Stella wrinkled her nose.
Marjorie stared at the mostly blank page on her lap-desk and sighed silently. No. Even now, Stella did not particularly want to talk to her mother, though she was much nicer about it than she had once been. Soon there would be no mother to talk to, so there was no profit in regret.
“How about talk to me?” Rillibee asked.
“Yes,” Stella caroled. “Yes, I want to talk to you.”
“What do you want to do this afternoon?”
“Go say hello to Brother Mainoa. Pretty soon he’ll be all by himself, so we’d better say hello now.”
“That’s true.” Rillibee nodded, taking her hand as they set slowly off toward the bridge, stopping every step or two to exclaim at a creature or a leaf or a flower.
Marjorie returned to her letter.
Thank you for bringing us current on what has happened at Sanctity. We had already heard that the Hierarch had been overthrown in absentia and that Sanctity itself has been invaded and largely destroyed. The last time Rillibee went to Commons, he was told that Sanctity is only a shell, that the angels upon the towers raise their trumpets to an empty sky. He also learned that all those in the Israfel perished of the plague on an unsettled planet where they’d fled for refuge. They must have carried the plague with them from Grass. I remember Favel Cobham and weep for him. He was a goodhearted boy.
“Stop.” She heard Stella’s voice.
Marjorie looked out. Rillibee had stopped obediently, just short of the bridge. “Why are we stopping?” he asked her.
“I want to see the Arbai lovers. They’re coming along the bridge now.”
The two humans on the bridge and the one in the house watched the inhuman lovers bending across the rail, curling into one another’s arms, entwined. “What’re their names?” Stella said in a stage whisper.
“You know their names as well as I do,” Rillibee replied.
“Tell me!”
“The probably-a-boy’s name is Ssanther. The probably-a-girl’s name is Usswees.”
“Arbai names.”
“Yes. Arbai names.”
Marjorie mouthed the well-known names to herself. Experts had come from Semling and Shafne to record the language spoken in this city and connect it to written words. According to them, the tiny projectors hidden among the trees would go on working for another century or more, throwing Arbai images into the city they had built and died in. Similar projectors had been found in the other city, buried in the ruined walls, lost under the soil, the source for the mysterious visions which had filled the ruins. Now that the specialists understood the language, Arbai artifacts were no longer so enigmatic. Scientists had even succeeded in restoring the Arbai transporters, at least from this end, though they had not been tested yet.
She turned back to her writing.
Here on Grass, the foxen have determined to take charge of their lives. Several new villages have been built with solar-powered fences to keep peepers in and Hippae out. Those foxen who are still capable of doing so have begun laying eggs in these areas. The peepers that hatch from foxen eggs will be kept separately. Foxen will eat only those hatched from Hippae eggs. In time, through this purposeful predation, the malice of the Hippae may be abated.
The Green Brothers have begun gardens around these villages. Where the gardens of Opal Hill once flourished, I have stood upon a newly sprouted first surface which may one day astonish the great Snipopean. The foxen agree that beauty must not be allowed to perish, that whatever else is done, beauty must be conserved lest we impoverish our destinies. Even Klive will be reborn.
Marjorie put down her stylus and rubbed at her cramped fingers as she continued to stare out the window, remembering Klive. Remembering Opal Hill. Such glory in the grass. Even Snipopean could not have told that glory, for he had not danced with the foxen….
She came to herself with a start. She was merely filling pages, giving herself something to occupy the last few hours. Everything was done that she had to do. Her pack lay beside the door, its contents carefully selected. Who could have thought a promise would carry her so far.
Outside on the plaza, Stella tugged at Rillibee. “Come on,” she said. The two of them went along the bridge toward its island end. In the flat green meadow at its base, at the foot of a tall fruit-bearing tree, Mainoa’s grave lay, the herbage above it constantly littered with fruit and seeds and scraps of rind.
Marjorie rose, confronting one of the wall panels carved by Persun Pollut. The first one he had done with his left hand was crude, though full of harsh vitality. The later ones had gained in subtlety and ease of line. He was a great artist, Persun. Too great to stay here on Grass. Elsewhere, he could have a new right hand cloned for him. Well, soon the unwilling tether that held him on Grass would be untied. Then, perhaps he would go….
Marjorie closed the lid of her writing desk, took it by its handle, and went after Stella and Rillibee. Around her the shadow Arbai moved and spoke. Their words had been translated. Their motives were understood. Confronted with evil, these had chosen to die. Marjorie mourned them, but could not regret them. They had been too good to do good. Someone had said that once. Rillibee, she thought. Rillibee, who loved Stella.
The two of them were sitting by Mainoa’s grave mound when she came down the hill. “And how is Brother Mainoa today?” she asked.
Stella leaned forward to neaten the fragrant herbs, brushing away the litter. “He’s going to be lonesome out here by himself.”
“I don’t think so,” Marjorie said, turning slowly to take in all of the meadow: behind its protective fence, the twisted arch of the Arbai transporter, glowing with opalescent light; the blossoming reeds at the edge of the mire; the shaggy trees, towering into heights of heartbreak gold. She turned back to the young ones with a smile. “Not
