“Where’s your mother, child?” asked the woman. “Where did you say she was sick?”
“How old is this girl?” asked the man of his wife. He stood rigid, hands forming into fists. He had put on his cap, and he glowered at her. “Where is this woman?”
“How should I know how old she is? She looks like a big tall little girl. Honey, how old are you? Where is your mother?”
“I’m newborn,” said Emaleth. “That’s why my mother is so sick. It wasn’t her fault. She doesn’t have any more milk. She is sick unto death and she smells like death. But there was enough milk. I am not one of the little people. That is something I no longer need to fear.” She turned and pointed. “Walk a long way, cross the bridge and under the tree, she’s there where the branches touch the ground, but I don’t think she’ll ever talk anymore. She will dream until she dies.”
Out the door he went, letting it bang loudly after him. With a very determined air he walked across the grass and then he started to run.
The woman was staring at her.
Emaleth put her hands to her ears, but it was too late, the transparent door had banged so loud it made a ringing inside her ears and nothing now would stop it. The ringing had to wear away. Transparent door. Not glass. She knew about glass. The bottle on the table was glass. She remembered glass windows, and glass beads, lots of things of glass. Plastic. The transparent door was screen and plastic.
“It’s all encoded inside,” said Father.
She looked at the woman. She wanted to ask the woman for food, but it was more important now to leave here-to find Father or Donnelaith or Michael in New Orleans, whichever proved to be the easier thing to do. She had looked at the stars but they hadn’t told her. Father had said you will know from the stars. Now, of that part she wasn’t so sure.
She turned and opened the door and stepped outside, careful not to let it bang, holding it for the woman. All the tree frogs sang. All the crickets sang. Things sang of which no one knew the name, not even Father. They rustled and rattled in the dark. All the night was alive. Look at the tiny insects swimming beneath the light bulb! She waved her hand at them. How they scattered, only to come back in a tight little cloud.
She looked at the stars. She would always remember this pattern of the stars, surely enough, the way the stars dipped down to the far trees, and how black the sky seemed at one point and how deep blue at another. Yes, and the moon. Behold the moon. The beautiful radiant moon. Father, at last I see it. Yes, but to get to Donnelaith, she had to know how the stars would look when she reached her destination.
The woman took Emaleth’s hand. Then the woman looked at her hand and let her go.
“You’re so soft!” she said. “You’re as soft and pink as a little baby.”
“Don’t tell them you are newborn,” Father had told her. “Don’t tell them that they will soon die. Feel sorry for them. It is their final hour.”
“Thank you,” said Emaleth. “I’m going now. I’m going to Scotland or New Orleans. Do you know the way?”
“Well, New Orleans is no big problem,” said the woman. “I don’t know about Scotland. But you can’t just walk off like this in your bare feet. Let me get Bubby’s shoes for you. Lord, yes, Bubby’s shoes are the only ones that are going to fit.”
Emaleth looked out over the dark grass to the forest. She saw the darkness close in over the water, beyond the bridge. She wasn’t sure she should wait for the shoes.
“They are born hardwired with almost nothing,” Father had said. “And what is hardwired in them is soon forgotten. They no longer catch scents or see patterns. They no longer know by instinct what to eat. They can be poisoned. They no longer hear sounds the way you do, or hear the full beat of songs. They are not like us. They are fragments. Out of these fragments we will build but it will be their doom. Be merciful.”
Where was Father? If Father had observed the stars over Donnelaith, then she, Emaleth, ought to know them and what they looked like. She caught not the faintest trace of his scent anywhere at all. None had clung anymore to Mother.
The woman had come back. She laid down the shoes. It was hard for Emaleth to get her soft long feet inside them, toes wriggling, the canvas scratching her skin, but she knew that this was best, to have shoes. She ought to wear shoes. Father wore shoes. And so had Mother. Emaleth had cut her foot already on a sharp stone in the grass. This was better. It felt good when the woman tied the laces tight. Little bows, how pretty. She laughed when she saw these bows. But prettier still were the woman’s fingers when she tied them.
How big Emaleth’s feet looked compared to those small feet of the little woman.
“Good-bye, lady. And thank you,” said Emaleth. “You’ve been very kind to me. I’m sorry for everything that is going to happen.”
“And what’s that, child?” the woman asked. “Just exactly what is going to happen? Child, what is that smell? What is on your body? First I thought you were just all wet from the Bayou. But there is another smell.”
“A smell?”
“Yes, it’s kind of good, kind of like a good something cooking.”
Ah, so Emaleth had the scent too. Was that why she couldn’t smell Father? She was now wrapped in the scent, perhaps. She lifted her fingers to her nose. There it was. The scent came right out of her pores. The smell of Father.
“I don’t know,” said Emaleth. “I think I should know these things. My children will. I have to go now. I should go to New Orleans. That is what Mother said. Mother pleaded and pleaded with me. Go to New Orleans, and Mother said it was on the way to Scotland, that I didn’t have to disobey Father. So I’m on my way.”
“Wait a minute, child. Sit down, wait for Jerome to come back. Jerome is looking for your mother.” The woman called out in the dark for Jerome. But Jerome was gone.
“No, lady. I’m going,” said Emaleth, and she bent down and touched her hands lightly to the woman’s shoulders and kissed her on the smooth brown forehead. She felt her black hair. She smelled it and smoothed her hand on the lady’s cheek. Nice woman.
She could see the woman liked the smell of her.
“Wait, honey.”
This was the first time Emaleth had kissed anyone but Mother and it made the tears come again, and she looked down at the brown woman with the black hair and the big eyes, and she felt sorrow, that they would all die. Kindly people. Kindly people. But the Earth simply wasn’t big enough for them, and they had prepared the way for the more gentle, and the more childlike.
“Which way is New Orleans?” she said. Mother hadn’t known. Father had never told.
“Well, that way, I reckon,” said the woman. “I don’t know, tell the truth, I think that’s east. You can’t just…”
“Thank you, darling dear,” she said, using Father’s favorite phrase. And she started walking.
It felt better with every step. She walked faster and faster on the sodden grass, and then out on the road, and beneath the white electric light, and then on and on, her hair blowing out, her long arms swinging.
She was all dry now underneath the clothes, except for a little water on her back, which she did not like but which would dry soon. And her hair. Her hair was drying quickly, getting lighter and lighter. She saw her shadow on the road and laughed. How tall and thin she was compared to the brown people. How large her head was. And even compared to Mother. Poor little Mother, lying beneath the tree and staring off into the darkness and the greenness. Mother had not even heard Emaleth anymore. Mother could hear nothing. Oh, if only they had not run away from Father.
But she would find him. She had to. They were the only ones in the world. And Michael. Michael was Mother’s friend. Michael would help her. Mother had said, “Go to Michael. Do that first of all.” Those had almost been the last words from Mother. Go to Michael, first of all.