Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Man, I just wish I could work on this story. It could be so good if I sat down and worked on it!
Unfortunately, everything is hectic and crammed from here until the end of February--and only then if I'm lucky.
I wish I could take a few months off to sit back, relax, and do nothing but write--all day, all night, until my fingers bleed.
I have so much inside of me. What if I die? So very much will be left unsaid. I can't do that. I have to say things. I may not be remembered as a scientist, as a famous scientist, but I have things to say to the world.
I was going to write a version of the bible. My religious take on life. That would be interesting. I would hope that people would follow it, because it's blazing. The bible of christianity was written by men, believed to be the word of god by them but still influenced by what they were, when they lived, and what the mores of the time were.
Mine would also be biased, but I think it would be more sensical. Less of the, 'We're all doomed, we're all going to burn, unless we beg this holier than us to forgive us, everyday, all the time.'
Some people CAN'T do that. Are they unforgiven? I don't believe that.
I believe that all are forgiven, no matter what--I believe that our only punishment is that we also have to forgive ourselves. That's the hardest thing to do--to look at what we've done, really face it, really see it, and see how wrong some things we've done are, and then realize they were wrong and forgive ourselves.
I don't care about free will--no person consciously, willingly, vocally chooses to go to hell. No one wakes up one day and says, it would sure be a great day to go to hell today. I WANT to go to hell. I WANT to suffer like that.
No one chooses that. Not even sadist/masochist people (I can't remember which is which). Nobody.
ah well. I thought I told myself I wasn't going to get into religion.
Go read Book of Whispers. It's much better. You even get to learn a little bit about Tasiha, and my REAL story... :D
Unfortunately, everything is hectic and crammed from here until the end of February--and only then if I'm lucky.
I wish I could take a few months off to sit back, relax, and do nothing but write--all day, all night, until my fingers bleed.
I have so much inside of me. What if I die? So very much will be left unsaid. I can't do that. I have to say things. I may not be remembered as a scientist, as a famous scientist, but I have things to say to the world.
I was going to write a version of the bible. My religious take on life. That would be interesting. I would hope that people would follow it, because it's blazing. The bible of christianity was written by men, believed to be the word of god by them but still influenced by what they were, when they lived, and what the mores of the time were.
Mine would also be biased, but I think it would be more sensical. Less of the, 'We're all doomed, we're all going to burn, unless we beg this holier than us to forgive us, everyday, all the time.'
Some people CAN'T do that. Are they unforgiven? I don't believe that.
I believe that all are forgiven, no matter what--I believe that our only punishment is that we also have to forgive ourselves. That's the hardest thing to do--to look at what we've done, really face it, really see it, and see how wrong some things we've done are, and then realize they were wrong and forgive ourselves.
I don't care about free will--no person consciously, willingly, vocally chooses to go to hell. No one wakes up one day and says, it would sure be a great day to go to hell today. I WANT to go to hell. I WANT to suffer like that.
No one chooses that. Not even sadist/masochist people (I can't remember which is which). Nobody.
ah well. I thought I told myself I wasn't going to get into religion.
Go read Book of Whispers. It's much better. You even get to learn a little bit about Tasiha, and my REAL story... :D
Friday, December 12, 2003
I got a guestbook. check it out at the Book of Whispers site.
Saturday, November 29, 2003
All right, if anybody knows how to add a:
a) guestbook
or
b) some form in which somebody else can post comments on my site...
PLEASE EMAIL me! KasKade113@aol.com
a) guestbook
or
b) some form in which somebody else can post comments on my site...
PLEASE EMAIL me! KasKade113@aol.com
Friday, November 28, 2003
Weird... Occasionally when you refresh this page you get *freakin* strange stuff--like comics, or strange pics, or just weird things like lists of the times and dates I've posted, but no blog. I think the server is malfunctioning. Either that or I'm getting hacked.
Freakin weird.
Freakin weird.
ARGH! can anyone tell me why my dratted links do not work?
Never mind... *changes template*
Never mind... *changes template*
I've forgotten how much I really love this book. It has such intense descriptions--such metaphorical moments and such beauty in its actual language. Sure, it needs editing... but it's good! It deserves to be edited!
*whew*
*whew*
whew... that's all I've *edited* so far. from here on, I don't like, except for tiny excerpts here and there, and the conclusion. I'm considering waiting to post it until I finish mutilating it to fit my needs.
Chapter 7
A single stroke of thunder resounded and echoed and revolved within her chest—a heartbeat, but one so loud it shook the earth and cracked the sky and rattled the tiny tribe that crouched, now, in near-miserable existence by the cave.
But she did not wake.
The sun, bound as it was to the eternal gold of her bright eyes—bound in ways she had never known, but bound nonetheless—spun a furious path across the heavens, tossing around, swirling and streaking the sky with a thousand vivid shades of scarlet and crimson, ochre and blonde, sapphire and indigo, all the brilliant colors of day, mingled with a shining ivory that rivaled the sheer clarity of the sands that outlined the earth below.
But she could not wake.
That same thunderous blow struck the earth and the sky, and the elements trembled at the force of such a powerful heartbeat, such a throbbing, swelling, ricocheting echo of life and blood. The sun threw up its rays in brilliance, emitting great bright beams of glimmering and all-encompassing light, light that penetrated and absolved the universe of all forms of darkness, radiating until there was nothing in existence but purity and clarity, until the whole of the world no longer existed in color, but solely in shades of white, and even the most indissoluble of ebony shadows was reduced to a mere smear of pale gray across the ivory stricken land.
But still she would not wake.
The heartbeat chimed a giant blow for a third time, and this time as it struck the sky and earth it rolled and reverberated, echoed back and forth and shot strains of music and noise into millions of different octaves. The strident and chaotic chords of the heartbeat pulsated into infinity, past eternity, diffusing and spreading the intense and desperate and beautiful rhythm amongst the very stars, prolonging and aching and echoing forever and ever in the distance. A rhythm eternal rocked the earth, a beat within a beat, a strident drumming that simply endured, and would not—could not—fail. And that pulsation continued to resonate from one horizon to the other, back and forth, ringing and singing in great waves of intensity that rippled across existence and distorted it and changed it, until the noise and the beat and the rhythm were all that existed, all of them together in a single moment of sheer and brilliant intensity that devoured the mind and destroyed the soul. And yet from that destructive, devastatingly intense and powerful chord came life anew, life and power found deep within the reverberations and the impact of each incoming wave of noise. The promise of life flourished and swelled with each passing moment.
The chord died slowly, like a sigh upon the wind, diminishing into a silence that made ebony seem bright and made the sun more blinding than the pure ivory existence that had overcome the world. The silence fell as a blanket over the universe, and covered the world, until noise itself, even that intense and beautiful, terrible and powerful, all-consuming and all-conquering chord, no longer existed—indeed, all that existed was that moment of silence so intense that it hurt to hear it, that was more painful in all its quiet power than each and every one of the three striking blows—heartbeats—that had previously strived to damage and rebuild, more painful and more powerful than anything that had or might have come before, and each and every ear screamed in the silence of the world.
And the dream, the possibility of life, turned to ashes in the air, and before even the barest gust of wind could rise, it crumpled into nothing and fell away, for she did not wake.
The sun plummeted from the sky, and a great gray swelling matter filled its place—clouds. And beneath this furor and mayhem, Ajabin lay crumpled on the ground, silent and alone, brimming with death, lacking a heartbeat—lost in the intangible distances of stars—still upon the beaten earth, with scraps of the dusty earth storm blanketing her. Her small body was infused with the brilliance of the sun, and she glowed, and the light vibrated and pulsed much as her heartbeat once had, dancing over and around her in stunningly brilliant patterns across her skin. The light that infused her cast bright shadows all about her. She lay there, bright as the sun and blanketed with dust as the stars are blanketed with moonlight, covered up by the earth and pillowed by light as if in deep slumber, gently cradled by the world as if for a journey to said and blanketed stars.
And although she lay thus cradled, and thus slumbered in silence and solitude and stillness, she was also alive.
For deep within her, far into the depths of her heart and soul, beyond her mind and through her spirit, into the very center of her entire being, she opened her eyes, and gazed all about her in awe.
A single stroke of thunder resounded and echoed and revolved within her chest—a heartbeat, but one so loud it shook the earth and cracked the sky and rattled the tiny tribe that crouched, now, in near-miserable existence by the cave.
But she did not wake.
The sun, bound as it was to the eternal gold of her bright eyes—bound in ways she had never known, but bound nonetheless—spun a furious path across the heavens, tossing around, swirling and streaking the sky with a thousand vivid shades of scarlet and crimson, ochre and blonde, sapphire and indigo, all the brilliant colors of day, mingled with a shining ivory that rivaled the sheer clarity of the sands that outlined the earth below.
But she could not wake.
That same thunderous blow struck the earth and the sky, and the elements trembled at the force of such a powerful heartbeat, such a throbbing, swelling, ricocheting echo of life and blood. The sun threw up its rays in brilliance, emitting great bright beams of glimmering and all-encompassing light, light that penetrated and absolved the universe of all forms of darkness, radiating until there was nothing in existence but purity and clarity, until the whole of the world no longer existed in color, but solely in shades of white, and even the most indissoluble of ebony shadows was reduced to a mere smear of pale gray across the ivory stricken land.
But still she would not wake.
The heartbeat chimed a giant blow for a third time, and this time as it struck the sky and earth it rolled and reverberated, echoed back and forth and shot strains of music and noise into millions of different octaves. The strident and chaotic chords of the heartbeat pulsated into infinity, past eternity, diffusing and spreading the intense and desperate and beautiful rhythm amongst the very stars, prolonging and aching and echoing forever and ever in the distance. A rhythm eternal rocked the earth, a beat within a beat, a strident drumming that simply endured, and would not—could not—fail. And that pulsation continued to resonate from one horizon to the other, back and forth, ringing and singing in great waves of intensity that rippled across existence and distorted it and changed it, until the noise and the beat and the rhythm were all that existed, all of them together in a single moment of sheer and brilliant intensity that devoured the mind and destroyed the soul. And yet from that destructive, devastatingly intense and powerful chord came life anew, life and power found deep within the reverberations and the impact of each incoming wave of noise. The promise of life flourished and swelled with each passing moment.
The chord died slowly, like a sigh upon the wind, diminishing into a silence that made ebony seem bright and made the sun more blinding than the pure ivory existence that had overcome the world. The silence fell as a blanket over the universe, and covered the world, until noise itself, even that intense and beautiful, terrible and powerful, all-consuming and all-conquering chord, no longer existed—indeed, all that existed was that moment of silence so intense that it hurt to hear it, that was more painful in all its quiet power than each and every one of the three striking blows—heartbeats—that had previously strived to damage and rebuild, more painful and more powerful than anything that had or might have come before, and each and every ear screamed in the silence of the world.
And the dream, the possibility of life, turned to ashes in the air, and before even the barest gust of wind could rise, it crumpled into nothing and fell away, for she did not wake.
The sun plummeted from the sky, and a great gray swelling matter filled its place—clouds. And beneath this furor and mayhem, Ajabin lay crumpled on the ground, silent and alone, brimming with death, lacking a heartbeat—lost in the intangible distances of stars—still upon the beaten earth, with scraps of the dusty earth storm blanketing her. Her small body was infused with the brilliance of the sun, and she glowed, and the light vibrated and pulsed much as her heartbeat once had, dancing over and around her in stunningly brilliant patterns across her skin. The light that infused her cast bright shadows all about her. She lay there, bright as the sun and blanketed with dust as the stars are blanketed with moonlight, covered up by the earth and pillowed by light as if in deep slumber, gently cradled by the world as if for a journey to said and blanketed stars.
And although she lay thus cradled, and thus slumbered in silence and solitude and stillness, she was also alive.
For deep within her, far into the depths of her heart and soul, beyond her mind and through her spirit, into the very center of her entire being, she opened her eyes, and gazed all about her in awe.
Chapter 6
The night had passed. The sun was a glaring bright globe directly over her. She squinted against it, and in a rush all the sensations that had been lost during her falling now returned to her.
Heat sank deep into her body, scorching her limbs, baking her thoroughly. The ground was hard against her, all around, and a large, awkward rock was wedged between the earth and the small of her back. Her mouth was parched and puckered. Her nose lifted to the air and caught a whiff of dust. The wind whispered in her ears, bidding her rise and wake.
She sat up, and looked up at the brilliant sun, and unbidden her lips cracked open and her tongue drew back and she slurped giddily at a brilliant golden pool of sunlight that trickled between her lips. She could not get enough of such a sensation, of the pure and powerful taste of the light of the sun.
She could not, for some reason, remember hitting the ground. She rubbed her head—it throbbed and ached briefly with the remnant of a rhythm, the memory of a moment, an epitome of ebony, a descent of darkness—but there was no sharp pain, and there was no blood. Somehow, she had escaped that most inevitable of all fates and fears—Death.
She pulled herself up with the aid of a nearby bush, and gasped in a brief moment of pain and shock—she had not noticed a blazing wound on her hand. There was blood smeared from halfway down her palm to the base of her wrist. She stared at it for some time in horror before coming to herself. Quickly, she spat on it, then snatched some of the leaves of the bush and wiped away that crimson smear. In moments, it was gone, but there was a jagged red scar on her palm. She stared at it for a moment, squinted, and tilted her head back slightly.
It was a circle, marked at four points by straight lines, and each line was cut by another, shorter line. It was the symbol of the sun that she had found present again and again on this mountain. A chill ran over her, and she thought of the cave she had seen. Quickly, she lifted her eyes and stared at the top of the mountain.
It winked and twinkled at her.
A sudden, brief, intense and utterly inexplicable fury boiled up within her. It was the result of a million tiny slights, of a few too many cutting remarks from Laijann, of one too many strange occurrences here on the mountain, of one too many of those strange symbols, of the sun, a result of the brilliant cave and the streaming sun and the tremendous fall and of that terrible all-consuming darkness.
She stood still on the rocky, beaten terrain, her spine infinitely straight, her hands rigid and pointed at the earth, her palms forward, and lifted her face to the sun-bleached, baking sky and cried aloud, “What do you want with me?”
In answer, the wind rose in all its splendid fury, sweeping in great gusts across her frail body, plastering her hair back from her face, blasting grit and sand in her eyes, making her stagger about with its sheer force. It was more than force—it was more than the sky—it was more than nature. It was more than the mountain. Something else, something strange, was answering her challenge. More than that, however, it was answering her with one of its own, trying to clear her from the slope, trying to erase her from all existence, trying to push her off the edge of the plateau behind her.
Trying, and failing.
Ajabin had at first cringed from the sheer unadulterated fury in the element, directed at her from the mountain that had gone through such great efforts to make her aware of the presence of the sun. But the same small intangible thought which had previously snapped inside of her would not now give up. She had found something within herself that she never thought to experience before. She had put on her cleansed soul and looked at it, and looked at the light within, and through the light and through the brilliance of her soul she had found courage, courage within herself.
She dropped to her knees as the mountain bent its energy upon her, but it was not to give up that she fell. It was not in fear that she fell. She was no longer afraid. She fell to survive, to allow the wind to plaster her to the ground instead of forcing her from it, to remain upon this earth instead of being blasted into the next one. Even then, flat as she was against the ground, the sheer power of the wind swelled and swelled all the greater, until she began to slide across the dust-slick plateau.
Then she was afraid.
Fear clamped itself around her heart and sank into her pores and devoured her, until there was nothing left to her but a dark, gibbering panic and a set level of madness, and she clutched and scrabbled madly at the earth as the brink of the plateau loomed ever closer to her.
But again, something had snapped within her; that self-pity that had previously restrained and restricted all that she was no longer existed. She would not now give up. Somehow, she found within her tattered soul the vestiges of hope, and as she clung to them she saw that the fear that had consumed her was not a part of her—that it was a part of the darkness that she had previously contested, and she knew in an instant that the wind was not of the mountain, not of the sun, not of the earth or the desert or the light or nature, but of the darkness that existed within all of these things. And if it went uncontested, she knew, it would soon overcome that in which it dwelt.
So she contested it. She lifted her head up in the roaring wave of wind and sand, the cloud of earth, and shouted out, “I am not afraid!”
And she was not. Though she was now an intrinsic part of the storm of earth and sky and beaten wind, she was not afraid. The wind caught her, and took her out over the ledge, and she was lost in a maelstrom of dirt and dust, of beaten rock that tumbled round and round her, of fury and of wind, of sky and earth. The maelstrom wove itself greater and greater, towering higher with each passing moment, until the sky and the very sun itself seemed blotted out in great whirls of dust and earth.
And the sun was not afraid, for somehow her words reached it. A single brilliant beam of light pierced the maelstrom, shot through the dust, quelled the earth, subdued the wind, checked the beaten air and suppressed the fury. The tornado shattered around that piercing, brilliant beam of light, and as the sun held steady above the whole world, it fell apart in great tatters and shards of dusty earth and furious sky, until it had spun itself down into nothing.
Ajabin lay upon the ground in the center of the twister as it dissipated, still and silent—so still. The dust draped itself over her, and the entirety of nature fell silent.
Silent.
The single shard of sunlight became many, and they fell together upon the small girl and washed her with brilliance, and she glowed beneath the light.
The night had passed. The sun was a glaring bright globe directly over her. She squinted against it, and in a rush all the sensations that had been lost during her falling now returned to her.
Heat sank deep into her body, scorching her limbs, baking her thoroughly. The ground was hard against her, all around, and a large, awkward rock was wedged between the earth and the small of her back. Her mouth was parched and puckered. Her nose lifted to the air and caught a whiff of dust. The wind whispered in her ears, bidding her rise and wake.
She sat up, and looked up at the brilliant sun, and unbidden her lips cracked open and her tongue drew back and she slurped giddily at a brilliant golden pool of sunlight that trickled between her lips. She could not get enough of such a sensation, of the pure and powerful taste of the light of the sun.
She could not, for some reason, remember hitting the ground. She rubbed her head—it throbbed and ached briefly with the remnant of a rhythm, the memory of a moment, an epitome of ebony, a descent of darkness—but there was no sharp pain, and there was no blood. Somehow, she had escaped that most inevitable of all fates and fears—Death.
She pulled herself up with the aid of a nearby bush, and gasped in a brief moment of pain and shock—she had not noticed a blazing wound on her hand. There was blood smeared from halfway down her palm to the base of her wrist. She stared at it for some time in horror before coming to herself. Quickly, she spat on it, then snatched some of the leaves of the bush and wiped away that crimson smear. In moments, it was gone, but there was a jagged red scar on her palm. She stared at it for a moment, squinted, and tilted her head back slightly.
It was a circle, marked at four points by straight lines, and each line was cut by another, shorter line. It was the symbol of the sun that she had found present again and again on this mountain. A chill ran over her, and she thought of the cave she had seen. Quickly, she lifted her eyes and stared at the top of the mountain.
It winked and twinkled at her.
A sudden, brief, intense and utterly inexplicable fury boiled up within her. It was the result of a million tiny slights, of a few too many cutting remarks from Laijann, of one too many strange occurrences here on the mountain, of one too many of those strange symbols, of the sun, a result of the brilliant cave and the streaming sun and the tremendous fall and of that terrible all-consuming darkness.
She stood still on the rocky, beaten terrain, her spine infinitely straight, her hands rigid and pointed at the earth, her palms forward, and lifted her face to the sun-bleached, baking sky and cried aloud, “What do you want with me?”
In answer, the wind rose in all its splendid fury, sweeping in great gusts across her frail body, plastering her hair back from her face, blasting grit and sand in her eyes, making her stagger about with its sheer force. It was more than force—it was more than the sky—it was more than nature. It was more than the mountain. Something else, something strange, was answering her challenge. More than that, however, it was answering her with one of its own, trying to clear her from the slope, trying to erase her from all existence, trying to push her off the edge of the plateau behind her.
Trying, and failing.
Ajabin had at first cringed from the sheer unadulterated fury in the element, directed at her from the mountain that had gone through such great efforts to make her aware of the presence of the sun. But the same small intangible thought which had previously snapped inside of her would not now give up. She had found something within herself that she never thought to experience before. She had put on her cleansed soul and looked at it, and looked at the light within, and through the light and through the brilliance of her soul she had found courage, courage within herself.
She dropped to her knees as the mountain bent its energy upon her, but it was not to give up that she fell. It was not in fear that she fell. She was no longer afraid. She fell to survive, to allow the wind to plaster her to the ground instead of forcing her from it, to remain upon this earth instead of being blasted into the next one. Even then, flat as she was against the ground, the sheer power of the wind swelled and swelled all the greater, until she began to slide across the dust-slick plateau.
Then she was afraid.
Fear clamped itself around her heart and sank into her pores and devoured her, until there was nothing left to her but a dark, gibbering panic and a set level of madness, and she clutched and scrabbled madly at the earth as the brink of the plateau loomed ever closer to her.
But again, something had snapped within her; that self-pity that had previously restrained and restricted all that she was no longer existed. She would not now give up. Somehow, she found within her tattered soul the vestiges of hope, and as she clung to them she saw that the fear that had consumed her was not a part of her—that it was a part of the darkness that she had previously contested, and she knew in an instant that the wind was not of the mountain, not of the sun, not of the earth or the desert or the light or nature, but of the darkness that existed within all of these things. And if it went uncontested, she knew, it would soon overcome that in which it dwelt.
So she contested it. She lifted her head up in the roaring wave of wind and sand, the cloud of earth, and shouted out, “I am not afraid!”
And she was not. Though she was now an intrinsic part of the storm of earth and sky and beaten wind, she was not afraid. The wind caught her, and took her out over the ledge, and she was lost in a maelstrom of dirt and dust, of beaten rock that tumbled round and round her, of fury and of wind, of sky and earth. The maelstrom wove itself greater and greater, towering higher with each passing moment, until the sky and the very sun itself seemed blotted out in great whirls of dust and earth.
And the sun was not afraid, for somehow her words reached it. A single brilliant beam of light pierced the maelstrom, shot through the dust, quelled the earth, subdued the wind, checked the beaten air and suppressed the fury. The tornado shattered around that piercing, brilliant beam of light, and as the sun held steady above the whole world, it fell apart in great tatters and shards of dusty earth and furious sky, until it had spun itself down into nothing.
Ajabin lay upon the ground in the center of the twister as it dissipated, still and silent—so still. The dust draped itself over her, and the entirety of nature fell silent.
Silent.
The single shard of sunlight became many, and they fell together upon the small girl and washed her with brilliance, and she glowed beneath the light.
Chapter 5
She fell backwards through the air, plummeting away with heart-stopping speed. The wind bawled in her ears and a scream rose in her throat. Her eyes lifted, and she saw a blaze of light above.
Silence.
Blindness.
Senseless. She felt nothing. There was no longer any wind about her. The air was gone. The heat. The scream in her throat. The dust on her tongue. It ceased to be. She felt nothing. She was empty, senseless, and all that remained was the ricocheting echo of everything she had ever experienced and anything she had ever lived for.
The roaring of the wind died away to a murmur, a whisper in the ears. Her scream dwindled and faded. A great hollow rushing sound began to swell deep within her mind, filling her with a monstrous noise. It grew, until it was a pulsing conglomerate of dark rhythm and strange movement. She no longer had any concept of the ground—of descent—of falling. Darkness absorbed her and sought the threshold of her soul. There was darkness all about her—more than the darkness of nighttime—more intense. Angrier. The roaring filled her ears again, and she turned, searching for its source, but the noise evaded her. The intense throbbing swelled all the louder, an incredible drumming that ricocheted within her skull, until it was everything; a dark, dismal pulsation redefining her entire existence, changing her, writhing within.
A brilliant pinpoint lit up in the distance of the ebony-encased and brooding landscape. The dark rhythm that had invaded her began to thunder, and every particle of her now-desecrated soul tried to flee from the light. But Ajabin, in a moment of self-revelation, saw herself reflected and refracted in the speckle of sun, and strived with all her corrupted soul, struggling to throw off the ebony and free herself, fighting to return to the light.
The light swelled about her, and the triumphant pulsation, the drumming of darkness, the rhythm of ebony, was forced down within her, forced away, and the light became all, and it filled her eyes and blinded her, pierced her. It reached down deep inside her soul and touched her, and awoke something within her that was strange and bright—a type of power that scared her with its intensity, frightened her with its brilliance. The power swelled within her as the light swelled without, and with both energies swelled a heart-breaking crescendo of a single pure voice, into the octaves and away below the bass.
Then, silence.
The world was opaque and translucent, brilliant, brilliance all around. She fought, now, to peel open her clenched eyelids. Somehow she won the struggle, and opened her eyes, but the world, though slightly brighter, was still filmy all about her. She tried again, fighting the ever-present weight of her eyelids that clamped them closed, and dragged them open, only to find that yet again the world was opaque. But it was brighter. And she knew that the sun and the light she so desperately craved lay beyond an infinite number of eyelids that were infinitely difficult to open.
For a moment she cringed at the thought of the immense effort that would be necessary to see the sun—but her desire for it could not be denied. Her passion could not be denied. All of her hopes and her dreams, her wants and needs, every particle of her being that strove within for the brilliance of the light could not be denied, nor denounced, nor pushed aside. And she placed all these, her hope, desire, dream, and need, all within her eyes, and she opened her soul to the light. As she did so, she saw that there was nothing more than she herself that kept her from that which she sought.
In that moment, she realized nothing could keep her from it—nothing but herself.
And she opened her eyes.
She fell backwards through the air, plummeting away with heart-stopping speed. The wind bawled in her ears and a scream rose in her throat. Her eyes lifted, and she saw a blaze of light above.
Silence.
Blindness.
Senseless. She felt nothing. There was no longer any wind about her. The air was gone. The heat. The scream in her throat. The dust on her tongue. It ceased to be. She felt nothing. She was empty, senseless, and all that remained was the ricocheting echo of everything she had ever experienced and anything she had ever lived for.
The roaring of the wind died away to a murmur, a whisper in the ears. Her scream dwindled and faded. A great hollow rushing sound began to swell deep within her mind, filling her with a monstrous noise. It grew, until it was a pulsing conglomerate of dark rhythm and strange movement. She no longer had any concept of the ground—of descent—of falling. Darkness absorbed her and sought the threshold of her soul. There was darkness all about her—more than the darkness of nighttime—more intense. Angrier. The roaring filled her ears again, and she turned, searching for its source, but the noise evaded her. The intense throbbing swelled all the louder, an incredible drumming that ricocheted within her skull, until it was everything; a dark, dismal pulsation redefining her entire existence, changing her, writhing within.
A brilliant pinpoint lit up in the distance of the ebony-encased and brooding landscape. The dark rhythm that had invaded her began to thunder, and every particle of her now-desecrated soul tried to flee from the light. But Ajabin, in a moment of self-revelation, saw herself reflected and refracted in the speckle of sun, and strived with all her corrupted soul, struggling to throw off the ebony and free herself, fighting to return to the light.
The light swelled about her, and the triumphant pulsation, the drumming of darkness, the rhythm of ebony, was forced down within her, forced away, and the light became all, and it filled her eyes and blinded her, pierced her. It reached down deep inside her soul and touched her, and awoke something within her that was strange and bright—a type of power that scared her with its intensity, frightened her with its brilliance. The power swelled within her as the light swelled without, and with both energies swelled a heart-breaking crescendo of a single pure voice, into the octaves and away below the bass.
Then, silence.
The world was opaque and translucent, brilliant, brilliance all around. She fought, now, to peel open her clenched eyelids. Somehow she won the struggle, and opened her eyes, but the world, though slightly brighter, was still filmy all about her. She tried again, fighting the ever-present weight of her eyelids that clamped them closed, and dragged them open, only to find that yet again the world was opaque. But it was brighter. And she knew that the sun and the light she so desperately craved lay beyond an infinite number of eyelids that were infinitely difficult to open.
For a moment she cringed at the thought of the immense effort that would be necessary to see the sun—but her desire for it could not be denied. Her passion could not be denied. All of her hopes and her dreams, her wants and needs, every particle of her being that strove within for the brilliance of the light could not be denied, nor denounced, nor pushed aside. And she placed all these, her hope, desire, dream, and need, all within her eyes, and she opened her soul to the light. As she did so, she saw that there was nothing more than she herself that kept her from that which she sought.
In that moment, she realized nothing could keep her from it—nothing but herself.
And she opened her eyes.
Chapter 4
For a moment she sat in stunned silence, contemplating the razory edges of the leaf and the remembrance of the shifting rock engraved in her mind. She was startled, suddenly. Something strange had tied the sun to this mountain—through this little symbol, she knew.
But she was not afraid. She was excited. Drawing in deep breaths, she stared about her, looking for something, for anything, that matched this bright symbol. She glanced at the cliff face above—at the hard ground below—at the far horizon, as if it might contain some strange design that matched or gave her an idea of what this was all about.
There was the sun itself. She sipped briefly at its rays, and turned away…and then turned back sharply. The sun was nearing the horizon. It would soon be dark, and she had to get home to talk to Naaji—maybe she could show the woman what she had found.
The reaction of the mountain to her thoughts was visible, tangible, and violent. The sky darkened. In one moment, it went from brilliantly elegant to angry and dark. The wind whipped her hair about; the trees lashed, the leaves cut through the air and sliced against the sky. The ground shook and rolled under her feet until she fell over. The trees loomed larger and larger in her vision, overcoming all her sight, dominating everything, ruling the entire world, changing and distorting it, until she cried aloud.
"Stop! Stop!"
But the wind continued to bite at her face, and in it she heard a distant echo of her words—and her past came back to her, and her promise. She no longer had a home to turn to—nor did she want one. She would not go back, and silently within herself she reaffirmed that dedication.
The wind died. The trees returned to normal. The sky lightened.
She slowly pushed herself to her feet and stared, fearfully at the trees.
"Strange," she said aloud. "Strange." Strange, indeed, that the mountain would respond to her thoughts. Frightening, even. Why could it read her when she was not open to being read? Dark was falling faster than ever before, and she knew that she would have to sleep out here, under a sunless sky, before the sun might rise again.
The wind tugged at her hair and drew her to the far left of the plateau. She wandered away from the trees and leaned against the sheer cliff face. She heaved a deep sigh and gazed out across the landscape all around her. It was so strange—she felt very much at home here on the mountain. She felt as if she were more likely to be herself here than out on the blatant, beautiful stretch of endless ivory sand. And yet, the mountain was strange. It reacted to her presence—it responded to her.
She settled herself down on the ground, her back against one of the tree trunks, and watched the descending sky, sipping briefly at the final rays of light as they sank below the horizon. Then it was dark all around her, and she was dreadfully alone.
The tree arched against her in the wind as if trying to comfort her, and she would have fallen asleep had the sky not began to rain down a thousand leaves upon her—emerald leaves, inky with night, that got in her hair and her eyes and tickled her until she threw herself away from the tree in desperation.
The leaves stopped falling, and as she bent to brush them from her, they died silently, and withered, and crumpled into dust in her hands, and the bright wind lifted the dust from her stunned fingers and sent it skittering off across the mountain. She followed the dusty cyclones slowly with her eyes...and stopped in shock
There, weaving precariously up the side of the mountain, was a path she had not noticed before.
It was very narrow, and it was difficult to see, especially in the dark—though there were bright stars in the fading sky, the moons had not yet risen. But she found that she could climb along it, and she did. She had gone several yards and had gained confidence in the tight shuffle-step that led her along, when she made the mistake of looking down.
It was a long, reeling drop to the ground below. She gasped, and jumped, lost her balance, caught desperately at the cliff, missed her grip, started to fall, found her grip, caught herself, and lay limply against the cliff. Her eyes would not lift themselves—they fixated upon the ground, so very, very far below. A large rock broke away from beneath her trembling feet and plummeted away, tumbling end over end through space before smashing, shattering on the far earth.
She saw, in an instant, the exact same thing happening to her own small, fragile body and became lost in scream after silent, mindless, terrible scream. She was not sure how long she perched there, lost in mindless terror at the prospect of a seemingly inevitable and gruesome fate, but some time later, be it hours or seconds, she jerked her eyes up from the ground and fixed them on the rock before her. She stood still for a moment, seeking solace from her fear in the pockmarked surface in front of her.
It took her a full moment to realize what she was seeing. Handholds. She took a deep breath and lifted her hands and dug them into the closest holds, and began to pull herself up the face of the cliff.
With every passing moment, she saw again and again the plummeting rock and imagined herself in its place, to shatter, lifeless, on the far earth. Twice her feet slipped, and once her hands, and for a heart-stopping moment each time she thought herself gone, but somehow, something held her up, and kept her going, kept her from achieving her imagined fate.
Finally, after what seemed like ages but according to the passage of the sun was merely minutes, she saw above her an outcropping, and a ledge. Why, she thought to herself, am I doing this? Her only answer was I do not know. She pulled herself upwards until at last her fingers grasped the tip of the ledge. She got her arms upon it, and rested them there, and hung on. For a moment she rested upon the flat surface. Then she lifted her head and looked about.
There was little to the plateau she had reached. It was simple, and rather small, bare of trees and even rocks. In fact, the plateau itself seemed almost too smooth, too clear of objects. She stared.
The wind picked up, and scoured away at the ground, and a great cloud of dust rose around her, and she coughed, and nearly lost her grip, and closed her eyes in desperation and coughed, and coughed again, until she was lost in the dust in her lungs and the wind all around her.
It died down. She carefully peeled her eyes open and glanced around again, and gaped at the ground. For where it had been smooth, if dusty, and clear of markings or rocks or anything, there were now lines and markings carved deep into the ground.
She gasped in shock, for it was the same symbol there on the ground as had been on the rock and the leaf. She looked up, and lifted her gaze, and caught sight of the cliff wall facing her. It was hollowed out. There was a cave. She stared at it, peered deep into the shadows of the cave, squinting, trying to make out the shapes that dwelt within. There was a dim glow of light twisting and churning within it, and she thought that she saw an outline of a shadow.
At the same moment, the shadow seemed to catch a glimpse of her, for she heard one harsh word that fell solidly to the ground and did not echo, and the cave exploded with brilliance despite the night, blinding her. Ajabin cried out, threw a hand up over her face to protect her eyes, felt herself lose her grip on the rock, clawed desperately and blindly at the ledge before her, and plummeted away from the plateau.
For a moment she sat in stunned silence, contemplating the razory edges of the leaf and the remembrance of the shifting rock engraved in her mind. She was startled, suddenly. Something strange had tied the sun to this mountain—through this little symbol, she knew.
But she was not afraid. She was excited. Drawing in deep breaths, she stared about her, looking for something, for anything, that matched this bright symbol. She glanced at the cliff face above—at the hard ground below—at the far horizon, as if it might contain some strange design that matched or gave her an idea of what this was all about.
There was the sun itself. She sipped briefly at its rays, and turned away…and then turned back sharply. The sun was nearing the horizon. It would soon be dark, and she had to get home to talk to Naaji—maybe she could show the woman what she had found.
The reaction of the mountain to her thoughts was visible, tangible, and violent. The sky darkened. In one moment, it went from brilliantly elegant to angry and dark. The wind whipped her hair about; the trees lashed, the leaves cut through the air and sliced against the sky. The ground shook and rolled under her feet until she fell over. The trees loomed larger and larger in her vision, overcoming all her sight, dominating everything, ruling the entire world, changing and distorting it, until she cried aloud.
"Stop! Stop!"
But the wind continued to bite at her face, and in it she heard a distant echo of her words—and her past came back to her, and her promise. She no longer had a home to turn to—nor did she want one. She would not go back, and silently within herself she reaffirmed that dedication.
The wind died. The trees returned to normal. The sky lightened.
She slowly pushed herself to her feet and stared, fearfully at the trees.
"Strange," she said aloud. "Strange." Strange, indeed, that the mountain would respond to her thoughts. Frightening, even. Why could it read her when she was not open to being read? Dark was falling faster than ever before, and she knew that she would have to sleep out here, under a sunless sky, before the sun might rise again.
The wind tugged at her hair and drew her to the far left of the plateau. She wandered away from the trees and leaned against the sheer cliff face. She heaved a deep sigh and gazed out across the landscape all around her. It was so strange—she felt very much at home here on the mountain. She felt as if she were more likely to be herself here than out on the blatant, beautiful stretch of endless ivory sand. And yet, the mountain was strange. It reacted to her presence—it responded to her.
She settled herself down on the ground, her back against one of the tree trunks, and watched the descending sky, sipping briefly at the final rays of light as they sank below the horizon. Then it was dark all around her, and she was dreadfully alone.
The tree arched against her in the wind as if trying to comfort her, and she would have fallen asleep had the sky not began to rain down a thousand leaves upon her—emerald leaves, inky with night, that got in her hair and her eyes and tickled her until she threw herself away from the tree in desperation.
The leaves stopped falling, and as she bent to brush them from her, they died silently, and withered, and crumpled into dust in her hands, and the bright wind lifted the dust from her stunned fingers and sent it skittering off across the mountain. She followed the dusty cyclones slowly with her eyes...and stopped in shock
There, weaving precariously up the side of the mountain, was a path she had not noticed before.
It was very narrow, and it was difficult to see, especially in the dark—though there were bright stars in the fading sky, the moons had not yet risen. But she found that she could climb along it, and she did. She had gone several yards and had gained confidence in the tight shuffle-step that led her along, when she made the mistake of looking down.
It was a long, reeling drop to the ground below. She gasped, and jumped, lost her balance, caught desperately at the cliff, missed her grip, started to fall, found her grip, caught herself, and lay limply against the cliff. Her eyes would not lift themselves—they fixated upon the ground, so very, very far below. A large rock broke away from beneath her trembling feet and plummeted away, tumbling end over end through space before smashing, shattering on the far earth.
She saw, in an instant, the exact same thing happening to her own small, fragile body and became lost in scream after silent, mindless, terrible scream. She was not sure how long she perched there, lost in mindless terror at the prospect of a seemingly inevitable and gruesome fate, but some time later, be it hours or seconds, she jerked her eyes up from the ground and fixed them on the rock before her. She stood still for a moment, seeking solace from her fear in the pockmarked surface in front of her.
It took her a full moment to realize what she was seeing. Handholds. She took a deep breath and lifted her hands and dug them into the closest holds, and began to pull herself up the face of the cliff.
With every passing moment, she saw again and again the plummeting rock and imagined herself in its place, to shatter, lifeless, on the far earth. Twice her feet slipped, and once her hands, and for a heart-stopping moment each time she thought herself gone, but somehow, something held her up, and kept her going, kept her from achieving her imagined fate.
Finally, after what seemed like ages but according to the passage of the sun was merely minutes, she saw above her an outcropping, and a ledge. Why, she thought to herself, am I doing this? Her only answer was I do not know. She pulled herself upwards until at last her fingers grasped the tip of the ledge. She got her arms upon it, and rested them there, and hung on. For a moment she rested upon the flat surface. Then she lifted her head and looked about.
There was little to the plateau she had reached. It was simple, and rather small, bare of trees and even rocks. In fact, the plateau itself seemed almost too smooth, too clear of objects. She stared.
The wind picked up, and scoured away at the ground, and a great cloud of dust rose around her, and she coughed, and nearly lost her grip, and closed her eyes in desperation and coughed, and coughed again, until she was lost in the dust in her lungs and the wind all around her.
It died down. She carefully peeled her eyes open and glanced around again, and gaped at the ground. For where it had been smooth, if dusty, and clear of markings or rocks or anything, there were now lines and markings carved deep into the ground.
She gasped in shock, for it was the same symbol there on the ground as had been on the rock and the leaf. She looked up, and lifted her gaze, and caught sight of the cliff wall facing her. It was hollowed out. There was a cave. She stared at it, peered deep into the shadows of the cave, squinting, trying to make out the shapes that dwelt within. There was a dim glow of light twisting and churning within it, and she thought that she saw an outline of a shadow.
At the same moment, the shadow seemed to catch a glimpse of her, for she heard one harsh word that fell solidly to the ground and did not echo, and the cave exploded with brilliance despite the night, blinding her. Ajabin cried out, threw a hand up over her face to protect her eyes, felt herself lose her grip on the rock, clawed desperately and blindly at the ledge before her, and plummeted away from the plateau.
Chapter 3
Laijann’s bitter words were ringing in her head as she neared the massive mountain. She ran until she hit spot where the soft sand mingled with hard pebbles, and then she slowed, but ran lightly onwards, until she came to the place where the sand and the pebbles lay over sheer rock, and it hurt to run there, so she stopped. And she walked, walked forward, picking her way over the stones and weaving around the huge boulders that circled the base of the great structure.
She leaned briefly on one boulder, catching her breath, and as she glanced against the smooth surface upon which she sat, she was startled to find a hundred tiny symbols etched into it.
They were circles, marked at four points by straight lines, and each line was cut by another, shorter line.
It looked like the sun.
The shapes twisted in her vision, and she found her eyes blurring, as if she had stared for too long at the noon sun. She blinked furiously, and looked away, and as she glanced up, she saw a path cut into the steep slope.
She blinked, and glanced at the rock on which she sat, but now it was as plain and smooth as all the others had been. She hurriedly peeked at the path, in case that, too, had disappeared while she wasn’t looking, but it was still there, and it was waiting for her. She rose from the rock, gave it a last pat, and clambered up the track until she reached a plateau.
From here, she could look out over the whole desert—where it stretched to the horizon, and back. She could not see the Home. She could not see anything that she recognized at all. She sighed deeply.
Then she plopped to the ground and wept miserably into her hands. Why did Laijann have to be so cruel?
And why did it feel like there was so much truth in the girl’s words?
She did not understand, but she knew one thing—she could not go back to the tribe.
She knew that she was an outcast. She hadn’t been cast out—but she had never really been part of it in the first place. Naaji might miss her—maybe Majakti would, too, but she could not return to them. She had to find who she really was and where she really came from before she would see them again. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about whether she was really part of the tribe, or not.
The truth was that no one in the whole of them was as dark as she was. Her hair and skin were far more ebony than theirs—and her eyes, in contrast, were far lighter than theirs. And she did not resemble her mother’s current husband at all—Baijin was a popular father, and every one of his children—even those of other mothers—had the characteristic gray eyes and the slightly flattened, large nose, whereas Ajabin’s nose was ever so slightly upturned, and a fair bit smaller.
Nor, she thought to herself, did she resemble any of the other children in the tribe—of any father. She was different from all of them—therefore, her father must have been different from all of theirs.
And then he could not have been of the tribe.
She consigned herself to the fact, now, that she was not one of them—but this only awakened within her a desire tenfold stronger to discover whence she truly came.
She stood, and the wind whistled as it flowed around her, as if speaking to her, and she shouted out to the whole of the desert below her, and the mountain behind her, and the far sky beyond the horizon—“I will find who I am!”
The wind tore the words from her mouth and sealed them as an affirmation before sending them to tumble out over the world again and again. Then it faded away and left her silent and alone on the dusty, warm plateau.
She turned, suddenly shy in the silence around her, and found the path again. She followed it upwards.
Here there were trees.
There were three of them, tall brown stems swaying elegantly in the ever-present wind, topped with bright emerald—in a land of brown and gold, green was so brilliant as to blind. They were still in the silent air and something in them looked at her—and something in her looked right back at them, as if to say—You heard my promises, right? What else did you expect?
She took a cautious step or two forward, and then—then! she was standing in the midst of them, and the wind rose once more. She lifted her face to the sky, and watched as the golden sunlight streamed down and danced upon the leaves of the trees, and cast bright patterns all about her. Then she laughed, and she spun around in a dance, and it was as if the trees were dancing, dancing around and with her, circling and laughing with her. She spun, and she lifted her head up as she did, and she laughed again.
A leaf plummeted from one of the twirling trees straight for her. She stopped, and stared at it. It drifted slowly, fell slowly, as if from a greater height than it surely was from, tumbling through the air in a moment of frozen time. She watched it, and it plummeted, and she lifted her hands as if to catch it and cushion it, keep it from crashing onto the ground and shattering its emerald case to emit…what? She did not know. But the speed of the thing cut off right before her hands, and it drifted gently to a stop in her grasp.
She stared at it, and brought it close to her face. There, printed on the leaf by a pattern of sunlit-gold, was the same sun design she had seen on the rock she had found at the base of the mountain, just a few minutes before.
Laijann’s bitter words were ringing in her head as she neared the massive mountain. She ran until she hit spot where the soft sand mingled with hard pebbles, and then she slowed, but ran lightly onwards, until she came to the place where the sand and the pebbles lay over sheer rock, and it hurt to run there, so she stopped. And she walked, walked forward, picking her way over the stones and weaving around the huge boulders that circled the base of the great structure.
She leaned briefly on one boulder, catching her breath, and as she glanced against the smooth surface upon which she sat, she was startled to find a hundred tiny symbols etched into it.
They were circles, marked at four points by straight lines, and each line was cut by another, shorter line.
It looked like the sun.
The shapes twisted in her vision, and she found her eyes blurring, as if she had stared for too long at the noon sun. She blinked furiously, and looked away, and as she glanced up, she saw a path cut into the steep slope.
She blinked, and glanced at the rock on which she sat, but now it was as plain and smooth as all the others had been. She hurriedly peeked at the path, in case that, too, had disappeared while she wasn’t looking, but it was still there, and it was waiting for her. She rose from the rock, gave it a last pat, and clambered up the track until she reached a plateau.
From here, she could look out over the whole desert—where it stretched to the horizon, and back. She could not see the Home. She could not see anything that she recognized at all. She sighed deeply.
Then she plopped to the ground and wept miserably into her hands. Why did Laijann have to be so cruel?
And why did it feel like there was so much truth in the girl’s words?
She did not understand, but she knew one thing—she could not go back to the tribe.
She knew that she was an outcast. She hadn’t been cast out—but she had never really been part of it in the first place. Naaji might miss her—maybe Majakti would, too, but she could not return to them. She had to find who she really was and where she really came from before she would see them again. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about whether she was really part of the tribe, or not.
The truth was that no one in the whole of them was as dark as she was. Her hair and skin were far more ebony than theirs—and her eyes, in contrast, were far lighter than theirs. And she did not resemble her mother’s current husband at all—Baijin was a popular father, and every one of his children—even those of other mothers—had the characteristic gray eyes and the slightly flattened, large nose, whereas Ajabin’s nose was ever so slightly upturned, and a fair bit smaller.
Nor, she thought to herself, did she resemble any of the other children in the tribe—of any father. She was different from all of them—therefore, her father must have been different from all of theirs.
And then he could not have been of the tribe.
She consigned herself to the fact, now, that she was not one of them—but this only awakened within her a desire tenfold stronger to discover whence she truly came.
She stood, and the wind whistled as it flowed around her, as if speaking to her, and she shouted out to the whole of the desert below her, and the mountain behind her, and the far sky beyond the horizon—“I will find who I am!”
The wind tore the words from her mouth and sealed them as an affirmation before sending them to tumble out over the world again and again. Then it faded away and left her silent and alone on the dusty, warm plateau.
She turned, suddenly shy in the silence around her, and found the path again. She followed it upwards.
Here there were trees.
There were three of them, tall brown stems swaying elegantly in the ever-present wind, topped with bright emerald—in a land of brown and gold, green was so brilliant as to blind. They were still in the silent air and something in them looked at her—and something in her looked right back at them, as if to say—You heard my promises, right? What else did you expect?
She took a cautious step or two forward, and then—then! she was standing in the midst of them, and the wind rose once more. She lifted her face to the sky, and watched as the golden sunlight streamed down and danced upon the leaves of the trees, and cast bright patterns all about her. Then she laughed, and she spun around in a dance, and it was as if the trees were dancing, dancing around and with her, circling and laughing with her. She spun, and she lifted her head up as she did, and she laughed again.
A leaf plummeted from one of the twirling trees straight for her. She stopped, and stared at it. It drifted slowly, fell slowly, as if from a greater height than it surely was from, tumbling through the air in a moment of frozen time. She watched it, and it plummeted, and she lifted her hands as if to catch it and cushion it, keep it from crashing onto the ground and shattering its emerald case to emit…what? She did not know. But the speed of the thing cut off right before her hands, and it drifted gently to a stop in her grasp.
She stared at it, and brought it close to her face. There, printed on the leaf by a pattern of sunlit-gold, was the same sun design she had seen on the rock she had found at the base of the mountain, just a few minutes before.
Chapter 2
When the dawn finally came, it found Ajabin awake. She had not slept again that night. She left the cave just as soon as the first beams of light peered over the horizon, and had already dined upon sunlight when the others were just waking. She did not tell them about her dream; she had already sworn Bijano to secrecy. She was afraid of what the adults would say about it; she was afraid they would accuse her of making it up, as they had before. She seated herself on the parched sands when the rest of the tribe came out, watching the sun as it hung just above the horizon, thinking about her dream.
“Let us play hunting,’ said Majakti, Ajabin’s youngest sister, after they had breakfasted. There were a few murmurs of assent from the group of adolescents.
“I do not want to!” declared one girl of eleven years. “I want to play bride.”
“We played that yesterday,” said Majakti.
The second girl, Laijann, pouted, and stamped her foot against the ground. “I want to play bride! I want to play bride!” Her tone was emphatic, and Majakti winced slightly.
“All right,” she agreed quickly, as tears appeared in Laijann’s warm brown eyes. “We will play bride, then.”
The pout was instantly replaced by a smile. “I want to be the bride!”
Majakti rolled her eyes slightly. “Of course.” Laijann flopped onto the ground, and the other girls milled around her with leaves and the cactus’ flower and paints, dressing her for her wedding. They did not spare Ajabin a glance, though she watched them with open longing. The day wore on, and as it became apparent to Ajabin that they were not going to invite her to play, she rose and asked Majakti, “Can I play, too?”
Majakti hesitated, slightly startled, and nodded, but just as she did so Laijann said loudly, “No!” and glared hard at her. “You cannot play with us.”
Majakti bit her lip and looked apologetically at Ajabin.
“Why not?” demanded Ajabin.
“You cannot! I will not let you! You are not one of the tribe!”
Ajabin’s eyes started with tears. “I am too! I am part of the tribe!”
“You are a stranger to the tribe. Look at you! You do not even look like us. Your eyes and skin are strange. Besides, everyone knows that you were found at the top of a sand dune, abandoned by your real parents, and Naaji just picked you up because she felt so sorry for you.”
Ajabin burst into tears at the thought of Naaji not being her mother, and Laijann started to laugh. “Go away, crybaby. I do not want to play with you.”
The other girls were silent, not daring to speak in fear that that harsh retribution might be turned to them. Majakti looked all the more apologetic, but no one spoke to contradict Laijann’s cruelty, and Ajabin sniffled once and ran away.
She ran away from them, far out into the sand-laden distance, as far as she dared before night fell, running in a desperate attempt to escape the malice in Laijann’s words, running until there was no longer time to run, and then finally she turned and loped back home. She avoided the gazes of the girls and went to her mother’s side.
“Is it true, Naaji? That you found me in the desert one day and decided to adopt me? That I am not really your daughter?”
Naaji stared at her child for a long moment before finally blurting, “Aja! How could you think such a thing? Of course you are my daughter! Of course you are!”
Ajabin managed a smile, but there was something false in Naaji’s words that she did not understand. She went inside.
Majakti was waiting for her. She gave her a hug as she sat down and whispered in her ear, “Ignore Laijann. She thinks she is so much.”
A simple nod was the only answer Ajabin could work up over the lump in her throat.
Majakti went on. “I think she is too mean. And that story is not true. You are my sister. I know it.” Yet even in her voice there was a hint of doubt. Ajabin lay down and worriedly tumbled into sleep.
This night proved no more restful than the previous. She dreamt of a landscape forsakenly bare, thick with ash and dust, and so parched that earth existed solely as huge, gaping cracks in the rock-hard surface at her feet. She stood in the midst of this landscape, watching the sky, but there was no sun. The cloudless dome above was lit, yet devoid of the sustaining globe. And then the dust rose from the earth in great clouds of steam and smoke, and consumed her, and she tried to breathe through the thick screen but encountered only the terrible ash, and she choked upon it, desperately struggling to breathe, until, half-asphyxiated and all but dead, she woke.
She sat up in bed, her hands trembling, her face dusty, and her throat parched beyond belief, to find Bijano standing over her holding out a bowl of the stored sunlight they kept for such nighttime emergencies. She accepted the dish without a word and drank deeply of it, clearing her throat and her mind in the same action, and smiled thankfully at him. She did not try to sleep again, but instead let herself lay in a strange stupor, a half-slumber that satiated her exhaustion but did not allow for any dreams, until the day came again, and at Bijano’s nod of approval she stumbled, trembling, from the cave.
There was the sun—it hung precariously above the horizon, but it was there, and it was creeping higher with each moment. She drank from it, grateful for its light and its sustenance, and unconsciously glanced at the mountain. It was difficult to miss, as large as it was, rising above the eternal desert, and Ajabin as she stared at it felt a sudden prick of longing in her heart, as if to go there would quench a thirst she had not known she had. As she watched, high near its peak, a light briefly twinkled at her. She stared. Was it calling? She could have sworn it was. In an instant, the light disappeared. Was the mountain calling her?
Laijann and Majakti and the other girls milled about the adults, helping them gather the sun's rays in jars to store for when it was needed at night. Today, Naaji and Ojkainao and all the others would be cleaning out the cave in which they slept, and the children were shooed away from the structure with strict instructions to 'get out of the way.'
Not all of Laijann's pouting could reverse that decree, and she turned, angry at having been denied, and her eyes fell upon Ajabin, who was standing watching the mountain. She smiled. "Hey, bhiskah," she called, using the most offensive word for outcast in their sacred tongue. The children around her went quiet with shame at hearing it. Ajabin froze, her back stiff.
"Bhiskah!" repeated Laijann. "Why do you not go back into the desert where you came from? We do not want your type here." Majakti swallowed hard and started to ever so slightly object, but Laijann just glared at her and cut her off. "Go on, bhiskah," she said, the word a quiet and vicious hiss in the back of her throat. "Go away. Run away. Leave. No one wants you. Leave."
Ajabin was still. She did not dare move. For a brief, raging moment she wanted to hit Laijann—and hit her hard—make her bleed—make her feel that pain that was gnawing at Ajabin’s own insides. Laijann was only a few feet away from her—close enough, a simple lunge would be all it would take to be on top of her, striking her again and again...
But she did not. Though the girl was close by, it was as if she was as far away as the sun. Ajabin knew that she could never reach Laijann—not with all the blows she might ever strike in her life.
“Bhiskah,” hissed Laijann, “I hate you. We hate you. Everyone hates you. Go away. Have some courtesy to those who are better than you, and leave us in peace. Leave.”
Ajabin could take no more of the burning words. She stumbled away—slowly, numb, turning back to the cave—but somehow her feet picked her up of their own accord and began to run into the distance.
“Ajabin!” cried Majakti, “Wait!” She glanced at Laijann, who was glaring after Ajabin with a smug, cruel smile on her face. “How could you?” she hissed, with the others murmuring mild approval at Majakti’s words. Then she whipped about and fled blindly after Ajabin, the other children following her.
Majakti did not know why, but she felt that Ajabin must not leave the tribe. Laijann had gone too far this time. She strived to catch up with the fleeing girl, but Ajabin’s feet flew over the fine sand, barely touching the ground—her hair streamed behind her—and she gained, and gained, until finally, without much effort at all, she had left them all far behind, panting for breath, unable to catch up with her.
But she did not stop running once they were gone. She ran, instead—ran until eternity, lost herself with her running, with the flight of her feet over the sands below, with the pounding of her heart in her chest and the streaming of her hair. She ran until the Home was out of sight, until she thought she might reach the very horizon.
She ran until she reached the twinkling mountain.
When the dawn finally came, it found Ajabin awake. She had not slept again that night. She left the cave just as soon as the first beams of light peered over the horizon, and had already dined upon sunlight when the others were just waking. She did not tell them about her dream; she had already sworn Bijano to secrecy. She was afraid of what the adults would say about it; she was afraid they would accuse her of making it up, as they had before. She seated herself on the parched sands when the rest of the tribe came out, watching the sun as it hung just above the horizon, thinking about her dream.
“Let us play hunting,’ said Majakti, Ajabin’s youngest sister, after they had breakfasted. There were a few murmurs of assent from the group of adolescents.
“I do not want to!” declared one girl of eleven years. “I want to play bride.”
“We played that yesterday,” said Majakti.
The second girl, Laijann, pouted, and stamped her foot against the ground. “I want to play bride! I want to play bride!” Her tone was emphatic, and Majakti winced slightly.
“All right,” she agreed quickly, as tears appeared in Laijann’s warm brown eyes. “We will play bride, then.”
The pout was instantly replaced by a smile. “I want to be the bride!”
Majakti rolled her eyes slightly. “Of course.” Laijann flopped onto the ground, and the other girls milled around her with leaves and the cactus’ flower and paints, dressing her for her wedding. They did not spare Ajabin a glance, though she watched them with open longing. The day wore on, and as it became apparent to Ajabin that they were not going to invite her to play, she rose and asked Majakti, “Can I play, too?”
Majakti hesitated, slightly startled, and nodded, but just as she did so Laijann said loudly, “No!” and glared hard at her. “You cannot play with us.”
Majakti bit her lip and looked apologetically at Ajabin.
“Why not?” demanded Ajabin.
“You cannot! I will not let you! You are not one of the tribe!”
Ajabin’s eyes started with tears. “I am too! I am part of the tribe!”
“You are a stranger to the tribe. Look at you! You do not even look like us. Your eyes and skin are strange. Besides, everyone knows that you were found at the top of a sand dune, abandoned by your real parents, and Naaji just picked you up because she felt so sorry for you.”
Ajabin burst into tears at the thought of Naaji not being her mother, and Laijann started to laugh. “Go away, crybaby. I do not want to play with you.”
The other girls were silent, not daring to speak in fear that that harsh retribution might be turned to them. Majakti looked all the more apologetic, but no one spoke to contradict Laijann’s cruelty, and Ajabin sniffled once and ran away.
She ran away from them, far out into the sand-laden distance, as far as she dared before night fell, running in a desperate attempt to escape the malice in Laijann’s words, running until there was no longer time to run, and then finally she turned and loped back home. She avoided the gazes of the girls and went to her mother’s side.
“Is it true, Naaji? That you found me in the desert one day and decided to adopt me? That I am not really your daughter?”
Naaji stared at her child for a long moment before finally blurting, “Aja! How could you think such a thing? Of course you are my daughter! Of course you are!”
Ajabin managed a smile, but there was something false in Naaji’s words that she did not understand. She went inside.
Majakti was waiting for her. She gave her a hug as she sat down and whispered in her ear, “Ignore Laijann. She thinks she is so much.”
A simple nod was the only answer Ajabin could work up over the lump in her throat.
Majakti went on. “I think she is too mean. And that story is not true. You are my sister. I know it.” Yet even in her voice there was a hint of doubt. Ajabin lay down and worriedly tumbled into sleep.
This night proved no more restful than the previous. She dreamt of a landscape forsakenly bare, thick with ash and dust, and so parched that earth existed solely as huge, gaping cracks in the rock-hard surface at her feet. She stood in the midst of this landscape, watching the sky, but there was no sun. The cloudless dome above was lit, yet devoid of the sustaining globe. And then the dust rose from the earth in great clouds of steam and smoke, and consumed her, and she tried to breathe through the thick screen but encountered only the terrible ash, and she choked upon it, desperately struggling to breathe, until, half-asphyxiated and all but dead, she woke.
She sat up in bed, her hands trembling, her face dusty, and her throat parched beyond belief, to find Bijano standing over her holding out a bowl of the stored sunlight they kept for such nighttime emergencies. She accepted the dish without a word and drank deeply of it, clearing her throat and her mind in the same action, and smiled thankfully at him. She did not try to sleep again, but instead let herself lay in a strange stupor, a half-slumber that satiated her exhaustion but did not allow for any dreams, until the day came again, and at Bijano’s nod of approval she stumbled, trembling, from the cave.
There was the sun—it hung precariously above the horizon, but it was there, and it was creeping higher with each moment. She drank from it, grateful for its light and its sustenance, and unconsciously glanced at the mountain. It was difficult to miss, as large as it was, rising above the eternal desert, and Ajabin as she stared at it felt a sudden prick of longing in her heart, as if to go there would quench a thirst she had not known she had. As she watched, high near its peak, a light briefly twinkled at her. She stared. Was it calling? She could have sworn it was. In an instant, the light disappeared. Was the mountain calling her?
Laijann and Majakti and the other girls milled about the adults, helping them gather the sun's rays in jars to store for when it was needed at night. Today, Naaji and Ojkainao and all the others would be cleaning out the cave in which they slept, and the children were shooed away from the structure with strict instructions to 'get out of the way.'
Not all of Laijann's pouting could reverse that decree, and she turned, angry at having been denied, and her eyes fell upon Ajabin, who was standing watching the mountain. She smiled. "Hey, bhiskah," she called, using the most offensive word for outcast in their sacred tongue. The children around her went quiet with shame at hearing it. Ajabin froze, her back stiff.
"Bhiskah!" repeated Laijann. "Why do you not go back into the desert where you came from? We do not want your type here." Majakti swallowed hard and started to ever so slightly object, but Laijann just glared at her and cut her off. "Go on, bhiskah," she said, the word a quiet and vicious hiss in the back of her throat. "Go away. Run away. Leave. No one wants you. Leave."
Ajabin was still. She did not dare move. For a brief, raging moment she wanted to hit Laijann—and hit her hard—make her bleed—make her feel that pain that was gnawing at Ajabin’s own insides. Laijann was only a few feet away from her—close enough, a simple lunge would be all it would take to be on top of her, striking her again and again...
But she did not. Though the girl was close by, it was as if she was as far away as the sun. Ajabin knew that she could never reach Laijann—not with all the blows she might ever strike in her life.
“Bhiskah,” hissed Laijann, “I hate you. We hate you. Everyone hates you. Go away. Have some courtesy to those who are better than you, and leave us in peace. Leave.”
Ajabin could take no more of the burning words. She stumbled away—slowly, numb, turning back to the cave—but somehow her feet picked her up of their own accord and began to run into the distance.
“Ajabin!” cried Majakti, “Wait!” She glanced at Laijann, who was glaring after Ajabin with a smug, cruel smile on her face. “How could you?” she hissed, with the others murmuring mild approval at Majakti’s words. Then she whipped about and fled blindly after Ajabin, the other children following her.
Majakti did not know why, but she felt that Ajabin must not leave the tribe. Laijann had gone too far this time. She strived to catch up with the fleeing girl, but Ajabin’s feet flew over the fine sand, barely touching the ground—her hair streamed behind her—and she gained, and gained, until finally, without much effort at all, she had left them all far behind, panting for breath, unable to catch up with her.
But she did not stop running once they were gone. She ran, instead—ran until eternity, lost herself with her running, with the flight of her feet over the sands below, with the pounding of her heart in her chest and the streaming of her hair. She ran until the Home was out of sight, until she thought she might reach the very horizon.
She ran until she reached the twinkling mountain.
Note: this is in the middle of revision, so there is a point at which the beginning, which has been fixed, does not meet/make sense with the parts that follow, which have NOT been fixed.
so... yeah...
so... yeah...
Chapter 1
And she remembered. Time twisted, and thoughts became the present, and it was no longer now, but now was a long time ago…
It was nighttime, and the tribe was asleep in the cave. A young girl, perhaps ten years old, shifted restlessly as she slept. The world was silent all around, so very silent that the motion of the stars outside was almost audible. Only one young man was awake, and he sat by the entrance with a spear ready in his hand, guarding them all, protecting them from the night.
The girl tossed on the floor and sat upright abruptly. The guard looked sharply at her, but she did not seem to be awake for a full moment, until she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He could not help his start at the lucidity of her golden eyes. All of the other members of the tribe had the same olive-brown skin, sun-bright brown hair, and dark gray eyes, but she had eyes as brilliant as the sun, and her skin and hair were ebony like the night. “What is the matter, Ajabin?” he asked her.
“I do not know, Bijano. I was dreaming, I think,” she said quietly.
“Of what did you dream, little sister?”
She was silent for a moment. “I do not know,” she said again. “It was strange. It was as if I were someone or something else, and I was feeling what they felt and seeing what they saw.”
Bijano studied her briefly. “What does it mean?”
Her lucid eyes looked at him. “I do not know.”
“Then do not let it trouble you. Sleep, little sister.”
She dropped back to the earth, and laid down her head, and slept.
Brilliance.
Spiraling into oblivion and cognizance.
Comprehension. Simplicity. Happiness. Joy. Finality. Infinity. Thoughts and emotions assailed her as she coasted through the brilliant air of eternity, timeless, voiceless, alone. She drifted along in a sentient stupor, understanding all and unafraid.
Dark and light sensations spiraled about her, slowly drifting inwards and outwards like a measured, leisurely cyclone that encompassed her in a myriad of power. An ache swelled within her, unquenchable, disturbing, and strong. She stretched with it, but she could not hold it in. The force within her intensified until it was unbearable, and she strove to restrain it, strove to contain it, fighting it as it fought her… all for naught. The pressure escalated until she could no longer do anything about it, and her back arched and she screamed and brilliant light split her spirit and spilled forth from her skin, beaming away into the oblivion and eternity and bringing the whole universe and time crashing down around her.
She sat up. Bijano was shaking her. “Ajabin!” he had said urgently as she thrashed violently on the floor, and then he tried to rouse her by shaking her vigorously, but she did not wake from his ministrations; she woke because the dream was done. She was chained to it and all its experiences forever, bound with its lucidity up until the final degree of luminous potency broke free from the inner confines of her radiant soul. She knew this truth without knowing why she knew it, and she buried her face in her hands and trembled at the certainty of the thought.
And she remembered. Time twisted, and thoughts became the present, and it was no longer now, but now was a long time ago…
It was nighttime, and the tribe was asleep in the cave. A young girl, perhaps ten years old, shifted restlessly as she slept. The world was silent all around, so very silent that the motion of the stars outside was almost audible. Only one young man was awake, and he sat by the entrance with a spear ready in his hand, guarding them all, protecting them from the night.
The girl tossed on the floor and sat upright abruptly. The guard looked sharply at her, but she did not seem to be awake for a full moment, until she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He could not help his start at the lucidity of her golden eyes. All of the other members of the tribe had the same olive-brown skin, sun-bright brown hair, and dark gray eyes, but she had eyes as brilliant as the sun, and her skin and hair were ebony like the night. “What is the matter, Ajabin?” he asked her.
“I do not know, Bijano. I was dreaming, I think,” she said quietly.
“Of what did you dream, little sister?”
She was silent for a moment. “I do not know,” she said again. “It was strange. It was as if I were someone or something else, and I was feeling what they felt and seeing what they saw.”
Bijano studied her briefly. “What does it mean?”
Her lucid eyes looked at him. “I do not know.”
“Then do not let it trouble you. Sleep, little sister.”
She dropped back to the earth, and laid down her head, and slept.
Brilliance.
Spiraling into oblivion and cognizance.
Comprehension. Simplicity. Happiness. Joy. Finality. Infinity. Thoughts and emotions assailed her as she coasted through the brilliant air of eternity, timeless, voiceless, alone. She drifted along in a sentient stupor, understanding all and unafraid.
Dark and light sensations spiraled about her, slowly drifting inwards and outwards like a measured, leisurely cyclone that encompassed her in a myriad of power. An ache swelled within her, unquenchable, disturbing, and strong. She stretched with it, but she could not hold it in. The force within her intensified until it was unbearable, and she strove to restrain it, strove to contain it, fighting it as it fought her… all for naught. The pressure escalated until she could no longer do anything about it, and her back arched and she screamed and brilliant light split her spirit and spilled forth from her skin, beaming away into the oblivion and eternity and bringing the whole universe and time crashing down around her.
She sat up. Bijano was shaking her. “Ajabin!” he had said urgently as she thrashed violently on the floor, and then he tried to rouse her by shaking her vigorously, but she did not wake from his ministrations; she woke because the dream was done. She was chained to it and all its experiences forever, bound with its lucidity up until the final degree of luminous potency broke free from the inner confines of her radiant soul. She knew this truth without knowing why she knew it, and she buried her face in her hands and trembled at the certainty of the thought.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Prelude
It was hot.
It was not hot. It was parched. It was roasted. It was burnt. It was unendurably scorched. Heat could have no definition in the world when it was so constant as to be the norm. Hot occurred only on the mildest of days. Desert was the norm. The heat sank into the earth and became it, a solid essence, the definition of warmth. Heat was the ground and the ground was heat.
A scrap of wind attempted to daunt the sheer temperature, and failed miserably. Ashamed, it swirled away again. The powdered ivory sand lifted with hope before descending again as a spatter of white rain.
She ignored it. She flung her black hair back from her brilliant eyes and lifted her ebony face to the sun, parted her lips, and drank in its sweet rays. She gulped at the air, insatiably, avidly consuming the brilliant and savory light. She could not get enough of the sweet juices—she could not get full. She swallowed and drank on, until she thought that she might burst. Finally, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smiled. She was thankful.
She was always thankful. She remembered the first time she had seen the sun set, and how she had been afraid that it might never return. She paused a moment, lost in the memory of the experience and the intricate depths of the past, and shuddered slightly in recollection. But that was long ago, back when she was with the tribe, back before the Long Night, back before everything had changed.
She turned and began to run. The sand gave under her feet and she flew along the steaming hot ivory land, faster and faster, running to the mountain that rose like a mirage from the middle of the scorched and sweltering land. She ran so fast that it appeared as if she rose above the sands, as if her feet did not touch the mortal earth but soared above it as graceful and as powerful as wings. She ran.
It was hot.
It was not hot. It was parched. It was roasted. It was burnt. It was unendurably scorched. Heat could have no definition in the world when it was so constant as to be the norm. Hot occurred only on the mildest of days. Desert was the norm. The heat sank into the earth and became it, a solid essence, the definition of warmth. Heat was the ground and the ground was heat.
A scrap of wind attempted to daunt the sheer temperature, and failed miserably. Ashamed, it swirled away again. The powdered ivory sand lifted with hope before descending again as a spatter of white rain.
She ignored it. She flung her black hair back from her brilliant eyes and lifted her ebony face to the sun, parted her lips, and drank in its sweet rays. She gulped at the air, insatiably, avidly consuming the brilliant and savory light. She could not get enough of the sweet juices—she could not get full. She swallowed and drank on, until she thought that she might burst. Finally, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smiled. She was thankful.
She was always thankful. She remembered the first time she had seen the sun set, and how she had been afraid that it might never return. She paused a moment, lost in the memory of the experience and the intricate depths of the past, and shuddered slightly in recollection. But that was long ago, back when she was with the tribe, back before the Long Night, back before everything had changed.
She turned and began to run. The sand gave under her feet and she flew along the steaming hot ivory land, faster and faster, running to the mountain that rose like a mirage from the middle of the scorched and sweltering land. She ran so fast that it appeared as if she rose above the sands, as if her feet did not touch the mortal earth but soared above it as graceful and as powerful as wings. She ran.
