A World Too Near (54 page)

On the western edge of Janna’s property grew an ancient stand of eucalyptus trees clinging to the boundaries of a submerged watercourse. Today she lingered there, intending to write in her journal, but instead transfixed by the enormity of the grass-clad desert. No wraithlike armies appeared today—the plains were empty all the way to the horizon. She leaned against a eucalyptus tree, catching her bright blue shirt on its crackled bark. It was her habit to wear blue, and only a certain shade of it. Du Peng bought her clothes, and knew what she liked, though he advised her to add an extra color. Perhaps white? No. She held onto the things that seemed linked to her previous life, even though that life must have been a bad one, dangerous even to remember.

The ranch lay between the inland desert and the Murrumbidgee River, a property that Du Peng had found, and researched, and prepared for her, as he prepared everything. With no interest in ranching, Janna had converted the place into a nature preserve. Where does the money come from? she asked Du Peng. From before, he said, his eyes snaking to the side, avoiding more questions. She learned to be content with what was here now. The porch of her ranch house looked out on the grassland with its patches of desert peas, prickly weed, trefoil clover, saltbush, and, in places, waxy succulents bearing extravagant, short-lived flowers.

She had been here six months, and still had a dry and pitiless summer to endure, but she looked forward to it. She would record the days of summer as she did all her days, creating a record of who she was now. Opening her journal, she began her day’s entry.

Thursday, October 4.

I flew the flyer to the eucalyptus grove, and landed it well away from the trees as I
promised Du Peng, who worries too much. He means well, and what, after all,
would I do without him? The cumulus clouds are crowding eastward, turning the
golden grasses pale and the drifts of red dust to purple. I shouldn’t stare at the sky.
It’s peculiar behavior, as Du Peng has warned me.

Every day I reread my journal to remind myself that I exist. That I have had
a life, though I don’t remember it. Here in this journal is my only record. It appears
to be in my own hand, from a time when I had all my faculties. It is an account of
who I was, but it says little, as though describing a phantom. Du Peng will say
nothing: not who sent him to protect and serve me; not where his family is or where
he came from. Much is lost, my former self tells me in the journal. Don’t seek to know,
but be grateful for the Earth.

That’s a strange thing to say. Be grateful for the Earth. Still, I
am
grateful.
It’s one reason I sit under this eucalyptus—the big one with the gnarled, split
trunk—and stare at the sky. Clouds bulk up into the heights, carrying rain sometimes
and lightning. I never tire of looking.

There are times when I think I can remember things. Sometimes I believe that I
had an accident. There was such a flash of light. I seemed to lift above my body and
watch myself catapult like the fleshy discharge of a cannon. Du Peng will say
nothing, so I read my journal for clues. Don’t seek to know, my former self writes.

Despite such warnings, I do remember one thing: a creature tall and beautiful
but unearthly. He spoke to me, something very kind, I think. He warned me to be
brave. That must be a dream, but such a persistent one. Du Peng won’t talk about
the creature, but from his expression when I told him, I feel he knows something. It
will be our secret, even if I’m the only one who thinks so.

Neighbors come by bearing gifts, invitations, and small talk. There are some
people they want me to meet. I know enough to be wary of matchmaking, and turn
down offers of company. Still, I wonder what kind of man would choose to live in
this harsh and beautiful land? I will meet some of them, eventually. Du Peng
encourages me. He wants me to be happy
with
someone, as well as just happy. So
there are layers of happiness. More to come? I’ll wait and see.

The morning was well along before she finished writing. Janna stood and brushed the dust from her clothes. Slipping her journal into the pack, she headed for the small flyer. Du Peng would have lunch waiting, and she would join him for it, she decided, although she could also follow the watercourse gully to the hills or fly southeast into the tablelands, or simply watch the sky, high and blue and bright. Across all the prairie she could choose where to go. It felt like extravagant freedom, and earned.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

K
AY KENYON grew up in northern Minnesota, where winters are long and books, particularly science fiction books, could take you away— the farther the better. She was in thrall to the alien worlds of authors like Silverberg, LeGuin, and Herbert. She never lost that early love of alternate worlds, but creating her own would have to wait through several careers in the real world. After professions in TV and radio copywriting, acting in commercials and promoting urban transportation alternatives, she turned to fiction writing. Since then she has published numerous short stories and seven science fiction novels, including
Tropic of Creation
,
The Seeds of Time
,
Maximum
Ice
(Philip K. Dick Award finalist),
The Braided World
(John W. Campbell short list), and
Bright of the Sky
, the first book of her present series, The Entire and the Rose. Kenyon’s work has been anthologized, podcast, and translated into Russian and French. She chairs a writing conference, Write on the River, in eastern Washington State, where she lives with her husband. You can visit her blog and her Web site at
www.kaykenyon.com
.