will not lay down your head to rest," Dicken whispered.
"I can't rest! Quit protecting me, Dicken!"
"I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself."
"Don't do me any favors! Let me kill myself!"
"Fine! Get to it!"
Dicken flung herself back into the side-by-side prone position and steadied the staggering lonth maintenance.
Dregs of anger settled within the quiet flightpod. Dicken was breathing hard. For the first time since discovering the power of womanlove and stepping up into the high reaches of paired flight, she considered calling for spoonbreak.
Jez was speaking softly. "We can't do that anymore, Dicken. That's poison."
"Spare me."
"Hear me. It's fueling all the violence, everywhere."
Dicken raged. "All the. . .our fighting? Oh, come to mama, Jezebel!"
"I'm tired of doing it." Jez stretched out her arms for a mile-high embrace. Dicken hesitated, then let her tension dissolve. With a grateful sigh she moved into the waiting arms.
They did rest in Atlanta, and from there they informed Lavona of their impending arrival. They took off again with a refurbished intimacy and somewhat restored health.
* * * * * * *
Like their ancestors, those who still lived in the mountains of West Virginia died with the conviction that there was no such thing as flat. Nowhere in these overlapping ranges were any two adjacent feet of terrain at the same natural altitude, and it was the forever up-and-down demands of those green-clad majesties that assured natives they were home.
It was no wonder, then, that in the heart of those mountains the abandoned Welchtown rocketport stood out to Jez and Dicken like a skeptic at a Goddess gathering. Its hundreds of square acres of solar panels shone like a vast cold flat lake, reflecting a pale sun that was setting abruptly behind the higher mountains to the west. April in West Virginia still felt like winter.
Almost hidden in the trees that climbed close to the port's edges were hillside homes, and a winding road that bound the houses into a visible unit probably called a town. The rocket’s landing was hailed by the cheers and laughter of a welcoming group. One woman stood out from the others.
"Witchwoman!" she shouted.
"Hillbilly!" Jez flung out her arms. Their hug encompassed Dicken and set the tone for the lively evening of food and music.
* * * * * * *
Long after the cornbread and greens had disappeared, long after the women had sung and drummed themselves to satisfaction, and shortly after the goodnight voices had faded into the sky or down the hillside, Dicken and Jez stood together listening to the loud flow of the branchwater behind the house. When they returned to the warmth of the kitchen, Lavona was emptying a coal scuttle into the cookstove's firebox. She scraped the round cover back into place with the eye-grip and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Well. Set." She motioned toward the hefty straight-backed chairs in front of the stove and dumped cold tea from cups she identified as theirs. She felt the belly of the teapot and, satisfied it was warm enough, filled the cups.
Dicken and Jez tilted their chairs, bracing their feet on the stove fender. Lavona put the cups in their hands and drew up her own chair. She chewed on a toothpick. "So. Jezebel, it’s time fer you t’do some tall talkin'."
Jez looked briefly at Dicken before she spoke.
"Hillbilly, you tell me why in five hours' time, in the presence of thirteen women and children who are a part of a small town that is clearly in contact with the rest of the world, over a blessed meal and good conversation, why two outlanders like us haven't heard a word about a world disaster that's bigger than anything that has happened to any of us in our short lives."
Her words hung in the air. Lavona scratched under her light brown hair. "Y'mean. . ."
"I mean, hillbilly, why is nobody talking about the dying children? Why did the
"I can't rest! Quit protecting me, Dicken!"
"I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself."
"Don't do me any favors! Let me kill myself!"
"Fine! Get to it!"
Dicken flung herself back into the side-by-side prone position and steadied the staggering lonth maintenance.
Dregs of anger settled within the quiet flightpod. Dicken was breathing hard. For the first time since discovering the power of womanlove and stepping up into the high reaches of paired flight, she considered calling for spoonbreak.
Jez was speaking softly. "We can't do that anymore, Dicken. That's poison."
"Spare me."
"Hear me. It's fueling all the violence, everywhere."
Dicken raged. "All the. . .our fighting? Oh, come to mama, Jezebel!"
"I'm tired of doing it." Jez stretched out her arms for a mile-high embrace. Dicken hesitated, then let her tension dissolve. With a grateful sigh she moved into the waiting arms.
They did rest in Atlanta, and from there they informed Lavona of their impending arrival. They took off again with a refurbished intimacy and somewhat restored health.
* * * * * * *
Like their ancestors, those who still lived in the mountains of West Virginia died with the conviction that there was no such thing as flat. Nowhere in these overlapping ranges were any two adjacent feet of terrain at the same natural altitude, and it was the forever up-and-down demands of those green-clad majesties that assured natives they were home.
It was no wonder, then, that in the heart of those mountains the abandoned Welchtown rocketport stood out to Jez and Dicken like a skeptic at a Goddess gathering. Its hundreds of square acres of solar panels shone like a vast cold flat lake, reflecting a pale sun that was setting abruptly behind the higher mountains to the west. April in West Virginia still felt like winter.
Almost hidden in the trees that climbed close to the port's edges were hillside homes, and a winding road that bound the houses into a visible unit probably called a town. The rocket’s landing was hailed by the cheers and laughter of a welcoming group. One woman stood out from the others.
"Witchwoman!" she shouted.
"Hillbilly!" Jez flung out her arms. Their hug encompassed Dicken and set the tone for the lively evening of food and music.
* * * * * * *
Long after the cornbread and greens had disappeared, long after the women had sung and drummed themselves to satisfaction, and shortly after the goodnight voices had faded into the sky or down the hillside, Dicken and Jez stood together listening to the loud flow of the branchwater behind the house. When they returned to the warmth of the kitchen, Lavona was emptying a coal scuttle into the cookstove's firebox. She scraped the round cover back into place with the eye-grip and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Well. Set." She motioned toward the hefty straight-backed chairs in front of the stove and dumped cold tea from cups she identified as theirs. She felt the belly of the teapot and, satisfied it was warm enough, filled the cups.
Dicken and Jez tilted their chairs, bracing their feet on the stove fender. Lavona put the cups in their hands and drew up her own chair. She chewed on a toothpick. "So. Jezebel, it’s time fer you t’do some tall talkin'."
Jez looked briefly at Dicken before she spoke.
"Hillbilly, you tell me why in five hours' time, in the presence of thirteen women and children who are a part of a small town that is clearly in contact with the rest of the world, over a blessed meal and good conversation, why two outlanders like us haven't heard a word about a world disaster that's bigger than anything that has happened to any of us in our short lives."
Her words hung in the air. Lavona scratched under her light brown hair. "Y'mean. . ."
"I mean, hillbilly, why is nobody talking about the dying children? Why did the
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