The Harvest

His eyes were wide and moon-bright. “Yes?”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” He smiled. “Sometimes.”

Miriam’s battery-operated bedside clock bled numbers into the night. 3:43. 3:44. There was a fresh new pain in her belly. “The Travellers are gone, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re still here.”

“We’re still here.”

Humanity, he meant. The polis, he had called it, the world contained in that blister on the horizon: Home. “William?”

“Yes?”

“Did I ever show you my journals?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see them?”

His smile was unreadable. “Yes, Miriam, I would.”

She left her bed and took down from their shelf the fat scrapbooks full of clippings from the Buchanan Observer. They had gotten wet in that terrible winter storm and the pages were thick and warped. But the clippings, for the most part, were still legible.

William sat up in his cot and leafed through the books one by one. It was a strange history contained there, Miriam thought. She remembered how everyone had been frightened by the first appearance of the Artifact in the sky. It had been enigmatic, terrifying, an emissary from another world. Now, less than two years later, it was these clippings that seemed like messages from another world.

The universe, Miriam thought, turned out to be a more peculiar place than any of us expected.

William said, “You obviously worked hard at this.”

“Yes. It seemed important at the time.”

“Not now?”

She had fought to protect these journals. But what were they? Tonight they seemed like so much paper and ink. “No… not now.” He looked at them carefully and then put them aside.

Miriam steeled herself to ask the essential, the final question: the question she had postponed, had dared not ask.

Give me strength, Miriam thought. One way or the other. Give me strength.

“William… is it too late for me?”

She trembled in fear of his answer. She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight, tight.

“No, Miriam,” the boy said gently. “It’s not too late. Not yet.” A chaste kiss on the lips.

The neocytes, he said, would work quickly inside her.

Before dawn, when Miriam was finally asleep, the boy crept out of the camper into the chill air.

A fingernail moon rode low in the sky. His breath made plumes of frost, and there was frost on the tarry surface of the parking lot, sparkling in the fragile light.

The Artifact had left orbit hours ago, resuming its long itinerary through the unexplored spiral arms of the galaxy. Its physical presence wasn’t necessary any longer. The collective knowledge of the Travellers had been duplicated and stored in the human Home, and Home would begin its own journey soon—once certain controversies had been resolved.

William’s bicycle was roped to the back of Miriam’s camper. Silently, he untied it and examined it.

The trip from Idaho had coated the bicycle with dust. The action of the chain and the derailleurs sounded thick and gritty. But he didn’t have far to go. He climbed on the bike and pedalled down I-80, a young boy, legs pumping in the moonlight, the ba

He turned left past an open gate, down a private road to the Co

Rosa, hurry, he thought. They’re coming in the morning. Hurry now.

Chapter 32

Release

William was with her as the sun rose.

Rosa lay on the farmhouse bed. The winter’s cold and wind had given the bedroom a dishevelled look. The oaken dresser had faded and its mirror had dulled; the curtains had tangled on the rod. The single large window looked southeast, where Home occupied a portion of the sky. Sunrise was a faint vermilion on those distant slopes.

The gray cocoon on the bed had cracked on its long axis and the two pieces had begun to separate. William gazed without visible emotion at the pulsating mass inside.

Rosa—they’ll be coming soon.

Help me, then, Rosa said.

William moved to the bedside, considered the problem, then grasped the two chunks of dense, porous material and began to pry them apart. Hurts, Rosa said.

William broadcast a voiceless apology. No. It has to be done.

The boy agreed, and grasped the cocoon again and strained his thin arms until he heard the material split along its back seam—a dry, fibrous sound like the crack of a walnut shell.

He felt her relief.

William stood away as Rosa began to unfold.

The sun was well above the horizon when she stood at last beside the bed, her enormous wings trembling in the cool air from the window.

Rosa Perry Co

She blinked at him, still mute. Her lungs were a fragile bellows, her vocal cords a memory. Her pupils, unaccustomed to the light, were black pinpoints. Her wings were a double ellipse around the axis of her body, and sunlight through the moist tissue made bright moires of blue and purple.

William felt her exhilaration. Curious, he thought, the way some of us manufactured these destinies for ourselves—these last, brief incarnations on the surface of the Earth. She didn’t seem strange at all. Only a stubborn dream given fleeting substance.

The membranes of the wings needed to dry before Rosa could use them. William didn’t hurry her—there was nothing she could do to speed the process.

He tore the drapes away from the window, the only practical exit. It was an old-fashioned window, one fixed pane and one counterweighted pane to slide up in front of it. Rosa’s body was tiny now and her wings were flexible, but she would need more space than this.

He shattered both panes and carefully, meticulously, plucked away the splinters of glass and tossed them to the dry earth below. Then, with surprising strength for a boy of his size, he grasped the obstructing arm of the wooden frame and pulled until it cracked and came away.

Some splinters remained in the wood despite his effort. The palm of his right hand was scratched; the blood that oozed out was dark and viscous, almost black.

Tyler looked up as he crossed the truckstop parking lot with Joey Commoner beside him. “Joseph? Did you hear that?”

“Sir? Uh—no.”

“A sound like breaking glass?”

“No, sir.”

Sound carries a distance in this still air, Tyler thought, across this dry prairie. He took a shallow breath, listening, but there was only silence.

“Hurry everybody along,” he said. “Breakfast is over. We have business to attend to.”

“Sir,” Joey said.

William heard the engines come to life one by one, though he couldn’t see the truckstop from this window.

I know, Rosa assured him. Soon now.

There was not much margin, the boy thought, on this brink of time.

The caravan of RVs made its way up the private road and parked in a ponderous line outside the Co

Abby Cushman liked the look of the house. It was a fancy two-story frame house, a comforting contrast to the range land all around it. It occupied its space with a doughty colonial dignity.