When the story was done (soft rain fell all around, like applause), Yama said, “I heard a riddle long ago, and now I know that I have found the answer to it. For that, as well as for my life, I am in your debt.”
Tamatane said, “We became as we are now because we saved the world from drought. Yet we are still less than any of the peoples of the surface.”
Tumataugena said, “If we help you save the river, then perhaps we will be rewarded again.”
“Perhaps,” Yama said.
The rain people asked Yama many questions about his adventures in the world above, but at last he could stay awake no longer. He slept beneath a shelter of woven bamboo leaves. He fell asleep quickly, even though he was soaked through and very cold, but he was awoken after only a few hours by Tamatane and Tumataugena.
“Something bad walks the air,” they said. “Perhaps you know what it is.”
The floating island was in the middle of a dense belt of cloud. It was close to midnight; light shone from beneath the island, diffused through white vapor. As Yama disentangled himself from the wet, heavy hide, something flashed far off in the mist, an intense point of brilliant blue light that faded to a flickering red star, falling through whiteness and gone even as Yama glimpsed it. A moment later, the whole island trembled as a clap of thunder rumbled through the air.
Yama shivered. He thought that he knew what had caused the blue light and the thunder.
As he clambered down from the sleeping platform, something loomed out of the mist: a dark spot that grew and gained shape, a red triangle with a kind of frame beneath it. It tipped through the air and stalled above the edge of the main platform; its pilot swung down from its harness and ran a little way across the platform with the last of its momentum, collapsing the bamboo frame and the hide stretched across it.
High-pitched whistles rose on all sides. The rain people gathered around the pilot, who stood in the center of the platform and stared up in wonder at Yama.
The pilot, Tumahirmatea, was from a shoal of floating islands which hung far above this one. Something terrible was loose in the air, Tumahirmatea said, a monster which spat flame and could destroy an island with a single breath.
“I know it,” Yama said. “It is not a monster, but a man. I thought him dead, but it seems that nothing in the world can kill him. He is looking for me. I must leave at once.”
The rain people talked amongst themselves, and then Tumataugena and Tamatane came forward and offered their help.
Tamatane said, “You wish to fall through the mouth of the snake.”
“I could jump from the edge of this platform in an instant,” Yama said, “but I am not certain of my target.” His stomach turned over at the thought. He was not at all sure that he could manipulate the machines which generated the gravity fields with enough precision to reach the mouth of the shortcut. If he missed, he would fall beyond the envelope of the world’s air, and suffer the same horrible death as Angel.
Tumataugena said, “We have several kinds of flying devices. The simplest are sacks full of bladders harvested from the edges of the island, but those will lift you rather than allow you to fall. So instead we will give you one of our kites.”
It was brought out of store and unwrapped. Yama thanked the rain people and asked for a knife and a cup of water. Tumataugena gave him a bodkin fashioned from the spine of a fish, with a handle of plaited black grass; Tamatane gave him a gourd brimming with sweet water.
Yama pricked the ball of his thumb and allowed three drops of blood to flutter into the water. He said, “If you wish to become more than you are, to become as the peoples of the world above, then drink a mouthful of this. When the change is complete you will be able to change others in the same way. If you decide not to do this thing, then wait a day for the water to lose its potency and then dash it over the edge of the island.”
Was Pandaras safe? Would he perform this miracle for the indigenous peoples of all the long world? But perhaps it did not matter. Already the mirror people and the forest folk were changed. And they would change others.
The rain people talked amongst themselves; at last, Tamatane and Tumataugena announced that they would do this thing at once. They passed the gourd around, and the last person to drink from it, the stranger, Tumahirmatea, pitched it into the void.
“You will have a fever,” Yama said, “and then you will sleep. But when you awake all will be changed. You must find your own way after that. I can do no more for you.”
It did not take long to learn how to fly the man-kite. There was a harness which was lengthened to accommodate him, and a frame hung at the balance point which he could grip and tilt to the left or right. A ribbon at the point of the kite indicated the direction of air currents; rudders pushed by his feet spilled air from the leading edges of the diamond-shaped lifting surface to bring it to stalling speed for a safe landing. But he would not need to land, only to stoop down like a lammergeyer.
There was no ceremony of farewell. He was strapped into the kite and helped to the edge of the platform, then took a breath and jumped off. The underside of the island fell past, tangles of tough holdfasts studded with transparent hydrogen bladders. The kite jinked in air currents, wrenching at his shoulders.
He kicked, got his feet in the stirrups of the rudders, leaned to the left. And began to breathe again.
Tumahirmatea followed Yama as he stooped down, the red kite matching the yellow wingtip to wingtip.
They fell through vast volumes of cloud, breaking through streaming mist and rain into clear air. In one direction the dark wall of the edge of the world rose through decks of cloud and curtains of rain; in the other, empty blue air deepened toward the black void in which the world swam. Between, the silver column of the falling river twisted down toward its vanishing point, a hundred leagues below. The air was brighter there: it was night on the surface of the world, and the sun was walking its keel. Lightning crackled around the silver twist of water, vivid sparks flashing against their own reflections. Floating islands made broken arcs at different levels, receding into blue depths of air.
Yama swooped down in a great curve, yelling as he fell. For those few minutes, he was utterly free. Tumahirmatea left him once they had fallen past the lower edge of the clouds that ringed the falling river. The red kite tipped from side to side in farewell and tilted away, already rising on an updraft. Yama fell on alone.
The column of water, twisted within intricate gravity fields, was closer now. The air was full of electricity generated by the friction of its fall. Every hair on Yama’s head stirred uneasily; the thunder of lightning storms constantly shivered the air. He tacked several leagues out from the water column, then swung the kite around it. The world was a wall reaching above and below as far as he could see.
After one more full turn around the falling river, he would reach its vanishing point. Looking straight down, he could see a throat of velvet darkness wrapped around the root of the column of water. He could feel the thing which controlled the shortcut. It was awakening, reaching toward him through the babble of the machines which manipulated the gravity fields.