Eleanor Henderson
Pearl
Pearl was stretched too thin. To pass through the narrow slit in the tower wall
she would have to be thinner still. The candle in the room behind her was sputtering
and would soon go out. Dim as it was, it had kept her alive, barely. She could see
the glimmer of the Maid in the Moon, and knew that, dim as it was in the vile waves
emanating from Mûrkhil, it could save her. So she flattened herself, abandoned thought
as her brain flattened, and held tightly to her purpose. Darkness.
She popped out into the noxious night air and fell onto an ivy leaf. The view over the
edge of the leaf brought thought and a moment of despair. This single leaf was the
vestige of an ancient vine that had clung to the tower from time out of memory. Mûrkhil.
It was his coming and the miasma that spread from him that had killed this lovely vine. Darkness.
“I love you,” she said to the leaf, and watched the golden spark of life pass into it.
Darkness.
“Mûrkhil. Remember me,” said the leaf. It dried, crackled, swung lifeless in the air, and the
single spark of life left between them passed into Pearl.
“I will,” she said, and carefully tamed the surge of feeling in herself that would
drain away the last bit of life. The leaf had been generous. She would not waste the gift.
“I will. I will destroy him and cleanse every last thought of him from our home.”
She did not believe she could do it.
The leaf detached from the wall and fell. Pearl floated out away from the wall and started
to fall. She landed on the soft back of a passing bird. Darkness.
Hard, sharp objects pressed into her back. Twigs. The bird careened around the nest,
weaving grasses in between the twigs. The bird’s foot in Pearl’s face reminded her that
she was probably still transparent. Then she stilled.
“Oh my, they’re coming!” said the bird.
She grunted, whistled, shimmied, and out popped an egg.
And then another. And another. Three eggs! All perfect! As the bird twittered to herself,
Pearl gathered that her name was Brenda, and that she hoped Bob would help with the nesting
and feeding. Sure enough, Bob showed up later with choice bits of food for Brenda.
Pearl had crawled out to the top of the nest and onto a nearby branch. She soaked in the
life-giving light of the Maid, and plotted murder. The thought blinded her mind’s eye.
What she contemplated was apostasy and treason for her kind. From time immemorial they had
drawn life from light and air, never from an earthbound source. Yet. She could see no other
way forward that did not end at Mûrkhil’s door. She would murder. She would eat one of
Brenda’s eggs. They had not yet quickened. Otherwise, she could never have done it.
Three hours later, the opportunity arose. Brenda was away twittering with other mothers
and fathers; Bob was hunting. Pearl grasped a twig and plunged it into the smallest egg.
The shell held. Again, with all her strength Pearl thrust and leaned into the twig, which
pierced the shell. She widened the hole slightly and saw the contents pool around the opening
as she withdrew the twig. Harald. The viscous matter in her hands would have been named Harald.
She drank and drank, and gained a coarse strength that was alien to her. She endured it and
drank more. Harald. Ivy. She would remember them. The Maid in the Moon set and the Burning Man
rose in blinding glory, flooding the world with his powerful warmth and light.
The egg’s shell was beautiful, with a rainbow sheen. Pearl used the twig to shape from the
shell a rough oval, then a rough circle, then five more circles. Using an ancient model
she had heard of in a song, she bound the circles together with a tarry substance she found
in the nest. It stank, but it held her work together. In the center of her work between
layers of shell, she bound a circle she made from an old oak leaf. Into the center she fit
a grip made from a tough vine. She now had a strong, light shield and a spear.
What she did with the oval cost her a tear. Where the tear fell onto the oval bit of eggshell,
she traced the shape of the bird Harald would have been. He would have been strong, swift, and beautiful.
Then she waited.
Brenda returned in a rush of wind and wings to cover and warm her eggs. She shifted her weight
searching for the shape of three eggs, but felt only two. Then she espied Pearl.
“Thief! Murderer! What have you done with my Egg?” Brenda screeched.
“Harald. His name was Harald.”
“Was it? Hmm. I didn’t know that.” Then, enraged, she spat out, “What have you done with him?”
Silently Pearl showed Brenda her shield and the oval with Harald’s portrait. Profound silence.
Then she said, “Mûrkhil,” and beckoned Brenda to join her at the edge of the nest, where she pointed
west toward the tower and the roiling brown fog and fume now issuing from it. In a low,
soft voice Pearl sang to her of what was to come, how the brown mist and the death that
came with it would, foot by foot and day by day, move forward and drain the life from everything it touched.
“I have a plan,” said Pearl.
Facing the miasma, Brenda and Pearl silently edged toward each other until they touched.
They took comfort from each other’s warmth.
★ ★ ★
She popped out into the noxious night air and fell onto an ivy leaf. The view over the edge of the leaf brought thought and a moment of despair. This single leaf was the vestige of an ancient vine that had clung to the tower from time out of memory. Mûrkhil. It was his coming and the miasma that spread from him that had killed this lovely vine. Darkness.
The leaf detached from the wall and fell. Pearl floated out away from the wall and started to fall. She landed on the soft back of a passing bird. Darkness.
Hard, sharp objects pressed into her back. Twigs. The bird careened around the nest, weaving grasses in between the twigs. The bird’s foot in Pearl’s face reminded her that she was probably still transparent. Then she stilled.
“Oh my, they’re coming!” said the bird.
She grunted, whistled, shimmied, and out popped an egg. And then another. And another. Three eggs! All perfect! As the bird twittered to herself, Pearl gathered that her name was Brenda, and that she hoped Bob would help with the nesting and feeding. Sure enough, Bob showed up later with choice bits of food for Brenda.
Pearl had crawled out to the top of the nest and onto a nearby branch. She soaked in the life-giving light of the Maid, and plotted murder. The thought blinded her mind’s eye. What she contemplated was apostasy and treason for her kind. From time immemorial they had drawn life from light and air, never from an earthbound source. Yet. She could see no other way forward that did not end at Mûrkhil’s door. She would murder. She would eat one of Brenda’s eggs. They had not yet quickened. Otherwise, she could never have done it.
Three hours later, the opportunity arose. Brenda was away twittering with other mothers and fathers; Bob was hunting. Pearl grasped a twig and plunged it into the smallest egg. The shell held. Again, with all her strength Pearl thrust and leaned into the twig, which pierced the shell. She widened the hole slightly and saw the contents pool around the opening as she withdrew the twig. Harald. The viscous matter in her hands would have been named Harald. She drank and drank, and gained a coarse strength that was alien to her. She endured it and drank more. Harald. Ivy. She would remember them. The Maid in the Moon set and the Burning Man rose in blinding glory, flooding the world with his powerful warmth and light.
The egg’s shell was beautiful, with a rainbow sheen. Pearl used the twig to shape from the shell a rough oval, then a rough circle, then five more circles. Using an ancient model she had heard of in a song, she bound the circles together with a tarry substance she found in the nest. It stank, but it held her work together. In the center of her work between layers of shell, she bound a circle she made from an old oak leaf. Into the center she fit a grip made from a tough vine. She now had a strong, light shield and a spear.
What she did with the oval cost her a tear. Where the tear fell onto the oval bit of eggshell, she traced the shape of the bird Harald would have been. He would have been strong, swift, and beautiful. Then she waited.
Brenda returned in a rush of wind and wings to cover and warm her eggs. She shifted her weight searching for the shape of three eggs, but felt only two. Then she espied Pearl.
“Thief! Murderer! What have you done with my Egg?” Brenda screeched.
“Harald. His name was Harald.”
“Was it? Hmm. I didn’t know that.” Then, enraged, she spat out, “What have you done with him?”
Silently Pearl showed Brenda her shield and the oval with Harald’s portrait. Profound silence. Then she said, “Mûrkhil,” and beckoned Brenda to join her at the edge of the nest, where she pointed west toward the tower and the roiling brown fog and fume now issuing from it. In a low, soft voice Pearl sang to her of what was to come, how the brown mist and the death that came with it would, foot by foot and day by day, move forward and drain the life from everything it touched.
“I have a plan,” said Pearl.
Facing the miasma, Brenda and Pearl silently edged toward each other until they touched. They took comfort from each other’s warmth.
★ ★ ★