The Island

The Nesians prefer the sound of a breath driven instrument. And they called to the sea as my darling was laid to her rest that late summer day in the place I thought of as the end of the world.

First trumpets as we took her small body to the place, and then the nose flute crying into the ocean. I kissed her coffin there on the hill as the sea crashed below. Such a small casket for so many hopes.

It is over, she is gone, so much is gone, my love for her, the future, and worst of all, my responsibility. I have failed her she is dead.

I walked down the hill before the final farewell was called and took a carriage back to town.

I went into a familiar bar. I sat at a table and waited for the airship back to the White City. It was early afternoon in late summer, the bar had wide windows facing out onto the busy street. The barmaid took my order, gin with quinine water.

I thought of Josephine, my baby who was no more, my sweetness, my unknown. She lived for three days struggling to breathe, such an effort she made, such a desire to be.

I thought of the Nesians. Damn their farewell for a person gone. Damn their sorrow and their celebration of life and death, damn that sentimental world of shared misery. I was alone and I was bleeding from my soul like a burst balloon, like a flooded plain.

I was raised on a farm in Balclutha in Britain, the product of a lady from the institute and a local man. I lived with my father until I was ten years old and then they took me to the institute. My eyes are green, I have bred pure, I am considered. My old grandmother and my father let me go. I did not care too much for their sorrow, I was on fire, so much to do, so much to learn. An institute is a place of wonder, a place of knowledge.

And now, I sit in a bar at the other end of the world, in Aotearoa, in the new centre for the new order, full of regret.

I sang a song of my youth, not the fancy notes of clever society but the keening call of the lost at sea and on land. And as I went through the joy and the loss, another voice matched mine, rising and falling. I looked up, it was the eichon I worked with. His name was Nartis. For the last six months he was my assistant. He was an artificial, a product of the White City

His paint was fresh, the geometric shape on his face was sharp, He favoured a kind of cartouche. The eichons paint their faces every day.

"Sit down" I said.

I looked at him, slim body, dressed in local clothes, about my height. He was not a person, but a thing made by the White City. A product of a civilisation long gone. An artificial, a machine, his body powered by a maya pod. His patterns a copy of the Arnold automaton.

We worked well together. He learned my world. He was clever and insightful, a marvellous assistant, always attentive, always obedient.

"Why are you here?" I said.

"The tests we are doing are complete, the next steps are ready to be done."

Soon after, we left to catch the airship ferry. We walked up George Street and turned into an alley. The airship was docked in a field at the back. They were ready to leave, we hurried across. We climbed on board and took seats near the back. It was warm inside and the light through the windows was a honey gold. I fell asleep.

Nartis woke me. We'd cleared the surrounding hills and were heading up the valley towards the White City. The ship shook as we went through the air. We turned side on and I could see the city through the window rising against the back wall of the valley high into the sky. A river of white stone flowing down the mountain. Narrow at the top and broad at the base, like a huge triangle pasted to the hillside. The ship slowed, and landed close to an opening in the rock wall.