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.

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Related Chapter: 166. Home, Blu