Note: Thank you to u/Killsode-slugcat, u/tulpacat1, and u/Thirsha_42 for reading and opining.
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Memory transcription subject: Larzo, Yotul geneticist at the Venlil Rehabilitation and Reintegration Facility.
Date [standardized human time]: Dec 7, 2136
Andes spent the entire bus-ride texting Chiaka back and forth and showing me those messages that were most amusing to him.

I’m two drinks in, this place is great!
You better sing some Disney, I want to see them freak out when you belt out some princess shit.

We arrived at the ‘Karaoke’ bar (apparently meaning “sing with instrumental soundtrack” with an inebriation connotation) soon enough and Andes stood around by a crowd that had gathered in the parking lot, checking his pocket holopad. “Where are you…” he mumbled.
Then he got a notification and brought his hand to his face. I had to stretch myself up to read it.

Look! I think I found the guy you based your filter on! He looks crazy enough to be down for that.

Andes apparently understood the camera’s angle, turned his head around and spotted her. He stalked directly towards her and she gave him a passing glance.
“Can I help you?” she asked, then returned to her pad, typing quickly with her fingers. Andes held up his pad, and immediately the notification dinged.
“‘Be right back, Hottie McSexyson noticed me taking pics’? Holy prosopagnosia, Batman!” Andes spat, with more anger and hostility than I’d heard from him before, barring perhaps that time he started swearing because of the gene-tagging censorship.
Chiaka’s eyes grew large and she stared at him anew. “Andes–wait–is this for real?”
“Yes!” he shouted in exasperation, drawing some nearby onlookers’ eyes.
She squinted at him, and suddenly cackled. It immediately took the wind out of his sails. Whatever rage he'd built up fell away in a slow shift in posture. He moved to say something, or object somehow, but no words came out of his mouth.
“What are you wearing?” she asked, gasping for air as she continued to laugh.
“I’m wearing club clothes,” he said, suddenly defensive. “They’re cool.”
“You look like a Peruvian Punk star going undercover as an ancient Greek pirate!”
His face scrunched up and he looked undecided for a moment. Then he pressed his lips tightly together and took a deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said, clearly doing something with his tone of voice, though I did not understand what.
“When did you even buy those pants, twenty-one-twelve?” She asked. “Is this a Star Buccaneers costume?”
“I got them from a thrift store in undergrad,” he mumbled.
She scoffed. “Could you even wear them then?”
“Well no, but I figured I would be able to eventually–And now I am! So… There,” he said, apparently seeking to impose an air of finality onto his statement unsuccessfully. She laughed again, and then her eyes moved up and down his body in some sort of re-evaluation as her laughter abated.
“This is Larzo,” Andes said, gesturing to me. Chiaka’s smile turned from a sly-looking smirk into a beam of delight.
“Oh my goodness you are just adorable aren't you?” she asked, immediately bringing her hand to my head. It was startling, but pleasant enough I did not think to complain. My ears relaxed, my eyes closed, and I leaned into her touch subconsciously.
“How do you know Andes, cutie pie?” she asked, her voice nearly twice as high as I originally heard it when she spoke to Andes.
“I–uh–um…” I blinked hard twice, suddenly disoriented. I shook myself off her grasp and regained my bearings.
“Hey… don't do that,” Andes told her in a concerned voice.
“I am Doctor Larzo, I’m the primary investigator in a behavioural-genetics study at the rescue facility,” I said once the sudden drowsy relaxation had faded.
“Ooh. You have to tell me everything. Oh! Speaking of which!” she held up a finger and turned back to Andes, “I talked to Andrea, she’s super free as soon as you want apparently.”
“Andrea… Lewis, the anthropologist?”
She nodded. “Yeap. She just got back from collecting secret insect bones or something.”
“...I thought insects didn't have bones. Y’know, because they have exoskeletons and a bone is–”
“Okay, you’re definitely Andes, wow,” she interrupted. “I didn't ask for details, you want the meeting or not? She’s super free.”
“Um. Okay. Uh. Tomorrow. Say in twelve hours?”
“Sounds great, I’ll tell her when I get home. Now come on! Let's go in! I’ve been waiting for forever. My second drink ran out!” She said, holding up an empty glass.
She wandered into the bar and breathed in the atmosphere dramatically. I looked around. UN uniforms were overrepresented among their attire, but nobody was wearing a loose-cloth shirt that only covered one set of ribs. I concluded that Andes had been correct in his assessment about not understanding human fashion.
He followed Chiaka to the bar, and I followed him. It was busier than last time, but not by very much, and he ordered that mango drink again. I ordered a rum drink this time. Once we were all armed with our choice of chemical impairment, Andes led the way to the isolation booth he had booked and we sat such that he was in the middle, with myself and Chiaka on the sides. The second the sound-proofed door closed, Andes sighed with relief. I wondered if he had more sensitive ears, or a more sensitive head than the average human.
“I can’t believe you look like this now,” Chiaka said, lightly touching Andes with a finger on his exposed bicep. He did not move, but his eyes sharply turned to stare at her finger.
“Is this why Olivier wouldn’t put up with you? Do you need a talk on the ethics of tactile interaction?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I mean, if you’re offering…” she said, moving her finger up to his clavicle. He swatted her hand away like a bug. It was probably the first time I ever saw Andes be so brusque with anyone physically. I resolved to revisit the question of whether allo-grooming among humans was considered particularly intimate, leading to his reluctance to pet willing non-human subjects. Perhaps it was a cultural feature of Canadians. Both Chiaka and Joseph spoke English, with fewer phrases in other tongues than Andes did, but they spoke it with different rhythms and tones. They might not be Canadian like him.
She moved her fingers a little closer to him again.
“[Profanely curse it], Chiaka!” Andes spat. She pulled her hand back. "Control yourself."
"Fine…" she said with a low groan, moving her hand away. Then she held her thumb and forefinger close to each other in a human gesture often used to denote small quantities of things. "I miiiight already be a liiiitle drunk."
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Not even pseudopsychs?”
“What? No. Good old-fashioned poison for me.”
Andes scoffed and it turned into a laugh. “Get a stabilizer, please.”
“Fiiine…” she repeated and stepped out of the isolation room. A moment later she was drinking some pills with a glass of water, and slurred her words less as she spoke.
“Alright. I’m less drunk. Ish. These aren't super great.”
“Thank you,” Andes said.
“Yeah yeah. Oh hey, you know how I told you Animals Recite the Classics is the basis for a bunch of stuff in Colia?”
He looked at her apprehensively. “...Yeah?”
“Well, it made me want to rewatch the fun bits and it really holds up! I know you let the AI do most of the work, but it's not just a map, or a group of maps, it's like, a whole method for making the maps.”
“Well, the methods already existed, I just had the AI code for something with a good UX.”
“It's bananas. I think you should be more proud of it.”
Andes rolled his eyes, prompting me to flick an ear to draw their attention to me.
“Pardon, but… what is this?” I asked. Chiaka laughed again. It was an entertainingly abrasive sound.
“Oh, does adoraboo not know about Animals Recite the Classics?”
“I’m sorry about her,” Andes said to me. I shrugged. She was behaving oddly, but seemed to understand me as an intellectual equal—or at least had been interested in my research—so it did not strike me as too big an issue at the time.
“I do not,” I said.
“Ooh…” she said with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Ugh. Dude! Let me keep my dignity," Andes said, taking a drink. “Larzo doesn't know I'm the Animals Recite the Classics weirdo.”
"Well, he will now!" Chiaka said with a cackle. I glanced at her curiously.
"Out with it, then,” I said, perhaps a little impatient.
"Years and years ago, Andes used AI to map the available tongue positions and mouth shapes of a variety of animals, in order to make a map of all their available phonemes. High and low tones, which animal had labial or dental sounds available to them, so on. Then, in the only neurozoology conference I have ever seen Andes set foot on–”
He scoffed. “–obviously the only one, I didn’t expect–”
“–fucking walk on stage and present Animals Recite the Classics. Using text-to-speech mods, they replaced all the human phonemes with their closest animal counterpart, then picked the right language for each cluster. How many animals were there?” she asked. I thought she was right. Amusing as it was, the project could have a lot of implications for speech therapy for different species, for one. It might be useful to modify translators in the future. It might be useful to modify that official shared language in the federation that some diplomats spoke. It had untold potential.
He shrugged. “At least eight? I remember elephants were Korean, seals were English…”
“What was Spanish?”
“...I have completely forgotten,” Andes said with a frown. “I think it was a mockingbird? There was actually a lot of overlap in the ones I chose for the final round, elephants could have been like six different–”
“—Point being, the elephant recited an excerpt from this famous Korean thing, the um, ‘The Cloud Dream of the Nine’..?”
“I think the currently accepted translation is the ‘Nine Cloud Dream’, but I don’t know Korean, or Korean translation sensibilities,” Andes said with a shrug. “Then there was a bit of Shelley for English, Cervantes for Spanish, Rostand for French…”
“There were animations,” she said with delight, her hands shaking in the air as she spoke. I resolved to seek it out, if only because teasing Andes about it looked amusing.
“The AI made the animations,” he said, hands in the air as a show of non-aggression. “I didn’t make the animations, I don’t–”
“You chose to ask the AI to make you a seal dressed in Victorian garb,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
Andes shrugged. “Point being, apparently my many accomplishments that were much more technically demanding in the fields of neuropsych and neurolinguistics–”
“Come on,” Chiaka said, lightly hitting his upper arm with her forearm. “Aren’t you happy to be zoology-famous?”
His eyes suddenly grew and he stared at her. “Y-you mean it’s not–it’s not just in the neuro world, there are actually–”
“I’ve laughed about it with every zoologist I’ve met. And I’m sure they’ve shared it too. I saw someone make a Shakespeare play casting different animals in the roles with your model once.”
He swallowed, and opened his mouth a couple of times before speaking. “...Every zoologist? Like, all of them?”
“I don’t personally know every zoologist, so I wouldn’t know. But it’s not exactly that big a world, and in ethology and neuro–”
“Would Dr. MacEwan have heard of this?” he asked quickly, a sudden desperation in his voice.
“I don’t know. He’s pretty old. Old people don’t necessarily keep track of that kind of thing. But he’s also pretty active, so maybe…” she looked very confused by the question. Andes’ entire face went a pale, dead colour incredibly quickly. He groaned.
“Who is Doctor MacEwan?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, he’s like, a huge deal in comparative Zoology. Wrote the book on physiology and evolutionary pressures regarding animal diets. Andes imprinted on him like a baby duck as a child.”
“I did not. I just respect him very much, and he’s a really good science communicator, and–did I tell you I met him? Because I did meet him and–He might show me his new manuscript, if he does write a new manuscript, and it’d be so cool–” His voice accelerated and his hands began to shake a little with excitement too.
“Baby duck,” she said, gesturing to him. Andes stuck his tongue out at her. I tilted my head and tried to do it myself. Human tongues seemed to stick out an oddly large amount. Nothing comparable to a Harchen, of course, but still unexpected, and a little unsettling.
She groaned. “Ugh. It’s not fair that you're hot now.”
He frowned in confusion. “I swore to you in undergrad that if we ever met aliens, I was going to take exercise seriously because every single thing that can happen after first contact is easier to handle if you can pretend to be Starbuck Skywalker while you do it.”
“...Well, I thought you were joking," she said, her eyelids peeling far back in an unsettling expression. "Because that's insane.”
He smirked. “You’re just mad that I’m more prescient than you.”
Unlike the last time that I was in a position to watch Andes engage in social behaviour with conspecifics, this time I had brought my own pad and could take notes. I watched their movements, gesticulations and expressions. They smiled in little twitches when they insulted one another, and Andes’ face seemed more expressive and exaggerated when he talked to her.
Chiaka Stevens seemed to be a fascinating person. Much like Andes, she could turn a conversation from board games to genetic markers like the inside of a gyroscope completing just another revolution. Unlike Andes, she seemed to radically shift her attitude as she did. The differences between the Chiaka that explained a recent genetic modification for the purposes of softening the dogs’ natural weapons and the one that mocked Andes over his fashion choices were much more pronounced than the differences between the Andes who lost at Chess and the Andes who discovered the signature in the children's DNA.
A stray comment about Humanity First on her part set him off.
“Chiaka please tell me you don't listen to those guys.”
"I mean, not often… Why do you care, anyway? You can hang out with cannibal [slaughtering eugenicists] but you draw the line at some planetary patriotism?"
He looked at her like she'd held up some disgusting object near his face. "It's not patriotism. It's sectarianism. I expect better of humans. We haven't had a century plus of ridiculous indoctrination based on superficial evolutionary features. We haven't grown up in a society that severely limits our freedom of thought from all angles. When a Venlil, or an Arxur, spouts off a bunch of bullshit, that's probably in part because they didn't go to a liberal-arts type university, didn't get social studies in high school beyond heavily censored history and basic geography, and never had a fucking internet argument with a vaguely literate person in their lives."
“All the more reason for them to step back and let us handle things for a while. It would be better if we were in charge,” she said.
Andes gave her a look and raised an eyebrow.
“Look, I’m not saying humanity is ‘superior’ or anything,” Chiaka said, holding her hands in the air as if to show she was unarmed.
“Good. You’re better than that bullshit and you know it.”
“I’m just saying… It might be nice if we took on a more… leadership-type role, given how fucked up these societies are,” she added, moving her hands in the air as if she was presenting an invisible prop.
“As opposed to… The current situation? In which we… Haven’t done that?” Andes asked with a tilted head. “What with Zhao sitting on the sidelines while Tarva makes all the military decisions.”
She groaned. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Humanity is two steps removed from starting its own federation, and it’ll probably do that within the next six months. What more do you want? You of all people–”
“What more–I want to not fucking walk on eggshells every minute of every day!” she shouted. Terrifying idiom. I leaned backwards a tad at the display, but Andes leaned forward into her wrath and gestured broadly with one hand.
“So move back to Earth! Or move to Leirn! Or Mars or a new colony. We’ve known these people exist for less than a year, you can’t just expect–”
“Well of course you bend over backwards–”
“–hat’s that supposed to–”
“You have no spine!”
Andes paused, and took a deep breath, his gaze holding onto hers. It was quite interesting, how the human gaze seemed to communicate a great deal. There was an intensity to his eye contact that made me realize he almost never looked at anyone in that way. He would spare glances at people's eyes, give little glares like the flash of a glass shard against light at the right angle. He very rarely held a gaze.
His words were quiet and steady. “I don’t think that slipping down the road of Known Ideological Fuckups is what having a spine looks like."
Chiaka looked aside and let out a breath. “I just…”
Andes sighed. “You feel bad. Because the world sucks. And you want to fight back. But you’re not a soldier, so you can’t, and fighting is a little useless here, and so it all feels stupid and you don’t have a… real place to put all that rage. So you want to put it on every Venlil that flinches whenever you move too quickly, every angry Gojid, every non-human that dares to look at you with anything other than fucking admiration for all the bullshit you put up with.”
“...Yeah,” she said, the tension leaving her posture as her expression grew sad.
“I get that. It’s a very… standard response. Psychologically speaking. Or so I’ve read, anyway. Still, if you spit out another HF talking point, you owe Larzo a drink.”
She laughed. He smiled too. Just like that, the grievances and the shouting were behind them. “...I’ll buy him one right now. What do you want, capybara man?”
I was surprised by their awareness of my continued presence in the room. “...A mango alcohol, please. Do not feel obligated, I understand human grief is–”
“Nonsense. Andes is right. I’m… Letting bullshit get a hold of me, and I shouldn’t. Mango is a great choice,” she said, her voice softer now. Then she stood up, and left the room. Andes shook himself, like a shiver had gone through him.
“Are you well?” I asked.
He waved a hand in the air as though swatting at an imaginary bug. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just… I’m tired and drugged up and that was a lot. It makes sense. But it was a lot.”
I frowned at that explanation. “Why does it make sense?”
“Well, a lot of little things. Cape Town was one of the places that got bombed. Black Nationalism has a different history from White Nationalism, she has a very technical background, I’ll… Explain later,” he said and shook his head. Not in the human way of saying ‘no’, but just another odd false shiver.
Chiaka returned with my drink.
"So Larzo, Andes told me you’re doing behavioural genetics, and your thesis was on viral vector gene therapy?”
I flicked an ear in agreement.
“Fascinating. You might be super into the new treatment we developed for our dogs. I swear, they are the sweetest creatures in existence.”
“That's a little creepy to think about,” Andes said.
She shrugged. “Well, sure, insofar as the existence of pets can have dark subtexts when you bring up notions of animal agency or whatever. But I already bought into that when I decided to engage in designer dog-breeding.”
Andes nodded. “I guess so, yeah.”
“What is this treatment?” I asked.
“Modified genetic expression in the amygdala, I can find you the paper…”
She pulled out a holopad and began looking through her files.
“I’m quite curious about expression modifications,” I said. “I have been meaning to study epigenetics, but have not yet had the chance.”
Her face broke out with a smile, new energy flowing through her limbs. “I am the queen of epigenetics! Andes take off your shirt.”
“What? Why? You take off your shirt.”
“I need to show him how the tent model works,” she told him.
“I brought a poncho, you can use that,” he said. She groaned.
“Well fine, if you wanna be boring about it…”
She accepted his poncho and began to spread it over the table, then gather little knick-knacks from inside her bag.
“The trick is to forget the instruction metaphor. We want a landscape.”
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Patreon and Paypal if you want to help me pay student loans!

Hi all. Here is a bit of my novel Addelyn's Leviathan. Even though it's steampunk-ish in nature this opening chapter is mostly fantasy. I'm looking for help of any sort to improve my writing. Too flowery? Too sparse? Too long? Who knows? I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to this stuff and I'm writing in a vacuum.
Best,
Glenn

Addelyn's Leviathan.

A stiff breeze raked its icy fingers across the open fields, carrying with it the smell of woodsmoke from Fëyn and the hint of a distant ocean. Addelyn drew her coat tightly under her chin and walked uphill towards a lone Sitka Spruce where she had left her lunch pail that morning. She sat out of the wind between its twisted roots and unwrapped the pail, warming her fingers against it as she drank in the last of the thin Autumn sunshine.
Above the wind that raised its voice among the Buckthorn and Spruce, she could hear a faint jangle of bells and the bleats of her goats, huddled safely out of sight along the western perimeter where blackberries grew in tumbling cascades over their boundary fence. It amused Addelyn how even the severest of weather would not stand between her goats and a good meal. She prised open her pail, smelling the hot buttered cockles, crispels, and quince bread her father had prepared and was about to dig in when his voice echoed across the fields.
'Addelyn!'
She looked for him, spotting a dark speck against the green of the fields, gesturing toward the eastern border. 'Singing stone!' he called through cupped hands. Addelyn tilted her head toward the mountain behind her and heard a dull ring like someone tapping a glass vase with a wooden spoon.
'Addelyn!' her father impatiently called again.
'Yes! I'm going!' she called and waved her staff above her head for him to see. The tiny figure of her father raised his hand in acknowledgement. Addelyn grumbled and clicked her lunch pail shut, knowing once again, she would be out in the bitter cold beyond nightfall. There was no arguing the point. The tiny escape artist was Addelyn's responsibility, and her father wasn't the type of man who would let a lesson go unlearned by doing the fetching himself. 'The little nuisance,' she grumbled as she tightened her scarf and pulled her toque down over her ears. ‘Somebody explain to me how this is worth it.’
Addelyn stowed her lunch pail in her backpack and stomped uphill to the tree-covered base of the Oheon Blade.
The Oheon Blade was a vertical knife-edge of black granite left by the grinding actions of the Oheon and Jepson Glaciers. It towered over Fëyn casting its shadow across the basin and could be seen as far away as Durryn. Almost as ancient as the Blade itself was a hand-hewn path zigzagging up it to the Singing Stones at its peak. The rutted goat track was no more than a series of chiselled steps and switchbacks so narrow in places that only one-way passage was possible.
Long ago, when war raged across Äandlande, the Singing Stones provided a vital link between the towns that nestled along the coast. Garrisoned sentry posts were constructed at the foot of each Stone, so the paths connecting them were regularly maintained and upgraded. But, over time, landslips and tree roots and waterfalls had dislodged many steps while the elements had eroded the rest into unrecognisable lumps or even washed them away altogether.
The wind screeched and howled, blasting Addelyn against the sheer rockface and sending her coat and scarf up around her ears. She pressed herself tightly against the granite cliff as and waited, thinking grimly to herself that she would still have to make her way down again with Snowflake in tow. Each time the Singing Stone rang above her, she cursed the little buckling for being such a willful imp and more than once, she considered leaving him up there; after all, he deserved it, didn’t he?
Addelyn hazarded a glance below her, seeing the tiny white specs of her flock, and she could tell by their movements that her father was moving them down to the lower paddock in preparation for bringing them in for the day. They shifted then paused in a tight huddle before thinning out and heading in a new direction like a drop of dew rolling across a leaf, and she wished she was down there helping him, about to head in for a warm meal by the fire.
But, instead, she waited until the wind abated, then straightened her tunic and continued up the narrow path. She knew that she'd never forgive herself if Snowflake wasn’t okay and she hadn't gone to investigate.
With each step, Addelyn took care to avoid the slippery lichen and loose gravel, and as she reached for a tree root to test its strength, she stopped. Beside it streamed an unbroken line of Long Eyed Beetles scuttling end-to-end down the cliff. Just ahead of her was another and beyond that, still another. Addelyn had never seen more than one Long Eye in her life, let alone hundreds in formations like that, and she made a mental note to ask Willow about it when she got back down. She reached carefully between the streaming insects for a handhold, then continued finding her way up the sheer incline, trying her very best to ignore the vertical drop to her right.
By the time Addelyn reached the summit, a fine drizzle had melted the ground covering of snow into a dirty sludge that seemed intent on seeping into her boots, making the whole experience that more miserable.
Ahead of her, the Singing Stone jutted out over the abyss, looking unlike any other rock on the Blade, or in fact, like any rock Addelyn had ever seen. She could easily imagine that it was manufactured or forged by some form of Thaumaturgy. Carved runes and concentric rings curved their way around it, appearing here and there between the lichen and weeds, and Addelyn wondered whether the rings created the Stone's tone or simply amplified it. Whatever the case, the Singing Stone had remained unchanged for centuries, just one of a series of mute sentinels perched in the mountain tops, now almost lost to time. To her right sagged the remains of the sentry post. Broad stone steps led from its rotting porch of juniper and pine across the small plateau to a pair of rusted paraffin lamp posts that framed the Singing Stone's entrance.
She brushed a damp lock of hair from her eyes and tucked it up under her woollen toque, then blew hot breath into her cupped hands.
'Snowflake?' Addelyn called. A series of pings rang from a shaking blackberry bush beside the Stone, and she ran across to it and looked down, knowing what she would find.
Snarled inside a thicket of blackberry bushes that grew out over the abyss was her tiny goat. Snowflake reached for a cluster of ripe berries, and each time he tried, his hooves struck the Singing Stone creating the pings that had alerted Addelyn's father.
'By Haldor, you idiot, how did you get down there?' Addelyn scolded and the little buckling twisted inside the thicket to look at her. His stubby tail wagged furiously, and he kicked and bleated happily, causing him to slip further inside the tangle.
Though only six months old, the tiny white goat had gotten into more mischief than the rest of Addelyn's other flock combined. She knew with a surety that if anyone was going to get stuck in a thicket of blackberries suspended over a deathly chasm, it would be Snowflake.
'How am I supposed to get you out of there?' she asked, and he bleated in response. 'Oh, really? You're happy there?' he bleated again. 'Oh, okay, I'll come back later then if you'd like.' Snowflake wagged and kicked at the Stone some more.
Addelyn stepped out onto the flat surface of the Singing Stone, which rang dully underfoot and kneeled to assess the situation better. Snowflake looked up at her sidelong while still searching with his tongue for the clump of blackberries. Despite his predicament, he did look funny, and she laughed. 'Hang on, don't go anywhere,' Addelyn said, taking off her backpack.
She fashioned a sling from her scarf and a coil of rope, swung it over a low hanging bough of Spruce and took a piece of quince bread from her lunchpail.
'Oh, look what I have, some yummy bread.' she said, inching out over the abyss on her stomach. The rush of vertigo gave her pause, and Addelyn closed her eyes, rationalising that the rock had been there for centuries and that she was safe. She focused on the little goat just below her and ate a tiny piece of the quince bread, making delighted little sounds. The buckling's tail fluttered hopefully as he reached for her hand. 'Good boy,' she said and reached down as far as she dared to begin gingerly unwinding his feet from the brambles. Snowflake lunged for the bread excitedly, kicking the Singing Stone and sending shimmers through her belly and undoing her work.
'Shh, shh, quiet,' Addelyn said, feeding him the bread and waiting for Snowflake to settle down before slipping her makeshift sling over his head. She lifted his legs through the loop one tiny hoof at a time, inched the sling up behind his armpits, then slid the top knot down to fit the scarf securely around the indifferent goat’s waist.
'Right, now this might hurt a bit, but you can't blame me okay, this is your fault.' Addelyn said as she stood and dusted herself off. She took up the slack and yanked hard on the rope, ripping Snowflake bleating from the blackberries that snapped and snagged and tumbled away into the mists below. Addelyn cautiously reached out and pulled him towards safety, and as she lowered him, his searching hooves struck the Singing Stone with a run of tiny chimes. 'You idiot,' she said and hugged him. Snowflake bleated and chewed the lapel of her tunic. 'This is a long way to come just for some Blackberries, you know,’ she said, twisting the remaining thorns from his fur and checking his body for cuts. ‘What you have to learn, Snowflake is that what you think you want might not be what you need. At least, that's what Willow tells me.' She sucked and waved a pricked thumb and studied it for any visible mark. It hurt like crazy, and she frowned, annoyed with herself for not carrying any Aloe. 'It's a good thing I like you so much.'
Snowflake ignored her and sniffed the air above her lunch pail. 'Oh, I see. You just lured me up here to help yourself to some of my lunch, did you? Normal food's not good enough anymore, right?' Snowflake wagged his tail furiously, and Addelyn giggled.
The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds and dotted the plains in shifting patterns, and for a while, things seemed almost pleasant. Addelyn sat on the grass beside the sagging sentry house and set out her lunch on a small blanket, while Snowflake sat beside her, hitched to a baluster on the old porch by a length of rope. She took a warm crispel from her pail and tore it into two uneven pieces, then licked the honey from her fingers, deciding to give the smaller half to Snowflake. 'He'd never hold it against her', she thought.
From where Addelyn sat, she could see the whole southern tip of Coriade - from the silver shimmer of the Aibreann Sound to her hometown of Fëyn below. She could understand why the plateau must have been a perfect sentry post in its day.
Looking at Fëyn from such a height, only the curls of blue woodsmoke and slow clouds of steam rising from the ironmonger's forge suggested any life there at all. It looked flat, diagrammatical, and she imagined all the town needed to appear penned by a master cartographer was a giant compass sketched onto the fields to her left and a few angry-looking serpents illustrated in the waters of the Sound.
Fëyn was small by Coriade standards, nestled from view in the shadow of the Oheon Glacier. In fact, most people who chanced across Fëyn had never even heard of the place. Addelyn held her crispel in her teeth and squinted. She traced her finger from the town centre, along the cobbled roads as they disappeared between the terracotta tiled roofs of the fishmongers and the bakers and the publican. Finally, the path split into dirt tracks that wound their way between the fields on the outskirts of town. There, frigid winds from the Sound lazily twisted windmills sails and washed silvery waves across the crops of barley, rye, rapeseed, corn, and potato.
A high wall of shale artfully constructed to represent the outline of a Kestrel in flight marked the boundary of Fëyn. Addelyn knew, as did everyone living within the borders, that the Kestrel was a potent symbol of protection. As a child, she fretted that their farm and her precious flock lived outside of the kestrel's safety, but her father would sit on the edge of her bed and explain how the kestrel's powerful eyesight helped it keep watch over its chicks. He said that for as long as they remained within sight of Fëyn's shale boundary, she would protect them too.
In the northwest, the kestrel's black wingtip reached out to graze the steep walls of the Oheon Blade, and built into that dark vertical rock was a bronze elevator. Its silver shod rails rose from Eamott Hall's base to a domed observatory at the summit that clung to the Blade's frigid rock like a metal limpet. It glimmered in the fading daylight, casting a golden caustic line over the shadowed roofs of Fëyn, and Addelyn realised that, just like the Singing Stone, she hadn't a clue who built it or how old it was. Still, like the Stone, and the shale kestrel, it had always been an indelible part of Fëyn's fingerprint, invisible to the townsfolk but remarked upon by anybody passing through.
Warm lights burned in Eamott Hall's windows, and Addelyn could well imagine what its three occupants were up to. She pictured the old Oracles with their shoes off, working the cold from their toes before the hearth, drinking mulled wine and mead while arguing points of ethics, or politics, or science with no mind for the hour. Generally, by this hour, Sebastian would have taken the elevator to the observatory and cranked open its great shutters to begin stargazing. But Autumn was not conducive to astronomy, so the dome lay dormant, shrouded with black canvas sheets and a dusting of snow that reminded Addelyn of one of her mother's Christmas puddings.
A flutter of movement at Addelyn’s feet shook her from her thoughts, and she looked down in time to see a family of Deer Mice scampering across her blanket. They hurried towards the Singing Stone, deviating left and right of it before dipping out of sight over the edge of the cliff. Addelyn stared at the spot where they had disappeared for a moment and frowned. Something felt wrong. Something that made her feel ever so slightly on edge and made the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck stand on end. Even Snowflake stopped chewing the cheesecloth of her pail and stared up at the sky.
At first, Addelyn couldn't put her finger on what it was, but then it struck her. The mountain was silent, as though the forest and all its inhabitants were holding their breath in anticipation of something.
But what?
As though in answer, a foreboding rumble of thunder echoed between the mountains. Addelyn turned towards it - listening. But, then, it came again, booming in Not one sound, but many thousands of sounds woven together, and she gasped as she understood what she was hearing and looked skyward.
Suddenly the wind returned, and the sky erupted with the rush of a thousand birds. Geese, ducks, grouse, partridges, barn owls, herons, goshawk, and ospreys raced towards the south-east in a deafening drum of wing and bird calls. Closer to Addelyn, larks, sparrows, martins, mockingbirds, and finches chirped and darted, hitting the treetops and striking Addelyn with their wings and claws as they single-mindedly escaped. She crouched low beside Snowflake and threw her blanket over their heads which thudded and kicked with bird strike, forcing them closer to the ground.
A bass note, almost beyond hearing, underscored the cacophony. Addelyn remembered hearing the sound once as a child. It had drawn the whole town of Fëyn from their homes and businesses to stare, squinting and gawking into the sky. She chanced a look from under her blanket and saw a pod of sky whales swimming above the multitude of birds. They ponderously pushed aside the clouds as they twisted in offset sine-waves toward the southeast, and, despite the situation, Addelyn couldn't help but marvel at their graceful acrobatics.
Another rumble came, though this time, it was felt rather than heard. It shook the mountain's very foundation, infecting the junipers and spruces which trembled their leaves in fear. Even the stones by her feet seemed to agitate and walk as though in a hurry to escape.
A drove of Pygmy Shrew scampered out from between the bushes following the path the mice had taken, then squirrels and badgers and moles scrambled out of the thicket. They stampeded across Addelyn's blanket, across her feet, and between Snowflake's legs, blindly putting as much distance between themselves and the distant rumbling as they could. Addelyn watched them leave and imagined it funny that such little creatures should cause the earth to tremble like that.
Then the trees exploded as a herd of Red Deer thundered, terror-stricken into the clearing, showering Addelyn and Snowflake with branches and leaves. They dodged and leapt and bucked in fright as they ran, and Addelyn had no time to act other than to turn her back on them and crouch to shield Snowflake. They struck and kicked her in the ribs and head, throwing up clods of earth and Stone as her blanket ripped and her staff was shattered and driven into the mud.
Before the leaves had even settled, the deer were gone, braving the steep incline beside the Singing Stone without a moment's hesitation. The violent shaking decreased, and the mountain shuddered and whispered before growing quiet once more. Addelyn waited until she was sure it was safe to stand. She tested her limbs, seeing a blush of bruises spreading beneath the mud on her arms, and her precious staff splintered into kindling. Addelyn was angry with herself for protecting Snowflake instead of her staff, as her father had secretly laboured over it for months, carving her young life's story into the chestnut before presenting it to her on her sixth birthday. She pulled the shattered shank of it out of the mud and rubbed her sleeve across the horn inlay, revealing her mother and father, who stared up at her from beneath the muddy smear. She pocketed the fragment, leaving the rest buried, then walked to the precipice noting that voles and mice and crickets and beetles continued to migrate over the edge towards the southeast. The birds had gone, and the pod of sky whales were now little more than smudges against the distant sky.
'We must be stupid not to know what they know,' Addelyn said. Snowflake bleated at her and started to chew on a fragment of her staff. 'Hey! Don't eat that!' she yelled and tramped the ruined pieces further into the mud rather than let him desecrate it any further.
Another bass note rumbled, and although it was more distant than before, the sound still filled Addelyn with a hollow foreboding. Her heart wanted to follow the animals down the Blade, but her brain wouldn't allow it. Instead, she needed to understand what it was that had driven the animals away in such mindless numbers, so she picked up the rope and yanked Snowflake away from her flattened lunch pail and the muddy ruin of her staff.
'Come on. Leave it alone,' Addelyn said, pulling him towards the thicket. Snowflake reluctantly dropped her pail and walked with Addelyn against the tide of wild fauna, away from the small plateau towards the northwest and Jepson Sound.
Addelyn carried Snowflake for most of the way, having long lost patience with his unflagging curiosity for flowers and berries, and it was only once she emerged from a thicket of Hazelwood onto the northwest flank of the Blade that she put him down. Another Singing Stone jutted out from the dark rock there, almost identical to the one she left on the other side of the Blade, and Addelyn wondered momentarily if the stones were, in fact, a single rock, speared through the Blade, or two separate pieces.
The smell of the sea was more present there, mixing with spruce and pine as the land fell away steeply into the valley below and then further onto Jepson Sound. Countless animals and insects climbed or slithered or flew up the steep rocky slopes toward her, and below on the valley floor, a vast tapestry of deer and Ibex fled across the tundra, their heads held high with caution. Addelyn looked out beyond the Sound towards the Gravened Islands, and her heart skipped a beat.
The horizon was gone, replaced by a thin, unbroken line of featureless black that stretched from east to west like a seam of dark mould dividing land and sky. It was no more present than the edge of sunlight on a storm cloud, but given its distance, she guessed that it must have been as tall as the Blade itself.
Addelyn couldn’t fathom what she was seeing. Her first inclination was a distant storm, but its blackness was so absolute that she quickly dismissed the thought. A forest fire would explain the animal's behaviour, but there was no warm glow at its base, and the sky above the black line was clear of any haze.
Her heart began to pound beneath her tunic, and a cold sweat broke out across her forehead as she sensed a little of what was frightening the animals. There was something primal about it—something larger than her, larger than Fëyn or the Blade itself that screamed something about self-preservation, something about running! So, she did. Addelyn pulled Snowflake away from a cluster of Foxglove and ran back into the forest. She fled with a renewed sense of urgency, ducking and weaving and sliding along the wooded path, dodging slower animals on her way back towards her ruined picnic spot beside the shack and the Singing Stone above Fëyn.
Addelyn skidded to a stop at the entrance of the Singing Stone and caught her breath with her hands on her knees. She scrunched her freezing toes that tingled with pins and needles and ran out onto the Stone. Fëyn was now in deep afternoon shadow with only the bronze elevator and the occasional curl of woodsmoke reaching up into the last of the orange light. She had to warn them.
She kneeled on the Stone's carved runes and struck it with her a closed fist, but the sound it produced was only slightly brighter than her footsteps, and she cursed the deer for destroying her staff. Addelyn needed something sturdy to use in its place.
As Snowflake pulled at a thicket of blackberries that grew over the sentry cottage, the railing shifted, and Addelyn ran to it, hoping to find a sturdy section of the balustrade with which to strike the Stone. She yanked at the rotted timbers, and they crumbled in her hand, taking a part of the wall with them. Addelyn cursed Haldor's name and was about to search for a rock when she noticed a long pole of oxidised bronze jutting through the cottage's sagging walls. She wrenched it free of the blackberries and the splintering palings and saw that it was a staff, capped with a carved bronze finial in the shape of a kestrel. The Kestrel and the collar bore the same runes as the Singing Stone, and she knew at once the sentry must have used it for the same purpose she had in mind.
Hefting the bronze staff under her arm, she ran back out onto the Stone and raised it above her head. She adjusted her grip against the cold steel then and slammed it down onto the monolith with all her might. It responded with a single note so intense and pure that the grasses and lichen exploded from the carvings and sent Snowflake darting into the shack in alarm. The shockwave threw Addelyn onto the Stone and threatened to shake her off the edge. Her every instinct was to use her hands to shield her ears from the sound, but she knew she needed to dig her fingertips into the concentric carvings and pull herself close. She waited, teeth gritted against the sound and her face pressed against the granite until the clamour subsided enough for her to stand. Above a high-pitched note that might have been the decaying sound of the Stone or just her ears ringing, she could hear the echo of the Stone return to her from the far walls of the Causapar Arête.
Addelyn looked below as paraffin lamps and candlelight flickered to life in the windows and doorways of Fëyn. The town square began to fill with the long shadows of townsfolk emerging from their homes to congregate by the fountain, and Addelyn could feel them looking up at the Blade and at her lying alone on the Singing Stone, discussing who or what had raised the alarm. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted back to the cottage to collect Snowflake as a herd of deer burst from the forest and zigzagged across the plateau. They clattered over the flagstones and onto the Singing Stone, where they leapt, sure-footed, over the ravine without a thought. Addelyn tied her scarf into a sling and bundled Snowflake unceremoniously inside. She pulled it over her head and twisted it around so that Snowflake was against her back - and froze.
A Grey Stag, nearly thirty hands tall, calmly watched her from the edge of the plateau with its hot breath curling away on the wind. Moss and wildflowers cascaded across its broad shoulders and adorned its velvet antlers. They silently watched each other for a moment, seeming to acknowledge their shared experience. Then the stag snorted and tossed his head, and it cantered past Addelyn and followed the herd over the edge of the ravine.
Without hesitation, Addelyn felt behind her to be sure Snowflake was snug, then ran out onto the Stone and leapt, falling through the cold sky and slamming against the stag's broad flank. The stag tensed and snorted in startled protest, sending a skidding shower of shale tumbling below before regaining his footing and pressing forwards. Addelyn drove her hands deep into the stag’s floral withers and pressed her body against his spine to avoid its antlers as they swung at her from left and right. She could hear the massive bellows of his lungs expanding and contracting and the exhilarating thud of his heartbeat as it dodged and ducked between the spruce and boulders and pounded through streams, showering Addelyn and Snowflake in icy water. The headlong breeze filled her eyes with tears, so she turned her face away from it, seeing Fëyn shining like a constellation against the darkening fields far below.
With each break in the trees, her town grew larger, and Addelyn marvelled that it had taken her four and a half hours to climb up the Blade, but now they were already past Franklins Bluff and halfway home.
In less than fifteen minutes, the stag arrived above the skirt of flaked shale that collared the base of the Blade, which it skidded down without hesitation, regaining its footing once they hit the loamy grasses of her top field. Then the beast surged and thundered across the field, drumming its hooves into the earth and scattering slower animals in its wake. Addelyn pulled hard against its withers and yelled into its opposite ear, and the Stag would toss its flower-adorned head in annoyance and veer the direction she had commanded. Patches of Bird Cherry and young Scots Pines whipped past as they neared her pasture's fence-line, and Addelyn leaned out, trying to estimate which of the clumps would afford her the softest landing. She took a deep breath and yelled for Snowflake to hang on, then dove, tumbling into the long grass and skidded to a stop in a muddy puddle as the giant grey Stag continued indifferently. It cleared her father’s fence line with one graceful stride, then leapt over an easement and disappeared towards the lowlands.
Addelyn got to her feet and worked her jarred shoulder in circles. ‘Are you okay, Snowflake?’ she asked, then felt the happy thump of his tail against her back. ‘Good boy,’ she smiled and untied her sling, allowing him to happily kick free of her scarf and dance in the grass. A long tear in her linen pants was blushing scarlet, but with no time to lose, she ignored the wound and sprinted towards the Town Center to warn the congregating townsfolk of what she had seen.

The temperature that day was also memorable, unbearably humid, topping 107 with a blistering 112 comfort index. The two trips it took to transfer my groceries from car to apartment left me dripping in sweat, literally gasping for air in the oppressive heat. I’d forgotten something, of course—I always do—and this time it was the bread for the next day’s lunch. After supper, when it was relatively cooler, I decided to walk across the street to the Mobile station. And that’s when I saw the red haired girl for the first time.
She was second in line at the counter, equidistant between a well groomed woman in her late twenties and an older man in faded overalls. Her appearance is what first caught my attention, that and the fact that such a young child was standing perfectly still. She was dirty almost to the point of being grimy, and barefoot, despite the NO SHIRT NO SHOES NO SERVICE sign prominently displayed on the front door. She wore nothing but a long, tattered T-shirt. Surely, I thought to myself, she’s wearing a pair of shorts under that shirt. The lady in front of her was taking her sweet time picking out various lottery tickets, requesting one then shaking her head—no, no that one might be better. All of us behind her, all but the red haired girl, were shifting impatiently. She alone stood perfectly still, eyes facing forward, not even blinking. Which one is she with? I remember thinking, the lottery ticket lady or the overall man? Both were clean, well dressed in their individual ways, while the red haired girl looked like a motherless waif with her uncombed, stringy hair, bare feet and grimy shirt. The more I studied her, the stranger her appearance seemed. She was oblivious to my scrutiny, however, staring ahead blankly, as if the rest of us did not exist. The mystery was solved when the women in front of her finished her transaction and the red haired girl woodenly followed her out the door, still silent, still aloof. No one but me paid her the slightest attention.
My life was a mess at that time, and I quickly forgot about the whole incident. I was having car problems, for one thing. One breakdown after another leaving me with precious little money to spend on anything but mechanic bills. Even more distressing was the fact that my only child could not seem to get pregnant. My whole world at that time consisted of two problems–I was either waiting for the next strange noise which heralded yet another mechanical breakdown or a telephone call from a teary child to tell me that once again I would not be a grandmother. That summer was horrendous, one disaster after another. It finally ended, however, and on the day the first cold front came in I saw the red haired girl again.
She was, as before, second in line when I entered the store to pay for my gas. The well groomed lady and the overalled man were absent. In front of the red haired girl was a bearded older gentleman; behind her, a tall, tired looking woman in nurse’s scrubs. Incredibly, despite the cool weather, she was still barefoot, dressed in the same grubby T-shirt. She, like the first time I saw her, was staring blankly in front of her, eyes fixed on nothing, still as a statue. I put her age at about six, much too young to come to the store alone. So who was she with this time? Was the bearded man her grandfather perhaps?
Apparently so, because when he left the store, she followed several paces behind, staring straight ahead, body erect. I glanced around at the other customers. Surely I wasn’t the only one that found this situation odd. Yet no one but me seemed to have noticed, and the phone call I received when I got home pushed all thoughts of the red haired girl from my mind.
My daughter, after years of trying, was finally pregnant. In seven months, I, like most of my friends, would be a grandmother. This happy thought got me through the fall, which turned out to be even more disastrous than the summer had been. Health problems, rather than mechanical ones, seemed to be the theme throughout the months of September and October. I was stricken with a particularly virulent case of shingles in my optic nerve, leaving me in constant pain, embarrassed by the drooping on the left side of my face, and waking up at night in a cold sweat with the terrifying fear that the disease would leave me blind. For six weeks I was the most miserable of creatures, unable to eat, sleep, or work comfortably. I eventually recovered, however, and enjoyed a week of relative peace before I was assaulted by yet another virus. I missed five days of work as I was unwilling to stray more than ten feet from my bathroom. Life seemed to be getting bleaker and bleaker and only daydreams of my first grandchild kept me going.
On the first day of November I saw the red haired girl for the third time.
She wasn’t in line this time, but rather wandering around the store. Except for the fact that her arms were not stretched out in front of her, she looked like those zombies you see on late night TV. Her eyes were glazed, her gait stiff and shuffling. Incredibly, although there was a steady rain falling, she was still barefoot, still wearing nothing but the T-shirt. It was early morning and the store was crowded with customers getting gas, coffee, doughnuts. The well dressed woman and the bearded man were not among them. So who was she with this time? I positioned myself near the door, pretending to study a rack of sunglasses, and waited for her to leave. It was a good five minutes before she did, behind a young man about college age. Curiouser and curiouser, I remember thinking, and once again forgot about her in the events that followed.
My daughter was not having an uneventful pregnancy. Although the baby was thriving, his existence was perilous. The phone was once again my enemy. Every other week or so I would receive a call with various alarming reports. There was spotting or cramping or dangerously high blood pressure or the risk of toxemia. The doctors had warned us to prepare for the fact that the pregnancy might not go full term, that the chances of delivering a healthy baby, or any baby at all-were slim. A dark cloud seemed to follow me throughout that winter and the last thing I thought about was the mystery of the red haired girl.
Until I saw her again in March.
I was returning from my daughter’s house, exhausted from coping with a bedridden, almost hysterical mother-to-be, when I spied her out of the corner of my eye as I pulled into my complex. She wasn’t in the Mobile station this time, but was standing outside, near the bank of newspapers. I caught only a quick glimpse of her as she opened the door to enter the store.
For the fourth time in a row, she was still barefoot, still in the same tattered T-shirt. Coincidence can only be stretched so far, I thought to myself. Something is very wrong here. My blood ran cold as I realized that somehow, some way, the red haired girl was the harbinger of doom, my own personal banshee. No one but me had seen her, that much was obvious, and the reason for this was because she existed for no one but me.
I exited my car in a mad rush, groping blindly for my house key as I ran to my apartment. I had one thought and one thought only. I had to leave town. If I saw the red haired girl again, my grandchild would die. It all made sense now. My car problems last summer had not been simply the result of an older car reaching a crisis point, but had been brought about by the sight of the red haired girl. My illnesses, more severe than any I’d ever had before, occurred after I saw her the second time. My daughter’s pregnancy had progressed smoothly until the third sighting. Every time I saw the red haired girl my life got worse. I had to get away from her.
I dashed around the apartment like a madwoman, throwing clothes into suitcases, gathering my credit cards and check book, pausing only long enough to leave a breathless message on my boss’s answering machine. I would not return until the baby was born. My avoiding the red haired girl was his only chance of survival. I had to get away, far away. A freezing drizzle was falling as I lugged my two heavy suitcases to the car.
A heavy bank of dark clouds smudged the horizon, obscuring what little was left of the day’s light. The drizzle had been a precursor to the main part of the storm, which I encountered when I had driven barely ten miles. The windshield wipers were useless against the heavy onslaught of sleet and rain, and I spent the better part of an hour perched nervously on the edge of the seat, straining to keep sight of the road in what little light the headlights provided. A howling wind buffeted my small car, making it almost impossible to remain in one lane. This was by far the worst storm I had ever driven in, and it was all the red haired girl’s fault. I knew she was trying to keep me from leaving town, that she wanted me to see her one more time so that my grandchild would die. Putting as many miles as possible between us was my only goal and I would endure any storm, no matter how severe, to accomplish it.
After fifty miles, the storm abated. Completely. The clouds simply disappeared, revealing a star-studded sky and a full moon, and the rain ceased abruptly, as if a giant hand had turned a faucet off. A feeling of sublime peace washed over me. I knew that I had outrun, outsmarted the red haired girl. I had done it. I was out of her jurisdiction now; she no longer had control over me or my life. I drove another hundred miles before I saw the Howard Johnson, a well-lit oasis in the midst of the dark stretch of highway. It was, I knew, to be my haven for the next few weeks, my hiding place until the baby was born.
The night was soft and still, the quiet broken only by the trill of a mockingbird as I pulled into a parking space and removed my suitcases from the backseat. The peaceful feeling remained as I walked into the garishly lit lobby and requested a room on the ground floor. All was right with my world now, the Mobile station far away and no longer posing a threat. Despite the heavy suitcases, my step was light as I followed the directions the clerk had given to my room at the far end of the complex. I was safe now, and, more importantly, so was my grandson.
I located my room and breathed a sigh of relief as I retrieved the key from my pocket. The horrendous drive was over; I was seconds away from being warm and comfortable. All would be smooth sailing from here on; in a few short weeks I would be holding a new baby in my arms. I inserted the key and pushed the door open.
The red haired girl was sitting on the bed.

Translated into English by C. K. Fairview
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