The Sorrows We Keep

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The birds of this planet have always whispered to me of sorrow, even before I truly knew what that word meant. The trees and the grass and all the gardens whisper as well, but it is the birds that catch me, make me remember and keep count. I watch them from my open bedroom window as first light touches them, sending them up, wings pushing against the confines of the sky. I listen to the whisper of their wings, watch them scatter into sorrow.

A noise behind me - the sleepy mumble of my husband - makes me turn slightly. He dislikes the birds, dislikes being disturbed so early in the day. I humor his need for sleep, drawing the heavy cloth against the light and wind. Besides, the birds are gone now…scattered.

The sun is higher, its rays sliding across the stone floor of the kitchen, when Cerric comes down the narrow stairs behind me. I am at the stove when I hear his step, heavy on each tread, and without looking, I know he is upset. I wait to turn, carefully filling my cup with hot water, letting crushed manet leaves sift from my hand.

He clears his throat, pulling his chair back noisily. As if I had been too slow-witted to hear the unrest in his stride, the odd rhythm of his breathing. Fourty cycles together and the man still cannot speak directly. I realize he's not the only one irritable this morning. I turn deliberately, letting the warm steam from the tea roll in a stray beam of light. The scent of manet fills the kitchen.

"You were dreaming again," my husband says, standing next to his chair. One hand grips the back; his fingernails are pale with pressure.

"Oh?" I ask, taking a sip full of fruit-taste. I hadn't realized, and am a little surprised. It has been so long… I had thought the dream eradicated.

"Yes," he looks uncomfortable, displeased. I know before he speaks that I was speaking aloud in that dream. "You were calling to…them."

I look away, tense in the warm light. On the opposite windowsill - the one without the rays of sun - a bird has landed. It tilts its head, bright eyes peering at me, making me count. Was I calling to them, or calling to him?

"Aeryn!" Cerric's voice is hoarse. I blink, and the bird is gone. I look back at my husband, feeling the muscles of my hand clench around the hot cup. He is actually angry. This is not what makes my eyes widen though. From one hand dangles Chiana's gift. My locket.

"When will you give this up, this foolishness about this ship? How many cycles will it take?" The locket swings with each word.

"Put that down." I find I am angry too. My order is as clipped as any commander's. Forty cycles and he's never aggressed this field of fire; what I must have said in my dreams. "What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with *me*? I am not the one pining for something that cannot exist. When will you accept your life here?" He tosses the pendant on the table, where it shines against the dark wooden top.

"I gave up the past fourty cycles ago. When I agreed to marry you." My voice is tight. At times deceit can be smooth, at others it is simply bitter. It must be the dream that is making me feel like this, sharp and aggressive. I thought all but sorrow had been buried. Of course he calls me on it.

"Gave it up, or merely hide it?" There is no roaring from this gentle man, who has devoted his life to me unconditionally. He who has shared his bed with my memories.

"I have kept my promises, Cerric." I cannot help the ice in my voice. An old echo accuses me of being a Peacekeeper bitch.

"I thought you were happy here, Aeryn. What will it take to convince you that this is where you belong?" He sounds tired now, and wistful; the anger bled out.

I hear the steps on the walk before the gentle tap on our door. Callum. I know his step as well. Light, cheery. Callum is in love.

"Hello?" he opens the door without waiting for a response. Our schedule is like the seasons, we should be eating the morning meal.

"Callum," his father says, a terse greeting. Callum stands with his hat in hand, looking between us, confused. He has come to speak of the fair Eylan, to drink manet tea with us. Finally he notices the locket on the table. I have kept no secrets, Callum knows the past.

"Perhaps I should go," he says softly.

"No, wait," I respond. "I'll go with you." I put down my cup, noticing with surprise the redness of my palm. The cup had been scalding me, and I hadn't felt it. I look directly at Cerric, start to speak, then bite back the words. I hadn't meant to hurt him, really. He nods slowly, waving me away. Fourty cycles, perhaps he's learned more than I.

Callum and I walk in silence, the winding path of moss and stone muffles all sound. Today is another harvest day, a day to spend in the orchard, a day to ensure the new saplings are well protected from the coming cold. A cluster of birds fly overhead, and I look up.

"They're flocking again," Callum says. He is a sharp child; sharp with Cerric's kindness. I often wonder if I would have gone insane after John died, without this child. He has been the only one I could share the pain of that with, the pain of my past.

"Yes, the cold time is near."

"Win-der?" he asks, smiling slightly. A kind son, he knows my thoughts.

"Winter. How is Eylan?" I divert the subject, he does not need to help carry my sorrow.

"Oh, Mum!" and he begins winding a long tale about her, and her family, and the meal he recently shared with them. I know Eylan's parents; Cerric and I have spoken to them about the children. No one disputes it would be a good match. Life is so simple here.

The trees in the orchard are laden with fruit; ripe, round, yellow niarwons and small hard vi'atass. I notice from the corner of my eye a figure moving through the nearby pasture. Cerric, hands trailing the high grasses, making his way to the saplings. Even from this distance I can see the hunch in his shoulders. I have hurt him deeply, and I realize with surprise, that he has wounded me as well.

"After this many cycles it was bound to happen, Mum," Callum says bluntly, watching his father. "The birds set him off, didn't they?"

I can only nod. Callum moves to stand beside me, wordlessly handing me a fruit basket. The voices of the others assigned to fruit harvest are louder now, moving toward us. So much work to be done, I think.

The sun slowly rises higher, warmth becoming heat. The people here have gained resistance, more able than I to withstand the sun. I find the shade of the trees welcome. Strangely, this is when I am happiest here. There is a sense of peace, working with the others, listening to them sing their ancient songs.

"Aeryn!" a frantic scream jars me from my work. I search the orchard for the source, seeing concern in the others' faces. "Aeryn! Come now!" Eylan, running wild through the trees, hair flying behind her reddened face. She is hysterical.

"Your house! Oh, your house," she manages, dropping onto the grass.

I feel the basket drop from my hands, fruit spilling, as I run home.

I cannot run like I once could, age and a soft life have taken my speed. I pant and gasp for breath, stopping in shock at the sight of my house. The flames are high, have leapt from the roof to the surrounding trees, turning the garden into a nightmare of heat. Some of our neighbors have formed a chain of water-buckets, spitting at the demon, trying vainly to save the structure. There is no hope, I can see that.

"It is only a house, you can stop," I shout to Eylan's father over the roar, the din of voices. He turns to me, face coated with grim and sweat. The heat pounds at my head.

"Cerric is in there!" he shouts back, not halting his efforts.

"Look!" screams another, twisting me away. The heat makes my thoughts whirl, tilting like a Prowler in gravity's deadly grip. I think I see a form against the flames, staggering from what was once the entrance.

"Cerric," they shout, leaving me to stagger after. They drag him away, hands shielding faces. I hear their words, batting about me as the world spins again. They are asking why. Why would he go into that heat?

I drop beside my husband, feeling tears, cold on the heat of my face. His face is blistered, hair melted to his scalp. His eyes flutter on mine, he's trying to smile.

"Cerric," I whisper, swallowing hard. I have no words, I cannot think with the heat pressing on me. I try to take his hand in my own and when I see what is clenched in his fist, the world tilts, and I remember no more.

~*~

The birds of this planet cry to me of sorrow. The cold time has passed, and the birds have returned, not that I needed them to count sorrows.

I turn at the soft noise behind me, my husband is awake. I turn and smile at him, hand going -before I can stop it- to the fire- darkened locket I wear. Our many days and nights together have healed him.

"They're back?" he asks softly.

"Yes," I answer, voice as low.

"Come back to bed," he says.

I nod, taking one long look at the birds. I have kept count without you, I think. Sorrows counted, sorrows I keep.


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orchidcactus

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