682. thoughts upon the day

ed note: Kyra's notes on the day of departure. Believed to have been written within the first days on Bravo.


I looked upon his eyes and they looked larger, bluer, still as a morning lake.

Pale grey eyes to match the rain, the sky, the withering of my heart.

His hands, too, felt larger as he held my shoulders, taking measure as if a clothier, a tailor who sees as a painter sees.

The day was cold, a steel rain and my feet became wet, numb, planted on the deck of the dock, wanting to root to this place where before my eyes was all I knew of love, of all that had breathed life into me.

He seemed, eye and skin, as some patriarchal elephant, majestic folds of skin, of eyes that held me fixed, of movement deliberate, tracing my features as I did his, as two taking the mask of memory.

All round were others, each lost in their own partings, tears in concert with the rain, arms reaching forth as sun to the branch as branch to sun as the ripe fruit mature for that moment known, forever known to come, to fall, this silent hammer, to fall beyond the ear, even beyond the eye.

His lips came to my cheek and I thought of Grand, of the times they must have embraced, of the love they shared for so many years and the love, perhaps, soon, they would share again; and in this moment, less than but a second it seems now, I felt a sinking, a molting, of what, I could not say other than if, if with a wave of hand, the vessel upon my back could depart to my eye upon it, wave my hand would wave and drive we would the path we drove, this wretched day, this horrid occasion, the sunder of the unseen.

We stood, our breath rolling forth, his, then mine, one, then, the other and I felt a spinning, is if on a merry-go-round, rising and falling, spinning round to the love in a smile, of a grandfather's joy, to the postcard of memory no time could touch.

As his thumbs wiped the tears, there again, as before the fireflies, as on those summer beaches, that warmth, again and as if to do only what I could my eyes released what my tongue could not and he, standing as he always stood, standing as the mountain in winter, absorbed my pouring forth, took as vase to flower, of cup to tea, of me, as before, as now, as I would always remember.

He pulled me as one pulls breath, within, dissolving my resistance into him and chest to chest we were as the ocean, as before Valla, the gentle rising, the warmth of sun, upon cheek, of waters alive in the palette of blue and silver, of laughter and giggles, of being held in his hands, his love; as if he knew, this day, today, would come.

Round my hooded head, as so many times before, his elbow held me as the trees of Valla did so many years before, as I watched him upon the deck, painting, arms wide, of Grand sitting, watching, just watching him, the two of them, some dance in the painting, the sitting, together. I could not then, as now I cannot explain it. How they did it. How even in just this scene, this moment, how the two of them danced in the tilt of a head, the lilt of a voice, the angle of an arm raised, of the quiet watching, as if together they breathed.

681. of beginnings

ed note: if the Story of Kyra were to have a beginning, it might look something like this:

I was leaving. He was not.

He, my grandfather, in white tunic and silver hair, produced an envelope. A single ticket. He stood on one side of the table, myself, on the other. The distance could have been a continent in what was not said, what no words would, could address before our silent eyes, of all that his upheld arm meant. The air itself seemed to thicken and our humid eyes held more than the sight before us, of the distance that was to come between us. When was all I could manage. Tomorrow he said.

We drove to the dock in the silence that precedes a parting, of a leaving, of a decision made not to be unmade. I was leaving. He was not. So we sat, each in our own world, the slate rain blurring the day as events had muddied our paths. He would stay behind. I would go. There was no other way. I always thought I would speak upon his day and lay him in the ground, the floor mine to say my peace, to send him beyond with the mind and heart he had so carefully cultivated. But this was not that. We would part with eyes open and arms that could still grasp and hearts that would know the eternal release of a warm embrace. And of minds that would forever not know the last nor comfort with word and hand those final days. We would say goodbye, standing toe to toe, eyes wide open, wet as rain.

Our planet, Hyneria, was dying, crying storm upon storm, wailing leaf from limb, rending trunk from root and, in this case, separating a granddaughter from her grandfather. He was old he said. Had lived his life. So he would give me the only thing he could now--a chance, to have what he had, a chance to live beyond the rising waters of this world. A chance he said, to begin without burden, to fulfill the promise of my gifts, to seed the generations to come. I cared not a wit for this future. The price too high. The uncertainty too great. My self-doubt, perhaps, too overwhelming.

This is how we drove to the dock. Papa and I in the front seat, Goldie and Blu, our mechanicals, in the rear. My own parents were somewhere, somewhere not here. They had married the climate, their research, stood, I imagined, proudly upon their labors, their proposals, fighting, probably, some lost battle even upon this day. But they were not here, as they had not been, here, for quite some time. And what they looked like were more photographic than memory, more imagination and campfire story than hug and kiss and eyes of witnessed joy and celebration. After my sister died, and their research started receiving attention, I rarely saw them.

We arrived, the scene as some horrid carnival. Everywhere were others. And vessels neighing at moor of all shapes and hues, sizes and makes. A great exodus. At least for some. Like an ocean liner with too few lifeboats, Hyneria did not have enough vessels to evacuate everyone and those that were fortunate enough to be leaving were leaving with no plan, no destination, and perhaps no hope of doing anything but changing time and place, of dying elsewhere. I did not want to go. If I were to die, I wanted to die at home, with my grandfather, at Valla. But this was not his wish. He had given me everything. I could think of no way to deny him; and, I suppose, in hindsight, I knew I couldn't.

My name is Kyra and what follows is a retelling of events before and after that day at the dock when I said goodbye to Papa and to everything I ever knew.

______

Related Chapter: 166. Home, Blu

415. Shone on Me

With the pad of his palm, Trev wiped beads of rain from the face of his chron. She was late. Traffic. Weather. He looked again, as if the looking itself had power, as the evidence of minutes ticked presented their case. With eyes full, he blinked, surveying the crowd on the dock from the awning of his cold dripping hand. Huddles of love, arms linked and eyes locked on loved ones. Any minute, any minute the brown grey masses would part and her bouncing blond hair would appear as a beacon in the brume. Voices awash on the wind, hats held tight to head, coats sodden, rain slapping faces like grinning monkeys, the dock wet with a dull shine. Each hug like a nail. Each kiss a lightning bolt. He looked again into the endless grey.

A voice called from behind. He waved it off. Standing straight, on toes, eyes scanned as wiper blades, alone in their clocking back and forth. The voice called again. He yelled over the wind.

“Trev, you okay?” asked Em.

“What?”

“Your palm is sweating.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. I will be fine. You’ll see. And I will too.” Em smiled.

Trev pulled her tight. Her hair was not blond but the light in her heart shone as the light in his imagination thought it would have.

355. Four Words

We arrived at the dock as shadows grew, the wind as fierce as anything I could remember on this world or any other. The whole landscape seemed a palette of unforgiving grays from the sky dull to the dock sheen. Splattered against this achromous canvas, ships of all makes and sizes, hue faded hulls, bobbed like mobiles on the teetering edge of Hyneria’s crib as numbered flags flapped and yelped like skittish kites anxious to flee their tethered mounts. We felt as babes, and about as small, before an angry mother spewing wind and rain for reasons beyond our comprehension. Powerlessness, I suppose, carries its own phlegmatic resignation, and, oddly enough, a sense of peace, or perhaps just the peace that comes when responsibility and authority has been arrogated by a higher power.

On the platform before us, pockets of goodbyes huddled against the blustery elements, coats brown and grey and black held tight, like so many charcoal smudges, as families longed to slow the hands of time, to hope against hope that if they filibustered long enough, the clouds would cede and the sun would emerge and an announcement would blast news for everyone to return home, the crisis over. Forced smiles looked grotesque, almost as if at any moment they would crack and mothers sported raccoon eyes and crimson noses as words were selected with more care than the forgotten diamonds on their hands. Into this emotional wasteland, Ceru and I leaned into the wind, our hands firmly on our hats, our final goodbye more dreamlike than one would have thought.

We searched for a place to call our own, a place to do in public what should have been private; one had the feeling of urinating in the street, sober, and nobody cared. The whole matter was simply a distasteful nightmare, but one we would not have missed for all the world. When our feet found root, we twisted toward each other, hands finding shoulders as branches seeking support. I would rather not say what we said other than various terms of endearment and hope; promises, we left on the table, since there was no reason for either of us to play those games.

After a hug like two school girls after summer recess, I turned toward Bravo and had not taken more than three or four steps when Ceru yelled Dad. I turned, he upon me, package in hand. He said four words and thrust what appeared to be a box into my chest. Before the tears, from either of us, could flow, he turned and walked away. His gray longcoat swallowed by the interminable misty bleakness. There is a reason to turn. I wish I had. The vision of his backside disappearing, as if consumed by the sea, haunts me to this day and there are times, when the vision is so clear, that my heart threatens to burst, pound, from my chest, as if I have committed some crime. That was the last time I saw my son, the last view I had, the last image ingrained in my mind.

“What were the four words?” asked Kyra, her eyes as misty as Ceru’s must have been.

Von looked at her as if the words would come forth when they were ready, not him. After what could have only been a few seconds he said as distant as if he were back on the dock, “I love you dad.”

Four Words: A Reading



Four Words: Commentary Part 1



Four Words: Commentary Part 2

219. Don't Look Back

[ed note: In this chapter, the Yul we know is Aly.]

The jumper pulled up to the crowded dock and four doors opened in a gale of storm and emotion alike. In every direction ships of all shapes and sizes swayed at anchor, creaking like old men, as families were torn in goodbyes like leaves from autumn trees in a blustery gust.

“Father, may I have a minute with Aly?” asked Yul.

Their father looked vacantly annoyed, divided between honoring Yul’s request while doubting Aly’s merit. He was a large Hynerian, domineering most would say, imposing, no one would deny. Still, what Yul wanted, Yul got. “Make it quick Yul. Schedules must be obeyed.” The look he gave Aly would have frozen a battle hardened soldier.

Yul grabbed Aly by the arm and pulled her around the corner. “Look, we don’t have much time—“

“Hey, let’s cut the crap. I’m not pissed you’re leaving and I’m not. Never expected otherwise. But what the frail! Did you have to wear the same outfit. How bout I just cut my wrist so you can throw a little salt my way, for old times sake, you know, just for fun, one last time.”

“Are you through? Cause if you are, I want your scarf. Here, take mine and give me yours.”

Aly’s jaw dropped. “Are you shiotting me? Holy mother of Janus, I never imagined you . . . . Wait, no frailing sense in . . . Frail it. You want my frailing scarf. Here, take the damn thing.”

“Aly, it’s not what you think.”

“Frailing easy for you to say. You’re not the one with a death sentence, one you didn’t choose, one assigned to you by others. Ever wonder what it’s like to be judged?”

Yul’s face changed and in one fluid motion she slapped the living shiott out of Aly. “Listen up. I’m only going to say this one time and I’m going to say it real slow so that thick head of yours doesn’t frail this up. I’m dying. Got maybe six months to live, perhaps a year with luck, which certainly is longer than this planet’s got.”

Aly wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “So why are you telling me this? You think it gonna make me feel any better?”

Yul just shook her head. “You don’t get it do you?”

“Get what?”

“You think I would dress like you on purpose? My Janus, it about killed my soul to put these clothes on. Look, here’s the deal. Your name is Yul and you are getting on that ship. You understand?”

Aly stood with a deer in the highlights look. “What are you talking about?”

“The whole purpose of getting people off-world is to save them from certain death, to give them a chance to start over. I’m dying Aly. Makes no sense for me to get on that ship when I know you could go in my place.”

“So why—“

“Father. You think he would let you go if he knew?”

“Nope.”

“So, I’m giving you your chance. Now take my scarf. When we walk back around, your name is Yul. You hug Father. Kiss Mother. Ignore me and walk your arse up that plank as quickly as you can. And Aly?

“What?”

“Don’t look back.”

Categories: Story, Yul, Hyneria

217. Remembrance

Their father’s jumper struggled to maintain course in the face of hostile winds and if either of the sisters had had eyes to see, only dour grayness would have presented itself. Instead, one set of eyes looked to the right and the other to the left, and although only a foot or two separated them in the back seat, they might as well been on separate moons.

The dock was just moments ahead and one would have thought, in these last minutes there would have been a race to spill all the words bottled up inside. Instead, just silence, the kind of silence one felt on the way between church and graveyard when even the dullest recognized there was nothing to be said.

One would go and one would stay and the choice had been made. Yul was not surprised. She had never expected to be the one and the fact that their father chose her sister, again, only confirmed her world-view. She was the forgotten one, the forgettable one, the one who disappointed, who could do nothing right, the one who embarrassed, the one they didn’t speak of in family circles. And her sister, Janus bless her and it seemed he did, her dear identical twin sister was the day to her night. Truth be known, Yul would later acknowledge, she had no quarrel with the decision. Her sister was the one deserving of saving, the one who had earned it.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere,” said Rog. He stroked her hair and Yul, her face wet with remembrance, pushed her head tighter into his warm chest, her eyes shut like vaults.

Categories: Story, Rog, Yul, Hyneria

166. Home, Blu

Kyra’s trembling hands accepted the package, grasping the slender metal folio with both hands for fear the turbulent winds whipping off the bay would snatch Papa’s gift for itself. Through eyes blurred with tears, she kissed Papa goodbye; his strong arms pulling her tightly into his broad chest with such might she feared his embrace would crush the unknown treasure in her hands. He barked a few words over the cacophony and wiped the tears from her cheeks before she turned and quickly boarded the waiting vessel.

Zeke leaned his cloaked resolute frame into Bravo’s hot bluish-white blast, the steel-plated deck beneath his feet rattling like an old wooden rollercoaster, the metal handrail transferring a final blessed kiss of warmth to his aged and leathery palms. Defiant and proud, he shunned the standard bulky blast goggles, paying for his unadulterated view with eyes that burned and teared with a scene he never dreamed would shimmer before them. He had seen plenty of mirages in his travels across the sands of Silus; but this was not Silus and that vessel was no mirage. She was leaving. She wasn’t coming back. Quick as lightning with a thunderous cracking report to match, the vessel disappeared into the roiling dark grey clouds taking its warmth and heat as quickly as it had taken his love.

“Master Zeke, are we going home now?” asked Blu, who was, for all intents and purposes, Goldie’s mechanical brother.

“Yes Blu, we’re going home.”

“And Miss Kyra, should we wait for her?”

“No Blu. She’s not coming with us.”

“Oh.”

“On second thought Blu, let’s head to Valla. I don’t much feel like being alone at home tonight.”

“But Master Zeke, you always have me.”

“Yes Blu, I do. I always have you.”

“Should I alert Miss Kyra as to our destination?”

“That won’t be necessary. Miss Kyra won’t be coming back.”

“Oh. And Goldie?”

“Blu, I’m afraid we will never see either of them again. When we get to Valla, would you fix me some snizzle?”

“Yes Master Zeke.”

“And perhaps, just this once Blu, add a drachm of snoot.”

Immeadiately upon arriving at Valla, Zeke entered his study overlooking the cove and begin to write:

I look back on the general unfairness of life, and I wonder where this idea, that everything would even out, wrongs righted, hard work rewarded, I wondered who planted this idea so deeply in the fertile soil of my adolescent mind. If I could find them today, I would beat them to within an inch of their life; an inch with asinine precision, with cold calculation, with malice born of infected rusty oozing bitterness.

“Master Zeke, your snizzle, just as you requested.”

“Thank you Blu.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“Shut down all communications and secure the compound. I need some time alone.”

Categories: Story, Kyra, Papa, Zeke, Hyneria, Blu

118. So Long Lil' Bro

Rog closed his eyes as the vortex pulled Bravo-Four-Zero into its center. The physical sensation of artificial gravity and unexpected g-forces brought back a flood of memories both good and bad.

Rog and his younger brother had spent many hours blasting through the canyons just south of their father's ranch. Skirting the canyons in their hopper at high speed was not without danger and required absolute trust from your co-pilot. Those times, Rog often thought, brought him and his younger brother closer together than anything else they had done.

"Rog, which gate is ours? asked Chaz. Chaz was five years younger than Rog and had always tried to live up to Rog's expectations and earn his respect. The age gap eliminated any sort of sibling rivalry and instead created more of a mentor relationship between the brothers.

"Look for gate nine. That's ours." said Rog.

“Are you nervous Rog?”

“That feeling in your gut Chaz, that’s excitement. This is going to be no different than a ride through the canyons on our hopper. Besides, we always talked about what space travel would be like. This is our chance.”

“Hey, Rog, there it is, our gate.”

“Wait here Chaz.” Rog walked over to the Hynerian with the data slate. What should have been a rather short conversation became quite animated. Chaz couldn’t hear what was being said, but he had seen his brother’s indignation on many occasions. There seemed to be a problem. Chaz was more amused than concerned and couldn’t wait to hear how Rog had handled the apparent dispute.

“Everything okay Rog,” said Chaz, looking a little more worried now that he could take the measure of Rog’s demeanor.

“Seems they only have one of us listed on the flight manifest. You’ve got a ticket to ride brother,” lied Rog, trying to smile as if everything would be okay.

Chaz stood silent, a thousand thoughts running through his head, trying to comprehend what he had just heard. “Well, you are going to work that out aren’t you. I mean, we were promised we would be on the same vessel.”

Rog looked forlorn, a look Chaz had never seen before. “I’m afraid this is one fight I can’t win. But you’ve got a seat and that is one mighty fine ship. Now I don’t want to hear no back talk. You know I can take care of myself. I know where you are and once I find my passage I will track you down like a wayward pampus,” said Rog with a forced grin.

Rog reached out to tussle Chaz’s hair in part to break the mood and in part to hide the look of falsehood he was sure Chaz would pick up on. Once separated, the chances of a reunion were about nil and Rog knew it.

“Hey Rog,” teased Yul, “closing your eyes ain’t gonna make this ride any easier.”

“Yeah, um, about that . . .”

Before Rog could finish, their little vessel began to shake violently. No one was smiling or teasing now.


Categories: Story, Rog, Chaz, Yul.