“‘They didn’t know,’ the turtle told himself. ‘They had no idea what it would be like. They made it sound easy, but when I go back to tell them what it was really like …’ And he dreamed the cold nights away visualizing himself telling his story to his kindred turtles on the sunlit log, and to the bullfrog among the reeds, and to the owl and the bat, all of whom would be admiring and astonished at his bravery and his perseverance.
“And so, sustained by this ambition, he went higher and higher yet, gray stone and gray cliff and gray rain falling, year after year, until he came at last to the place the swallows danced in the air above the bottomless void.
“When they saw him, they stopped dancing to perch beside him on the stone, and when he saw them there, silver and black, beautiful as a night lit with stars, he was possessed once again by a great longing, and he told them of his desire for wings.
“‘ Perhaps you may have wings, but you must give up your shell,’ they cried. And even as they told him he might have wings, he seemed to hear in their voices some of the carelessness he had heard in the voice of the owl and the bat and the bullfrog, who had told him where to go without telling him the dangers of the way. He heard them rightly, for the winged gods have a divine indifference toward those who seek flight. They will not entice and they will not promise and they will not make the way easy, for those who wish to soar must do so out of their heart’s desire and their mind’s consent and not for any other reason.
“And the turtle struggled with himself, wanting wings but not wanting wings, for if he had wings, they told him, he would no longer be interested in going back to the pond to tell the creatures there of his journey—that comfortable telling, the anticipation of which had been, perhaps, more important to him than the wings themselves. So, he struggled, wanting and not wanting….”
Her voice trailed off.
“And,” cried Bertran. “Tell the ending!”
“There is no ending,” said Jory. “I do not know what he chose to do.”
“He should have gone back to his people,” cried Nela. “He’d have been contented there. He’d have told his story in the evenings, and the little turtles would have clapped their feet together….”
“Yes,” said Danivon. “They’d have danced and drunk beer, and everyone would have asked him to tell it again….”
“No doubt he’d have enjoyed that,” Jory said.
“Perhaps, when he had given up his shell, he would have found there were no wings,” said Bertran from some remote corner of himself. “No wings, and no shell either. It is hard to be content with your shell when you have seen the birds flying, but it is hard to choose wings when you aren’t sure where they will take you.”
“That’s true,” said Jory. “And it’s a troubling thought.”
Fringe stared at her feet and said nothing, though she felt Jory’s eyes upon her.
Jory put her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, her hand moving on the cat’s back, the cat purring, the chair rocking.
“I didn’t know she knew that story,” whispered Bertran.
“But she didn’t know the ending,” said Nela.
“No one knows the ending,” said Fringe, staring at the dust, her mind a tumult of doubt and suspicion. “Each of us has to choose it for herself.”
Inside the house, Cafferty and Latibor lay close, talking of friends they had known.
Haifazh, Alouez, and the baby Shira had found a little brook and were wading. Haifazh had never waded before. When she had wakened today, her body had been changed. The cutting and sewing were as if they had never been. For the first time since she was a child, she experienced her body without pain. Now she stood in rippling water, without pain, full of sensations she had never imagined, thankful for this blessing, however brief.
In the grove by the river, Jacent was talking with a girl, the daughter of two of Jory’s people. She looked something like Metty, though she said her name was Lidasu, and she listened while he told her about Heaven, while he even cried a little about Heaven, which he missed very much.
“Do you have a mother there?” she asked him as she patted him and rocked him in her arms. He hadn’t mentioned a mother.
“Well, yes,” he murmured. “Though I don’t know her very well. We’re raised by family groups in Heaven, and who our biological parents were isn’t considered very important.”
“That’s all right,” she said comfortingly. “I’ll be your mother for a while.”
And in the acropolis, Curvis stalked wildly about, looking for the damned dragons who had, just as Jory said, gone away.
Asner followed him there and asked him, “What is it, Curvis?”
“My whole life!” he shouted. “That’s what it is!”
“It’s everyone’s lives, Curvis. You’re not alone. We’re all in it.”
“I don’t care about everyone! Not you old crocks staggering around, not any of you. I cared about Danivon! I thought he was something special, but look at him! Mention the Hobbs Land Gods and he’s like an old woman! And he cares about nothing but Fringe! I asked him to get out of here with me, and he won’t leave her. What difference does she make now? Ha? So, the hell with them. Now I care about me, old man.”
Asner tried to think of something comforting to say and couldn’t. Curvis
