Chapter 116: The Letters
The fascination Vivianne felt toward human architectures, Marcus had toward nature’s architectures. Her pragmatic brother became almost poetic when he spoke of the cracked plains of Deran, in the accidented geography that caused na illusion of regular grass while hiding in its folds entire valleys, canyons, waterfalls. Vivianne Found that all uncomfortable, especially as a traveler. It was impossible to ride carefree in those plains. Lucille and Vivianne kept their horses at a slower pace than Vivianne would like. Marcus, on the other hand, thought that the way the green was suddenly interrupted by a chasm was exciting.
‘It’s like a puzzle, in na impacient child’s hands,’ he said. ‘Instead of looking for the piece’s right place, they just thumb it down forcibly, creating a sharp, rocky step.’ He demonstrated by pushing a piece down into the wrong spot. One end levelled with the rest of the puzzle, while the other end stuck up indignantly.
‘That’s wrong,’ said Vivianne.
‘When I do it, yes, but nature, when it invent things, it turns irregularities into wonders.’
Vivianne agreed with that, whith was precisely why she admired human art so much more. Humans had to work very hard to build any little thing, not to mention a wonder. The art, the technique, the patience that it took to raise a castle, while nature could so easily shape up giantes like the Wave.
A sheet of paper flew up from Lucille’s saddle bag, almost hitting Vivianne in the face. Other leaves followed the first like white birds in a flock, soaring, dancing, teasing Lucille, who jumped down from her horse to collect them back.
The paper flock and Lucille dancint among them, leaping with her arm outstretched to capture them, looked so beautiful that Vivianne just sat there, admiring the ballet. Lucille acted without despair. She moved efficiently like a shepherdess bringing her herd together. Only after she had collected all the papers and bound them together again, did it occur to Vivianne that she should have helped.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Vivianne. ‘I was distracted.’
Lucille smiled. ‘They wouldn’t have let you pick them.’
Lucille interpreted the tension on Vivianne’s chin as confusion, and tried to explain that those papers were like carrier pigeons, who would always go to a specific location when Lucille finished writing, and they didn’t let anyone else touch them.
The real reason of Vivianne’s tension was Lucille’s smile.
‘Are you related to Pierre?’
Lucille had her back to the wind. Wisps of red hair curled around her face. She mounted her horse, her lips relaxed and sealed, like those Satironese statues filled with secrets.
‘I use them to write letters,’ she said.
‘To whom?’ Vivianne asked.
‘My father.’
‘Don’t you write to your mother?’
‘I didn’t know my mother.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Now I understand why sometimes mysteries are so silent. I know what it feels like to be afraid of revealing certain things. To have spied unexplored futures and be unable to share them.
— Letters.
Lucille stopped writing and rested her eyes on the sky freckled with white, a silver smile nearly touching the Wave. Up there was Nuille. Vivianne turned on the ground and Lucille knew, by the change in her breathing, that Vivianne was awake. Maybe Vivianne was also admiring the spectacle of stars up in the sky, maybe she was looking at Lucille.
Many a time had Lucille awaken in the middle of the night and saw Nuille looking up to the stars. What did he think about? She wanted so much that he talked to her, softened her fears, the feeling of emptiness that grew inside her bones. Did Vivianne feel the same?
‘Did you know that the moon has ancestors?’
Vivianne rested her head on her hand, paying attention.
‘So does the sun, and this as well,’ Lucille patted the ground. ‘In ny first adventure with Nuille I met an ancestral to this world. At the time I didn’t understand where I was or even that we had travelled to the past. I didn’t expect Nuille to take me so far away. Or maybe I was hoping he did it, maybe I even knew. Many times we refuse to know what we know, right? Because admitting that I knew and even wished to go so far away that coming back was impossible,’ Lucille stroked the letter on har lap. The paper seemed to have a glow of its own, reflecting the moon. ‘Does he read them? Do they make him happy? It is possible that they only make him miserable. I wonder if he still recognizes me in the things I write. I also wonder if, had I the chance to go back, I would choose not to see the anscestor of the moon.’ Or you. Lucille folded the letter. ‘We should sleep.’
The Wave was not the only mountain to darken the horizon that night. The Rock was already visible in the West.