The Speculative Short Fiction of Jo Clayton by Jo Clayton

Author:Jo Clayton
Language: eng
Format: epub

FIFTH SUMMER’S TALE (PART THREE)

Currents

Bursting from the constraints of the Chute, the River spread itself in wide serpentines across the wedge-shaped plain, sucking into itself the rich black earth, growing swollen and dark and powerful until it swept into the Istrin Estuary, a fresh-water ram half a mile wide.

Slowly losing intensity, the storm blew inland along the River, its turbulent winds countering and crossing the massive flow, teasing the slick surface into cross-hatched wavelets, shattering them again with intermittent gusts of rain.

Buffeted by wind and water, sail taut-bellied and near to bursting, a small boat edged out from a crumbling pier and began clawing its slow way upstream, leaving behind Istir and the destruction spreading like blue rot within the walls.

Deel crouched beside a bunk that took half the space in the small crude cabin yet was too short for the suffering man, fretting at her inability to help him, struggling to learn the feel of the boat as the floor pressed up against her buttocks, fell away, rose and fell in a jagged counterpoint to the Juggler’s hoarse labored breathing.

Though the darkness was intense inside the cabin, now and then the winds tore the clouds apart long enough for the larger moon’s milky glow to wake amber gleams in her dancing silks and summon to the Juggler’s sweaty face a fugitive luminosity.

Lightning walked. When the blackness closed in again, she still saw him, red hair twisted into spikes about a puffy, battered face. In the moment of light his bandaged hands clenched into fists, he groaned, then his fingers slowly uncurled. Blinking, her eyes watering, dazzled by the harsh glare from the repeated flashes of lightning, she heard rather than saw the cycle repeating itself—fist, groan, opening fingers, over and over as if something in his fever-dream tormented him.

A vindictive man he’d called himself. Deel drew the back of her hand across her eyes, then blew her nose, memories of the events of the night troubling her.

Shounach moaned. She pulled herself onto her knees and groped for his face. The heat in him startled her. He’s dying, she thought and felt a touch of relief. Dying had to be easier for him than living with the memory of what he’d done, the slaughter of all those innocents he neither knew nor cared to know. Her own part in those deaths made her sick, though she kept telling herself that there was nothing she could have done, she’d known nothing of the Juggler’s intentions. Even now she didn’t quite understand why she’d involved herself with the silent brown woman out there guiding the boat and, through her, with the Juggler. A moment’s warmth, revulsion at the thought and sight of torture, a sudden deep loneliness—and here she was.

She drew her fingertip across the heavy silk where it was pulled taut over the curve of her thigh. Should change; I don’t want to ruin this. Bracing herself against the jerk and shudder of the boat, she stretched across the floor and hooked her bag to her.

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