Foxfire
The day sighed as it ended. Its breath, a zephyr stirred by the dying suns, tickled Foxfire in
places she wasn't used to it touching. She had ordered her new dress off the Mirnaya-Derevnya
Market — and received it amazingly fast as such things go these days. It was beautiful and
delicate in unexpected ways. Delicious, yet uncomfortable shivers prickled her skin and tingled
her spine. She slid her hand under Meyer's arm and cuddled against him. His fancywear matched
hers in formality and dash. He shifted his arm to her waist and drew her even closer. Just like I
remembered we could be together. I never want this to change.
So Join with him for Life, like he asked. I can't ... too much in the way. The Bears, for
instance. Besides ... Besides what, ndito? Life's Dualities. Meyer has too much of The
Son/ghost-within, and I've got too much of The Daughter/ghost-within. We both need more balance.
Remind you of your brothers, does he? Sometimes, she admitted. Sometimes he does. And that's
part of what you like about him? Yes ... yes, it is, but only part of it.
Meyer drew her forward. They walked together toward the country edge of this last interchange in
their journey. Passenger shelters and bus loops lay behind them. Ahead, the interchange's
epox-crete apron drew a crisp border as though reluctant to mingle with the grass, bushes, and
trees beyond. And above that, looming in forested majesty erupting out of the surrounding
fey-banyan, were the bluffs. The foliage enclosing it reflected the sunset in a riff of oranges
straying into red and dappled by dodging shadows. So mysterious, so romantic. Intriguing enough
to push aside her quandary ... for now.
At the line between city and country, a modest sign drew their attention. When they were close
enough, words kindled on its surface as if they reflected a blooming fire. "The Bluffs," it read.
Foxfire glanced quickly up at Meyer. He grinned. His gait rocked into a strut. My peacock, my
ta-monduá, she thought, pleased with his show just for her.
"The first secret," he said as they approached the sign, "is knowing where to grab this thing." He
loosened his arm around her so he could reach the arching tube that held the sign. "They disguise
the agent-for-trade."
He grabbed the tube, and the sign added the words, "Your carriage approaches."
In the dusk, Foxfire wasn't sure where the low-riding vehicle came from. She first noticed it in
the brush-skirt of the woods spreading before them. It ghosted through the fading light and paused
just beyond the sign, quivering with the need to serve them. It featured four thin, flat, hard
wheels with round spokes, each outlined by an arching fender. In the middle of these curves hung a
cushioned seat. No driver. No horse. No one to intrude on us. Wonderful! Meyer handed her up
through the shortened doorway and followed. The carriage rolled off, curving back toward the
woods.
Nestled beside Meyer in the soft cushions, Foxfire gazed out at the marvelous scene. Soon they
were alone with nature. The track began to climb and the trees followed, keeping them company in a
long, dusky bower. Night settled rapidly around them. The dimness seemed to accentuate the aromas
of new leaf and blossom overlaying the earthy stink of humus.
"Just how did you manage this?" she said. "A reservation at The Bluffs? And how are you going to
pay for it?"
Meyer turned an easy grin on her. "Oh, I've got the money. I told you about the overtime helping
on Die Gastarbeiter shift." Must you keep up that bravado? The Son/ghost-within,
remember? His expression drooped. "I haven't been able to do much else for the last few days, but
I'm done with it now." I did miss you. "They're on their own." A true scowl formed. "They leave
the shop a mess every night. I spent over three-kay seconds cleaning up after them this morning!"
Though sometimes I wonder why.
Foxfire tugged on his arm and when he looked down, smiled coyly. "Let me cover half," she said
demurely.
Wounded pride broke through his grimace, which fought back. Then, a smirk of acceptance displaced
everything. Meyer added a grateful smile as he said, "I can handle that."
Glory in Life! That he can muster The Daughter/within to temper The Son/within. He balances
better than you, ndito. Sometimes. "And the reservation?" she prompted.
Now his face resumed its strut. This part of The Son/ghost-within I like. Too bad, he won't — or
can't — prune out the other aspects of it. Grinning, he settled back to tell the story. "When I
asked you to The Bluffs, I had no idea how I was going to get us here. But when I mentioned it to
my tactician, well, he said he could fix it. He really appreciated how well I'd done with
Die Gastarbeiter: really pumped up his bottom line for the period."
Meyer hunched around to face her. His hands reached into the storytelling space in front of him.
"It seems that the matrix of combines for which we work has a standing reservation at The Bluffs."
A hand marked a pause. "More like a right of first refusal." The other hand started marking
categories. "They use it to close deals, reward sales people, treat the shlemiel strategists who
run the matrix, that sort of thing." Both hands froze. "Li Charleodo Liberty — you know, my boss
— said that when nobody else was using the reservation, the combine tacticians could — and he'd
let me go in his place!" Two fists clenched with victory.
"Wonderful!" Foxfire crooned and took his left hand. Let's stay with that success and enjoy the
evening. She settled beside him and the sounds of nature filled in around them. Chirps and
buzzes, coos and throaty calls, creaks and rustles.
After awhile, the carriage leveled out in the dark. Foxfire could still feel and smell the trees
around them, dancing slowly in the zephyrs. She leaned her head back: a channel of stars flowed
by, full of cosmic winks showing bright through a curtain of infinity. But even as she waxed in
appreciation, the channel flung wide its banks and the whole sky dropped around them, warm and
smiling.
The trees halted like footmen at a castle threshold. Instead, a carpet of grass, long enough to
ripple in the breeze, caught the starlight and sideways smiles of four moons just starting to turn
their sunbright faces toward Yeibichai. As she looked across the riffling pale green, she found
the stark black edge of the night against the bluffs.
Glory in the Lord! Glory in Life!
Beyond this undulating shoreline, in a dream-like sea filled with velvet dark, only an occasional
shoal of light broke free to hint at the streaks of urban tangle that she knew lay out there.
Those few renegade spatterings stirred an impression of depth and substance more breathtaking than
glaring strips. And there, back around to the right, the Large Square Dance played its muted role
as a shipwreck of light.
Over it all stretched a sky of deep velvet riddled with star patterns. Nana Buluku, leading the
way. The Lame Swan. Itbalintja Soak, with the Bandicoot Seeking It just climbing from the inky
pool of the horizon.
Meyer squeezed her hand in appreciation. Her fingers embraced his in return. She lost the need
for words, even to herself.
The carriage interrupted their reverie by stopping and allowing a pale-suited man to step out of
the dark. Startled, Foxfire gulped as he opened their stubby door.
"Koen Meyer," the man intoned as he stepped aside and offered a hand. "Welcome to The Bluffs.
Your table awaits."
Foxfire let a smile spread over her face and smooth away the pang of her gulp. Meyer stepped out
without touching the proffered help, but she made sure to take it as she followed.
Their host led the way. Foxfire glanced back, but the carriage had vanished. Instead, the
shimmering grass spread around them like a secret beach, hidden from its landside by sable hills
and bounded by an ebony sea. Such metaphors! She laughed at herself. But so apt.
She noticed hazy shoals scattered along her fantasy beach. These smudges of illumination, she was
suddenly sure, marked tables. Other people were dining on The Bluffs tonight. I don't really
mind. But you do, ndito ... a little bit.
At such a sandbar, the ghostly maŒtre d'h“tel sat them close together so they could look out over
the darkened city. He coaxed just enough light out of hovering lamps so they could see each other
and their plates. Soliciting Foxfire's desire, he adjusted the deflectors to cut the breeze to a
caress. He pointed out the menu display and showed them how to order. Then he turned into the
night and faded away.
Amid sounds of nature's nocturnal business, each decided on the prix fixe, and they laughed over
that coincidence as they ordered. For soup course, gazpacho: delicious, peppers offsetting its
coolness. The server, another ghost in a white suit of tails and high-rise trousers with
cummerbund and bow tie, cleared the bowls so deftly they almost didn't notice as they held hands
and soaked in the scene.
The salad sketched out Yeibichai with lettuce varieties from Shepard, Schirra, and Carpenter,
cabbage from Titov, onions from Nikolayev, capers from the hothouses of Gagarin, jicama from Glenn,
beets from Grissom and pickled with local spices, and olives from their own Sicilian peninsula.
Still another server pushed a cart with these ingredients to their table side. After querying
their preferences for greens and dressing, she composed each salad, tossed it, and laid it before
Foxfire and then Meyer. The dark melted her as well.
After a respectable interval, the fish course, salmontuna from Schirra's southern shore, grilled
and wrapped in kazunoko konbu, came to rest before them. Its aroma touched the languid air. With
this boost, its presentation coaxed their appetites into bloom once more. Meyer served.
A yip broke through nature's symphony. Foxfire froze. Animals in the woods? She held her breath
in anticipation of more disruption. Yodels followed, along with brays and cackles. Not animals,
humans. Glory in the Lord! she prayed and twisted around to look. Just go away, would you? she
told whoever it was. Don't spoil things tonight, please.
Meyer tried to rise, but his heavy chair balked. On his feet finally, he swayed, trying to improve
his perspective. "Do you see anything?" he asked tensely.
Still hidden by the dark, the racket came at them. Blind, but not deaf. How frightening!
Speaking over it, Foxfire said, "Just smudges." Dread slowly climbed her back. Easy, ndito, this
too shall pass.
A figure broke into view, sketchy in their dim lights. Tall, gaunt, even cadaverous, he forged
ahead with a steady, ground-eating gait. His blue shirt and pants flopped around his rangy body.
No good will come from him. Foxfire tried to stand up.
"Die Gastarbeiter!" Meyer gasped.
Foxfire struggled with her chair, grunting, "How do you know?"
"Their — his clothes. Not issued from any Collective around here."
That easy? That easy to change a stranger into an enemy? He's up to no good, ndito. You should
fear him.
Two more figures materialized from the gloom. Thin, animated, they grinned and cavorted and
yodeled. Beyond these, Foxfire could now make out more wiry figures, thickening from wraithes into
marauders. The night was no longer friendly, its softness gone flinty, its charm turned
inside-out.
"Get out of here!" Meyer yelled.
That won't help. Foxfire reached out to quiet Meyer. She could almost see The Son blooming within
him. That added to her dread.
"Just want to see what the big deal is," retorted the gaunt man as he stepped up to them.
Meyer shrugged off Foxfire's touch, moved forward, and lifted hands set to push. Dread now twisted
within her. She wanted to call him back, but knew that would feed his masculine show.
The marauder slipped by Meyer's grasp, then backhanded him. Meyer staggered and dropped to a
knee. Foxfire stepped up to his chair, grabbed it.
By then, all three marauders had surrounded Meyer. One set himself, aimed his fist, and punched
Meyer behind the ear. Meyer fell and flung out a hand to catch himself. With a crooked grin, the
third Gastarbeiter cocked his hand for a blow.
Enough! Feeling The Son rise within her, driven as much by her brothers' abuse as Meyer's peril,
Foxfire heaved the chair, using her hips and shoulders. "You've done enough!"
The chair crashed into the third man, staggering him. She didn't wait for its full effect, but
turned away to seize her own chair. Coming around again, she snapped on the first Gastarbeiter
pouncing on her, followed by the second one. The third kicked at Meyer's prop arm. Why'd you do
that, ndito? Bring them to you?
Glory in Life! she reminded herself and swung her chair harder. Abruptly, it bounced, deflecting
her attacker. She staggered back against the table and set her hand on the edge of a plate.
Steaming sauce stung her fingers, and as the man came at her again, she gripped the plate and
underhanded it into his face. He howled and ducked away. The second one, right behind,
hesitated.
Gasping for air, Foxfire fumbled on the table top for more tools — and found a knife. Heavy
silver, smooth and rounded, it wasn't much comfort, but its knobbly handle fit well in her grip.
Lifting it, she eyed her next opponent. I hope he doesn't accept my challenge. Behind him, Meyer
grappled clumsily with the last Gastarbeiter. He's not that hurt. Relief broke over her. He's
still trying. The Son/ghost-within blesses and damns in one instinct. Dread snatched away the
relief, and she refocused on her own attacker.
Hand clenched around her weapon, Foxfire waited. The second marauder bobbed. She gulped and
struck. He slapped the knife from her hand, then cracked down on her shoulder by the neck. She
buckled, from the blow, from the pain, but she fought it. Up, ndito, up! The marauder pushed
her. She went all the way down. She tensed against a kick. Glory in the Lord!
"Stay down, Voiceless!" he grunted at her instead. Then, louder, in another direction, he ordered,
"Move out!" She felt him jump aside, heard him yodel as he darted away. The other two melted into
the dark after him.
Noises of struggle flooded in suddenly: yells, cries, grunts, the thick sound of blows, the hollow
reports of bodies against tables, the snap of china and the crash of glass. Vague figures flitted
about the fantasy beach in a furious, destructive tarantella.
Warily, Foxfire scrambled to Meyer's side where he lay. Glory in the Lord! she prayed. Shadows
obscured his front, but allowed hints of pumping chest and streaked face. She touched him. He
jerked, eyes flaring open. Glory in Life! The next moment, recognition calmed him. Without a
word, she knelt beside him, gripped his arm, and helped him to sit up. Then, she boosted him to
his knees, then to his —
"We said, 'Stay down!'" A voice thundered behind them.
Foxfire looked. Beyond her shoulder, another bluish ghost bounded toward them like a gazelle. In
one leap, he surged from blur to menace, swelling before her eyes until she saw only parts of him:
a white grin splitting a swarthy face, a hooked club of a hand splitting the night. Something
knocked her aside. She fell hard, hearing, rather than feeling, a crunch, then a folding series of
thumps as Meyer went back down, then a swish as the attacker galloped on.
Head low, eyes wide, she spun on bruised hands and knees till she found Meyer, a sluggish wad on
the grass. Her fingers darted to his neck and found a steady, rapid pulse, then scampered over his
head. A full-fledged lump on his nape, a seeping gash across one temple, another flowing freely
over a broken cheekbone. She explored further, intimacy a distant echo of her explorations, held
off by her dread of possibilities. At last, she finished. No other wounds, except maybe scrapes
and bruises. Glory in the Lord!
Foxfire lifted on her knees to reach a napkin from a table. Meyer moaned, then stirred. She
helped him to sit up, then applied pressure to his temple wound with one end of the napkin while
catching the drip from his cheek with the other. The Daughter/within-me to The Son/within-him,
like they were made for each other.
His posture told of pain and fatigue, but his eyes smoldered. They flickered from a dire regard of
the woods to a softer joining with hers. He summoned a crooked smile to go with his attention.
"Are you okay?" he asked. Good first question ... excellent first question! His heart's in the
right place, ndito, right in your palm.
She nodded raggedly, then smiled more assurance. "I'm bruised and sore, but nothing serious."
Brows bulged over his darkening eyes. "How could this happen?" he asked plaintively. "We were
having such a nice time. Why did they have to destroy it?" His gaze dashed to the
surrounding darkness again. "Prosteh Gastarbeiter!" he cursed.
Emotions thumped inside her, foiling her ability to put words with them or even names on them.
Flavors of love, ilks of fear. The Son/within-her. The Daughter/within-him. So she just slipped
her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. His gentle hug afforded warmth and promised
protection. Even if The Son/within-Life is bigger and badder than The Son/within-Meyer, I know he
would try everything he could, just for me.
After too short a moment, duty pricked her. They did not lie alone on this field of misery.
Others could be hurt worse. You're a Nurse: act like it! The Son works within me, too. It
pushes me into harm's way, and it also takes me into the paths of righteousness. She freed
herself. "I'd better go see if I can help."
His ragged nod sent her into the dark.
