Jo Clayton - BorrowedLight

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JO CLAYTON

BORROWED LIGHT

1. The awakening

"you are not my first death," Tsoylan sang to she who lay on the sleeping

platform, her breath barely stirring the air, a stranger odd and angular, paler

even than the Great Mother. When the Name came into his head, evoking Her image

and the Fear, he cupped his stubby hands over his eyes in the ritual see-me-not

gesture, forgetting the dark spectacles and knocking them away.

When his heart flutters stopped, he groped about the tile floor until he found

them and fumbled them back on. Even with the dark lenses, his eyes had hurt

since the beginning of this vigil, the tear ducts suppurating from the stress of

sunlight like yellow acid streaming into the room. The healers said that was

what the alien needed. Like the sowy, they said, she drinks from the sun and

darkness starves her.

"You are not my first death," he sang.

"Nor the first whose rushing breath Becomes a shout,

I won't. I will not go...."

Her eyes opened and Tsoylan stopped his song. "Kara Stavokal," he said, speaking

slowly to make sure she understood. "Do not be afraid. It is fate that wounded

you, not we."

He watched her head turn, her hands fumble about as if by touching the padded

platform and the sheet pulled over her, she could call her soul from wherever it

had fled. Her eyes gained focus, her groping stopped, and she began trying out

her body much as a Talq would test a machine, moving part against part,

evaluating the results. When she was satisfied, she swung her legs over the edge

of the platform and stood up.

She swayed, steadied herself. Her breathing slowed.

The healers had dressed her in a white shift that came to her knees and left her

arms bare. The hair on those arms was so fine he wouldn't have known it was

there if he hadn't felt it on her when he was helping move her from the litter

to the platform. The hair on her head was coatset, a color like that of

unstained wood; it was cut close to her head, fitting like a brown cap.

She took a step and he tensed. It was like a tree trying to walk. He didn't say

anything, just continued to watch her, amazed at her balance; it seemed to him

that she teetered on the edge of a bruising fall over and over again. His own

plump, malleable body with its low center of gravity and four legs to hold it

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Jo Clayton - BorrowedLight

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