Gene Wolfe: Exodus from the Long Sun

We did not know then that the inhumi live on Green, nor that they fly to Blue when the whorls are in conjunction, nor that they drink blood, nor even how they change their shapes. Or in fact anything about them. Yet everyone who saw Quetzal’s body was deeply disturbed; and Marrow and I urged that we come here to Blue instead of going to Green as he had advised.

Remora heard us out; but when we had finished, he affirmed his faith in Patera Quetzal, whose coadjutor he had been for so many years, and declared that we would remain on the course he had recommended. It was not until three days later, when it had become apparent to anyone who went into the cockpit that we were really on course to Blue, that we learned that the monitor had overruled him. No one questions its decision now.

Here I close my defense, having (as I hope) satisfied the demands of my critics. Whether I have or have not, having compromised my principles more than I wished. I repeat that I set out to tell Silk’s story, and no other.

It may be that he is dead, having been killed in the Long Sun Whorl. It may also be that he and Hyacinth later boarded a lander that carried them to Green, and died there.

But it also may be that he is still alive, and in my heart I feel that he is, either in the Long Sun Whorl or as I hope — on another part of this Short Sun Whorl we call Blue. The years will have changed him as they change all of us; I can only describe him as he looked on that overheated summer afternoon when he snatched the ball from my hand as I was about to score, a man well above avenge height, with a clear, somewhat pale complexion, bright blue eyes, and straw-colored hair that would never lie flat. A slender man, but not a slow or a weak one. He will have a scar upon his back where the needle left it, and may have faint scars on his right arm, left by the beak of the vulture Mucor called the white-headed one.

My own name is Horn. My wife Nettle and I live with our sons on Lizard Island, toward the tail, where we make and sell such paper as this. We will be grateful to anyone who brings us word of Patera Silk.

Horn wiped the point of his quill with a scrap of soft leather and corked the ink that he and his wife had concocted from soot and sap, pushed back his chair, and stood. It was done. It was done at last, and now perhaps the ghost of the boy he had been would leave him in peace.

Outside, the short sun’s fiery rim had touched the sea. A golden road — an Aureate Path — stretched westward across the whitecaps toward a new Mainframe that almost certainly did not exist. He walked to the beach where Hoof and Hide were playing and asked where Sinew was.

“Hunting,” Hide declared; Hoof added, “Over on the big island, Father.” Hoofs wide, dark eyes showed plainly how deeply he was impressed.

“He should be home by this time.”

Nettle called from the kitchen window as he spoke.

“Go inside.” When the twins objected, he gave each a push in the direction of the sturdy walls.

From the summit of the tor, he had a clear view of the strait. Still, a half-minute passed before he could be certain of the coracle, lifted upon distant waves only to vanish from sight. Night had come already to the eastern sky, scattering the short suns of other whorls across its black velvet. Soon Green would rise, almost a second sun, yet baleful as a curse; it had brought a succession of storms and monstrous tides -

There!

Horn watched and waited until he was sure the faint gleam was actually moving against its glittering backdrop. Within that point of light he had been born, and had grown almost to manhood. Within that point of light Sinew had been conceived, in all probability, in the Calde’s Palace. It did not seem possible.

Almost too quickly to be noticed, something dark flitted between Horn and the whorl that had been his; and he shuddered.