A small wind came through the trees, bearing a cloud of winged pink blossoms. When the wind died, they perched all together, turning a sapling into flame. Larger wings the color and scent of melons beat slowly from trunk to trunk, the creatures at rest assuming the shape of cups in which golden light pulsed to attract other fliers, darts of violet and a blue so pale it was almost white.
“Joshua,” Rillibee whispered. “You’d have loved this. Miriam, you … you’d have loved this.”
“Heaven,” said the parrot from the top of a tree. “Died and gone to heaven.”
Leaves brushed his face, exuding resinous sweetness. A hard knob of fruit knocked against his arm. He picked it, smelled of it, bit into it. Crisp, sweet-sour, the juice ran into his mouth and was followed by a tingling, almost as though the fruits themselves were effervescent.
The sounds he had heard on the ground were all around him in the trees. Voices. One laughing. One speaking, as though telling a long story to an eager audience, interrupting itself with little side chains of sound. “You’re not going to believe this, but…” “So then, what do you think happened?” If Rillibee closed his eyes, he could see the speaker, cheerfully telling a tale, leaning across a tavern table.
He moved slowly through the branches. The sound faded behind him. He turned and moved toward it once more, caressing the branches with his fingers, loving them with his feet. The voices were off there somewhere among the glowing trees. He would find them eventually.
There was something else to find as well. The girl. Stella. He had set her name beside the other names in his litany. She was to belong to him, to Rillibee Chime. Though her family was wealthy and important, still she would belong to him. Though she herself would disdain him, still …
“Heaven,” whispered the parrot above him.
So he climbed in the night hours. At dawn he found the voices when the sun slanted into their city through leaves of heartbreak gold.
Marjorie woke to birdsong and the music of water. It took her a few moments to remember where she was and a little longer to remember the interruption in the night. When she did, she looked about for Brother Lourai, not finding him but meeting Mainoa’s eyes.
“He hasn’t come back,” the old man said.
“You knew he’d gone off….”
“I knew he woke you and you both went off. But you came back.”
“He went up there.” She gestured at the high spangle of sun among the boughs. “He told me they call him Willy Climb and that he’d be all right.”
Mainoa nodded. “Yes. He will be all right. He’s like you. When things get very difficult, he thinks of dying from time to time, but he’s too curious about what may happen next.”
She flushed, wondering how he knew so much about her. It was true. She was curious about what would happen next. As though something awaited her, personally. Some opportunity….
Father James returned from the nearest pool with a full bucket of water, looking alert and rested. “I haven’t slept that well in weeks,” he said. “I had the oddest dreams.”
“Yes,” said Brother Mainoa again. “I think we all did. Something here invaded our dreams.”
Marjorie stood up and looked about her, suddenly concerned.
“No, no.” The old man rose in slow motion, grasping knobby excrescences on the nearest tree to lift himself up. “Nothing inimical, Marjorie. They, too, are curious.”
“They?”
“Those I think we will meet today, later. After Brother Lourai returns.”
“Hasn’t he some other name?” Tony asked.
“Brother Lourai? Oh, yes. As a boy he was Rillibee. Rillibee Chime. You think he doesn’t look like a brother?”
“Tony is thinking that he doesn’t look like the Sanctified we know,” Marjorie offered. “His eyes are too big. His face too lean and intelligent. His mouth too sensitive. I always think of the Sanctified as thick, enthusiastic people with simple thoughts and a great need for answers. Old Catholics are supposed to be slender and ascetic-looking, with huge, philosophical eyes. These are stereotypes, and I’m sometimes ashamed of my thoughts, but they persist, even when I look into a mirror. You don’t look like a Sanctified either, Brother. But I suppose you’ve used the name Mainoa for too long to give it up.” She turned away in order not to see Father James’ amused and evaluating gaze.
“Far too long,” Mainoa said in agreement, laughing. “But do use Rillibee’s own name. It means much to him. He will appreciate that.”
“We’ll go out and try to pick up the trail today,” Marjorie said.
Mainoa amended her statement. “It may not be possible to do so for a day or two.”
She turned on him, exasperated and frustrated, ready to scream at the delay. Father James laid a hand on her arm.
“Patience, Marjorie. Don’t be obsessive. Let it go a little.”
“I know, Father. But I keep thinking what may be happening to her.”
Father James had been thinking of that, too. His mind dwelt all too frequently on certain monstrousnesses he had heard of in the confessional, on certain perversions and horrors he had read of that he could never have imagined for himself. Why these memories were associated in his mind with the Hippae he did not know, but they were. He set the evil thoughts aside. “We will find her, Marjorie. Trust Brother Mainoa.”
She desisted, willing herself to trust Brother Mainoa, since there was no one else to trust.
They ate cold rations. They washed themselves in a placid pond, one of those which encircled the island. Marjorie and Tony examined the horses, looking closely at their hooves, their legs. Despite the wild run of yesterday, the animals seemed to be uninjured. Though she did her best to remain calm, Marjorie felt herself ready to explode from impatience before they heard the call from above.
Rillibee swarmed down a great vine-draped tree
