Long Days in Paradise: The First Book of the Shards of Heaven

Long Days in Paradise

The First Book of the Shards of Heaven

Copyright © Amos T. Fairchild 2011

Smashwords Edition

Cover design copyright © Amos T. Fairchild 2011

Cover original photography copyright © Guylaine Brunet 2008

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

.o0o.

A map of the Domain (Maeruna) is available at:

http://bcs4me.com/atf/maps.html

Other Books by Amos T. Fairchild

The Shards of Heaven Series

Long Days in Paradise

The Time of the Dula Kaena

The Face of Destiny

Mirrim Dawn Series

Mirrim Dawn

Mirrim Vale

The Megan Series

Megan Evaluation

Prologue

The threads of tale are frail and thin

And have no liking for their kin,

Yet rope they weave, and weave it well.

The rope of tale that Aestri tell.

I

Paradise for some, but not the rat.

It had been doomed since the moment the eye of the predator had come upon it, a rat caught far from the sanctuary of the ship's bulkhead. It sniffed the musky air in the cool gloom of the hold, the aroma of the malting grain, and then returned to his meal.

A meal provided by the predator, a thinking beast who smiled to herself as she gazed upon the near-mindless prey. At the appropriate moment she pounced swiftly and silently, her short claws piercing the flesh of the rat, its cry brief.

She ate and frowned.

Her next meal would be fish.

II

Helen Garret gazed out across the blazing waters of the Atlantic; north toward the island of Corvo that she knew lay beyond the curve of her mother earth. For now she sat upon a rugged rocky point on the northern shores of Flores, one of the western-most islands of the Portuguese Azores. The edge of the cliff was near; the wind was brisk, the waves pounding beneath...

She continued to sit, an often wild sea now relaxing in relative calm before her. She sat because she could no longer stand.

Helen inched the wheel-chair closer to the edge.

A holiday, she thought, to forget all the pain and loss of mobility. She was eighteen, life as she had planned it already at an end – all because of a man that thought drink driving was a way of life. Her parents were dead and she should have been as well. She had no right to live on while they did not.

So came the holiday, an idea of her current guardians, a time of joy that had indeed eased Helen's uncertain life, the last few dreamy days the most joyous of all. Now the thought of a return to Boston and its reality tore at her heart.

Aunt Dolly placed a hand upon Helen's shoulder, startling her. We should get you out of this wind – and Julio says there's a nice beach a few miles further on.

Helen smiled and took the hand of the woman that had always been so close to her heart – now closer than ever. A little l...longer. She filled her lungs with the damp salt air. I feel more alive here than I have in w...weeks.

Dolly nodded. Just remember that we have to be back in Ponta Delgardo by Wednesday. Then home, she smiled. You know that your friends back in Boston must be missing you something terrible.

I know. Most of my brain is still w...working, she slurred, knowing that a great deal of it still did not – and never would. I j...just want to be alone a moment longer.

Dolly nodded and backed slightly. And Dolly, Helen added as hastily as she was able, smiling her crooked smile. I l...love you.

Her aunt smiled again and retreated toward Uncle and Julio.

It was not long before a vivid reoccurring dream returned to the mind of Helen Garret, a dream that was called into existence. Once her dreams had been of her future, the future of a promising young law student, a woman who planned to change the very way of life on her mother earth. Now her dreams drifted into fantasy, a world to hide within when the pain of reality came upon her shattered mind.

In the last few days such dreams had become more vivid than the painful world surrounding her, and Helen knew she would never see Boston. Not while such dreams could be shaped at command. During the long night it was always paradise, gelled to a reality all its own. In the daylight hours it was often otherwise, a darker nightmare that seemed more challenging than terrifying.

The creatures of nightmare did not bend easily to her will, as many before her had found. Some of those now tossed in restless midnight slumber on the other side of the globe. Yet without fear Helen welcomed darkness as it swept forward to embrace her.

Again the world of reality dimmed.

Darkness was surely death, but death was an ugly word; there should be another word. There should be no death. Perhaps there wasn't.

Again the world slowed.

Helen gazed upon the distant statue of Aunt Dolly, the more distant statues of her uncle and Julio, and shed a silent tear.

They would never know.

Helen drew upon the strength within and wheeled herself beyond the edge of the cliff.

III

Mainland Australia was a little over ten kilometres north of the water-borne test rig; Briggs was tempted to swim for it.

The oil fields of Bass Strait weren't the worst, he was sure of that. The North Sea was more deadly on a good day than the strait on a bad, but the local conditions weren't great either. He had prepared himself for the hard work and the rough seas and long lonely hours, even the time away from home, but as for the screaming seas and the talk of ghosts...

The rig shuddered again.

That's freakin' odd, grumbled one of the uglier members of the crew as they sat in the bunk across from that of Briggs'. Ten years I've been doing this shit, never had all that growlin' before. Nobody had. There was more going on than the company dared tell.

Next you'll be seein' spanners flyin' around as well, laughed another, Briggs frowning as they did.

Perhaps I will, the ugly one glared in return. Perhaps we all freakin' will, he said ominously.

The few odd things that Briggs himself had seen he blamed on way too much beer, and since everyone in the room drank just as heavily when they had the chance he suspected that was their problem as well. But alcoholic delirium didn't explain all, he was currently too sober for that, and there had to be more to the seismic testing than was being let on.

Oil reserves were starting to look thin in the straits, everyone knew that, but there was too much invested in the field to pack up without getting every last drop. The new ultrasonic tests were going to ensure that, and it was up to the employees to ignore any adverse reaction that might result. That meant that there was officially no aftershock caused by any of the electronic blasts, and no sea-life of any description was ever seen floating in the currents near the rig. Anything they saw floating was officially imaginary.

Briggs gritted his teeth and headed for the open decking, already having decided that it was last week on the rig – no matter what that might mean to his future. He was sick of the blasting, often occurring every half hour, and more sick of the occasional wail of the aftershock. Then every few days the rig would move on, leaving behind the few dead fish that managed to make it to surface.

If it became any worse then he might even attempt leaving before the end of the week, even if it did mean swimming.

When he saw Peter Nelson from the control room leaning out of the outer rail, Briggs was tempted to confront him. He worked in the control room and had to know something of what was going on, and he was nowhere near as evasive as anyone else in engineering.

Yet Peter had problems enough of his own...

IV

Boston.

Sue placed the three daisies carefully at the foot of the headstone.

Do you have to come here every day, Jillian complained again as she did on a regular basis. It has been over three years. I'm sure Helen would understand. The thin redhead shrugged, glancing to her dark-eyed companion. It's not as if she's even in there...

She's at the bottom of the Atlantic somewhere, Sue smiled. I know, you've said that before. And I don't come every day. It's just that it's on the way to work, so... well I come past now and then.

Twice a day.

Every few days. Sometimes I'll come every day. I find it peaceful here; relaxing.

Most of the people here are very relaxed, snorted Jillian.

Sue ignored the pun. And whether Helen's body is here or not, her spirit is. I often feel that she's very near.

Jillian shook her head.

Yet Sue again felt the warmth and love of her lost friend.

Chapter 1 – Transition I

Hear my word and know I lie,

There's less to this than meets the eye!

I

Jorden Miles felt like death warmed up. He wasn't a morning person at the best of times, but over the last week he had felt a lot worse than he had in quite a while. And it was Saturday. He hated feeling bad on a Saturday more than anything. He was sixteen, almost seventeen really, and feeling sick was something for a school day, not a weekend unless his mother was on a cleaning spree. He'd even mowed the lawn on Thursday to try and make sure the weekend would be relatively smooth.

It seemed like a waste now. Today he definitely felt worst than usual. He had never exactly been a healthy person. He had bad lungs. That was what his grandmother would always say, and then blame it on Jorden's father. Of course she had never liked his real father from day one.

There were times through the week when Jorden thought he was dying. It was like a few years back when he was twelve and spent several weeks in hospital, and yet somehow different as well. The last thing he wanted was to have to be dragged off to a doctor yet again. So he was dying. Everyone was dying. Sometimes Jorden felt that he was just doing it a little faster than other people.

Jorden was otherwise healthy looking. He was overly tall for his age and rarely suffered acne like others in his class at school. It just seemed that he caught every flu and cold that came through and avoided sport like the plague. It seemed like the entire school thought of him as the sickly kid, the one who couldn't even play sport in case he dropped dead on the field. He'd also missed so much school when he was twelve that his mother had insisted he repeat the year. Now his classmates were not only considerably younger than himself, he was already one of the older members of his class before being kept back, but some seemed like they were almost half his height. It all felt very strange and just served to isolate him even further.

It was bad enough they had moved town yet again and were now living in the middle of nowhere. Even the nearby township was tiny, and their nearest neighbour in the rural surrounds was nowhere nearby. The house they rented was falling down and Jorden's room felt more like an oversized hallway than a room. At least he didn't have any siblings to have to share it with.

He wondered if things could be much worse. That was doubtful and he just wished more than anything that he didn't feel so bad. The odd faint spells he had over the last week were not all that much fun either. Jorden did not like the feel of those at all. The last thing he wanted was to have to spend a week in hospital while they did even more tests that never really told him anything at all.

He decided not to mention such things to his mother as he stumbled into the kitchen and asked for his morning juice. She would only stress about it. She already tended to stress over things too much, at least all the silly things. Like girls. All her stress had helped cause the split with his father, Jorden was sure of that. And now he was stuck with the new guy, Bill. Jorden wasn't about to call him Dad.

Although he was cool enough, he just wasn't a father. He taught Jorden how how to weld and fix motors, and he bought him a dirt bike. Mother hated it, but at least it wasn't a girl. She was also happy it was broken at the moment. Jorden wasn't. He was hoping to take it for a ride up into the nearby hills this weekend, but it would take hours to fix and there was no way he was going to talk anyone into getting the parts for him in the near future, especially his mother. He would work on Bill later when he wasn't busy or drinking.

Walking would be better anyway. Walking made him feel better, maybe kept him alive. He wasn't supposed to over-exert himself, but the doctors did advise regular exercise. His mother would wrap him in cotton wool if he let her; so he used the doctors advise whenever he could. Saturday was walking and riding day, Sunday as well if he could get away with it, which was rare at best.

The increase in dizziness, blackouts, and shortness of breath over the last week were something of a worry. It had been years since he felt like that. Jorden blamed it on the bike. He had rode last weekend rather than walked. Today he would walk and maybe it was better the bike was broken down anyway. He very much did not want to spend weeks in hospital like he did when he was twelve. Better to keep his mouth shut.

The hallucinations were more of a worry however. Maybe he should mention those. That probably would mean more changes in medication and that could be a real pain. He hated the medication the most. The side effects always seemed worse than the symptoms. Most of what his mother put in front of him came from the local health food place and weren't even what Jorden considered real medicine, but there were a couple from a real doctor. Real in this case was open to some debate however, and the worst medication was apparently for Jorden's attention deficit problems. That was a joke. There was no attention problem; Jorden just didn't care much about school these days.

Jorden tried not to think about it all and walked out to the rear stairs of their shabby rented house, gazing down on the hideous red thing Bill claimed to be a motor vehicle. Good morning Tasmania, he said loudly, but few heard. His nearest neighbour was 200 metres back along the road to Pyengana, and they had left for St. Helens an hour earlier. Good morning Australia, He shouted north toward the 200 kilometre distant mainland that lay beyond the slightly nearer waters of the Bass Strait, the ferry Spirit of Tasmania perhaps somewhere within.

He was not heard there either.

Jorden sipped more of the juice. It didn't taste great. His mother made it up and filled it with all sorts of good stuff. That was about all she would say about it. Some health food rubbish. She was something of a health food nut, but maybe it helped. Unfortunately it tasted like crap.

He gazed to the blue summer sky, then to the rural woodland beyond the road. Woodland and pasture that was now well known, he had spent enough time walking amongst it over the past year, yet he had no idea to whom it actually belonged. Between the road and the fenced pasture was some council owned no man's land. Great place for riding a bike. When it was going.

Everyone is going to think you're bloody mad, Bill grumbled playfully as he brushed past on his way from the kitchen to the car, eager to return to work, there was undoubtedly another chrome manifold to be polished, or another air-horn to be installed. Even now the red pile of junk roared like a Trans-Tasman ferry itself.

Whatever, smiled Jorden, and I hope that bomb drops a valve or two on the way to Launceston. It was all in fun. Mostly. In some ways Bill was better than Jorden's real father. At least he was here.

Bill countered with an audio-visual insult.

Jorden planned to return the gesture, but soon lost all interest in the conversation. As the world dimmed about him he braced himself for the coming attack. He wondered if it would be the last ever.

Again the world slowed.

Jorden gasped for breath, the air suddenly thick in his lungs. Silence invaded the land; the cool breeze of the morning falling to nothing, Bill was strangely frozen on the path from the stair to the shed in the back yard. If this is death, Jorden thought, then let it at least be quick.

It wasn't, and it lingered on.

The cup slipped from Jorden's grasp and fell ever more slowly toward the wooden stair below, a globule of liquid rising lazily from its lip. Jorden gave up on breathing and recalled a film that he had once seen, a documentary that had shown droplets of water in slow-motion splashing sleepily into a puddle of the same. And now he was able to see it happen live! That was somehow cool. As the cup met the bottom stair and its fragments drifted mournfully to their own destinies, each one seeming less than eager to leave its brother, Jorden knew that he had to be dying.

II

His mother, Joanne, heard the crash of the china and ran out to investigate, always fearing that Jorden had collapsed. She was somewhat happier to find that Jorden had simply dropped the cup. He was still standing, but she noted his breathing.

Are you okay? she asked, or are you going to lie to me again and say you're fine?

Jorden patted his chest and coughed. I'll lie and say I'm fine, then. He glanced to the cup again, then found that breath came somewhat more easily. Alive still. Just choking on all the special herbs and spices. He looked again to the quiet, open fields and started down the stairs. I think I'll go for a walk.

I knew that was coming, His mother frowned. Can we at least pretend to be a family for once? We get invited to one barbecue a year if we are lucky, and you are going, like it or not. Jorden kept walking into the yard, ignoring his mother as best he could. He was usually quite good at that. In any case he had heard the story before. She wanted him to have friends, especially friends who weren't girls. Two hours, she shouted after him. If you're not back by then you can go live with your father!

Jorden continued walking, crossing the roadway and drifting into the woodland. What a threat. He doubted she even knew where he was these days.

You're in the shit now! came a muffled voice from beneath the red Ford.

And you can shut it too, Bill. Joanne thumped back to the kitchen.

III

Jorden headed south, ignoring the headache that threatened to split his skull.

He was already worrying about the time and kept glancing at his watch. He'd have to get back in an hour or two or she would worry. She was always worried, even when she acted like she was angry. Jorden kept reminding himself of that, but he still found it annoying that she was always on his back about everything. He strode on and tried to forget about it all, at least for a while.

He was soon in open woodlands that thickened as he approached higher ground and he made good time for a dying person, coming upon a particular forested valley within the hour. It was not a path he had taken often, his treks and bike rides usually confined to the open fields and wooded gullies nearer to home, but it was a path taken at times when he wished not to be found.

He had last come this way the previous weekend, not long after his bike threw a chain and cracked the gearbox housing, spilling oil everywhere like black slimy blood. He found the quiet gloom somewhat comforting and relaxing, and he needed to chill out out after the bike died. It was around then he stumbled across a grove of massive trees that he had never managed to find on his numerous previous tours. As he slipped amongst the dim shade of the forested creek he hoped he might find his way to the grove again, and that some logging company wouldn't, even though the chances were against both.

Jorden attempted to coax free the memory of his previous journey, his mind throbbing with the effort, a slight nausea plaguing his every step. He was starting to wonder if walking this far was such a good idea, but shrugged it off and stepped down into a stony dry creek bed. Then he was at a loss.

It lay somewhere to the east, he knew, yet he couldn't count the number of times that he had crossed the creek and headed east only to find himself on a grassy ridge that he followed north toward home. He turned and followed the creek south hopefully, vaguely remembering that he had done something similar the week before. That was about as far as his memory would take him.

Then he noticed the two knotted trees on the eastern bank. Memory returned, logic leapt out the window.

Jorden was sure he had ventured east between the trees. He was also certain that he had not found himself upon a barren ridge heading for home. He had actually walked for some time amongst the grove of the giants before returning again to this very site and then making for home. He struggled with the problem momentarily, shrugged, then moved on between the trees.

It was a brief climb to the crest of the bank, then into misty gloom. It was then that Jorden was struck suddenly by a biting chill, the wind roaring suddenly, then blinding light. It was sharp and cold and...

Then calm.

Jorden braced himself for another attack, but so far he felt okay. Maybe a little better than okay. The trees rustled quietly about him, the air was warm and fragrant; birds chattered noisily above. He stood firm and took a deep breath and that seemed to come easy enough.

Ahead was the grove, an area studded only with the boles of enormous trees with canopies that seemed a hundred meters above, the ground devoid of undergrowth. Jorden ventured amongst them, thumping several of the largest, moving on to a path he could see amongst the trees.

And behind him a green crystal swung on its filament.

IV

The broad, clear path headed north, or so it seemed, and Jorden followed on, curious as to what would actually make such a path. There were no signs of track, either animal or bike, but it was a path that grew more distinct as he went, the forest changing continuously.

He came in time to an area that was thick with undergrowth, vines lazing amongst the small palms, and the land to his right rose steadily. Then the path turned left. Jorden paused momentarily, partly to rest, partly because the path wasn't heading in the direction he wished to go. He puffed several breaths, wondering if he pushed himself too far, before he realized that his head at last felt whole once more. He actually felt quite well, way better than he had when he left the house. Even the nausea had been left somewhere upon the trail. If he could just avoid tripping over it on the return journey...

It was about this time that Jorden noticed the doorway.

He instantly thought of it as somewhat odd: firstly because he had never seen it before, secondly because it is not often one sees a hill with a front door, and thirdly because it looked very old. Jorden thrashed his way closer, severely crippling two small trees as he did, and examined the door more closely, a door that had quite obviously not been used in many years. It wasn't just old; it was very very old, yet it was within ten paces of what seemed to be a well-worn footpath.

It had to be opened, Jorden knew that from the moment he got close, yet if he had known the effort involved he would never have attempted such. It took over an hour to dig the accumulation of dirt and humus from its foot and to tear away the shrubbery that had come to call the door home. Even then it refused to open, Jorden almost giving up in despair before thinking to turn the handle.

The door opened.

Jorden wasn't quite prepared for what he found when he moved inside, nor was he expecting the door to slam heavily behind him, nor did he enjoy watching the handle clatter noisily to the floor. He swore quietly.

It was dark but not completely dark. Jorden could see enough to know he was in a storage area of some sort and that there was no way he was getting out the way he came in. A few firm kicks confirmed that. As for the stores, they seemed as old as the door, the dust as thick as a heavy snowfall. There were a hundred clay jars that he could see – a guess, he didn't count them – all about twice the size of the biggest pickle jar he had ever seen and stacked on two sets of five shelves that drifted away into the gloom. A little stumbling further afield also made it apparent that there were many more sets of shelves in the storeroom than Jorden cared to count.

He had found a storeroom in Tasmania, no more than ten kilometres from the nearest town, that had not been touched in... Jorden wondered how long. Fifty years? A hundred? A find of some significance, surely – something to bring fame, and hopefully fortune, to anyone who stumbled onto something like that.

His joy, however, was somewhat short-lived.

As Jorden wandered amongst the stores, a room that covered the area of a modest sized home, the light grew in intensity. He could see more and more of the structure of the room: the numerous square posts and rafters holding the earth above at bay, the lanterns that hung on them – many of which had been used in recent years.

He noticed also that many of the jars had been dusted, or shifted from their original position. Then he saw racks without jars, then new jars... Jorden mourned the loss of fame and began to wonder exactly whose storeroom he was wandering around in and what they would think, and do, when they found out about it. He started getting that uncomfortable feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

Jorden found the stairs, formulated escape plans and considered various explanations of his actions, one of them the truth. He briefly imagined a towering hulk of a man who ate salesmen for breakfast, and became positively irate when juveniles blatantly broke into his cellar.

V

There was some distraction to the worry at least, as the stairway lead to the one of the oddest dwellings Jorden had ever seen. It was a house of sorts built on the forested face of the ridge opposite to the cellar door and therefore shielded from the view of the well-worn path.

It appeared that each room was added as something of an afterthought, many set on its own level with a short stair leading to the next. And the structure and use of materials varied unbelievably. There were walls of stone, brick, timber, woven canes, coloured crystal... Beads hung in almost every doorway, woollen tapestries on many walls, and there were clusters of vegetables hanging openly in what appeared to be the kitchen.

Kitchen?

It was a room paved with irregular bluish stone slabs, the walls of red brick, the roof a conglomeration of round timbers and straw bundles. There was a stone hearth set in one wall, a large black pot simmering above the coals. Another wall framed an unglazed window, a cluttered workbench beneath. Other walls were lined with shelving, and a table was set casually toward the centre. Jorden attempted to imagine his mother in such a kitchen...

It was not a dwelling that attempted meeting any council regulations whatsoever, that much was obvious. That seemed strange as there had been a couple of times when the council had threatened the owners of his own house regarding it's condition. This place was primitive by comparison, but clean and tidy. Jorden glanced to a lantern in the next room, another sign of the complete lack of facilities, and began to formulate something of a picture.

An alternative lifestyle perhaps? Some hippies looking for the good life? Jorden wasn't sure he liked the lack of technology. He liked television and the occasional video game a little too much for that, and getting on the internet on his obsolete PC where he could chat with people who didn't see him as some pathetic sickly creature they should avoid. As he wandered into what seemed like something of a lounge, books and various ornaments lining its abundant shelving, he doubted the occupants would be hostile. That was the hope at least. He was also sure they would not welcome the intrusion. That was a certainty.

In days to come he would not be sure of either assumption.

For the moment all seemed quiet, the chairs of the room beckoning with their comfort, Jorden not daring to sit. He did brave a brief look into a thick volume that lay innocently on a low coffee table, the cover arousing the attention of an unusually sharp mind. Interesting, but unreadable, Jorden noted, a title of some seven characters. The first looked like a distant, mutant relative of an 'A', another might have been a 'V', yet the rest of the symbols might as well have been Chinese – except that they weren't.

He shrugged and glanced inside, not finding a page of text that made the slightest sense. The diagrams conjured images of an Egyptian star-guide to brain surgery. Okay, so that's clear as mud, Jorden Miles mumbled, closing the book with a frown.

Pyrene Holography is not an art that you would find useful, came a voice from behind, young and female. Hence it is laid down in High Huran rather than common text.

Jorden swallowed and returned the book quickly to the timber slab. Then he dared a glance to the woman... girl who had spoken. I... I came in through the storeroom. I didn't realize it was your home. He wiped his palms on his T-shirt. I didn't even know anyone lived up here.

The girl smiled. She looked about his age, maybe a little less, and indeed was the equivalent of just fifteen years of age, dressed in a simple full-length gown that looked odd only in the respect of its excessive length and simplicity. And she said nothing more for the moment, looking almost in wonder upon the juvenile man, her dark eyes shining beneath her darker fringe.

Are your parents home? Jorden continued nervously. Parents would be even harder to deal with. I should apologize for coming in like this. I never realized we had neighbours up this way.

The girl cocked her head slightly. Kaedith Mahanam has been called away, she put forth carefully. I speak for her while she is absent, and you are welcome in my home. She nodded, almost bowed, in a manner that seemed odd to Jorden Miles. My name is Tsarin. Please sit and relax, I'm sure you have come a long way.

Jorden cleared his throat. Well, not really, and I should be getting back. That was only partly because his mother was expecting him and mostly because he was somewhat uncomfortable in the odd house.

Tsarin nodded. Of course, you may leave if you must. Then, for no apparent reason that Jorden could fathom, she blushed and turned away. He stood in silence, somewhat uneasy but mostly confused.

Then she added, I'm sorry; then a stifled cough. It is just that we seldom have male visitors and I fear I am unsure... She paused. A drink before you leave, in exchange for idle speech. My studies leave me isolated from the world about.

Religious cult? Over-protective parents? Few people that Jorden knew spoke anything like Tsarin, especially those his age, and for anyone to live without even a television... Jorden almost laughed. These people didn't even seem to have basics like electric lighting.

He glanced to his watch, noticing that he wasn't wearing it even though he was certain he had put it on that morning. Well, I...

Good, Tsarin smiled, and vanished momentarily, leaving Jorden alone and uncomfortable. He sat nervously.

She returned a moment later, empty handed, and sat nearby. I hope that Oil of Turpena will be all right, I forgot to ask what you preferred. An absent nod was returned, Jorden surprised by the direction she had entered the room. He wondered if there was another kitchen within the house, one that was perhaps more modern. And you say you are from where?

Just down the valley, Jorden pointed, toward Pyengana. The low block, white place. Tsarin gazed vaguely in the indicated direction. You can't miss it. You've probably seen it on your way through to town. He was tempted to elaborate on the poor condition of the house, but decided against it.

Py-en-gana, Tsarin mimicked badly, her puzzled frown obvious. I know of Thagul beyond the Line... Then she gazed again more carefully toward Jorden Miles: his clothing, his hair, his mode of speech. The West-Pacific line is near, a brief walk from my door, Tsarin said, choosing her words carefully. You are, of course, from the Western Pacific.

Jorden nodded without thinking, then puzzled briefly over her words, then thought he understood. I'm from the mainland originally. We only moved to Tasmania a few years back. Better air, my mother said, he smiled.

Tasmania, yes. Tsarin nodded slowly in her turn.

And then she laughed.

VI

The woman who brought the drinks was somewhat older, another of the commune, perhaps.

By that time Tsarin had stopped laughing, and so had Jorden who had laughed along with her without knowing in the least why he did. My apologies, she said at last. "Drink,