Bright of the Sky by Kay Kenyon Page A

too much sky-gazing, and a longing welled up in him. To see Sydney once again. To bring her and her mother home. If they were here, that thin hope that had become thick with repetition.
    The woman narrowed her eyes, watching him drink.
    He slept. When he woke, they were on the march again. The woman led a beast, massive in the shoulders and head, through a gilded landscape of yellows and brownish golds. When he scratched a wound on his temple, bits of dried blood flecked onto his hand. Punching through had been a rough journey—either that or he’d landed badly.
    His guide saw him stir but, with little more than a backward glance, continued in front, holding the beast’s lead. Her cloak, frosted with the gloaming light above, fluttered in a stiff, warm breeze. On either side, low desert hills hunched up, confining their path to a narrow track.
    He was in a new land. He was back . There would be time enough to make sense of the fiery sky, and whether he had a friend or foe walking ahead of him. It was curious that the woman was human. How could there be humans here, in this place of strange grasses and alien beasts? Once he had known the answer. With this question began the great struggle that would engage him for the rest of his days: wrestling with his mind, with his soul, for what he’d known and what he had been. Before.
    In time the beast stopped, and in a convoluted process of collapse, settled onto its knees. With some difficulty, Quinn dismounted and regarded the creature.
    The animal munched on grass, reaching the clumps from its great height by virtue of a long but powerfully built neck. Topping the massive, scoop-jawed head was a small cranium and dainty ears. The four long, meaty legs ended in the broad-hooved pads of its feet. Coarse hairs on its hide sheltered small critters catching a free ride, or a free meal.
    The woman rummaged in one of the animal’s saddlebags. Presently she presented a few tidbits of food on a cloth, but they smelled inadvisable. Of more interest was the woman herself, her white eyebrows and golden eyes giving her an albino appearance. She wore Asian-style pants and a short jacket, silken and sturdy. Around her neck was a string of red, irregular stones. On her head she wore a wrap of silken cloth that slightly overhung her eyes, protecting them from the sun. From the sky-bright. He called it that, for lack of a better word.
    From her packs the woman retrieved a new food offering. This was a kind of cereal that she mixed into a cup of water. He took the proffered cup, liking its smell already. Gulping it down, he held out the cup for more. She refilled it, smiling. He knew the word that was called for.
    “Nahil,” he found himself saying. Thank you.
    At this, the woman froze. Her lips parted to say something, then closed as she stared at him.
    He had just revealed that he spoke at least a little of her language.
    Finally she uttered a short phrase, a mash of words anchored by heavy glottals.
    He didn’t understand. The language lay buried inside him. Yet he’d said nahil .
    His utterance had staggered her. She walked away, gazing down the valley, standing immobile for a long while.
    Had he just made a drastic mistake? What a fool he was, to reveal something so important. But couldn’t he be a stranger from another nation, who knew only limited words in her language? He waited, letting her make the next move.
    Coming back, she looked up into his eyes and said something in her language.
    He shook his head. I don’t understand.
    She squinted her eyes at him, perhaps disbelieving him, that he knew a word of her language, but not others. But why was this so disturbing?
    Then it became clear. If he hadn’t been so addled, he would have known instantly: She had known from the beginning that he wasn’t of this world; and when he said thank you, she knew he’d been here before. Evidently this was not good news.
    She turned away, then sat on a rock, staring at the dust. From time to