Cosmic Muse: Best of NewMyths Anthology, #4

By Scott T. Barnes, Susan Shell Winston and Candyce Byrne

Is it spirit? Is it magic?
Where on Earth — or outside of Earth — does inspiration come from?
NewMyths contributors explore the unknowable Muse in the fantastic and the future. This anthology of 43 short stories and poems features winners and nominees for Writers of the Future, Rhysling, Baen Fantasy Adventure, Dwarf Star, and Nebula awards. About half the anthology is a "best of" NewMyths magazine, while the other half is first published here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott T. Barnes
• Release date: Nov 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781939354198

Book preview

COSMIC MUSE

COSMIC MUSE

BEST OF NEWMYTHS ANTHOLOGY, VOLUME FOUR

JEN DOWNES ANDREW L. ROBERTS BETH CATO JENNIFER BRINN CHRISTOPHER SARTIN SHARMON GAZAWAY KEN POYNER LAURA F. SANCHEZ J. ANTHONY HARTLEY BARBARA A. BARNETT SAM TOVEY GARY EVERY BRENT SMITH SARA BERTI VILLE MERILÄINEN NANCY BREWKA-CLARK J. VEROSTKA GERRI LEEN SUE BURKE RACHEL AYERS DANIEL AUSEMA MEG PONTECORVO ABU BAKIR SADIQ MATTHEW PRITT SUSAN SHELL WINSTON M. C. CHILDS S. HUTSON BLOUNT GENE TWARONITE JAMES L. STEELE DAVID BARBER BETHANY F. BRENGAN MELODY FRIEDENTHAL SCOTT T. BARNES STEPHAN OLANDER-WATERS DAVID VONALLMEN THOMAS BRENNAN ALISDAIR HODGSON BOB SOJKA CANDYCE BYRNE

Edited by SCOTT T. BARNES

Edited by CANDYCE BYRNE

Edited by SUSAN SHELL WINSTON

New Myths Publishing

COSMIC MUSE

BEST OF NEWMYTHS ANTHOLOGY, VOLUME FOUR

Edited by Scott T. Barnes, Candyce Byrne, Susan Shell Winston

Copyright © 2023 by New Myths Publishing, All Rights Reserved

ISBN ebook: 978-1-939354-19-8

ISBN print: 978-1-939354-22-8

Cover art Cosmic Muse by Fiona Meng

Interior Design by Brie Tart

Introduction © 2023 by Scott T. Barnes

A Darkness Incandescent by Jen Downes (new)

Memri’s Requiem by Andrew Roberts (first published in NewMyths Issue #50, March 2020)

Music by Beth Cato (new)

The Final Song of the Firebird by Jennifer Brinn (first published in NewMyths Issue #64, September 2023)

Song of the Satyr by Christopher Sartin (new)

Gunpowder and Salt by Sharmon Gazaway (first published in NewMyths Issue #56/57, December 2021)

The Unintended Insult by Ken Poyner (new)

Apocalypso by Laura F. Sanchez (first published in NewMyths Issue #60, September 2022)

Aspiration by J. Anthony Hartley (new)

The Perfect Instrument by Barbara A. Barnett (first published in NewMyths Issue #26, March 2014)

Encore by Sam Tovey (first published in NewMyths Issue 54, March 2021)

Piano Waterfall by Gary Every (first published in NewMyths Issue #26, March 2014)

Music and Poetry by Brent Smith (first published in NewMyths Issue #31, June 2015)

things to do if you are the air by Sara Berti (first published in NewMyths Issue #56/57, December 2021)

Eye of the Nightingale by Ville Meriläinen (first published in NewMyths Issue #54, March 2021)

Poem as Koi by Nancy Brewka-Clark (new)

Recollection of Merit by J. Verostka (first published in NewMyths Issue #42, March 2018)

Living Things by Gerri Leen (first published in NewMyths Issue #50, March 2020)

The Virgin Who Rescues Dragons by Sue Burke (new)

The Dryad’s Books by Rachel Ayers (first published in NewMyths Issue #55, June 2021)

Triptych of the Final String by Daniel Ausema (first published in NewMyths Issue # 55, June 2021)

The Bookstore by Beth Cato (first published in NewMyths Issue #56/57, December 2021)

Heliotrope by Andrew Roberts (new)

‘Beach Collage, First Series’: Acrylic, Newsprint, Razor Blade, Tin Foil, Rope by Meg Pontecorvo (new)

Alternate World Where Mona Lisa Paints Leonardo da Vinci by Abu Bakir Sadiq (new)

The Stone Sprite’s Canvas by Matthew Pritt (new)

Skyscaping by Susan Shell Winston (first published in NewMyths issue #64, September 2023)

The Origin of the Holodeck Safety Protocol by M. C. Childs (new)

Deciduous by S. Hutson Blount (first published in NewMyths Issue #21, December 2013)

Future of Dark Matter by Gene Twaronite (first published in NewMyths Issue #55, June 2021)

Certificate of DN-a by James L. Steele (new)

Work of Art by David Barber (new)

invasive species by Bethany F. Brengan (first published in NewMyths Issue #56/57, December 2021)

Origami by Melody Friedenthal (new)

A Galaxy of Cranks by Scott T. Barnes (new)

Flowing Stream by Stephan Olander-Waters (new)

Warchild by David VonAllmen (first published in NewMyths Issue #52, September 2020)

Fiddler and Bear by Thomas Brennan (first published in NewMyths Issue #64, September 2023)

Stellae and symphoniae by Alisdair Hodgson (new)

The Bone Necklace by Bob Sojka (first published in NewMyths Issue #27, June 2014)

A Sip of Starlight by Beth Cato (first published in NewMyths Issue #35, June 2016)

How to Write a Love Song by Candyce Byrne (new)

Cosmic Muse – A ‘Found’ Poem (new)

The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.

AUGUSTE RODIN

CONTENTS

Introduction

Section I

DANCING TO A MELODY NONE OF US MAY HEAR

A DARKNESS INCANDESCENT

Jen Downes

MEMRI’S REQUIEM

Andrew L. Roberts

MUSIC

Beth Cato

FINAL SONG OF THE FIREBIRD

Jennifer Brinn

SONG OF THE SATYR

Christopher Sartin

GUNPOWDER AND SALT

Sharmon Gazaway

THE UNINTENDED INSULT

Ken Poyner

APOCALYPSO

Laura F. Sanchez

THE PERFECT INSTRUMENT

Barbara A. Barnett

ASPIRATION

J. Anthony Hartley

ENCORE

Sam Tovey

PIANO WATERFALL

Gary Every

MUSIC AND POETRY

Brent C. Smith

Section II

TELLING THE TALES OF THE UNTOLD

things to do if you are the air

Sarah Berti

EYE OF THE NIGHTINGALE

Ville Meriläinen

POEM AS KOI

Nancy Brewka-Clark

RECOLLECTION OF MERIT

J. Verostka

LIVING THINGS

Gerri Leen

THE VIRGIN WHO RESCUES DRAGONS

Sue Burke

THE DRYAD’S BOOKS

Rachel Ayers

TRIPTYCH OF THE FINAL STRING

Daniel Ausema

THE BOOKSTORE

Beth Cato

Section III

WITH COLOR WE TOUCH THE HEART

HELIOTROPE

Andrew L. Roberts

BEACH COLLAGE, FIRST SERIES: ACRYLIC, NEWSPRINT, RAZOR BLADE, TIN FOIL, ROPE

Meg Pontecorvo

SKYSCAPING

Susan Shell Winston

THE ORIGIN OF THE HOLODECK SAFETY PROTOCOL

M. C. Childs

THE STONE SPRITE’S CANVAS

Matthew Pritt

DECIDUOUS

S. Hutson Blount

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE WHERE MONA LISA PAINTS LEONARDO DA VINCI

Abu Bakr Sadiq

FUTURE PORTRAIT OF DARK MATTER

Gene Twaronite

CERTIFICATE OF DN-a

James L. Steele

WORK OF ART

David Barber

Section IV

MAKING A STRANGE AND AWE-FILLED GALAXY

invasive species

Bethany F. Brengan

ORIGAMI

Melody Friedenthal

A GALAXY OF CRANKS

Scott T. Barnes

FLOWING STREAM

Stephen Olander-Waters

WARCHILD

David VonAllmen

FIDDLER AND BEAR

Thomas Brennan

Stellae et symphoniae

Alisdair Hodgson

THE BONE NECKLACE

Bob Sojka

A SIP OF STARLIGHT

Beth Cato

HOW TO WRITE A LOVE SONG

Candyce Byrne

COSMIC MUSE—A ‘FOUND’ POEM

Also by New Myths Publishing

About New Myths Publishing

About the Cover Artist

About the Interior Designer

INTRODUCTION

For a few wonderful, underemployed years, I practiced guitar for two hours a day, studying flamenco with Diego Corriente in San Diego and classical with Thierry Blot in Paris. Together, these giants taught me enough to become a professional guitarist—if I had chosen that direction. After playing for one dance studio, I left off guitar to pursue writing, but I have never forgotten the lessons they taught me.

One day, Thierry and I had a deep discussion of composition, how one movement flows to the next, how chords relate to one another, and how each note relates to the whole. Finally, Thierry recognized what I was really trying to ask.

The disciple of the Munich symphony conductor Sergiu Celibidache, first prize in the National Conservatory of Music and Dance in Paris, and mentor to many great artists, shrugged extravagantly. Who can say where inspiration comes from? It’s spirit. It’s magic. Who can say?

Through the genres of fantasy and science fiction, Cosmic Muse tries to answer that question. We hope this anthology inspires you.

Scott T. Barnes—founder, NewMyths.com

SECTION I

DANCING TO A MELODY NONE OF US MAY HEAR

We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.

– Arthur O’Shaughnessy

A DARKNESS INCANDESCENT

JEN DOWNES

About the Author

Jen Downes has worked as beautician, copy editor, commercial artist and care-giver to the frail aged. After decades avidly reading she now writes with the same enthusiasm. Jen travelled extensively in Alaska and the United Kingdom, and lives near Adelaide, South Australia, where several future stories will be set.

A Darkness Incandescent

Tranquil is the night, and still:

A darkness incandescent breaking on my shuttered eyelids.

Blind, I watch the sovereign stars

Fall through time like summer storms

While every particle of life―Lemur and Leviathan―

Dances to a melody none of us may hear.

What alchemy divides the birds from boughs,

The raptor from the rock?

Their atoms spin, as kindred as those falling stars,

The summer rain, the whale and every ocean,

A rose that turns, now, spellbound, to the sun,

The fox who pads on silent feet where winter

Dreams in crystal stillness, bound by the shade of endless night…

Thus is Life: so spake the cosmos

Eons before Life sparked and living eyes knew dawn from dusk.

Thus speaks the cosmos still:

And we who plummet yet, through time’s raw chasm,

Glimpse what we may―imagining all else―

Blind as the unborn soul still unescaped

From the radiant darkness of the world’s womb.

MEMRI’S REQUIEM

ANDREW L. ROBERTS

READERS’ CHOICE AWARDS 2022

SECOND PLACE (TIED) FICTION

About the Author

Andrew L. Roberts is a Northern California author and poet. In addition to his books Duramen Rose and Kite Shadows and Smaller Secrets, his work may be found in various anthologies and magazines—including NewMyths, Bourbon Penn, Polu Texni, and Leading Edge. His current book project is a story of spirit possession, murder, and revenge set in 17th Century Japan. When not writing he often engages in soulful conversations with the family dog.

Hoshino Shizuka pushed through the auditorium’s double doors and stopped short. Everything was gone. There were no chairs, no music stands, no timpani or piano. Worst of all, Memri’s paintings and photographs had also been removed. Only the ghost lamp with its bare bulb glowed white upon the vacant stage. It was an empty house, and an empty house is just a corpse.

Shizuka glanced back into the lobby, looking for the doorman who was now nowhere to be seen. With a twist of her shoulder, she adjusted the strap of her satchel and started down the long, sloping aisle. When she reached the stage, she turned around and looked back into the body of the auditorium with its two tiered balcony sections, the encirclement of private boxes, and row upon row of anonymous folded seats.

It was uncanny how quickly they had assembled this structure, and how identical it was to the theaters and symphony halls back home. It even smelled right, musty and slightly spicy. Like most of First City it was as much a statement of genericism as nostalgia; and in spite of those long years of sleep, the distance between stars, and all the talk of a new start, very little had changed. And maybe that was the point. Nothing on the old world or this new one bespoke class difference quite as resoundingly as a symphony hall or opera house. The proclamation of Ars Enim Omnia, so boldly inscribed above the proscenium, promised art for everyone, but meant nothing when it came to who sat where, and why.

Shizuka could almost pretend that she was still on Earth.

Almost.

Stretching out her arms and leaning her shoulders against the edge of the stage, she closed her eyes and thought of Memri; thought of his smile and the way his tightly braided bronze hair had smelled impossibly of sandalwood and clover. His flesh had been the color of polished teak and his eyes that rarest of all blues that she had only seen back home in Miyako where the seawater pooled over deep pockets of snow-white sand. Not exactly turquoise, it was a hue to which she could not put a name.

Memri would have known the right word, but Shizuka had never thought to ask, and looking into his memories now for something so trivial would feel wrong. Still, if she wanted to…

Miss Hoshino? A man’s voice broke her reverie.

Opening her eyes she saw them there—Doctors Foreman, Lean, Davies, Kaminski and Khol—the men to whom she had been forced to submit her petition for the performance of Memri’s music.

Older than the average colonist, they represented the core of the central ministry. They called themselves The Prime, but Shizuka was not sure if she should address them as Doctor or Minister or simply call them by their names.

There was also another man with them who Shizuka did not recognize. He was East Indian, Pakistani, or maybe Afghani. Tall and thin, he was dressed in off-white shalwar khameez and plain leather sandals. A broad streak of silver ran through his wavy black hair, and while he looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, Shizuka reminded herself to add a few thousand years to that number.

She straightened, tucked her hair behind her ears, and then presented the men with her most polite bow, holding it long enough and deep enough to indicate the level of respect she meant to offer. Five of the men stared back at her with five unreadable faces, but the sixth—the stranger—returned her bow, even dropping his own a little deeper. Afterward the man gave her a brief, sympathetic smile. His face was open and genial and it struck Shizuka as familiar, though she knew they had never met before.

The Ministry, said Dr. Foreman, has reached its decision on the matter of your petition.

Should I assume that this is it? She motioned with her hand, indicating the empty stage and the absence of the set pieces that had been there the day before.

We have prepared a room, said Foreman.

His flat voice reminded Shizuka of a middle school teacher who had once described her passion for music as a hobby and waste of time. Two thousand years dead, yet just the thought of that man’s monotone was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Holding out his hand, Foreman directed her to walk ahead and Shizuka gave him a curt nod. For now at least she would do what was expected. She would play nice. What choice did she have? Perhaps she might change their minds.

If Memri had been in her place, he would have laughed. She could almost hear him. He would have folded his arms across his chest and asked if any of the Ministers had ever seen a star collapse or watched a comet’s tail flip inside out like a pillowcase turning back upon itself. And of course, they hadn’t, but Memri had—dozens of times. He would then have gone on to describe those events through poetry, confounding these men even more with its beauty and metaphor, and sheer accuracy of its truth.

That was the real difference between Memri and his makers, and the difference between Shizuka and them as well. What they could only imagine, Shizuka had touched with her own senses. What they theorized over, she had experienced. That was part of Memri’s gift and that thing of light that spiraled out from the center of his music, like God’s own thumbprint. Knowing this gave her hope. She smiled.

Nearing the bank of burgundy drapes at stage left, Minister Khol moved ahead and parted the curtains to reveal a hidden door. As Khol pushed it inward, he looked directly into Shizuka’s face. Her expression startled him. Swallowing, he quickly turned away.

Passing through the door, they followed a corridor that led to a series of offices, storage rooms and rehearsal spaces at the back of the building. Another door was opened, an automatic sensor clicked, and the overhead lights flickered to life, revealing a wide room with a low ceiling and a table meant for group readings and auditions.

On one side of the table were six chairs, on the other only one. It was an obvious arrangement, and for geniuses, there was nothing subtle about their intentions.

Shizuka waited for the men to take their places before pulling out her seat. When she sat down, she rested her hands upon her knees. After a brief moment and the arranging of papers and recording wafers, Doctor Foreman cleared his throat and checked the time. He recited the date, hour, location, and the names of those in attendance and then went straight to the heart of the matter.

Miss Hoshino, while the Ministry recognizes its technical brilliance, we are reluctant to allow you to perform this … spectacle … in public.

Spectacle ja nai! She wanted to say, Ongaku dake, but that would’ve been a half-truth. Instead, she asked, May I know why? She did her best to speak without accent, but it was difficult.

Lewis Foreman’s eyes had the quality of dull metal and his face was so composed as to be utterly blank.

The why isn’t important. We did not come here to discuss the music, only to tell you it will not be played. It is the Sitter’s memories in which we are interested. That is why we are here.

Again, his memories. Four and a half years, and still they’re pushing. Baka desu!

Shizuka took a long, measured breath and imagined her friend standing behind them. That helped a little.

I am here because of the music, she said. His memories are in the music. If you accept his music you’ll find them there.

Foreman brushed that aside. We want his organic memories, his actual experience of the journey, complete and unedited, not an interpretation or a biography. That is specifically why we made him. He had no right to give them to you. They belong to us.

They belonged to him, said Shizuka. And he didn’t give them to me. He passed them on as he passed away. Maybe you shouldn’t have programmed him to die upon our arrival here.

There was a shifting about the table and the tension in the room grew so tight that the air nearly vibrated. She shook her head to clear it.

I’m sorry. That was rude. But you need to understand, what Memri passed to me, and how it was passed, was … personal … painful. The memories that came through that pain are intimate. They were his alone. Now they’re mine—organically mine. They’re a part of me now. But his music—

Will never be played in public.

Foreman’s words slapped her into momentary silence.

Never.

There it is.

Korinzai.

Not just today, tomorrow, or next week.

Never.

She reached up with her right hand for a moment and rubbed her brow as if to smooth a crease that was not there, saying, And because I won’t let you carve his memories from my mind, you’d kill his music for everyone? Who are you punishing, me or Memri?

Even if you gave us his memories today, that music would never be performed or published.

You’re afraid of it. Why? Her hand returned to rest upon her knee.

The Ministry, said Foreman, has reviewed your composition —

Memri’s composition.

Foreman paused. His affect remained dour, but his eyes snapped sideways for an instant before returning to the empty space between them.

We, he started again, speaking even more deliberately, have reviewed Memri’s composition along with its libretto and the accompanying visual materials you provided. We believe that we understand the full scope of your intentions. The underlying message is subversive.

It isn’t political. It’s meant to be beautiful, to edify and elevate the spirit. It’s a thank you, a love letter. How can that be subversive?

What the Sitter composed is esoteric to say the least.

You mean it’s religious.

That is exactly what I mean. And fundamentally so.

As Foreman said this, the sixth man, whose name was Nasir, shifted again in his chair.

Shizuka sucked in a hiss of air between her teeth, looked away and shook her head. It was a childish mannerism that used to infuriate her mother, but Doctor Foremen did not notice, just as Shizuka failed to notice the particular manner in which Nasir folded his arms across his chest.

This world, Foreman said, is our second chance. We’re building a new future here, founded upon science, quantifiable facts and the greatest engineering achievement in the history of mankind. Science saved our species from extinction. Does anyone else in this room need to remind you, Miss Hoshino, that it was our ship that brought you here, not some primitive god or your synthetic angel?

That was the third time he had called her Miss, but Shizuka let it pass. Instead, her hands began to play a series of chords upon her knees, silently performing the opening movement of Memri’s theme. Feeling the music build within herself, she wished that there had been a piano and not just a table between them. That would have made things so much easier. If only they could hear the music instead of just reading it. Then they’d understand even if they didn’t want to.

But the table was a table. There was no real music in the room. So, Shizuka would have to make do with clumsy words.

Gentlemen, I was awakened seven times during our passage from Earth, while you and everyone else slept. Each time I stayed awake a little longer—a few days at first, then a week, then a month, half a year, and so on. I saw what you could not. I experienced the void between the stars. I met the Sitter. Drank his water. Ate his food. Walked with him. You cannot begin to imagine how lonely he was. I became his friend. His only friend. We spoke together and I knew him as he was becoming … himself. He liked when I played music so I taught him the piano. I thought it would be a comfort when he was alone. Later, when I was awakened for the last time, Memri played his own music for me, taught me how to listen and how to see from a place outside of myself. He taught me how to feel joy again. Gave me back everything I thought I had lost, and all the things I never knew I had.

As she looked into their faces, she could tell that her words were not helping—that they were making Foreman, Kaminski, and Khol more uncomfortable—but she couldn’t stop herself.

I saw the injuries he suffered while protecting us. He tried to hide them, but I saw them. I’m sure you’ve all studied the ship’s log. You know what happened during the last seventy-two years of our crossing. If it hadn’t been for Memri and the choices he made, you and I would not be here. None of us would.

She found herself gazing into Doctor Nasir’s eyes as she spoke.

Have you asked why The Kibu Maru, The Chang Jiang, and The Sao Paulo never arrived?

Nasir unfolded his arms and leaned towards her, nodding his head.

You say our journey was driven by science, said Shizuka. "Soo desu ne! That’s true. But it also required a leap of faith. Maybe it was faith in science or in yourselves, but it was faith. That’s what Memri’s music is about. If you would try to understand it’s a gift from a child to his parents—"

Miss Hoshino! barked Foreman. Memri, as you call him, did only as he was designed to do. He performed, as he was electrochemically programmed. Serve the ship. Protect its cargo. Record the journey. That was his purpose. He was meant to use up all seventy-six of his bodies. He was disposable. There was no sacrifice. He was not a man. He was not even human.

"Honto desu! That is my point exactly. He became more! You need to hear his music!"

It’s been read and described to us, grumbled Minister Khol.

Foreman shot his colleague a silencing look, but it was too late.

Described to you? asked Shizuka. Didn’t any of you even read the material for yourself?

Their silence was an empty, white wall.

The recorder on the table between them clicked and clicked, as Shizuka waited for an answer that refused to come. Her eyes moved from one face to another, hoping to elicit some sort of response, but it was impossible. Davies and Lean, like the man Nasir, looked sympathetic, but something was obviously keeping those three in check. Kaminski shied from her gaze and seemed to gravitate closer to Minister Khol, while Foreman simply glared at her.

You. You’re pulling all their strings, aren’t you?

But not mine. Not today.

Shizuka brought her hands up from her knees then and placed her palms flat upon the tabletop’s cool surface. The music in them had ceased.

None of you read it.

For an instant, she wanted to shout at them, to throw something or somehow fight, but knew it was pointless. This was defeat, final and unconditional and so any further argument would have been as Memri had once cautioned, a waste of spirit. Standing up, Shizuka opened her satchel and drew out a three-kilo brass and silver hammer, which she carefully set upon the table.

This is also from Memri.

The six men stared at the hammer as Shizuka closed her bag.

Is that a threat? asked Minister Khol.

It is what it looks like, said Shizuka.

Miss Hoshino, said Foreman. You have to realize, when we insist, the court will issue an edict. Then the Sitter’s memories will be extracted, with or without your consent.

Doctor Hoshino, said Shizuka.

I beg your pardon?

You’ve called me ‘Miss’ four times now. I hold a Ph.D. You should address me as Doctor.

Foreman’s eyes did another back-and-forth dance as his mind tried to justify this piece of information. He cleared his throat again.

It doesn’t matter what you want to be called. We’ll still get the memories.

Shizuka shrugged as she pushed her chair back in against the table and moved to leave.

One last question, said Foreman. If you don’t mind.

Shizuka paused.

Yes?

Did you have sex with the Sitter?

Lewis! snapped Nasir, now on his feet and speaking out for the first time. Shame on you! This is—

Foreman waved him off. Shut up, Javid! You’re an observer only. I want her to answer my question.

As do I, said Khol.

The others were too stunned, and even Kaminski looked dismayed.

Shizuka’s shoulders sagged. She closed her eyes. Her face burned scarlet.

How could you ask? How can I answer?

She wanted to say, he was my friend, but the words would not come.

Nasir and Foreman began arguing in earnest, both shouting over each other. Hands were slammed upon the table and Nasir’s chair was knocked over as Lean and Davies tried to calm him. Shizuka though could have been invisible at that point, and when she did manage to get her words out, nobody heard them.

She did not even bother to close the door behind her when she left.

Upon her seventh and final waking aboard the Arcum Vitae, it was music that lifted Shizuka from the long, cold slumber. Pizzicato tears kissing dry lips, and the long, back and forth sighing of horsehair bows over Pirastro strings surrounded her with the essence of moonlight shining behind a curtain of rain. Violin, viola and cello enfolded her and drew her from that sea of sleep to lay her safe and warm again upon a pillow-soft bank that smelled of wild iris and Hinoki.

She inhaled sharply, as with the first breath of being born, except that there was no pain.

You’re awake now.

Memri’s voice always made the world real.

Soo desu.

Her eyes were still closed because she had forgotten to open them—as she had the other six times before.

Anata, doko ga imasu ka?

Here, he said. I am always right here.

It was not that Memri could actually read her thoughts, but he knew what to expect.

Me o akete, he said, touching her forehead with a damp washcloth.

Shizuka smiled, thinking, kimochii desu. Then she did as she was told, opened her eyes, and saw him again, looking almost exactly as he had the very first time … except a little older now and with more scars.

"Me-kun," she said. O-ha-yo.

No, Shizuka. Not morning. Not this time. It’s night, and it’s late. The crew will be waking soon. We have very little time.

Then she knew that they had reached their destination, and that her friend’s interminable life was already ending. She could see it in his eyes and in the tension of the muscles in his neck and throat. But Memri did not look sad. He was elated, and his music was joyful.

Shizuka walked home, following the canal that led down to the man-made falls, near The East End where she kept her apartment. It was still early and the summer rain was no longer falling, but this was a quiet quarter of the city, so she had the pedestrian path mostly to herself.

Glancing up, she noticed a young couple approaching from the other direction. They walked with their arms curled about each other, tucked in close, heads lowered and grinning as they followed some invisible course that had little relationship with a straight line.

As they drew nearer, Shizuka stepped aside and waited to give them ample space. She heard the infectious notes of their laughter, saw them kiss haphazardly and then laugh again.

They passed so close that Shizuka found herself being caressed by the girl’s perfume. Its scent reminded her of that last night in Barcelona—reminded her of saffron and blood oranges, green olives, too much Madeira and dancing deep into the night with the beautiful Spanish guitarist. When she had awakened the following day, it was to find herself in a strange apartment, in a strange bed, entangled by her companion’s long, chestnut hair and a twisted coil of sweaty sheets. Still dizzy from the wine and feeling all at once awkward, she had scribbled down a short note and left her number, but slipped away without saying a word.

Shizuka remembered the woman’s molasses black eyes and pomegranate lips, the languid way