John Marco - Starfinder

“Fiona, I’m not scared,” Moth lied.

“Go on, toughie,” she goaded. “Close your eyes. What was the very best time of your life?”

Moth didn’t want to play her game. “Orphans don’t have memories like that.”

“Don’t be stupid. Everyone has good memories. You’ll see ’em when you close your eyes.”

So Moth did as Fiona asked, holding her hand and letting her guide him through the mists. Instantly his mother’s face popped up. Sometimes it was hard to remember her face, but not today. Today she came alive, so real Moth could smell her perfume.

“What are you remembering?” Fiona asked him.

Moth didn’t answer right away. To play the game right, he needed a great memory. He searched his brain, recalling the first time he’d seen an airship and the day he discovered a treehouse some of the squires had built. He’d spent the whole day in that tree pretending to be a Skyknight until the older boys chased him away.

“I remember one time a few years ago,” he began, “back when my mother was sick. We were in our old house on the square. I had just gotten my job at the aerodrome…” Moth took a deep breath, remembering the smell of that morning. “It was early and I was still in bed, and then I smelled my mother cooking breakfast. She’d gone out and bought us bacon from one of the farms. She walked all the way down there even though she was sick. When I asked her why, she said…”

Suddenly Moth opened his eyes. Fiona looked at him, eager for the rest of his story.

“Well?” she pressed. “What’d she say to you?”

The memory had taken Moth to a place he didn’t want to go. “She said it was because I had gotten a job,” he told her. “She said it was because she was proud of me. I guess that was the best time of my life.”

Fiona squeezed his hand. “You win.”

For hours they followed Lady Esme deeper and deeper into the mists, sometimes barely able to detect her in the thick fog. Moth’s feet hurt badly, roughed up by the oversized boots. He held Fiona’s hand tighter than ever. After a while they had both stopped speaking, until Fiona spoke the truly dreadful words.

“We’re lost,” she whispered. “We’re really lost.”

“No, we’re not,” Moth insisted. “Esme knows where she’s going.”

“She’s a bird, Moth!”

“She’s not a bird! She’s a person! And we’re not lost!” Fiona let go of his hand. “Stop. Just stop.”

Moth and Esme both halted, turning to look at her. “Fiona, listen, we have to keep going…”

“It’s getting dark,” said Fiona. She looked up where the sky belonged. “It’s almost night! We’ve been walking all day.”

“I know,” Moth admitted. “But we have to keep going. We have to believe , Fiona.”

She nodded desperately. “I want to believe. I…” She dropped to her haunches. “I want to rest.” Her eyes looked up hopefully. “Please can we rest?”

“Okay, yeah,” Moth relented. “Let’s rest.”

He called Esme back onto his shoulder, sitting down next to Fiona. All they could see was each other. Moth held back his panic, glad he wasn’t alone, because if he was he would have broken into tears.

“I’m hungry,” he said, anxious to keep talking. “You hungry?”

Fiona shook her head. “No.”

“We should eat. We’ll eat, and we’ll rest, and then we’ll find our way out of here. Believe it, Fiona, okay? You got to believe it.”

“Why’s that going to help, Moth?” She looked at him, really wanting to know. “Wishing doesn’t make things happen.”

“Believing ain’t wishing. Believing is knowing, and I know Leroux didn’t lie to me. I know it, see? That’s trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

Fiona nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Believe that, then.”

Moth dug out the meat pie he’d nibbled at the morning before. He took another small bite, offering the rest to Fiona. When she refused, he put it gently to her lips.

“Just a bite,” he told her.

She did as he asked, swallowed, and then announced, “I’m cold.”

“Me too,” said Moth. He put his arm around Fiona, and at once they both stopped shaking. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”

Fiona was too tired to argue. She closed her eyes and put her head against his slight shoulder, sharing his warmth. He listened to her breathing, first quick and anxious, then slower, more relaxed. He smiled, realizing she was falling asleep. It spread over him like a contagion. Before he realized it, he was sleeping too.

Too exhausted to dream, Moth did not awaken until he felt something tickling his nose. For that first, blissful moment, he forgot about his trek through the fog, thinking he was waking up in Leroux’s apartment on his own, soft sofa. But when he opened his eyes he saw Lady Esme staring back at him, standing right beside his head, and he knew exactly where he was.

His eyes opened wider. He saw sunlight. The smell of flowers filled his nostrils. He lifted his head, and to his great astonishment saw them all around him.

“Bluebells…”

His mother had grown them, and now he was in a valley full of them. Sunlight poured down from the purest sky Moth had ever seen. Lady Esme screeched in delight, bounding off Moth’s shoulder and shooting toward the clouds. And there in the flowers was Fiona, spinning in a joyous pirouette, her red hair flying out around her, her belt of canteens banging.

“We made it!” she cried. “Ha! Leroux was right!”

In the carpet of bluebells, a chorus of hummingbirds flew out from their feeding. Lady Esme soared over the wood-land, klee-klee-kleeing as she wheeled through a long, lazy spiral. Moth put a hand to his chest. His heart was thumping wildly again, but not with fear this time. This time, all he felt was gladness.

“He was right,” Moth whispered. He gazed into the sky, up to where Lady Esme soared, and knew Leroux hadn’t lied to him. “All of it’s true.” Laughing, he dashed out into the bluebells. “Hey Fiona! Still think Leroux was crazy?”

THE HEADY SMELL OF FLOWERS filled Moth’s nose as he stared up at the sky. Fiona lay beside him in the bed of bluebells, her fingers knitted behind her head and a mysterious smile on her face. They had eaten out of their pockets, drunk from their canteens, then reclined in the sunny field, sleepily enjoying the warmth of a summer that shouldn’t exist. Amid the hummingbirds and bees they marveled at the world they had entered, watching Lady Esme sail high above them. There were no mountains; no mechanical dragonflies disturbed the tranquility. Like the gray season that chilled the other side of the Reach, they had left Calio and their troubles behind.

“Look how free she is here,” said Moth. His voice was easy as he watched the spiraling kestrel.

“She knows she’s home,” said Fiona. “She’s happy.”

Moth felt happy, too. But also worried. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

“Maybe.” Fiona shrugged. “If my grandfather wants that star-thing bad enough.” She got a puzzled look on her face suddenly. “Why don’t others come?” she wondered. “Why don’t more people try and cross the Reach?”

“Some probably do,” said Moth. “They probably get lost. We almost got lost.”

“But why is it forbidden to try?”

“It’s always been that way,” said Moth.

“I know, but why? Why can’t people come here? It’s not dangerous. We sure haven’t seen anything like a Skylord yet!”

Moth wasn’t sure how to answer. “It’s just forbidden, that’s all. That’s why folks don’t know how good it is here.”

Fiona went back to sky-gazing. “It is good here. Good and free.” Together their eyes tracked Lady Esme through the air. Fiona gave a pensive sigh. “I wonder who she is,” she said. “Is Esme her real name, do you think?”