But today she was home again. They would all go down to the village hall with the other fishing families, to celebrate and dance. And then, very late at night, she would curl up in her mother’s lap (although she was getting too big to curl up in her mother’s lap), held close in the sturdy arms; watching Sparks through heavy lids to see if he fell asleep first, in Gran’s arms. There would be the warm snap and whisper of flames on the hearth, the smell of sea and ships that clung to her mother’s hair, the hypnotic flow of voices as Gran reclaimed her own daughter from the Sea, who was Mother to them all.
Moon leaped down into the soft, golden-brown beach sand. Sparks thumped down from the wall behind her, their shadows tangling in the noonday glare. With her eyes fixed on the cluttered stone houses of the village and the boats dropping sail in the bay, she almost darted past the stranger who stood waiting, watching, as they came. Almost Sparks collided with Moon as she slid to a stop. “Look out, fish brain!” A cloud of sand exploded around their ankles.
She threw her arms around him for balance, squeezed the indignation out of him as her own amazement tightened her hold. Sparks pulled free, subsiding; the net dropped, forgotten, like the village, the bay, their reunion. Moon tugged at the hem of her hand-me down sweater, knitting her fingers into the heavy rust-red yarn.
The woman smiled down at them, the radiant oval of her face touched with windburn above her ancient gray parka, the thick pants and clumsy boots worn by any islander. But she was not from Neith, not simply from any island…
“Did — did you come out of the Sea?” Moon gasped. Sparks gaped beside her.
The woman laughed; her laughter broke the spell of otherworldliness like window glass. “No… only across it, on a ship.”
“Why?”
“Who are you?” Their questions ran together.
And in answer to both, the woman held out the medallion she wore on a chain: a barbed trefoil like a bouquet of fish hooks, glittering with the darkly sinister beauty of a reptile’s eye. “Do you know what this is?” She went down on one knee in the sand, her black braids dropping forward. They shuffled closer, blinking.
“Sibyl… ?” Moon whispered timidly, seeing Sparks clutch his own medal out of the corner of her eye. But then her gaze was wholly the woman’s, and she knew why the dark, compelling eyes seemed to open on infinity. A sibyl was the earthly channel for supernatural wisdom, chosen through the Lady’s Own judgment, who by temperament and training had the strength to withstand a holy visitation.
The woman nodded. “I am Clavally Bluestone Summer.” She set her hands against her forehead. “Ask, and I will answer.”
They did not ask, dazed by the knowledge that she would — could — answer any question they could imagine; or that the Lady Herself would answer them with Clavally’s lips, while the sibyl was swept away in a trance.
“No questions?” Formality fell away again, held at bay by her good humor. “Then tell me who you are, who already know everything you need to know?”
“I’m Moon,” Moon said, pushing at her bangs. “Moon Dawntreader Summer. This’s my cousin, Sparks Dawntreader Summer, and I don’t know enough to ask about anything!” she finished miserably.
“I do.” Sparks pushed forward, holding out his medal. “What did this used to be?”
“Input…” Clavally took it between her fingers, frowned faintly, murmuring. Her eyes turned to smoky quartz, moved wildly, like a dreamer’s; her hand fisted over the disc. “Sign of the Hegemony — two crosses bound within a circle symbolize the unity of Kharemough and its seven subordinate worlds… medal awarded for valorous service, Kispah uprising: “What all may strive for, this one has found. To our beloved son Temmon Ashwini Sirus, this day, 9:113:07.” Sandhi, official language of Kharemough and the Hegemony. No further analysis.” Her head dropped forward, let go by an unseen force. She swayed gently on her knees, sighed, sat back. “Well.”
“But what does it mean?” Sparks looked down at the disc which still danced against his parka front, and his mouth formed an uncertain line.
Clavally shook her head. “I don’t know. The Lady only speaks through me, not to me. That’s the Transfer — the way it is.”
Sparks ’s mouth quivered.
“The Hegemony,” Moon said quickly. “What’s the Hegemony, Clavally?”
“The off worlders.” Clavally’s eyes widened slightly. “The Hegemony is what they call themselves. So it’s an off world thing, then… I’ve never been to Carbuncle.” Her glance went to it again. “How did this get here, so far from the star port and the Winters?” And back to their faces, “You’re merrybegots, aren’t you? Your mothers went to the last Festival together, and were lucky enough to come back with you… and also this keepsake?”
Sparks nodded, as much in awe of adult logic as he was of the Lady’s trances, “Then… my father isn’t a Summer; he isn’t even on Tiamat?”
“That I can’t tell you.” Clavally stood up. Moon saw a strange concern cross her face as she looked back at Sparks . “But I do know that merrybegots are specially blessed. Do you know why I’m here?”
They shook their heads.
“Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”
“Together,” Moon answered without thinking.
Again the bright laughter. “Good! I’m making this journey through the Windwards to urge all the young Summers, before they settle into life, to remember that they can dedicate themselves to the Sea in another way than as fishers or farmers. They can serve the Lady by serving their fellow human beings as sibyls, as I do. Some of us are born with a special seed inside us, and it only waits for the Lady to touch us and make it grow. When you’re old enough, maybe you two will hear Her call, and go to a choosing place.”
“Oh.” Moon shivered slightly. “I think I hear Her now!” She pressed cold hands against her leaping heart, where a dream seed sprouted.
“Me too, me too!” Sparks cried eagerly. “Can we go now, can we go with you, Clavally?”
Clavally pulled up the hood of her parka against a sudden buffet of wind. “No, not yet. Wait a little longer; until you’re certain of what you hear.”
“How long?”
“A month?”
She rested her hands on the two small shoulders. “More like years, I think.”
“Years!” Moon protested.
“By then you’ll be sure it isn’t just the crying of sea birds you hear. But always remember, in the end it won’t be you who will choose the Lady, but the Lady Who will choose you.” She looked again, almost pointedly, at Sparks .
“All right.” Moon wondered at the look, and straightened her shoulders resolutely under the hand. “We’ll wait. And we’ll remember.”
“And now—” the sibyl dropped her hands — “I think someone is waiting for you.”
Time began to flow forward again, and they fled, running — with many backward glances — toward town.
“Moon, remember the last thing she said to us?” The silver play of notes dissolved as Sparks lowered his flute and looked back, breaking in on Moon’s memory. The mers stopped their own song, looking toward the boat.
“Clavally?” Moon guided the outrigger around the point of land that jagged inward at the mouth of the bay. The shoreline of the Choosing Island was as spiny as the trefoil the sibyls wore. “You mean, that my mother was waiting for us?”
“No. That the Lady chooses us, not the other way around.” Sparks glanced toward the surf line, made his eyes come back to her face. “I mean… what if She only chooses one of us? What will we do?”
“She’ll choose us both!” Moon grinned. “How could She do anything else? We’re merrybegots — we’re lucky.”