The Impermanence of Voice

By M.L. Weaver

Chloe Lucesco and her cropduster, Persephone, soar into the heart of Washington's apple country in search of a fresh start. But despite her best efforts, Chloe once again finds herself waking in a strange motel room after a night of dancing on tables. During her unexpected first encounter with the aloof César Amador Faramundo, Chloe is surprised by her intense need for his presence, and intrigued by his reluctance to discuss Demeter Greene, the mysterious recluse known to locals as “la Diabla.”

When a malevolent force nearly swats Persephone from the skies over la Diabla’s orchards, not even César can prevent her plunge into the mystery hidden deep within a gnarled grove of trees. Now too deeply involved to simply fly away, Chloe must unravel a knotted secret that binds her unremembered past to nymphs dancing in woodland rites, the man who can change her life, and the matriarch who might end it.

An ancient act of mercy stalks the gods who walk among us, and whispers a haunting reminder of the impermanence of voice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.L. Weaver
• Release date: Aug 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988232464

M.L. Weaver

M.L. Weaver is an author and scientist in the Pacific Northwest, where snow-blind mountains muffle the laughter of the unseen.When he thinks no one is watching, he dances with moonlight.The rest of the time, moonlight dances with him...

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The Impermanence of Voice

M.L. Weaver

Text, Cover Art, and Title Page Art: Copyright 2016 Matthew L. Weaver

All Rights Reserved

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Resemblances to goddesses are not.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Matthew L. Weaver.

All characters, character names, and the likenesses thereof are property of

Matthew L. Weaver.

Published by Matthew L. Weaver

ISBN-13: 978-0-9882324-6-4

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Ice in Hearts and Sky

Song One

Chapter 2: The Bonds of Release

Chapter 3: Into the Heartland

Chapter 4: Of Mothers and Daughters and Men

Chapter 5: Tides of Family and Love

Chapter 6: Sisters and Names

Chapter 7: An Approaching Storm

Chapter 8: Persistence

Song Two

Chapter 9: Reunited in Distance

Chapter 10: How Glimmers the Past

Chapter 11: A Twisting of Faith

Chapter 12: The Bonds That Free

Song Three

Chapter 13: Requiem Aeternam

Chapter 14: Dances of Nymphs

Chapter 15: Rocking Chairs and Moonlight

Chapter 16: The Dolphin-Filled Sea

Chapter 17: Wisdom Arrives Late

Chapter 18: Tides of Choice and Life

Chapter 19: Sherds of Clay and Dreams

Chapter 20: Vengeance Screamed

Chapter 21: The Impermanence of Voice

A Note From the Author

About M.L. Weaver

Connect with M.L. Weaver

Other Books by M.L. Weaver

Excerpt from The Lightness of Dust

Chapter 1: Ice in Hearts and Sky

Now

Echoes crashed in thundering waves behind a sun-yellow Air Tractor as it raced through the bends of Selah Creek Canyon. Sedimentary strata tortured by the geological groans of millennia grasped at the powerful aircraft hurtling toward the arch of the Fred G. Redmon bridge. The pilot judged the distance—another nine planes could fly through with her. Ten maybe, but nine was a nice, odd number. Even if it wasn’t a prime. Either way, plane and pilot rode a wide margin of safety.

Disappointment tapped her shoulder from the back seat. She twitched it away; the path beneath was not the only path past the bridge. She could always pop out of the canyon and hop over the span. She might even squeeze between the vertical pillars. A burst to full power and a tap of the stick pointed one wing at the sky and aimed the other at the frozen creek below. Concrete supports that suspended the roadway above the arch flashed just inches from her head.

With a wild whoop she pulled on the controls and the plane twisted a lazy vertical spiral into the ice-blue sky. Thousands of feet below, the snow-mottled valley clung to the network of slumping hills that separated one community from the next, a narrow slush-slowed highway threaded through gaps to link them. Chloe Lucesco pushed the vintage 1940s aviator goggles away from her eyes, cut the power, and allowed her hands to settle gently into her lap.

For an instant the plane’s momentum pointed neither up nor down. Chloe bathed in the bliss of the moment. As the insistent earth pulled at its wings the old plane gave a shudder that ran through Chloe’s own body and rolled her eyes back in pleasure. She fell. Green, white, and blue twirled unseen around the cockpit. She felt the earth orbit her awareness. Closer, ever closer. Until, a breath from the trees, she righted the plane.

Hills rose low above Selah, forming a semi-insulated valley just a few miles north of Yakima proper. Only a gap to the south and the highway over South Umtanum Ridge led out. To the northeast waited her new home; anticipation guided her over one ridge, then another, and finally into a valley so small and deep that the contour lines that marked it on maps ran together. Here the low hills cratered down to the outline of a short, tree-lined airstrip. A deep need urged her away. The call of the sky, of unity and completion, held her aloft. To touch Persephone’s wheels to the earth led only to separation.

She climbed higher, biting the propeller into dense, cold air and chewing away from the earth. The thin cord binding Chloe to the world stretched thin. One of these days, she thought, I’ll discover just what it takes to break it.

The Cascades knifed through the state to the west. Mount Rainier, the northernmost peak visible from her perch, rose majestically to the north. Mount Adams reigned to the southwest. Further south, Mount Hood slumbered in the heart of forest-rich Oregon.

Three summits called to her with disorienting force. Dangerous moments passed during which she found herself seated atop an even more imposing snowy peak. Two other women…sisters?…sat near. Both spoke to her without words. Strain as she might, Chloe found herself frustratingly deaf to a conversation directed at her.

Emotion radiated from the strange sisters. Love for each other. Love for her. Above all else, foreboding.

She should not be there. Not now. Not before. Not, perhaps, ever. Chloe wondered where, exactly, she should be. The dark-haired woman gestured almost imperceptibly and Chloe awoke high above the ancient flood plains of Central Washington.

The earth beckoned.

Another pilot might have coaxed the tail-dragger gently onto the frosted ground—perhaps even diverted to the de-iced runway at McAllister Field. Chloe, though, was not another pilot. Persephone sped toward the runway in the hands of a woman unconcerned with ice. Dry snow puffed at the kiss of tires and whirled in her wake. The airspeed indicator fell to the left beneath the tape that hid its message from wandering eyes. The tailwheel drifted down.

An impish tap at the brakes spun the left wing toward the front; a tire caught on a rough, dry spot of concrete and tipped the Air Tractor dangerously onto one main wheel before plane and pilot skated to a graceful halt before two oversized four-wheel-drive vehicles.

Chloe waved enthusiastically to her audience. A woman in her late forties—with hooded eyes decades older— and a teenaged boy huddled together in matching quilted blue jackets and expressions of mortal terror in the inches between the plane and their truck. A cloud of their own exhalations swirled slowly around them. In a single smooth motion Chloe opened the door and smiled.

She leaned out. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long! A stray platinum lock fell across her eyes.

The woman stamped her feet. Caught her breath. Fixed her best professional smile. Just got here! You must be Chloe…

Chloe smiled. If you insist! She puffed the hair away from her face.

Jackie Anderson. She pointed at the boy. My son Isaiah.

The Air Tractor absorbed Isaiah’s attention; his mother’s introduction fell unheard beyond his wonder.

Isaiah. Isaiah! Jackie Anderson stamped her foot again and sighed through her nose. Say hello, Isaiah…

The boy focused on Chloe just long enough to raise a gloved hand in half-hearted salute. Chloe returned the gesture with a knowing grin.

The dull crump of boots crushing thin-crusted snow announced the approach of another. The occupant of the other SUV, a round man with thinning hair and suspenders stretched around a swollen belly, joined Isaiah in inspecting the aircraft.

Boys. Jackie Anderson shook her head.

I appreciate you coming out to give me the keys, Jackie. Chloe smiled. Boys, indeed, she thought.

Not a problem. Jackie gestured toward the house. Hope you don’t mind, but we went inside to heat the place up for you. Should be plenty warm in there by now.

Chimney smoke twined thickly, rising undisturbed for a thousand feet before a breeze aloft sheared it off and swept it away. The place looked inviting. It looked like…home. Chloe eagerly thrust her feet through the cockpit door and slipped lightly to the ground.

The woman’s smile fled on the bow wave of dawning recognition. A shard of time passed. In its wake, Jackie Anderson’s gasp drew Isaiah’s attention. The boy’s eyes sprang wide and a leer, barely suppressed despite his mother’s presence, bared his teeth. His mother clamped her hands over his eyes and sputtered.

Are you okay? What’s the matter? Chloe’s concern was genuine. She cupped the puckered skin of her bare breasts, as though to warm it, and shivered. You must be freezing. Let’s get you inside.

The sight of Chloe’s hands reaching for her son broke Jackie’s daze. The boy, still ogling Chloe’s bare form through eyes hot with inexperience, found himself roughly dragged across the snow to the SUV and thrust unceremoniously inside.

What is the matter with you? The woman stomped around the vehicle and opened the driver’s-side door. Knock that off! What would Jesus think if He saw you lusting after that… Her voice fell to a hiss. …that whore? Righteous indignation flecked from her mouth like spittle but had no effect on the boy, who simply grinned harder through the tinted glass. All four tires spun, searching for purchase, before finding a tenuous grip. The SUV fishtailed away.

Chloe stared down the drive long after the sounds of the motor died away. The gentle sound of a throat clearing turned her around. She stood erect. Braced.

And you must be Mr. Larkin. She did not smile. Mrs. Anderson’s partner?

The bulbous man smiled gently. His eyes never left hers. Yes. I just came along to see…

Chloe moved into the space left wide by his hesitation. And so you have. She performed her best impression of a game-show model. Her hands turned an invisible tile to reveal an unseeable vowel. In her mind’s ear, the letter sang Ooooooooooo.

Larkin’s neck flushed but he maintained eye contact. What I meant was, I came to see what kind of person writes a check, pays in full, for a property she’s never seen. In a town a thousand miles from home.

Wasn’t much of a home, to tell the truth. She forced a thin smile to mask the pain of exile. They both pretended that the smile was genuine.

Well, I’ll let you get settled in, I guess. Welcome to town, Miss Lucesco.

He re-traced his footsteps through the snow and paused with his hand on the hood of his car. If I may offer some words of advice?

Chloe nodded.

You’re not in California now. I’ve heard stories. Don’t know if they’re true…

He paused as though waiting for her to confirm—or deny—whatever rumors had filtered into the valley. Chloe denied him an answer.

…but things aren’t like that here. Again, welcome to town, Miss Lucesco. His eyes dipped once before he hefted his bulk into the vehicle. Despite its sturdy suspension the vehicle sagged to the left as he drove away.

She considered his words. Whatever the man’s belief, it hadn’t been like that there, either. She’d simply forgotten.

Dry snow dusted her shoulders, stinging as it melted, and landed invisibly in her hair for a long while. Snow from a brilliant, cloudless sky. Chloe imagined she’d seen stranger things.

* * *

Throughout the endless, late-winter night snow ssschzzzed onto the ground outside her window. Sleep, ever a frightened girl in an unfamiliar alley, eluded her. As it always did, unless she’d been drinking. Even then, what she experienced was less sleep than it was a blissful nonexistence. Which was the whole point.

The faint pull of the unseen sun climbing behind the foothills kissed her thoughts. Chloe pushed her stiff body from the floor. She bent at the waist and pressed her palms flat on the floor, resolving to purchase some furniture soon. A bed, for a start. And tequila.

She prepared to welcome the sun by dressing. A snug pair of bluejeans and a loose-fitting plaid shirt, her favorite pair of boots (which fit ever so perfectly on the rudder pedals, whose shapes had worn themselves into her soles), and her goggles (which she didn’t need in Persephone’s enclosed cockpit but which she thought gave her an air of derring-do). She preferred not to be so encumbered while flying but her encounter with Ms. Anderson still lodged at the edge of her thoughts. Not to mention that landing somewhere, at some time, was possible. Necessary, actually; Persephone refused to fly without fuel.

And, after all, she planned to spend the day scouting for customers. Or clients, as she preferred to call them. Asking payment to do something she loved made her feel dirty, and not in a pleasant way. Whores had customers. Escorts, clients. And based on the reaction of her real-estate agent, who’d made a fair bit of money brokering Chloe’s purchase of the property and who’d had every reason to not lose her mind over something as natural as nudity, Chloe decided that her livelihood might best be served by covering up.

After a careful preflight inspection of Persephone, which included cleaning away several inches of snow from her wings and chipping ice from control-surface hinges, Chloe idled the engine to warmth while she walked the length of the runway checking for anything that might damage the prop on takeoff. She picked up a few small branches and threw them into the woods, wondering why she’d never gotten around to adopting a dog to chase them. Satisfied that she’d cleared Persephone’s path of the death littered by the night’s storm, she took to the air.

Once off the ground she avoided looking at the distant mountains. Despite her love of adrenaline, she preferred to decide for herself the manner of danger she faced. The strange force the peaks had exerted on her would be investigated. Thoroughly. Just not today.

Dark still smeared the sky; light from porches and roads glowed from the white blanket shrouding the valley and keeping all who didn’t need to leave the comfort of home safely swaddled in bed.

Chloe preferred never to land at conventional airports but she’d put off having a fuel tank installed at her strip. After a quick stop at McAllister Field during which she’d been self-consciously careful to seem as nondescript as possible while she paid the attendant, she was off to circle the valley. The landscape was unlike any she was accustomed to. Her old home in Tulare County had been more heavily treed, if only slightly, at least in those areas not converted to cropland. Here wild trees were fewer and oaks were rare except for the narrow riparian habitats that meandered along the course of the Yakima and Naches Rivers.

Fruit trees blanketed most of the valley. No familiar citrus. No mandarins, no navels or Valencias, no lemons. Instead she found apples, cherries, and pears in abundance. She shouldn’t lack for business opportunities here if she took time to learn.

Persephone flew a thousand feet over the valley in a north-south pattern. If any style of flying made her skin crawl, it involved straight lines. Which, when she thought about it, made her choice of vocation somewhat odd. Aerial applications required much the same pattern she followed now: straight passes low over a field or orchard. But turning around! A short, steep climb…pull back the throttle…feel her airspeed bleed away…kick the tail around…fall into the next pass. Try to keep track of the power lines. Anticipation rewarded with satisfaction.

With a handheld GPS unit in one hand and the other hand juggling the plane, Chloe mapped out the valley. The biggest challenge was in deciding which house or set of buildings belonged to which orchard. In the few instances that held a clear match she pulled a paper map from beneath her seat and made careful notes while trusting Persephone to fly herself. And while fly herself she did, the plane apparently had no concerns about where she flew.

Chloe looked up from a particularly detailed note to see, looming across the windscreen, the tallest building in downtown Yakima. Age rippled from its beautiful Moderne facade in waves only Chloe could see, but she had no time to admire their grandeur.

A flick of her wrist shifted the brick edifice from her path. Chloe pushed the throttle wide open and wasted no horsepower on climbing. It wouldn’t do to be caught violating FAA regulations so egregiously, and though she had a duty to self-report, that was never going to happen. At least it was still dark enough that the few people who might be moving around town would have difficulty making out her tail number.

Certain that the airport radar could see her, she threaded the gap south of the city rather than the northern gap that led home. Once safely hidden by the ridge she flew low to the west. Persephone tore smoothly above the gentle earth, her shadow swooping over dunes to keep pace.

Chloe was free. She neither ran from anything nor toward any other; her entire life—at least those parts she could remember—had been spent doing one or the other. But was she doing neither, now, or both? The question found itself shoved aside roughly. Chloe. Was. Free.

She knocked the throttle back, released the controls, and let Persephone choose their path. A silly thought, she knew, but it did sometimes seem that the old plane had a knack for exploring. The stark landscape beneath held her attention for a long while. Persephone banked to the north, to the south, and even made a lazy circle around a small patch of trees nestled in a crook of Hatton Creek, which looked like a peaceful spot to swim. Settled in her seat and feeling drowsy—which was as close as she ever came to true sleep—Chloe watched Central Washington float past like a sailing ship bearing a lover away.

From deep in her daydream Chloe vaguely registered new intensity in the powerplant’s roar. A sharp turn pressed her into her seat. Though her hands shot out to regain control, something deep within her urged Chloe to stop. Persephone shot higher, a horse rearing from danger, and banked violently.

Chloe searched the landscape in the direction opposite the turn. Hidden deep at the intersection of three knife-like ridges lay an orchard. Chloe guessed its size at more than a hundred acres. Not an unusually large block of trees in her experience, but the largest single plot she’d encountered here. She forced Persephone to