Jo Clayton: Changer’s Moon

Hastily he moved away from the trees, shrugged off his knapsack and began setting up for his meal. When he was ready to make his fire, he eyed the lower branches of the conifer then smiled at the lacewood. “I suppose you wouldn’t like that.”

While the cha water was heating, he set out the rest of the food on a thin piece of leather, slices of roast hauhau, a chunk of ripe cheese, some crusty rolls still warm from the baking and the first picking of the chays fruit. Taking a quiet pleasure in the simple task, he sliced open the rolls and filled them with meat and cheese, halved and pitted the chays and set everything aside to wait for the water to boil.

Some time later he sat with his back against the lacewood’s trunk, sipping at the cooling cha. “Lot of changes down there,” he said. The leaves above him rustled companionably. He smiled. A few late blooms fluttered down, one landing on his boot, the others on the stone beside him. “The exiles are settling in, north of Oras. Houses going up, no crops yet, not many farmers in the mix.” He chuckled. “We’ve got a newspaper in Oras now. Not all the exiles went north.” He closed his eyes, drowsed a moment, yawned. “Ummf. The energy of those people, vixen. It’s exhausting.” Eyelids drooping, he gazed out across the valley. “I keep busy. Wagging my tongue to keep the peace.” He chuckled again. “Nothing new in that. Land’s a problem. Taroms. Some of them want the old ways back, fighting us…” He set the mug down, yawned, laced his hands behind his head. “You wouldn’t believe the things happening down there in the Biserica.” He closed his eyes, listened to the whispering of the leaves; a breeze teased at his hair, tickling his face, the sun was warm, the air balmy. There was a peace up here, a tranquility that contrasted sharply with the busy, noisy, acrimonious, often frustrating life he’d been leading the past months. “Change,” he murmured. “The exiles live with it as an old friend. Harder for us…” He fell silent and drifted into a light doze.

He awakened a short while later, a recurrent clicking in his ears.

Reiki janja sat on the stone, tossing jewel-bright dice into the air and catching them, rolling them out on the stone as the whim took her. She was a sketch of herself, patches of color painted on air, and the dice she threw had blank sides.

“How do you win with those?”

The janja turned her head. He thought she smiled. “No one wins, Dom. Both sides lose.” Her voice was as hollow as her form.

“No Dom. Not anymore.” He thought she smiled again. “I’ve a more impressive title, janja. Representative to the Congress of the Domains, Speaker for Bakuur and Kulaan.” He chuckled sleepily. “Serroi said keep busy. That I do.”

The janja nodded. “You’ve seeded a new age, Hern. My time is ending.” She looked up, squinting into the sun, a painted glass figure, the ancient paint faded and rubbed thin. She tossed the blank dice high, watching the glitters until the sun swallowed the tumbling dodecahedrons, then she turned her vanishing face to him, “Live long, dom Hern.” Like the dice, she dissolved into the sunlight.

He sat awhile where he was, drowsing, at peace, listening to the trees sigh. Then he rose to his feet, gathered his things into his knapsack and walked back to the lacewood; He stroked his hand along her trunk, his fingers feeling skin that his mind tried to deny. “Well, Serroi…” He looked up. Another late blossom brushed his cheek as it fell. A corner of his mouth twisted up. “Why not.” He touched the trunk with his fingertips. “I’ll be back, love, when the world gets to be too much for me. To share your peace awhile.” He lingered a moment, then started back down the mountainside.