{"id":378,"date":"2024-09-16T06:16:27","date_gmt":"2024-09-16T06:16:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/?page_id=378"},"modified":"2024-09-21T03:28:19","modified_gmt":"2024-09-21T03:28:19","slug":"astraportus","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/astraportus\/","title":{"rendered":"Astraportus"},"content":{"rendered":"

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Astraportus<\/h1>\n

by Lisa Short<\/h3>\n

Illustrated by Kerry Maire<\/h3>\n

[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/2024-New-Moon-e.jpg” title_text=”2024 New Moon-e” _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n

Evakya Dayseer<\/i> Myotis straightened up from her hunch, only then realizing how long she\u2019d been crouched over the records of last year\u2019s forage. The light in the Chronicler\u2019s cavern had dimmed with the coming night, the sky beyond the uneven maw of its entrance shading from clear, pure blue to a deeper violet. Her neck ached; she rubbed it absently with her free truehand, unclenching cramped fingers from around the pen in the other. She would have to either light a torch to continue or give over entirely on her efforts to have it completed before morning; the stubborn kink in her neck, resisting all efforts to massage it away, argued for calling it a night.\u00a0<\/p>\n

She squinted down at the paper roll, half-filled with painstakingly neat rows of characters. Few others could have managed to differentiate one word from another, even if they\u2019d held it a full wingslength away. Only Evakya and her grandfather had the deep brown eyes of a Dayseer<\/i> in their settlement.\u00a0<\/p>\n

A shadow fell abruptly across the paper; startled, Evakya looked up. In the long seconds it took her eyes to adjust, all Evakya could make out was the silhouette of the intruder now blocking most of the cavern entrance, tall and broad-winged, if a bit stooped in the shoulders\u2014she relaxed. Even with only a silhouette to go on, she knew that shape better than she knew her own.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cGran\u2019fa!\u201d Evakya was ready for affection\u2014fond of solitude as she was, even she found an entire day closeted alone in the Chronicler\u2019s cavern a bit much. But her smile faded as his face swam into focus\u2014his expression was tight and closed. \u201cGrandfather?\u201d she said, more tentatively.<\/p>\n

Tzinac Dayseer<\/i> Myotis, revered Head Chronicler of the settlement, regarded her with the unreadable dark eyes that were so like her own. \u201cDarrow\u2019s back,\u201d he said.\u00a0<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Evakya followed her grandfather back down to the settlement, a little clumsily. She had never been the best of fliers, and her wings had stiffened up even more than her neck had during her long day in the cavern. But her grandfather said nothing of her ragged flight down the mountainside.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Darrow\u2019s back!<\/i><\/p>\n

Darrow had left the settlement months before\u2014not to Evakya\u2019s sorrow; she had never liked him. He had made a point of tormenting her when they were children, jeering at her eyes and calling them ugly\u2014turning the pride her grandfather had tried to instill in her, another generation of Chronicler-to-be, into a furtive sort of shame. Jealousy,<\/i> her grandfather had said dismissively\u2014but he hadn\u2019t been the one that had had to endure not only Darrow\u2019s taunts, but those of the other children he\u2019d been able to convince or cow into joining in with him.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Darrow had been a big, husky boy and had grown into an exceptionally powerful man, easily the strongest flier in their settlement\u2014but he had never been satisfied with only that. He had bemoaned the limits on their territory, had wanted to push back the centuries-old boundaries they\u2019d established with the pumafolk, the bearfolk\u2014if he could have thought of any possible use, they could have gotten out of the dolphinfolk\u2019s territory, he likely would have agitated for that too. We can <\/i>fly! he\u2019d snarled impatiently in Council. How could they <\/i>stop us?<\/i><\/p>\n

We can\u2019t fly indefinitely<\/i>, her grandfather had replied, pushed to the limits of his usually limitless patience. We do eventually have to come down to rest, to sleep. How well do you think we\u2019d fare then against the pumafolk?<\/i><\/p>\n

We could go up higher on the mountain\u2014too high for them to reach\u2014<\/i><\/p>\n

And eat what, up there? And what reception do you suppose we\u2019d find, when we were forced by hunger to finally come down?<\/i><\/p>\n

Undaunted, Darrow had turned his obsession for more<\/i> into a search for some advantage, any advantage that would allow his people\u2014whether they wanted it or not\u2014to expand their settlement. Evakya had been forced to deal with him again as an adult, one on one, when he\u2019d broached the unspoken, but still well-understood, privacy of a Chronicler at work in search of information.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what?\u201d she\u2019d asked, annoyed both by the intrusion and by her own thin edge of fear\u2014not that she had believed Darrow would try to physically harm her. He\u2019d have been mad to try it, and she didn\u2019t think he was mad. Or she hadn\u2019t thought so\u2014something in the rigidity of his wings, clamped tightly to his sides, and the focused intensity of his golden eyes gave her pause.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cAstraportus,\u201d he\u2019d said shortly.<\/p>\n

Evakya had stared at him\u2014had realized that her mouth had fallen open in astonishment, and hastily closed it. \u201cAstraportus,\u201d she\u2019d said carefully, \u201cis a children\u2019s story\u2014\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

He\u2019d given her a look of disgust. \u201cSo you and your grandfather say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing in the Chronicle Histories about Astraportus,\u201d Evakya had said flatly. \u201cMy grandfather is only the latest in generations of Chroniclers to confirm that.\u201d With well-concealed malice, she had continued, \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to go look for yourself, if you promise to be careful with the records.\u201d She\u2019d tilted her head toward the black recesses of the cavern behind her.<\/p>\n

Darrow had glared at her. \u201cI plan to,\u201d he\u2019d snapped. So, she\u2019d had to let him\u2014the Chronicles were free to all comers, was one of their strictest tenets. Few ever took advantage of it, though; they were simply too hard for most folk to read.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Darrow had persisted, over days that had turned into weeks. She had eventually grown resigned to his constant presence, and she had to credit him that he had not disturbed her in her work or indeed, often spoken to her at all. Eventually he had stopped coming to the Chronicler\u2019s cavern, and Evakya had supposed he had either given up or\u2014unlikely as it seemed\u2014found some obscure reference or other that had satisfied him. She had mentioned his absence to her grandfather, after it had lasted more than a week and she had felt relatively secure in assuming it would continue\u2014her grandfather had known of Darrow\u2019s sojourns into the Chronicles, of course.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cYou hadn\u2019t heard? Darrow\u2019s left the settlement.\u201d There had been an odd emphasis in the way her grandfather had said it. Folk left all the time, for extended hunting or foraging trips or even simply to go wandering, secure in the peace they had with their nearest neighbors\u2014but he had said, Darrow left.<\/i>\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cOh? To go\u2026anywhere in particular?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you know,\u201d her grandfather had said. His gaze was keen and frowning on her face. \u201cIf you encouraged him, even in the slightest\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGran\u2019fa, I didn\u2019t!\u201d Her shock had been genuine. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t\u2014Astraportus is a lie<\/i>\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wouldn\u2019t put it as harshly as that.\u201d Faint humor had softened the lines of her grandfather\u2019s face. \u201cLike all legends, it has some basis in truth. The Originates did have to come from somewhere, and live somewhere\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey lived all over,\u201d Evakya had said impatiently. \u201cAnd they came from the same place all the non-folk do\u2014they evolved from the simplest non-folk to more complex ones, then finally into themselves over the span of millennia.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou and I know that, and those in the settlement cleverer than their own forage and prey know that.\u201d His broad shoulders had slumped a little. \u201cBut you\u2019ll learn this as you grow older, Evakalyna\u2014folk want there to be more to life than that. They want grandeur, they want mystery\u2014some folk will never be satisfied with only the truth of the Histories.\u201d<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

When they reached the settlement proper, a small knot of folk was huddled around the Healer\u2019s hut\u2014Darrow\u2019s father was easy to pick out, as he was the only person in the settlement even larger than Darrow.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cEvakya\u2014\u201d It was Darrow\u2019s mother, slight and usually silent, overshadowed by her more boisterous husband and son. But she was speaking now, her wings clamped to her sides so she could twist her truehands together nervously in front of her. \u201cEvakya, Darrow\u2019s been asking for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evakya had no desire, none whatsoever, to enter that hut\u2014but she could hardly refuse. Darrow\u2019s father was staring at her, stony-faced. Did he blame her for whatever had happened to Darrow? Even her grandfather had thought she might have had a hand in it. Evakya stalked into the hut.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The light within was dim, too dim for her Dayseer<\/i> eyes to make out much\u2014the shape of the Healer, seated beside another figure draped across a raised pallet, one wing trailing across the floor like so much shredded paper. Evakya stopped in her tracks, stomach clenching in nauseated sympathy. That wing<\/i>\u2014how had Darrow ever managed to fly back home?\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Healer spoke\u2014Evakya shook her head slightly in a fruitless attempt to clear it, then tore her gaze away from that tattered wing. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve made Darrow as comfortable as I can,\u201d the Healer repeated. His usually mellow voice was thin and sharp. \u201cBut he won\u2019t rest until he speaks to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn private.\u201d<\/i> Evakya jumped at the sound of that voice\u2014she would never have thought it was Darrow\u2019s. His voice had been full, resonant, in keeping with the depth and breadth of his chest\u2014this voice had been ground down to shards. \u201cGet out.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Healer did so, quickly. \u201cAnd close the door\u2014\u201d The latch triggered behind the Healer with a snick<\/i>. \u201cEvakya.\u201d Darrow sucked in a hitching breath. \u201cCome closer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evakya forced her unwilling feet to shuffle forward. She bent down until the fuzzy blur of his face swam into focus. Darrow\u2019s features were so swollen they was nearly unrecognizable, one of his eyes nothing more than a puffy, blackened mass above the battered shelf of his cheekbone. There could be no doubt that he saw her, though\u2014his good eye widened until the red-veined white showed all around the golden iris.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cFor the Chronicles,\u201d he said, carefully enunciating each word. \u201cFor the Chronicles\u2014you were right about the Histories. I never found Astraportus in them. But I did find something else. The mention of a weigh station<\/i>\u2014\u201d Evakya nodded, lips pressed tightly together. She knew the reference\u2014one that generations of Chroniclers had puzzled over. \u201cSomething one of the pumafolk told me, last growing season\u2014their people have a tradition about a weigh station<\/i>, though he said it as if it were all one word, waystation<\/i>\u2014and their tradition is that their first ancestors were left there by the Originates, who went on to Astraportus.\u201d Evakya opened her mouth, but Darrow twitched so violently on the pallet that she closed it again. \u201cPromise me, Evakya, you\u2019ll Chronicle that\u2014tomorrow! And this\u2014\u201d He started to turn on his side, tears welling up in his good eye.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop<\/i> it, you\u2019ll hurt yourself even worse\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be dead by morning. I\u2019m bleeding inside, the Healer said so. And I\u2019ll never fly again anyway.\u201d Evakya was hopelessly silenced. Darrow managed a sharp, jerky nod. \u201cI can\u2019t reach it\u2014in the pocket, hanging on my belt. Open it.\u201d<\/p>\n

She found the pocket, and opened it as gently as she could, trying not to jostle him further. A large, crumpled piece of paper had been shoved deep inside the pocket\u2014Evakya pulled it out carefully and unfolded it. It was a map, drawn big and clumsy under the direction of Darrow\u2019s farseeing eyes. Her own eyes traced the lines of it\u2014a forest, then a valley, then more forest\u2014a mountain range, then more<\/i> forest\u2014he\u2019d made marks showing how far he\u2019d flown each night, dusk to dawn. And at the map\u2019s farthest margin, printed in large block letters beneath a shakily executed square: WEIGH STATION PATH<\/i>.<\/p>\n

\u201cPut it in the Chronicles,\u201d he whispered. \u201cI found it\u2014the weigh station, the waystation<\/i>. I tried to use it, but I couldn\u2019t\u2014I walked all the way back to the settlement. Walked!<\/i> But someone else has to go, has to try again\u2014don\u2019t worry, I don\u2019t mean you.\u201d<\/i> Even in his extremity, Darrow managed a ghost of his old sneer. \u201cBut they\u2019ll need my map, to make it there.\u201d He bared his teeth up at her. \u201cAnd I wanted you to know that you were wrong, about Astraportus.\u201d<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

He had little more to say, after that\u2014Evakya tried to coax some sense out of him: what had damaged his wings so terribly? Why was he so sure that whatever it was he had found, was the weigh station<\/i> or even had anything to do with Astraportus? But whatever combination of determination and spite that had carried him this far had run entirely out. Afraid to keep him from the Healer\u2019s ministrations any longer, Evakya left the hut.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe does blame you,\u201d said Evakya\u2019s grandfather, after they had returned to their own hut in the settlement.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Who?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cDarrow\u2019s father. He thinks you put the idea in his son\u2019s head.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe?\u201d Evakya was indignant. \u201cI tried to talk him out of it! It was all<\/i> Darrow\u2019s own idea\u2014”<\/p>\n

\u201cHe can\u2019t accept that, Evakalyna. It\u2019s easier for him to think it was yours, and Darrow did ask for you specifically.\u201d Her grandfather\u2019s gaze on her face was troubled.<\/p>\n

Evakya sighed, then pulled the map out of her own pocket and showed it to her grandfather. While he stared down at it, she related the rest of what Darrow had told her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d he said, after a long, thoughtful silence. \u201cWe\u2019ll certainly put it in the Chronicles.\u201d Evakya waited, but he said nothing more.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd?\u201d she asked sharply.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the Chronicles\u2014in the Histories?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0Her grandfather sighed. \u201cWho knows what actually happened?\u201d Evakya gave him a disconcerted look. \u201cYes, I know what you say Darrow said\u2014but he was half out of his mind with pain and the realization that he\u2019s crippled and, likely, dying. He could just as easily have tangled with something bigger and stronger than himself or got caught in a storm and struck by lightning\u2014this doesn\u2019t belong in the Chronicles\u2019 Histories; it belongs in the Tales.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evakya was silent. \u201cEvakya?\u201d Her grandfather\u2019s tone was sharp.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think we can make that assumption,\u201d said Evakya carefully\u2014one Chronicler to another, not granddaughter to grandfather. \u201cDocumented<\/i> evidence\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEvakya, you\u2019re a fine Chronicler\u2014for your age. When you\u2019ve reached mine, you\u2019ll realize how few of the stories that people relate are actually fit for the Histories. This is a single source, uncorroborated\u2014\u201d Evakya thought that Darrow\u2019s physical condition should count as some degree of corroboration<\/i>, but pinched her lips shut over the words. \u201cPut it in the Tales, Evakalyna.\u201d<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Darrow died two days later. Evakya spent the time writing down everything he had told her and redrawing his map as meticulously as she was able. When she had finished, her grandfather watched her place it all carefully into the repository of Tales, then left the cavern.<\/p>\n

Evakya waited until the last shadow of his wings had vanished, then pulled it all back out and began hastily copying it, keeping a wary eye on the cavern\u2019s opening. Not until the final ink stroke had dried and she had tucked the copies away in her own belt pocket was she able to relax.<\/p>\n

The Tales<\/i>\u2014perusing their stacks had been her favorite diversion as a child. She knew all the written legends of Astraportus that her people had, better than anyone save perhaps her grandfather. The Originates were of course featured heavily in them, though they featured just as much in the earliest Histories too\u2014far drier and matter-of-fact retellings, those.<\/p>\n

The Originates had been first\u2014both the Histories and the Tales agreed on that. The Originates had looked something like folk\u2014there was agreement on that too, though the Tales were far more varied in what they had to say about the Originates\u2019 appearance. The Histories all made them sound like rather bland, flightless versions of Evakya\u2019s folk. And while both Histories and Tales agreed that the Originates had in fact created all<\/i> the wondrous variety of folk, not only Evakya\u2019s, but the Histories also refused to say why\u2014only that they had done it.<\/p>\n

The Tales, on the other hand, were full of speculation on just that subject. The Originates had lost the ability to bear their own young, and had made the folk to be their surrogate children\u2014the Originates had wanted to be worshipped and had made the folk to be their supplicants\u2014the Originates had killed so many of the non-folk in their godlike revels that they had made the folk in both their own and those lost non-folk images as penance for their crimes\u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

But the weigh station<\/i>\u2014she dug out the reference in the Histories\u2019 stacks and stared down at it. Homo sapiens chiroptera<\/i>\u2014that was what the Originates had called Evakya\u2019s folk. Weigh station 38, -80, 1558, 6, 30, 2423, 1201<\/i>. Nobody had ever been able to figure out what any of those numbers might have meant. And no mention, none at all, of the Originates after that. They had simply vanished from recorded history\u2014or at least, the recorded Histories.<\/i> And never a single mention in the Histories of any place called Astraportus.<\/p>\n

The Tales were full of references to Astraportus, though. Why the Originates had gone there, no two Tales agreed\u2014if they were still there or not, no two Tales agreed upon either. What<\/i> it was, where<\/i> it was\u2014nearly every possible interpretation of that had been faithfully recorded by generations of Chroniclers in the Tales. And most of them, of course, painted Astraportus as a place of fabulous wonder\u2026all of a seeker\u2019s questions answered, all of a seeker\u2019s delights found, where nobody ever grew sick or old or died\u2026<\/p>\n

One thing all the Tales did agree on, though\u2014folk were flatly forbidden to go anywhere near it. On the points of why?<\/i> and what would happen<\/i> if<\/i>? the Tales diverged fabulously once more\u2014but they were all quite clear that Astraportus was, always and forever, only for the Originates.\u00a0<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

On the morning of the summer solstice, Evakya left the settlement. She had spent the weeks since Darrow\u2019s death storing supplies and sneaking out during the day to practice her flying\u2014she had been a little appalled at how weak she\u2019d become, spending most of her hours in the Chronicler\u2019s cavern. It wasn\u2019t enough practice\u2014she was no Darrow, and the time it had taken him to fly to the weigh station<\/i> was likely far shorter than the time it was going to take her to do it. But she had to go. She was sure that Darrow had gone on the journey he\u2019d said he\u2019d gone on\u2014that he had documented,<\/i> as poor and clumsy an effort as that had been\u2014and if her grandfather wouldn\u2019t allow it into the Histories without corroboration, well. Then she would damn well provide that corroboration herself.<\/p>\n

The truth<\/i>\u2014Darrow had taunted her with it. Had he understood what the truth was to her as a Chronicler, or had he simply thought to insult her, as he\u2019d always delighted to do when they were children? She didn\u2019t know. Folk were fickle, illogical\u2014not unlovable, but often enough incomprehensible to Evakya. Her grandfather was the person she understood best, and he genuinely believed that Darrow had been lying or, the more charitable interpretation, delirious. There was no help for her there.\u00a0<\/p>\n

She refused to think about her grandfather\u2019s distress when he discovered she had gone. He would certainly guess why, and where\u2014but he wouldn\u2019t come after her. His devotion to the Chronicles was unwavering, and with her gone, he would be the only Chronicler left in all the settlement.<\/p>\n

She flew for days, diligently following the route on Darrow\u2019s map, stopping only to forage, hunt and sleep\u2014more foraging than hunting; she was slow, out of practice, and often her small non-folk prey won their escape. Forests, valleys, a mountain range, more<\/i> forests\u2014she thought of Darrow, walking<\/i> back through it all, and winced. Their folk were not great walkers. The lower folds of their wings extended unbroken from spine to ankles\u2014they could not take long strides, and the delicate skin and fine, sensitive fur covering their wing membranes were not suited to fighting their way through underbrush.\u00a0<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Thirty-eight days after had she left the settlement, filthy and worn to the bone, Evakya finally set down in the place that Darrow had marked in large, clumsy letters on his map: WEIGH STATION PATH.<\/i> At least, she hoped it was the place\u2014it was a large clearing a day\u2019s flight into this particular forest\u2019s eastern edge, and the thin river bisecting it snaked in and out in exactly the way Darrow had drawn it. The large boulder on the river\u2019s near bank was the same too\u2014but she could see nothing else that indicated that there was anything about it that set it apart from a thousand other clearings she\u2019d flown over since she\u2019d left the settlement.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Nothing<\/i>\u2014she frowned down at the map. She\u2019d been extraordinarily careful to faithfully reproduce every line, dot and flaw of Darrow\u2019s drawing\u2014he had gone over the clearing\u2019s southeastern edge two or three times with his pen, leaving the line heavily blotted, and she\u2019d copied that too. Had<\/i> that been significant? She tucked the map back in her belt pocket and cautiously approached the indicated line of underbrush.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Nothing<\/i>\u2014she crouched down and peered into the overgrown grass and weeds crowding the treetrunks. Wait!<\/i> Pale new seedlings pushed up from the ground around a thinner patch\u2014a place where the grass and weeds were crushed down, or had been crushed down at some point in their growth cycle\u2014a handful of months past, perhaps? She clawed them impatiently out of the way. Yes\u2014there was a path\u2014hardly big enough for her, much less Darrow\u2014she dropped to her knees and thrust her arms all the way in\u2014<\/p>\n

\u2014and nearly topped head-first into darkness. With a muffled shriek she jerked back, truehands scrabbling madly for purchase, and managed to catch hold of a sapling\u2019s slender trunk. She clutched it tight, panting, and stared fixedly at the small abyss that now yawned at her through that innocent-looking hole in the underbrush. There was a passage there\u2014an underground passage, leading down into darkness. Likely it had been far less dark to Darrow\u2019s eyes than it was to hers\u2014but she would have to go in anyway.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Once she had squeezed herself into it, she found that the passage sloped sharply downward, dank and miserable, but not quite pitch-black\u2014there was a light source somewhere ahead, enough that she could at least keep herself properly oriented towards it. The walls were damp, rough stone, and enough occasional small patters of dirt rained down on her head as she forged forward to keep her in a perpetual state of nervous anticipation of a ceiling collapse.\u00a0<\/p>\n

She finally emerged into a small cave\u2014small in diameter; if she stretched her wings out to their fullest extent, she might almost have been able to touch both sides with the tips of her truehands\u2019 fingers. But those walls extended up countless winglengths above her head, up and up until they terminated in a tiny point of light. Was that the sky, that clear gray glow from so far overhead? It was impossible to tell.<\/p>\n

And she wasn\u2019t quite alone in the cave\u2014something, with the sharp-edged lines of a made<\/i> object rather than a grown one, occupied the space with her. It stood in the cave\u2019s center, seemingly imbedded in the rocky floor\u2014slim and straight, dully metallic. Near its flat, square top, at her eye level, was set a shimmering rectangle with rounded corners. Its subdued sparkle made her think of water in the sunlight, though it was clearly solid, not liquid\u2014 liquid would have spilled out on the ground already, perpendicular to it as it was.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat,\u201d she whispered\u2014the cave walls took up the sound and bounced it upward, briefly filling the cool, damp air of the cave with soft echoes\u2014What? Whatwhatwhat\u2014<\/i><\/p>\n

The rectangle flared white. Evakya flinched back, then back again when it spat out a noise\u2014like a short sharp burst of thunder; she couldn\u2019t think of any other way to describe it. Her gaze darted from the rectangle back to the passage she\u2019d so laboriously come through\u2014should she\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cIDEN!\u201d cried the rectangle, meaninglessly. \u201cIDEN\u2014iden\u2014\u201d Terror froze Evakya in her tracks. \u201cIden\u2014<\/i>identi-fy. Identify.\u201d<\/i> It paused. \u201cIdentify yourself,\u201d and Evakya\u2019s numbed brain finally made sense of the words.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2014I don\u2019t know what you mean,\u201d she faltered\u2014but she was too afraid not<\/i> to answer; who knew what it would do if she didn\u2019t?\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cIdentify yourself,\u201d repeated the rectangle\u2014its voice was metallic, buzzing, sexless. \u201cIdentify yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

She might as well try it. \u201cEvakya Dayseer<\/i> Myotis.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rectangle flickered. \u201cThat name is not recognized.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are<\/i> you?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n

\u201cWaystation thirty-eight. Minus eighty. One thousand five hundred fifty-eight.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

38, -80, 1558! Darrow must have recognized those numbers too<\/i>! \u201cAstraportus!\u201d The word burst from her, without her conscious intent.\u00a0<\/p>\n

And the rectangle flickered again. \u201cDo you wish to travel to Astraportus?\u201d<\/p>\n

Evakya could not believe it had said that\u2014so matter-of-factly, so emotionlessly. \u201cIs that\u2014is that possible?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTransport to Astraportus is only permitted to unadulterated species Homo sapiens.<\/i> Retinal scan required to proceed.\u201d It paused. \u201cWarning: This test cannot distinguish between an unadulterated Homo sapiens<\/i> with protanopia or deuteranopia and a servitor subspecies. If this test is failed, the subject will be given thirty seconds to remove themselves from the waystation entry point before sterilization procedures commence.\u201d<\/p>\n

And Darrow must have told it to go ahead<\/i>\u2014she thought of his blasted, ruined eye, his tattered wings. Servitor<\/i>\u2014she wasn\u2019t familiar with that word, but it sounded unpleasant, and as for the rest\u2014 \u201cWhat\u2014what is protanopia? Or deut\u2014the other thing you said?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cProtanopia is the absence of red receptor cells in the eye. Deuteranopia is the absence of green receptor cells in the eye.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evakya\u2019s lips parted. Many of the folk did<\/i> have trouble seeing colors, most often red\u2014it made little difference in their daily lives. But a Dayseer<\/i> could always see all the colors. \u201cI\u2014\u201d Did she want to do this? Astraportus wasn\u2019t her obsession, had never been her obsession.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Darrow had died for it. And Gran\u2019fa hadn\u2019t let her record the truth of it in the Histories.<\/p>\n

Evakya set her jaw. \u201cYes. I wish to travel to Astraportus.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rectangle glowed\u2014then a beam of red shot out of its center, splashing into her open right eye. Evakya stiffened into rigidity, teeth baring involuntarily\u2014but it didn\u2019t hurt; it was only brightness.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cRetinal scan complete. Unadulterated Homo sapiens<\/i> subject confirmed. Remain still; transport to Astraportus will commence in: Five. Four. Three. Two\u2014\u201d A deep thrumming had begun, somewhere far below Evakya\u2019s feet. Evakya was shaking, uncontrollably\u2014she hoped desperately that she was still enough anyway. \u201cOne\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Absolute lightlessness descended all around Evakya. For an endless second, she was trapped in it\u2014soundless, scentless, touchless nothingness<\/i>\u2014she wanted to scream, to run, but it was as if she had ceased to exist at all as a physical being.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then\u2014<\/p>\n

A loud sound\u2014a voice, similar enough to the Waystation\u2019s that it could have been its twin\u2014was blaring: \u201cWarning! Incoming visitor, please proceed as quickly as possible to the emergency suit locker. Dome has been exposed to vacuum. Warning! Incoming visitor\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

But its voice was growing oddly tinny in her ears, and Evakya\u2019s tongue had begun to tingle in a way that was not quite painful\u2014not yet. She looked around frantically. This<\/i> was Astraportus? She could hardly comprehend the scene that met her eyes\u2014her feet were solidly planted on the floor, but the night sky was wheeling majestically over her head, a deeper black than she had ever seen it. As she watched, a huge arc of blue swept up over the horizon, slowly filling the sky, swelling to a white-and-brown-swirled cerulean orb of unbelievable proportions.\u00a0<\/p>\n

She wrenched her eyes, which had begun to throb in a peculiarly unpleasant way, away from that fantastic vista and down, to see that she stood in on a large, shattered gray plain. Mangled debris stretched out all around her to the very edges of its space, and interspersed here and there were the twisted, desiccated bodies of folk<\/i>, arms and legs bare of wings, sporting freakishly large truehands instead\u2014or not folk? Originates?<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cWarning!\u201d She could barely hear that tinny voice now, and she was suddenly, horribly struggling to breathe. \u201cIncoming visitor\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Was it her imagination, or were her wings swelling grotesquely before her eyes, her dimming, agonized eyes? It must not be her imagination, because she could feel it too, the dreadful internal pressure, as if all of her insides were trying to burst out through her skin.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Suit locker<\/i>, the voice had said, but she couldn\u2019t even imagine what such a thing might be, let alone identify it in the debris-choked chaos all around her. She cast around desperately for something, anything<\/i> that might save her from this waking nightmare\u2014there!<\/i>\u00a0 Her frantic twisting about had brought her face-to-face with a now-familiar shape, tall and slim and gleaming in the icy starlight. Weigh station!<\/i> She staggered towards it, truehands outstretched. \u201cHelp me!\u201d she cried or tried to\u2014the words emerged as a bare, choked thread of sound.<\/p>\n

The dull gray screen lit with a single word, in blood-red letters\u2014if it spoke, she could no longer hear it, but she could still read it: DESTINATION?<\/i>\u00a0<\/p>\n

Destination, what<\/i> destination? Home, home!<\/i> But how could it<\/i> know what that\u2014Evakya sucked in a deep, frantic lungful of what felt like nothing at all, then pushed it out in one long, desperate exhalation, a thin whistle into the hideous void surrounding her. \u201cThirty-eight! Minus eighty! One thousand five hundred fifty-eight!\u201d<\/p>\n

The red letters on the screen dissolved, then re-formed into something else\u2014but she could no longer read them, could no longer see or hear or feel anything but the grinding agony in every inch of her flesh, the collapsing horror of her lungs. Evakya gave herself up to the pounding darkness.\u00a0<\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/p>\n

On the last day of the sixth month after Evakya\u2019s departure, Tzinac Dayseer<\/i> Myotis sat silently in his hut\u2014his<\/i> hut, alone, now; he did not look over at the folding screen that hid the hut\u2019s east wall, where a small bed lay neatly made and silent beneath the hut\u2019s largest window. Evakya had asked for that place for herself, so she could watch the sun rise every morning\u2014it helps wake me up, Gran\u2019fa! And the morning breeze makes me hungry for breakfast! <\/i>Unbidden, the memory of her eager child\u2019s face rose in his mind\u2019s eye.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Darrow\u2019s round-trip journey, from the settlement to those distant, unnamed woods and back again, had lasted nearly four months. Tzinac had forced himself to wait in patience at least that<\/i> long. Every morning, he flew diligently up to the Chronicler\u2019s cavern\u2014empty now of life save for himself, and oppressive in a way it had never been before. Evakya had taken on much of the routine recopying of the oldest Histories, fading away even in the cold, dry air of the cavern; Tzinac was glad to have the extra work for himself now, a way to pass the endless waiting hours.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Evakya had not returned. Not after four months, not after five, and Tzinac had found it harder and harder to sustain his duty. At first, he had merely skipped a day here, a day there\u2014then as the fourth month had become the fifth, for a handful of days at a time\u2014and now, it had been more than a week since he had set wing outside the settlement proper at all. He must go out eventually, he knew\u2014there were a few other settlements of their kind mentioned in the Histories. He must<\/i> go and look for another Dayseer<\/i> to care for their Chronicles, after he himself was gone. But even the thought of such a search was too painful an admission\u2014no. He wasn\u2019t ready. Perhaps, in a month or two, or three\u2014<\/p>\n

An inarticulate cry, muffled by the walls of the hut, brought him to his feet, wings snapping for balance. A pause, then a shout, a sharp drawn-out series of syllables that sounded like\u2014<\/p>\n

Tzinac was out the door and running into the commons shared by all the huts before the last echoes of that shouted name faded. Standing at the far end of the settlement, dappled by the weak winter sunlight falling between the bare-branched trees arching far overhead, was a ragged, nearly skeletal form. Its huddled wings were striated with ugly black scars, visible even from that distance, as if the complex traceries of blood vessels beneath the fragile wing skin had ruptured all at once in some unimaginable past disaster. Then the figure raised its head, peering out from beneath matted clumps of hair; its features swam blurrily in Tzinac\u2019s Dayseer<\/i> sight. It coughed, sharply, then tilted its head up\u2014high enough that the sun caught the reflection of its eyes, glittering darkly in the pale light.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cEvakya<\/i>\u2014Evakalyna\u2014\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

The figure began to crumple; Tzinac reached her barely in time to catch her impossibly light weight in his arms, cradling her close with desperate care. She stank to high heaven, but all that meant to him was that she was alive<\/i>\u2014there was no smell of rot about her, nothing a good bath wouldn\u2019t cure, and as much food as she could eat\u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t cry,\u201d she whispered\u2014her voice was cracked and wheezing. \u201cDon\u2019t cry, Gran\u2019fa. I\u2019m all right.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

Tzinac was aware of the rest of the settlement pouring out into the commons, and someone calling for the Healer\u2014he wouldn\u2019t believe it, that she wasn\u2019t on death\u2019s doorstep, until the Healer confirmed it himself. \u201cEvakya, you must never do this again\u2014never go away like this, promise me, swear\u2014\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cI won\u2019t.\u201d She sucked in a harsh, gasping breath, then closed her eyes. \u201cI found out\u2014what I went to find. I won\u2019t go again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou found\u2014\u201d The words escaped him without his conscious intent, the Chronicler briefly in ascendance over the grandfather. \u201cDid you find\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she whispered. A shudder shook her; his arms tightened around her fragile form. \u201cNo.<\/i> There was nothing left to find.\u201d Her eyes opened once more, dull black in her grandfather\u2019s shadow.\u00a0 \u201cThere is no such place as Astraportus.\u201d<\/p>\n

THE END<\/p>\n

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\"\"Lisa Short is a Texas-born, Kansas-bred, Maryland-resident writer of speculative fiction.<\/span><\/p>\n

[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_3,1_3,1_3″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”70%” collapsed=”off” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6IjM2NiJ9fQ==@” button_text=”An Entire Sheaf of Wheat” button_alignment=”right” _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” _module_preset=”default” animation_style=”zoom” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_text=”Table of Contents” button_alignment=”center” _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”|||0px|false|false” custom_padding=”|||0px|false|false” animation_style=”zoom” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6IjMwOSJ9fQ==@” _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” sticky_enabled=”0″][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6IjMyMiJ9fQ==@” button_text=”Godsent” button_alignment=”left” _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” _module_preset=”default” animation_style=”zoom” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Astraportus by Lisa Short Illustrated by Kerry MaireEvakya Dayseer Myotis straightened up from her hunch, only then realizing how long she\u2019d been crouched over the records of last year\u2019s forage. The light in the Chronicler\u2019s cavern had dimmed with the coming night, the sky beyond the uneven maw of its entrance shading from clear, pure […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":380,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"iawp_total_views":12,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-378","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nAstraportus - Roses & Wildflowers Autumn 2024<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/astraportus\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Astraportus - Roses & Wildflowers Autumn 2024\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Astraportus by Lisa Short Illustrated by Kerry MaireEvakya Dayseer Myotis straightened up from her hunch, only then realizing how long she\u2019d been crouched over the records of last year\u2019s forage. 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