Coyote Rising (6 page)

Another pause. “Ah, yes . . . so I see. You wrote music for the Connecticut River Ensemble. In fact, I think I have one of your works. . . .”

From its mouth grille, a familiar melody emerged: “Sunrise on Holyoke,” a minuet for string quartet. She’d written it early one winter morning when she’d lived in the foothills of the Berkshires, trying to capture the feeling of the dawnlight over the Holyoke range. A delicate and ethereal piece, reconstructed in electronic tonalities by something that had given up all pretense of humanity.

“Yes, that’s mine. Thank you very much for reminding me.” She glanced over her shoulder. “My stew’s getting cold. If you don’t mind . . .”

The music abruptly ended. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t do it justice.” A moment passed. “If you’re ever inclined to compose again, we would be glad to have you do so. We sadly lack for culture here.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

She waited, staring determinedly into her soup bowl. After a few moments, she heard the rustle of its cloak, the subdued whir and click of its legs as it walked away. There was quiet around her, like the brief silence that falls between movements of a symphony, then murmuring voices slowly returned.

For an instant they seemed to fill a void within her, one that she’d fought so long and hard to conquer . . . but then, once more, the music failed to reach her. She heard nothing, saw nothing.

“Hey, lady,” someone seated nearby whispered. “You know who that was?”

“Yeah, jeez!” another person murmured. “Manny Castro! No one ever stood up to him like that. . . .”

“Who did you say you were? I didn’t catch . . .”

“Excuse me.” The plate and bowl rattled softly in her hands as she stood up. She carried it to a wooden cart, where she placed it with a clatter that sounded all too loud to her ears. Remembering the bamboo stalk she’d left on the table, she went back to retrieve it. Then, ignoring the questioning faces around her, she quickly strode out of the dining hall.

All this distance, only to have the past catch up to her. She began to make the long walk back to Shuttlefield.

When she returned to her tent, she found that it was still there.
However, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A Proctor knelt before the tent, holding the flap open as he peered inside.

“Pardon me,” she asked as she came up behind him, “but is there something I can help you with?”

Hearing her, the Proctor turned to look around. A young man with short-cropped blond hair, handsome yet overweight; he couldn’t have been much older than twenty Earth-years, almost half Allegra’s age. He dropped the tent flap and stood up, brushing dirt from his knees.

“Is this yours?” Less a question than a statement. His face seemed oddly familiar, although she was certain she’d never met him before.

“Yes, it’s mine. Do you have a problem with that?”

Her attitude took him by surprise; he blinked, stepping back before he caught himself. Perhaps he’d never been challenged in this way. “It wasn’t here the last time I stopped by,” he said, businesslike but not unkind. “I wanted to know who was setting up here.”

“I arrived last night.” Allegra glanced toward the nearby shack; her neighbor was nowhere to be seen, yet she observed that the front door was ajar. “Came in yesterday from the
Long Journey
,” she continued, softening her own tone. “I couldn’t find another place to stay, so . . .”

“Everyone from the
Journey
is being put over there.” The young blueshirt turned to point toward the other side of Shuttlefield; as he did, she noticed the chevrons on the right sleeve of his uniform. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No one told me anything . . . and now I suppose you want me to move.” She didn’t relish the thought of packing up again and relocating across town. At least here she was closer to Liberty; it would cut her morning hike to work. “I spoke with the lady who lives next door, and she didn’t seem to mind if I . . .”

“I know. I’ve just talked to her.” He cast a wary eye upon the shack, and for an instant it seemed like the door moved a few inches, as if someone behind it was eavesdropping. The Proctor raised a hand to his face. “Can I speak with you in private?” he whispered. “You’re not in trouble, I promise. It’s just . . . we need to talk.”

Mystified, Allegra nodded, and the blueshirt led her around to the other side of the tent. He crouched once more, and she settled down upon her knees. From there they could only see the shack roof; even the chicken pen was hidden from sight.

“My name’s Chris,” he said quietly as he offered his hand. “Chris Levin . . . I’m the Chief Proctor.”

A lot of authority for someone nearly young enough to be her son. “Allegra DiSilvio,” she replied, shaking hands with him. “Look, I’m sorry I was so . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” Chris displayed a smile that didn’t quite reach
his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but the lady over there . . . well, she keeps to herself. Doesn’t leave the house much.”

“I picked up on that.”

Chris idly plucked at some grass between his knees. “Her name’s Cecelia . . . Cecelia Levin, although everyone calls her Sissy. She’s my mother.”

Allegra felt the blood rush from her face. She suddenly recalled the old woman having mentioned that she had a son in Liberty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have. You’ve just arrived.” He shook his head. “Look, my mother is . . . truth is, she’s not well. She’s very sick, in fact . . . as you may have noticed.”

Allegra nodded. His mother had stood out in the pouring rain the night before and raved about how she owned both her chickens and the stars; yes, that qualified as unusual behavior. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Can’t be helped. Mom’s been through a lot in the last few years. She—” He broke off. “Long story. In any case, that’s why no one has set up camp out here. People are afraid of her . . . and to tell the truth, she chases them away. Which is why you’re unusual.”

“How come?”

Chris raised his eyes, and she could see that they were much the same as his mother’s: blue yet somehow hollow, although not with quite the same degree of darkness. “She let you stay. Believe me, if she didn’t like you, your tent wouldn’t still be standing. Oh, she might have let you spend the night, but as soon as you left she would have set fire to it. That’s what she’s done to everyone else who’s tried to camp next to her.”

Allegra felt a cold chill. She started to rise, but Chris clasped her wrist. “No, no . . . calm down. She’s not going to do that. She likes you. She told me so herself.”

“She . . . likes me?”

“Uh-huh . . . or at least as much as she likes anyone these days. She believes you’re a nice woman who’s come to keep her company.”

“She wouldn’t even speak to me this morning!”

“She’s shy.”

“Oh, for the love of . . . !”

“Look,” he said, an edge in his voice, “she wants you to stay, and I want you to stay. No one will bother you out here, and she needs someone to look out for her.”

“I . . . I can’t do that,” Allegra said. “I’ve just taken a job in Liberty . . . washing dishes at the community hall. I can’t afford to . . .”

“Great. I’m glad you’ve found work.” He paused, and smiled meaningfully. “That won’t pay much, though, and by winter this tent of yours will be pretty cold. But I can fix that. Stay here and take care of Mom when you’re not working, and you’ll have your own cabin . . . with a woodstove and even your own privy. That’s better than anyone else from your ship will get. And you’ll never have to deal with gangs or turf-tax. Anyone who bothers you spends six months in the stockade, doing hard time on the public works crew. Got me?”

Allegra understood. She was being given the responsibility of looking out for the demented mother of the Chief Proctor. So long as Sissy Levin had company, Allegra DiSilvio would never have to worry about freezing to death in the dark, being shaken down by the local stooges, or being raped in her tent. She would have shelter, protection, and the solitude she craved.

“Got you,” she said. “It’s a deal.”

They shook on it, then Chris heaved himself to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. “I’ll talk to Mom, tell her that you’re staying,” he said. “Don’t rush things. She’ll introduce herself to you when she feels like it. But I think you’ll make great friends.”

“Thanks. We’ll work things out.” Allegra watched as he turned toward the shack. The door was cracked open; for an instant, she caught a glimpse of Sissy’s face. “Just one more thing . . .”

“Yes?” The Chief stopped, looked back at her.

“How long have you been here? I mean . . . which ship did you come in on?”

Chris hesitated. “We’ve been here three Coyote years,” he said. “We came aboard the
Alabama
.”

Allegra gaped at him. “I thought all the first-timers had left.”

He nodded solemnly. “They did. We’re the ones who stayed behind.”

“So why . . . ?”

But he was already walking away. Obviously, that was a question he didn’t want to answer.

Time was measured by the length of her hair. A week after Allegra
started work at the community kitchen, she had little more than fuzz on top of her head; that was the day she palmed a small paring knife from the sink and took it home. Its absence wasn’t noticed, and it gave her the first tool she needed to do her work. By the time her shack was built, she no longer needed to wear a head scarf, and she used a few credits to purchase a brush from the general store in Liberty (where she was allowed to enter, so long as she bought something). She had to push back her hair from her face while she finished carving her first flute. A short blade of sourgrass inserted within the bamboo shaft below the mouthpiece served as its reed, and with a little practice she was able to play simple tunes, although not well. It wasn’t until late summer, when her chestnut hair had finally returned to the neck length she’d worn it on Earth, that she finally had her first real conversation with Sissy Levin.

For many weeks, her reclusive neighbor continued to avoid her; their brief encounter the first night Allegra spent on Coyote was the only time she’d spoken with her. Every morning, just after sunrise when Allegra left to go into Liberty, she spotted Sissy feeding her chickens. She’d wave and call her name—“Good morning, Ms. Levin, how are you?”—and she had little doubt that her voice carried across the short distance between their shacks, but Sissy never acknowledged her except for the briefest of nods. So Allegra would go to work, and early in the afternoon she’d return to find her neighbor nowhere in sight. Every now and then, Allegra would venture over to knock on her door, yet no matter how long or patiently she’d wait outside, Sissy never greeted her.

Nonetheless, there were signs that Sissy was coming to accept her. About half a month after a group of men from the Carpenters Guild arrived with a cartful of lumber and spent the afternoon building a one-room shack for Allegra, complete with a woodstove fashioned from a discarded fuel cell, some basic furniture, and a small privy out back (“No charge, lady,” the foreman said, “this one’s on the Chief”) she came
home to find a wicker basket of fresh eggs on the front porch. Allegra carefully placed the eggs in the cabinet above the stove, then carried the basket over to Sissy’s house. Again, there was no response to her knocks, and finally Allegra gave up and went home, leaving the basket next to her door. A few days later, though, the basket reappeared . . . this time, though just after sunrise, even before Allegra had woken up.

This pattern continued for a while. Then one afternoon, Allegra returned home to open the door and discover a dead chicken hanging upside down from the ceiling. The bird hadn’t been plucked or cleaned; it was simply a carcass, its neck broken, its feet tied together with the rough twine from which it had been suspended from a crossbeam. Allegra shrieked when she saw it, and for a moment she thought she heard mad laughter from next door. She didn’t know whether it was a gift or a threat, but she wasn’t about to ask; she didn’t know how to clean the bird, so she took it to the community hall the next morning, and a cook with whom she’d become friendly did it for her. The chicken made a good lunch, and Allegra kept the feathers as stuffing for a pillow. Nevertheless, she stayed away from Sissy for a while, and three weeks passed before she found any more eggs on her doorstep.

The first flute Allegra made didn’t have a very good sound, so she gathered some more bamboo and started over again, this time experimenting with different kinds of reeds: faux birch bark, chicken feathers, cloverleaf, whatever else she could find. She’d never fashioned her own instruments before—what little she knew, she’d learned from observing craftsmen back in New England—so it was mainly a matter of trial and error. Eventually, she discovered that swamper skin, cured and tightly stretched, produced the best results. She got it from a glovemaker in Shuttlefield; when Sissy began leaving eggs on her doorstep again, Allegra bartered a few for a square foot of skin, with the promise that she wouldn’t go into the clothing business herself.

Early one evening she sat out on her front porch, playing the flute she’d most recently fashioned. The sun had gone down, and Bear was rising to the east; she’d carried a fish-oil lamp out onto the porch, and its warm glow cast her shadow across the rough planks of the porch. The night was cool, the air redolent with the scent of approaching
autumn. Not far away, she could see bonfires within Shuttlefield. It was the fourth week of Uriel, the last month of Coyote summer; next Zaphael would be First Landing Day, the colony’s biggest holiday. Already the inhabitants were gearing up for the celebration, yet she wanted nothing to do with it. Her only desire was to be left alone, to practice her art in solitude.