chain, tasting the sweet smoke, buoyed on dusty grass.
The long, metallic note bent, broke to another. Someone was playing the harmonica—silver? Artichokes? Curiosity curved through, pressed down his mouth at both corners.
Like some color outside this grey range, music spilled the trees. He slowed and walked wonderingly into them. His feet came down in hushing puddles of grass. He frowned left and right and was very happy. The notes knotted with the upper branches.
In a tree? No… on a hill. He followed around the boulders that became a rise. The music came down from it. He looked up among leaf-grey and twig-grey. Picture: the harp leaving the lips, and the breath (leaving the lips) become laughter. "Hello," she called, laughing.
"Hello," he said and couldn't see her.
"Were you wandering around all night?"
He shrugged. "Sort of."
"Me too."
While he realized he had no idea of her distance, she laughed again and that turned back into music. She played oddly, but well. He stepped off the path.
Waving his right hand (caged), grasping saplings with his left (free), he staggered on the slope. "Hey… I" because he slipped, and she halted.
He caught up balance, and climbed.
She played again.
He stopped when the first leaves pulled from her.
She raised her apple eyes—apple green. Head down, she kept her lips at the metal organ.
Roots, thick as her arms, held the ground around her. Her back was against a heavy trunk. Leaves hid her all one side.
She wore her shirt. Her breasts were still nice.
His throat tightened. He felt both bowels and heart now; and all the little pains that defined his skin. It's stupid to be afraid… of trees. Still, he wished he had encountered her among stones. He took another step, arms wide for the slant, and she was free of foliage—except for one brown leaf leaning against her tennis shoe.
"Hi…"
A blanket lay beside her. The cuffs of her jeans were frayed. This shirt, he realized, didn't have buttons (silver eyelets on the cloth). But now it was half laced. He looked at the place between the strands. Yes, very nice.
"You didn't like the group last night?" She gestured with her chin to some vague part of the park.
He shrugged. "Not if they're going to wake me up and put me to work."
"They wouldn't have, if you'd pretended to be asleep. They don't really get too much done."
"Shit." He laughed and stepped up. "I didn't think so."
She hung her arms over her knees. "But they're good people."
He looked at her cheek, her ear, her hair.
"Finding your way around Bellona is a little funny at first. And they've been here a while. Take them with a grain of salt, keep your eyes open, and they'll teach you a lot."
"How long have you been with them?" thinking, I'm towering over her, only she looks at me as though I'm too short to tower.
"Oh, my place is over here. I just drop in on them every few days… like Tak. But I've just been around a few weeks, though. Pretty busy weeks." She looked out through the leaves. When he sat down on the log, she smiled. "You got in last night?"
He nodded. "Pretty busy night."
Something inside her face fought a grin.
"What's… your name?"
"Lanya Colson. Your name is Kidd, isn't it?"
"No, my name isn't Kidd! I don't know what my name is. I haven't been able to remember my name since… I don't know." He frowned. "Do you think that's crazy?"
She raised her eyebrows, brought her hands together (he remembered the remains of polish; so she must have redone them this morning: her nails were green as her eyes) to turn the harmonica.
"The Kid is what Iron Wolf tried to name me. And the girl in the commune tried to put on the other 'd'. But it isn't my name. I don't remember my God-damn name."
The turning halted.
"That's like being crazy. I forget lots of other things. Too. What do you think about that:" and didn't know how he would have interpreted his falling inflection either.
She said: "I don't really know."
He said, after the silent bridge:
The long, metallic note bent, broke to another. Someone was playing the harmonica—silver? Artichokes? Curiosity curved through, pressed down his mouth at both corners.
Like some color outside this grey range, music spilled the trees. He slowed and walked wonderingly into them. His feet came down in hushing puddles of grass. He frowned left and right and was very happy. The notes knotted with the upper branches.
In a tree? No… on a hill. He followed around the boulders that became a rise. The music came down from it. He looked up among leaf-grey and twig-grey. Picture: the harp leaving the lips, and the breath (leaving the lips) become laughter. "Hello," she called, laughing.
"Hello," he said and couldn't see her.
"Were you wandering around all night?"
He shrugged. "Sort of."
"Me too."
While he realized he had no idea of her distance, she laughed again and that turned back into music. She played oddly, but well. He stepped off the path.
Waving his right hand (caged), grasping saplings with his left (free), he staggered on the slope. "Hey… I" because he slipped, and she halted.
He caught up balance, and climbed.
She played again.
He stopped when the first leaves pulled from her.
She raised her apple eyes—apple green. Head down, she kept her lips at the metal organ.
Roots, thick as her arms, held the ground around her. Her back was against a heavy trunk. Leaves hid her all one side.
She wore her shirt. Her breasts were still nice.
His throat tightened. He felt both bowels and heart now; and all the little pains that defined his skin. It's stupid to be afraid… of trees. Still, he wished he had encountered her among stones. He took another step, arms wide for the slant, and she was free of foliage—except for one brown leaf leaning against her tennis shoe.
"Hi…"
A blanket lay beside her. The cuffs of her jeans were frayed. This shirt, he realized, didn't have buttons (silver eyelets on the cloth). But now it was half laced. He looked at the place between the strands. Yes, very nice.
"You didn't like the group last night?" She gestured with her chin to some vague part of the park.
He shrugged. "Not if they're going to wake me up and put me to work."
"They wouldn't have, if you'd pretended to be asleep. They don't really get too much done."
"Shit." He laughed and stepped up. "I didn't think so."
She hung her arms over her knees. "But they're good people."
He looked at her cheek, her ear, her hair.
"Finding your way around Bellona is a little funny at first. And they've been here a while. Take them with a grain of salt, keep your eyes open, and they'll teach you a lot."
"How long have you been with them?" thinking, I'm towering over her, only she looks at me as though I'm too short to tower.
"Oh, my place is over here. I just drop in on them every few days… like Tak. But I've just been around a few weeks, though. Pretty busy weeks." She looked out through the leaves. When he sat down on the log, she smiled. "You got in last night?"
He nodded. "Pretty busy night."
Something inside her face fought a grin.
"What's… your name?"
"Lanya Colson. Your name is Kidd, isn't it?"
"No, my name isn't Kidd! I don't know what my name is. I haven't been able to remember my name since… I don't know." He frowned. "Do you think that's crazy?"
She raised her eyebrows, brought her hands together (he remembered the remains of polish; so she must have redone them this morning: her nails were green as her eyes) to turn the harmonica.
"The Kid is what Iron Wolf tried to name me. And the girl in the commune tried to put on the other 'd'. But it isn't my name. I don't remember my God-damn name."
The turning halted.
"That's like being crazy. I forget lots of other things. Too. What do you think about that:" and didn't know how he would have interpreted his falling inflection either.
She said: "I don't really know."
He said, after the silent bridge:
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