Jo Clayton - Change

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Change

by Jo Clayton

In the hollow the Ouloud had dug into the lake shore's hardened mud, damp

dripped slowly from fine root hairs feathering the irregular ceiling, droplets

crawling down the roots, clinging for a last moment to the blunt tips,

dropping finally into the emptiness below with sometimes sharp tings if they

fell into the deepening puddle, sometimes hard rattles as they hit the dead

husk of the hibernating Ouloud. The tap-slap-ting continued uninterrupted as

the pool around the husk rose higher and higher until at last the drops no

longer fell on husk or mud, fell only on water. A sharp crack jarred through

the plinks. A line of blue-white light shimmered in the muddy water. The husk

moved, lay still, moved again in short sharp jerks, lay still again, again

jolted about as the crack widened. The cold light strengthened in the hollow,

winking back from silicate crystals in the dirt and shining through the

agitated water onto the pale roots. Her back and buttocks out, the Ouloud

rested again, then with one convulsive heave, she kicked free of the husk and

straightened her cramped limbs. Her eyes were sealed shut, dark smudges behind

translucent lids. Her head was studded with hundreds of small nodules, the

tight-coiled threads inside writhing and pressing against skin still too soft

and thick for them to burst through. Skeleton and pulsing organs and the

Daughter Within were dim shadows in fleshlike milk glass lit by her

self-generated radiance.

Like a great worm she wriggled up the slippery mud to the highest point

of the hollow and began scratching blindly at the plug of packed earth that

sealed her in. At first her hands scrabbled over the cold soil without effect,

then her fingers broadened and grew harder until they were deep gouges that

bit into the plug and tore away great gouts of earth.

When she burst from the hollow, she crouched on the steep slope of the

lake shore, blind head turning slowly from side to side, shape-shifting hands

groping clumsily at the night air until she lost the sense of where she was

and tumbled in an awkward sprawl into the water.

Passively she accepted the embrace of the snowmelt, sinking until she

floated a dozen feet below the surface; she let the currents nudge her where

they would until she came to rest against a rocky islet near the lake's outlet

where a creek tumbled downslope over a spray of boulders.

The sky began to gray, a red line spread along the eastern horizon.

The slow process of waking went on; the Ouloud's skin hardening and

thinning, her metabolism speeding up.

When sunlight touched her face, she stirred, opened her eyes, her

ice-gray irids darkening to the color of wetted stone. Webs spread between

lengthening fingers. Gills opened on neck and chest. She breathed her first

breath and began swimming, aimlessly at first, then she became aware of

hunger. She snatched a fish, tore it into small bits, held them in her

toothless mouth while her digestive juices liquefied them.

The day continued to brighten. She stopped swimming and floated upright

in the center of the lake, her head a dozen feet below the surface, waiting

with plantlike patience for the moment of ripeness.

When the sun was directly overhead, shimmering down to her through the

clear cold water, her cilia burst from their nodules, springing out from her

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Jo Clayton - Change

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