“I’m sure he does. As I do mine?”
“Do you really remember yours, Jory?” He could not believe she did. He could scarcely remember his own.
She sat and rocked, the question going around and around in her head. It seemed to her she did remember Earth. Lately, she remembered it compulsively, as though something besides herself required the memory. She remembered the sound of larks in the dawn, with the grass gemmed and the air like silver. She remembered the leap of a fish in a pond, the spreading circles of light, the glint of scales, the glancing eye. She remembered trees towering, leaves lilting, the shatter and shimmer of sun in the woods, the cry of cicadas, the squeak and murmur of small furry beasts in the branches. She remembered the smell of green, the feel of growth, the touch of grandeur.
She remembered mountains, shadow on shadow, the creep and crush of stone reared up, the hollows of the furnaces of the deep, great abysses of rock where the fires dwelt, had dwelt, dwelt no longer, filled with blue lakes and clean air, with great, white continents of cloud moving over them like the blessing of a mighty hand.
She remembered the glory of the sea, the waters of the world washing upon its shores, the finned creatures of the sea, the seethe of calm, the crash of storm.
Had that been home? Perhaps not, for she remembered coming away from it, in search of something else. Duty. That had been it. In search of duty.
She remembered Grass, the endless prairies of it, the beauty of its gardens, the glory of its forest, the stunning wonder of its human and alien people. Was that home? She came away from that too, still seeking. Not duty this time, but her given world….
To circling worlds, ringed and glorious, where the fires of creation still burned. To a pavane of suns, remote and marvelous, wearing their planets like necklaces. To human worlds and alien worlds, to places earthly and unearthly. She remembered them all, remembered leaving them all. Which of them had been home?
Perhaps in the end, where one’s love was, was home.
“See there,” whispered Asner, pointing toward the woods.
They came across the meadow: Nela dancing on her lovely feet, moving across the meadow like a princess, joyous and beautiful, with Bertran tall and powerful just behind her, a smile barely lighting his face, his eyes glowing wonder as he came to take Jory’s hands.
So here they were, what they longed to be. Woman. Man. Joy flowed from them into her.
She marveled that there was time for a little happiness yet. No matter that all time would end soon, this they would have to carry into the darkness.
“Fringe?” she asked. She had no way of knowing unless she asked. She could not feel Fringe.
“She’s behind us somewhere,” said Bertran.
They went away with Asner, and soon Fringe came from the woods: a shadow, an uncomfortable presence.
“Well, child?” Jory called.
“Well, Jory?” She came to take the old woman’s hands. “I see the Hobbs Land Gods have finished with you.” Jory looked deeply into her eyes. “Or you with them. So you stand alone?”
“I stand alone, Jory.” “Are you now unenslaved?”
“More than in my past, Jory. I was enslaved then, just as you said. To one thing or another.”
“And now you feel free?”
Fringe smiled doubtfully and shook her head. “How would I know?”
Jory murmured, “At various times in my life, I’ve felt freedom—usually briefly and never completely. As I recall, however, even partial freedom can be disconcerting. Even if one has to deal with it only briefly.”
“Even if it were only for an instant, Jory, I would welcome the experience. I’d trade a longer life elsewhere for that feeling.”
Jory reached up to touch her face. “Then you’re a fool, child. But whoever said we were not, you and I.”
Fringe seated herself beside the rocking chair. “I may be a fool, Jory, but you’re not. That much I’m sure of.”
“What tells you that?”
“The presence of Great Dragon tells me that.”
The old woman cast her eyes down, asking softly, “What do you know about him?”
“Very little. What one can surmise.”
“And what do you surmise?”
“That he could, if he wished, follow the Arbai wherever they have gone.”
“Probably. I don’t know for sure.”
“I think they are no match for him.”
“That may be true.”
“But he won’t follow them, won’t … anything. Because he respects your feelings.”
Jory shook her head slowly. “It seems to me it is less a matter of respect than it is of his own logic, his own ethics. He too chooses noninterference unless his help is sought. And it depends on the cause, and on who does the asking.”
“If you asked?”
“I am incapable of some things. Because of what I am.”
“What are you?” Fringe whispered. “Really?”
“I can’t tell you. Really.”
“You’re not allowed …?”
“Simply can’t. The prohibition is built in. I can’t speak, or think too clearly, of what I am really, or I wouldn’t be what I am.” She laughed, a little ripple of real amusement. “Some of us can exist only because we’re not too aware of what we are. We are like the tiny particles from which the universe is made. If we locate ourselves, we can no longer move about our business. So long as we are moving about our business, we cannot say where, or what, we are. But—so I tell myself—if I have chosen well, chosen aright, you’ll figure it out. And then, perhaps …”
They held each other and rocked slowly to and fro while the evening came down around them, each seeking strangely and wondrously for an answer that neither knew.
“Victory,” cried Great Crawler; “Victory,” cried Subble Clore, the words splattering around the limits of themselves like molten lead. “Victory, victory, us the conquerors, them on the run, mop ’em up, make ’em gone!” It was like rounding up rabbits, or sheep. The Brannigans had all their devilish devices in a big, big circle, Clore’s and Thob’s and Bland’s and Breaze’s, all
