The Warrior Who Carried Life (22 page)

I am Cal Cara Kerig, Dear Daughter of the Important House, so named because my parents loved me, and they were important people. That is who I am, and that cannot be changed or taken away from me, not by anything, not even death. That can never be destroyed.

She sat in the soil of her parent’s garden, and looked out over her valley, that had not changed. Mist and moonlight and rock would not change either. She plunged her hands into the soil. It was warm from rotting.

This is what it is like to be old
, she realised. You lose beauty and strength and friends, and you are left with only the memory of love. But you still have yourself, and that must suffice. She suddenly felt cantankerous and old. This was what everyone else had to put up with. What did it matter that her face had not healed? It was healed, as much as it needed to be. What did it matter that the magic was gone? She had done without magic before. All she had to do was live, and that was guaranteed to her.
Come on, Cara, up,
she told herself.

But the house was dark inside and empty and silent and still, and she did not have the heart to cook any food, not for herself alone. There was something terrible in that silence. It was as though the house was going to be that empty forever. And the young would grow old and die, and the young after them would die, until everyone she had ever known was gone, until the world she had known was gone. Without Stefile there would be no one to remember with, or understand.

Dear God of the world, she didn’t want to be alone.

She heard the latch of the door behind her, and turned, startled. “Oh, hullo,” she said, too brightly, embarrassed at standing alone.

Stefile kicked the front door shut behind her. “I caught a fish.” She announced, with a quick, nervous smile. She marched across the kitchen, holding it out in front of her. She knelt, and pulled out the baking brick, with a great clatter. “We can eat fish for free,” she murmured, half to herself. It was what she had said the first day, on the riverbank. She stood up, back to Cara, and began, without success, to look for the knife. “I tried your spell,” she said. “The one that changes.”

“Why . . . why did you do that?”

“To make myself a man. I thought it would be a way. It didn’t work. As you can see. Then I understood why. It didn’t need to.”

Cara found herself running her hand along the back of that cursed chair again, and felt tears spill, unbidden, out of her eyes.
Why am I crying
, she thought,
I don’t feel that badly
. “Are you going to stay?” she asked. She had meant it to be a hard and direct question, but it came out a thin, almost wheedling plea.

Stefile’s back went still. “Yes,” she said.

Stefile glanced over her shoulder, and saw Cara, small with a ruined face, picking at the chair, and what struck her about the figure was its bravery. “Yes,” Stefile said again, and went to her. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

That night Cara dreamt that they were all reunited at the end of the world. They all sat together on the hill by the wells of vision, her father and brothers, even the warrior in his shell of armour, who Cara had come to love too, in a way. Sykantata sat on his lap, with the doll. The head of Galo gro Galu looked out over the valley, held by the Baked Man. Cara saw herself and Stefile, and almost didn’t recognise them, they were so changed. They looked wise and powerful and ancient, rugged companions, victresses of a thousand lives. They wore strange clothes that were not made out of thread. Cara knew somehow that together they had seen mountains worn down to rubble, and cities built of that rubble rise higher than mountains. They had seen other worlds.

There were two other women there, and they danced together. Cara could not think who they were at first. One was plump, with very fine skin and red cheeks, and something about her made Cara’s breath catch with recognition. It was Liri, Aunt Liri, when she was young. Liri had been beautiful. Cara hadn’t realised that, beautiful and round and bobbing and full of chuckles. What else had been lost?

The other woman was not beautiful. She was tall and gangling, too gangling to dance well, all long veined arms and elbows. She wobbled and tottered in a red dress, and a crown that Cara somehow knew was deliberately tipped low over her forehead, to add to the absurdity.

The woman looked up, and saw Cara, and stopped, and smiled, as if there was nothing wrong in the world, or if there was, there was no point in spoiling fun. She was pop-eyed, and thin, and she gave a quick, delicious grin, wreathed in stringy muscle, white buck teeth resting on her lower lip. Then she raised a finger to her lips.
Ssh, Cara, ssh, this is our secret.

“Ama!” Cara wanted to cry out, her chest seemed to swell to bursting, but it was a dream, and she couldn’t move. She had finally, finally, remembered her mother’s face.

In her dream, Cara heard hoarse, deep-drawn breath, and all the clouds in the sky stirred, and were pulled one way, towards the mountains of the Dragon’s Back, and were pushed out again, with the breath. The clouds were torn into shreds, tangled wispy strands, and the mountains stood clearly in the distance, farther than Cara had ever seen before, as if to the end of the Earth, layers of mountains, in blue distance. Then they shifted. There was a crumbling and slow falling away of rock. The ground shook underfoot, and Cara’s mother fell backwards laughing. The sound of thunder came, delayed, and from somewhere in the sky, a high, delighted keening.

The mountains stood up. Snow avalanched from them, the rock beneath it buckling, splitting, yawning. The mountains slid away from something underneath them, as dust and debris burgeoned up in giant billows. Through the haze of dust, sunlight caught something round and burnished, glinting. Obscured, surrounded by cracklings of lightning, a hind leg, scaly, bronze-coloured, broke out from under the ruins of the nearest range. It stretched out, like a cat just awakening, out across the horizon, delicately extending claws. Forested crags tipped from it in a ghostly tumble of stone. Then everything was lost in a haze of dust. Something uncoiled, loosened, and out of the heart of the earth, something the size of a continent stood up. It filled the sky, above the clouds, sunlight glaring harshly on it, as if it were a moon. Shadows moved across it.

“For I am the World,” the Dragon said, “and I am Life as it lived, brother to him who talks to God, and you, you are the Beast that Chooses.”

Overjoyed, Cara awoke. Stefile was beside her in the darkness.

At the end of the world, together on a hill, they danced.

GEOFF RYMAN is the author of several successful, award-winning novels, mostly science fiction.
The Unconquered Country
(1984) won both the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA) Award and the World Fantasy Award;
The Child Garden
(1989) won the Arthur C. Clarke Award and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award (first place); the hypertext novel
253
won the Philip K. Dick Award in 1999; and his novel
Air
won the Arthur C. Clarke and James Tiptree, Jr. Awards in 2006. Most recently, his novelette “What We Found” won the 2012 Nebula Award.

An early web design professional, Ryman led the teams that designed the first web sites for the British monarchy and the Prime Minister’s office. He also has a lifelong interest in drama and film; his 1992 novel
Was
looks at America through the lens of
The Wizard of Oz
and has been adapted for the stage, and Ryman himself wrote and directed a stage adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s
The Transmigration of Timothy Archer.

WENDY GAY PEARSON (PhD) is an Assistant Professor in Women’s Studies and Feminist Research at the University of Western Ontario and has also taught in the Department of Film Studies. She is the co-editor (with Veronica Hollinger and Joan Gordon) of
Queer Universes: Sexualities in Science Fiction
(Liverpool UP, 2008) and a past winner of the Science Fiction Research Association’s Pioneer Award for the best published article of the year for “Alien Cryptographies: The View from Queer.” She mainly writes about sexuality in science fiction and won the Science Fiction Foundation’s graduate essay prize for an article on Geoff Ryman’s
The Child Garden
. With Susan Knabe she also co-edited a special issue of
Extrapolation
on Ryman’s work.

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