To lament the sky

or, another fragment of Precipice

Hello amazing reader,

A further slice of Precipice has been carved into the page.

If this is your first time here (Hi! 👋) then these posts are each a piece of a larger story, to be read in any order. There is an actual arc, of course, a misshapen rainbow with muted hues and a bucket at either end wherein exposition collects if the light shines just so; but, for now I don’t want there to be any sense of oh-but-I’m-behind followed by a hasty exit.

Everything so far can be found in that link above, should you wish to venture. This piece in particular serves as a short introduction:

Notes from the edge

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Fragment synopsis: After a short stay in Vi, Jisa makes the journey back home.

Oh wow, so thrilling, Nathan!

I hope what’s written below amounts to more than that. That it pushes some feelings, evokes some sense of place and emotion. I’ll let you judge. As always, I love it when you comment, so hack away with any thoughts and feelings down at the bottom.

Is this Jisa’s view? I’m not sure. Midjourney thinks perhaps.

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“I could do it from up here,” I say, watching late afternoon light catch upon the wings of Cloud’s ship. “There might be a way,” I add, turning back to him. My words remain a lie, though I speak them still.

He shakes his head. “Too risky. I won't let you.” His hand moves from my knee to the controls, adjusting our trim with an action that seems subconscious. 

I look back out, at wingtips that skim vapour. Vi retreats, yet my memories are sharp and indelible. Attached to them, hanging upon every recollection like an unwanted gift, is the sickening feeling of it all having slipped through my grasp. Time is cruel and inexorable—if I could just go back, be there again, be at that moment of Cloud catching my arm as I walked past, only this time I would lead him to my home. We would enter and I would simply forget how to leave.

I wince, pained by impossibility.

“Fine,” I say, with all the pretend moodiness I can muster. “I’ll do it your way. From below. Somehow.” I kick my feet up onto the space above the controls, slide down in my seat and glance sideways, waiting for him to look at me.

He turns, that smile emerging so easily. “I’m coming back for you, I promise.”

My eyes narrow. “You better.” I scrutinise him harder, shaking my head, but even in this I cannot help the smile that breaks upon my own lips. “I hate you right now. I hope you know that.”

He laughs, and once more I am struck by how natural this is, how from nothing two people can co-exist as though they always had.

The shuttle console beeps, interrupting my thoughts. Cloud looks down and touches a screen.

“It’s time,” he says. “We’re far enough out.”

“So long, sky,” I say, wondering how long it will be until I see this sight again. If I will see it again. With a final glance over my shoulder, I take in the deep ember of this unknown place.

We begin to descend, plunge into the clouds at speed, into a darkness where all that remains is the soft blue of the ship’s lights. And with the dark so too comes the rain, the steady tears of the world. The shuttle rumbles, unsteady. We lurch and for one quick moment I lose my stomach, my hand darting to Cloud.

“Just turbulence,” he says, eyes on the multitude of panels. “We’ll be out of it soon enough.”

Another lurch. The craft pitches and then drops. I unclamp my fingers from Cloud and sit on them to keep them still. Just turbulence, I think. Stupid turbulence.

We continue for what feels forever, the ship jostling in the dark. It is as though we are plunging not through the atmosphere but the ocean’s depths, waiting for a patch of turbid water to clear and reveal some untold horror. My mind shifts to the reverse journey not even a day prior. The anticipation. What I would see. What was to come. Desires that would be fulfilled. All of it soaked in the calm veneer of alcohol. Here—now—there is no anticipation; only claustrophobia and impending loss, flecked with bitterness.

Suddenly the black becomes grey, the grey then thinner, and soon I am aware of the great mass of clouds that sweep into and over Cloud’s ship, flickering wraiths in search of something to haunt. With a final bump, we drop out of the clouds as overhead the ceiling of familiarity returns. Rain streams heavier, a thousand rivers birthed instantly upon the glass. In the distance, a flash of light before the deep greeting of thunder.

“Ah, home,” I say. “How I missed you.”

Cloud turns, placing his hand once more on my knee. He says nothing, just watches ahead as we glide down and into the Lowerscape’s airspace—below the so-called barrier—and enables an automatic course back to Siridan. The shuttle responds to his touch, veering to port. We cut a hard angle and I am pulled into my seat before the craft levels and the sensation is lost. In the distance I can see Siridan, its many tiny lights refracting through the wet canopy glass like gooey, translucent insects.

I look out and below, see edge-towns, scrub, industrial wastes. Then edge-towns, scrub, industrial wastes. It is like someone has stamped out the same pattern over and over.

I sigh, sliding further into my seat, toying with the buckle of my belt. “How long?”

Cloud releases his hand from the controls and peers at one of the panels on his left. “10 minutes or so.”

“Long enough,” I say, eyebrows raised, placing my hand on his.

He lets out a burst of laughter. “In here? In my ship?”

I raise my eyebrows again. Cloud continues to stare, uncertain.

“I’m joking,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to do it in your shitty little ship.” I pull at a strip of peeling rubber from a seal in the frame, letting it snap back with a dull twang.

“Hey, careful! Do you know how much I paid for this thing?”

“Not enough, evidently.”

Cloud shakes his head in mock astonishment. “A lot, actually. This may look like junk, but have you heard how silent we are? How smooth she rides?”

“Did you call that smooth?” I say, looking up, the anxiety of moments before now laughable.

“You should try that journey in a standard carrier.”

“Yeah, well I guess I never will.” My words fill the cabin with sudden bitterness.

Cloud extracts his hand from mine and pretends to adjust something on the controls. Then he reaches back over his shoulder to rummage in the small space that passes for storage. “Hungry?” he asks.

“Yes. Always.”

“Well, I’ve got shit all for sustenance, but there’s a few bits back here. I think.” He continues to move things around behind him, finally producing a packet of dried fruit.

“Dried fruit? You’re offering me dried fruit?”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, opening the packet.

“Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t want any. It’s just … well, you sure know how to treat a girl.” I reach over and grab a handful of the assorted fruits, popping them into my mouth and chewing. I feign disgust, but actually they taste good and I soon go back for more.

“Cloud,” I say, trying to find myself again, to accept what this is. “Will you tell me something?”

“Why am I worried about what you’re about to say?”

“Don’t be worried, it’s not like that. I …” I fidget, moving a piece of fruit between my fingers. “Will you tell me something more of your sister?”

He rests his head back against the seat, looking at me. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” That is not quite true. I cannot help my curiosity over Vosila and Zinn. Her disappearance. But I am not fool enough to think I’ll get answers.

“She was beautiful,” he starts, eyes unable to mask the emotion that sits so close behind. “I would say that, of course. She was my sister. But she grew into that beauty with such aching naturalness, such …” he moves his right hand in a twirling motion, “grace? I don’t know if that’s the best term. It was easy for her, I mean.” He pauses. “She was too beautiful for Zinn, inside and out.”

“You didn’t approve?” I offer, somewhat idiotically.

“I—,” he huffs; enough to betray his mind. “I was jealous, in that strange way. But, more than that. No, I didn’t approve. Zinn is—has always been—reckless. I love him, don’t doubt that, but he’s a bomb, all kinds of lit fuses burning at all kinds of rates. It’s simply a matter of time.”

I laugh at this. It is a perfect analogy. But then I stop, for what if—not if; surely when—Cloud realises I am the same. After all, he has already labelled Zinn and I siblings.

Cloud frowns, a puzzled look on his face. “What?” he asks. 

“Nothing. I was just struck by how true that is.”

“I'm sure far worse analogies have been made.”

“Hah. Far worse.” Then, “I guess you never told him he wasn't good enough?”

“What? No. Never. Not that it would have made any difference.”

“You know, it's funny. I can't picture him being with someone. Properly, I mean.”

He nods. “You mean with any hint of monogamy?”

“Something like that,” and I wink, stealing this line once more. “He’s never stayed interested in anyone for more than a week.”

“Well,” Cloud trails off, his face pained. 

“Oh,” I say. “After Vo, I suppose things changed.”

Cloud doesn’t respond. All I hear is the quiet hum of the ship, the rain that batters against us, the occasional grumble of thunder. For a long moment I worry I have pushed too far.

“Everything changed,” he says, finally. “It was all cut. Or I cut it. I don’t know. My memories of it …” He looks out of his window, a distant look. “Strange things, memories.”

“Grief,” I offer. “People cope differently. It’s normal.” I have no real idea of how it is for him.

Another clap of thunder comes, closer this time, a signal that Siridan creeps nearer.

I move my hand, hesitate, then wrap my fingers in his.

“My parents,” I start, desperate now to fill this gap of silence. “It wasn’t like they died. Yet it in a way, it was.” I continue to speak, and though words form at my mouth, some distant part of me is screaming to stop, to close this door before I jam it open. “In a way it was worse.”

“I understand, Jisa,” he says, the warmth of everything about this man so close as his thumb strokes my fingers. “I do. And that’s why I don’t know if what you ask is a good idea. So many years, so much time. Can you forgive them what they did?”

I shrug. “Unlikely.”

I have thought about this often. Bad thoughts. Relentless. Warv did what he could, which amounts to a lot, but did it matter? The hurt I caused and yet still he remained. Why? What have I given him in return? And of all his lessons, the one he repeated from the start was to let them go. Never to find them. It would only bring hurt, he said.

For all his wisdom, is that true?

“If you find them, it still remains my choice.” I say, slipping free from my thoughts.

He nods. “True enough. I will do it. If I can, I will do it. For you.”

“Thank you,” I manage as a sudden tear forms at my eye. I bite down against the inside of my cheek, look out through the glass at the wastelands, the two strips of red light that now oscillate back and forth along the wing.

Cloud squeezes my hand in his before releasing and checking his panels.

“A few more minutes,” he says. “Until we descend.”

Until this ends.

“I will tell you why I left,” he says, breathing out and rubbing his face. “Whilst we’re still up here. Whilst we’re speaking truths.” He fumbles for a moment, wiping his hands against his jacket. “I blamed him. For her death.”

I blink, stay silent.

“She is dead, Jisa. I would have found her by now were that not the case.”

“You don’t know that,” I try. “She might—”

“No,” he interrupts. “I know. In my bones, I know. I blamed him. Straight away, I blamed him,” he manages. “For the life he pulled her into, for the people he mixed with, for all his stupid schemes. And for what? Just so he could scrape by. I put it all on him, for I had no-one else but myself that I could. So I blamed him.” Cloud’s voice is a hairline above a croak.

“Why would you ever blame yourself?” I ask, pushing myself back up in my seat to sit properly.

“She was my sister. My little sister. I was supposed to protect her, my one task, and I failed it. So I blamed Zinn, too much of a coward to blame myself.”

I have no idea what I should say.

Cloud makes a fist, bangs it against the window. Outside, a flash and then thunder, as though in response.

“What did he say?”

“Zinn?” Cloud looks back to me. “Nothing. He said nothing to me. For almost a year.”

“A year? And during that time …”

“I left,” he confirms. “That was when I left.”

I release a sigh. “No wonder he’s never spoken of it.”

“Right,” Cloud says, composing himself. His console starts to flash. In the reality of outside, air-traffic has increased. The ship’s systems and relay with Siridan will steer us clear of anyone else, but the presence of so many others feels imposing, ominous. Then there is Siridan itself, clear and present; sprawling, mangled. The vast struts that support Vi look bewildering from this approach, spindled legs probing down from above.

“Our friendship healed, of course. But it took a long time. None of that seems real now.”

“Like it never happened?”

“Yes. Except,” he clenches his fist again. “Except Vo is gone. There is always that.”

Silence.

“He promised me there would never be anyone else. I suppose that is true.”

“You know,” I say, trying to lighten our words, to restore some normalcy—whatever that means for us. “I thought he was into me, at first. Idiot.” I laugh.

I want to say more, but then the ship’s angle changes, shooting us down towards the city.

As we descend, I feel a darkened reality seep in, racing towards me like the ground as we fall.

End-times, I think.

Could I simply pretend this is some story?

Could I just close this book, unfinished, untold?

Would we remain, here in the sky, unfinished yet unfettered?

Reality snaps me back. The beat of rain, the shuddering of our engines as we begin to slow, as landing gear extends and wingtips flex, as ground ascends, touching us, catching us, as sounds all around return me here.

Home.

Siridan.

Nothing.

Cloud speaking. “I’ll come back for you.”

You won’t, I know, as Siridan slips back into me.

You won’t.

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