Wild Stacks

Wild Stacks / Issue 1 / December 2010

SALTUS LUNAE
(THE LEAP OF THE MOON)

By KARI SPERRING

The antiquary journeyed from the West to the East, with the Great Swamp at his back and the Sourwind blowing. From the Seared Plain he came, from the Orthodox Lands, and everywhere he walked, he searched. He dug into the roots of the broken teeth of Big City and found only ash and slag and blisters. He crunched through the crust of the Dry Sea until his feet turned pale. He crossed the Thick Sea on the backs of the Lone Sailors, questioning them about their lore, and they sang and gave him no answers. He walked by the Gloom Hours, when yellow haze mantled the sky, and he hid by day from the glare of the bones of the Lost Ages. He walked by night, by skinlight, under the shade of the leaf-wrapped moon, and he came at last to the City of Vines. His feet sank into the layers of mulch and the broad plants sheltered him from the sun. The Sourwind chased him to the city boundary and turned back, baffled by the thick bright foliage. The antiquary came to the heart of the city and halted and looked and listened. In the branches overhead, the solemn children chewed and wove and paid him no heed. Between the branches, the adults spread their wings and danced and never looked down.

Beneath the City of Vines lay the City of Glass. For a night and a day, the antiquary sat and watched and listened and rested. At dawn on the second day, he rose and started to dig. First he moved leaf and bark, then he moved soil and grit. As he dug, the winged adults danced overhead, but when he broke through to the ruins, they scattered. Down and down he dug, clearing his way, tunnelling past strong roots and old debris. He dug his hands raw and his body to sinew, all by the faint light of his skin. Finally, he broke into an ancient chamber. It was circular, this space, and thick with ashes, but to each part of the walls clung shelves and on each shelf were stacked the fragments of books. Under his coating of dirt and mulch, the antiquary exhaled and relaxed and smiled.

In the underground chamber, he read and read, gulping the words of the Lost Ages, tasting memory and forgotten science. Overhead, the vines grew and the leaves shaded and the Vine People continued to weave and to dance. A moon cycle passed, and another and two more before the antiquary dug himself back to the surface, and stood once more at the heart of the City of Vines.

“Listen,” he said, to the air and the leaves, “I have found it.” The leaves rustled and the Vine People made no answer. “Listen,” he said, and his voice was louder. “Have you not noticed that the seasons are out of place?” The adults danced and the children chewed or wove, and the antiquary sighed to himself. But he persisted. “Time has started to slide in the Orthodox Lands. We count up the days and the months as our ancestors did, but the seasons do not obey us. We reach the first day of spring, but still the winter cold holds and the black snow falls. By the time the moulds begin to grow, spring is halfway through and they should be flowering. Midsummer comes, and we have rains, not searing heat. The harvest is ripening at the onset of winter. All this is wrong, but I have found the solution.” He lifted a hand and brandished a dirty orange book. “We have forgotten the moon.” A new silence fell about him as the children ceased to chew. The antiquary said, “The moon must leap, to bring the seasons back in line.”

Leaves shivered all around as one by one the adults landed. The antiquary said “Your vines are the cause of this problem. You let them grow and grow and they have tethered the moon. You must sever the vines and let the moon leap forwards.” In the branches, the children began to move towards their parents. Again, the antiquary smiled. He grasped the lowest branch of the nearest vine and began to climb. Up and up he went, until his hands were stained green and his garments in rags. Always the Vine People were ahead of him, the adults spiralling, bearing their children on their backs. The air grew thin, and the antiquary struggled and panted and slowed. Yet still he climbed, and the Vine People rose. The vines grew thinner and one by one reached their full height, until only one remained, thick as the pipelines which crossed the Great Sea, green as the skins of the people of the Seared Plains. The antiquary huffed and battled his way and the Vine People flew, until a shadow fell over them all, and the antiquary lifted his had.

Above him hung the moon, dusty and black under its shawl of vines. Wide stems embraced it: wide leaves spread their palms to the stars. The Vine People settled on the edges of the leaves, closing their wings, watching the antiquary with opaque eyes.

“We have to cut this,” he said, gesturing at the parent stem. “You have to help me.” The Vine People sat motionless. Below them lay Homeworld, yellow-grey with ash. From the shreds of his sleeves, the antiquary drew a set square, a pencil and a small saw. He measured the angle of the vine and the moon, marking out where to cut so that the vine-top, falling, would impel the moon forwards. With the saw, he began inch by inch to gnaw away at the great vine. Sap coated his hands, tingling at first, then stinging, then burning, but still he sawed on. The vine shook. On Homeworld below, the dust clouds shuddered. The vine twisted and the earth groaned and shifted. Great roots strained: rock lifted and began to tear. The moon rocked and the adults spread out their wings. Hands seared to tendon and bone, the antiquary sawed, cut strand by strand until but one great heart line remained. He looked up at the Vine People. “The moon will leap and the seasons will return to order. We have disciplined time.” The adults stood, gripped leaves in their claws and began to beat their wings. The saw bit into the heart line, deeper and deeper. The vine writhed. At last, with a small snap, it broke. The vine top hung overhead, unmoving, as the great lower stem began to topple. It tangled into its sibling vines, and they too swayed. It pulled them downwards, and they, too, began to fall, roots pulling free of the mulch and the soil. It groaned and tumbled and rattled its way down.

One last curled tendril whip-lashed and hurled the antiquary outwards, out and down. No adult came flying to catch him. The vine dropped lower, lower. The dust clouds boiled as the roots burst upwards, pulling with them huge chunks of the plains. The mountains tilted, havered, and overturned. The seas spilled to explore the lands. To east and to west, volcanic eyes opened. Cliffs shattered, islands drowned, wide lands were sundered. The Orthodox Lands tilted, tipped and slid under the crust of the Dry Sea.

Slowly, slowly, supported by a thousand thousand beating wings, the moon sailed free.


© Kari Sperring. Originally appeared in the BSFA Matrix (January 2006). Used with permission.