nor water. There is only suffering here.

“And you,” the man answered, curling up on the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms encircling his spinning head.

And me, Death agreed affably. Your true companion. “You name yourself my friend?” he demanded. Of course, Death said. Do I not offer you release from this pain?

“Then tell me who I am,” he challenged. “Tell me that, and then perhaps I will come to you.”

Do you not know? asked Death.

“No!” he croaked. “I cannot remember. Tell me!”

I could, Death said. I know it as I know all men’s names. Come to me, and I shall tell you.

The man thought on that awhile, still huddled, his eyes closed. It seemed to him, not knowing himself, that he was not afraid of dying but loved life more. “Not yet,” he said.

Death’s laughter was soft: the lap of undulant water on stone. Why delay it? Why suffer? You have no hope-come to me.

“I live,” he said.

But you do not know who you are, Death said.

“But still I live.”

Crouched, curled, his arms wrapped about his head, he could not see, but he thought Death shrugged, negligently. “Tell me who I am,” he repeated, “and then perhaps I shall agree.”

There was a shadow on the featureless sea, a blur of darkness that flickered in and out of his sight on the swell. Perhaps it was some trick of Death’s, to convince him of the futility of clinging so obstinately to the frayed thread of his life. But as he squinted, willing the vision to be real, it coalesced into solidity: a boat, blue painted, propelled toward him by four sweeps, the shapes of men at prow and stern. He fell to his knees, careless of the abrading rock, bracing himself on trembling hands, and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. He did not know if there was a god or gods; or if there were, whether or not he believed in any deity, but still he gave up thanks, and said to Death, “You see? You shall not have me yet. I have beaten you.”

Death gave back no answer: the boat came closer. He thought it a fishing boat, though why he could not say, nor how he should know one vessel from another. He knew only that it offered salvation: he raised his arms, waving.

None on the craft returned his wave, and rather than coming straight on, to where its passengers might find landing, it turned aside. The man’s mouth, already open, gaped wider at that, and he croaked a hoarse denial, forcing himself to rise, tottering ungainly as he turned to stare in horror, hands outthrust, as if he would draw the boat to him. Almost, he plunged into the sea, to swim to the vessel, but for all his fear it should abandon him, he knew the effort of traversing that distance would be too great, that he must drown before he could reach his goal.

He peered through narrowed lids as it swept down the brief length of the rock, its outline shimmering in the heat haze, vague through the curtain of sweat that coursed his face. Four burly men manned the oars, he thought, and another the tiller. A man and a woman stood at the prow, their faces mere blurs, though he felt they studied him.

As if they fear me, he thought. And then, Why? What am I, that anyone should fear me? Who am I?

The moments it took for the craft to go by were an eternity in which hope died; then flared anew as the boat turned, circling the rock. He stood, turning with it, his head spinning with the motion, so that boat and sea and sky merged in a whirling of brilliance. He did not know he fell, did not feel his wasted body strike the stone. He no longer cared: in that instant Death might have claimed him and he gone un-protesting; that should have been preferable to this rise and fall of hope, this torment. He closed his eyes, teeth grinding, hands knotting into fists. Had his body been capable of producing such moisture, he would have wept, for despair consumed him then. And then through despair came anger: did these folk toy with him, he would not grant them the satisfaction of his suffering. He would face them and curse them as a man, on his feet. He did not know why that was so important,