The Beyond by Jeffrey Ford Page B

landed with a spectacular but unnecessary fluttering that lifted the coral dust off the plaza and sent her hair up over her head. The last thing that I expected was that she would point at me and laugh. At first I was wounded by her reaction, but the sound of her joy was infectious, and I could barely restrain myself from joining her.
    â€œDo I amuse you?” I asked.
    â€œThe spectacles,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “When they draw you in the newspaper at Wenau, they make you a fierce monster.”
    I had to smile.
    â€œYou’re not, though, are you?” she said quietly.
    â€œIf only you knew, my dear,” I said.
    â€œDo you remember the river?” she asked.
    I nodded. “Was it four years ago?”
    â€œSix,” she said. “I was seven then.”
    â€œVery good,” I told her, and then didn’t know what else to say.
    â€œThose boys were frightened of you. The one with the hat is my brother, Caine. The other one is our friend, Remmel. My name is Emilia.” She held her hand out to me.
    Those long fingers, that thin arm, looked too delicate for me to touch. I bowed slightly instead, and said, “Misrix.”
    â€œI’ve come to tell you that not everyone in Wenau is afraid of you. Many have read the books of Cley and know that you helped him and us. Many don’t believe the Physiognomist and think you are a wild animal. Those in the church say you are the spirit of evil,” she said as if performing a speech she had memorized.
    â€œIt is likely that they are all in some part correct,” I said.
    â€œBecause you pulled me from the river, I knew you were gentle. You will not hurt me, will you?” Her eyes went wide, and she lightly touched a locket that hung from a chain around her neck.
    â€œThat would never do,” I said. “You are my first guest. Would you like me to show you the ruins?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    I started walking, and she followed me. This was an opportunity I had long waited for—someone to whom I could explain the ruins. Throughout the long, lonely years, I had become a kind of archeologist, digging artifacts out of the chaos, researching the lives and lifestyles of its citizens, reading the histories in the library, poring over surviving documents from each of the ministries. Now that I had the chance to expound, I was tongue-tied by the youth and honesty of the only one ever interested in listening.
    We had walked a hundred yards in silence, and I was beginning to sweat, when she said, “Can I touch your wings?”
    â€œOf course,” I told her.
    She came close to me and reached out her left index finger, running it along one bone and then down across the membrane.
    â€œNot as smooth as I thought,” she said.
    â€œSmooth is not my specialty,” I told her.
    â€œTell me about this place, Misrix,” she said.
    So I began, and although she was only a child, I decided to be as honest with her as possible. “All of this you see around you,” I said, “all of this destruction, this coral mess, and the metal and human remains that lie amidst it, when added together, combine to tell a story. A great, grand story. A tragedy for sure, a cautionary tale, but a love story nonetheless …”
    I showed her the laboratory with its miniature lighthouse that still projected the forms and sounds of songbirds, the only remaining complete statue of a miner, in blue spire, brought here from Anamasobia, those sections of remaining architecture that might give an idea of the original grandeur of the place, the electric elevator that once led to the Top of the City but now only traveled four floors, the underground passages, and the blasted shell of the false paradise. There was, of course, much more. She was a great listener, only speaking when she had a question that could not wait. I appreciated her silence, her focused attention, her mere presence.
    I ended