winds between the peaks, banking one way, then the other, riding the shifting pressures and rising vapors. The rider hung on, his legs tight around the creature’s middle.
“You have not yet told me what I am,” she said.
He suddenly had taken to thinking of the creature as a “she.”
“What do you
“I feel … that I am partly what you are. Partly a man. But not quite. I am …”
“The word is ‘woman.’”
“Yes, I feel that I am a woman. Yet I am more than that. Or less, perhaps.”
“You feel in some way inferior?”
“I cannot say. I am different from anything else in this world. I am alone. I have always been alone.”
“Each of us is inevitably alone in this world. Or any world.”
“I feel that may be true. But some are more alone than others. You say you brought me to life?”
“I did. Do you regret it already?”
“I feel a great emptiness inside. There is a longing, a yearning.”
“That is the woman in you.”
“Indeed? It is a peculiar sensation.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The peaks across the valley drew near. Being higher, these were tipped with snow.
“We need to get over these mountains. Can you do it?”
“I can.”
The huge wings beat faster as she climbed in a spiral. Foothills fell away, and rocky slopes approached. At the top of the spiral she banked, turned, and glided. The snows lay below, very near as the craggy peak passed beneath.
The winds shifted abruptly, and she compensated, subtly changing the angle of attack on the leading surface of her wings. They began the long descent.
“Have you ever hang-glided? Just joking.”
“What is joking?”
“Never mind. Do you feel good about yourself?”
“I still feel very strange. I have been thinking. After we reach your destination, is it your intention to leave me free to my own devices?”
He was long in answering. “I seem unable to lie to you. I have given you life, but it cannot be permanent. Your existence will be brief. But is it not better to exist for even a short time than never to rise to awareness at all?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do not know the answer yet. Life itself seems unutterably strange. There seems to be no sense in it. All I know is that I hunger for something.”
“Hunger is part of life.”
“I thirst,” she said. “I need.”
“Those things as well.”
“Is that what life is? Unfulfilled needs?”
“Partly. Part of it is the attempt, the struggle to fulfill those needs. When the needs are satisfied, stagnation sometimes sets in.”
“I do not know what that could be. But to continue my thoughts — if I am soon to cease existing, why should I not throw you from my back and fly unburdened? For the short time I have allotted to me, it seems constraining that I should be under obligation.”
“I can understand. But I don’t think you will throw me off.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “I feel a bond with you.”
“Perhaps you feel indebted.”
“That, too. But something else. It relates to my hunger.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. But I have not the words to express it. Tell me. Why did you create me only to exist for so short a time?”
“I must confess I was thinking mostly of my own needs at the moment. I needed you for a specific purpose, an urgent one. I did not fully consider all the consequences. I see that I should have given them some thought.”
“Perhaps you should have. But I exist now, and there is no going back. You have told me the reason why I exist. That is enough. I fulfill an urgent need. I am useful.”
“That you are.”
“But it is not easy to exist.”
“No, it is not.”
“There is pain.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“I now know what this hunger is. It is love.”
“Yes,” he said.
“How can I feel this thing for a being who is not very much like me?”
He answered, “But I am like you in some ways. We share a certain mode of being. A humanness.”
“I also feel that we share this, somehow. It is very strange.”
“Such things always are.”
She asked, “Can you reciprocate my feelings in any way?”
“I can greatly admire you. You are a magnificent creature.”
“But you seem to be saying that you cannot love me.”
“Again, I am sorry. What are you feeling now?”
“Sorrow,” she said.
“Aye.”
“And an unnamable feeling, dark and turbulent.”
“Anger.”
“Yes. Thank you. Again I am thinking that it would be better if I threw you off. It would be interesting to watch what happens to a creature such as you who falls from a great height.”
“Is your anger that consuming?”
An interval passed. The wind shrieked as they dove. She leveled off and began beating her wings again, slowly, steadily, maintaining altitude. The land below had become parched, cut with canyons and winding rivers.
“My anger has passed. I no longer want you to die. I still feel love for you, lifegiver. And I must suffer for it.”
“There is an old saying that applies,” he said, “but I can’t bring myself to mouth it. I am sorry to have caused you sorrow, but it appears to have been a necessary part of the scheme of things. If you did not love me, you never would have served me. You, my creation, must cease to exist, and I must live with regret. Such is the lot of creators.”
The terrain had changed again. A wide river crawled below, flanked by grain fields in a patchwork quilt. The fields were crosshatched with canals and irrigation ditches. Huge monuments populated the arid land beyond the fertile fringe of the river.
“Set me down here,” he instructed.
She descended, gliding toward the sprawling grid of a temple complex. Swooping in, wings making a sound like the beating of an excited heart, she landed in a plaza between two ruined buildings.
He dismounted and looked around. Truncated columns, crumbling walls, tumbled obelisks. He did not know Mizzer very well, having only taken a cursory tour many years before. A lover of antiquities, he had always wanted to undertake a serious archeological expedition. Now he wished he had done so. Simply finding the Temple of the Universes would be half the task. It was legendary, and might not even exist anymore, if it ever had. The modern- day inhabitants — most of them not descended from the ancient Mizzerites — were primitive and superstitious, and he could not depend on native help.
