She was lying on my pillow this morning so that I could see her when I
awoke.
Her father has died, and she was with him when it happened. There was
again that thought-impression which I could interpret only to mean that
his life had been "saved." I was still sleep-bound when my mind asked:
"What will you do?"
"Stay with you, if you wish it, for the rest of your life." The last
part of the message was clouded, but I am familiar with that now. It
seems to mean there is some further element which eludes me. I could
not be mistaken about the part I did receive. It gives me amazing
speculations. Being only fifty-three, I might live another thirty or
forty years.
She was preoccupied this morning, but whatever she felt about her
father's death that might be paralleled by sadness in a human being was
hidden from me. She did say her father was sorry he had not been able
to show me a two-moon night.
One adult, then, remains in this world. Except to say that he is two
hundred years old and full of knowledge, and that he endured the long
journey without serious ill effects, she has told me little about him.
And there are ten children including herself.
Something was sparkling at her throat. When she was aware of my
interest in it, she took it off and I fetched a magnifying glass. A
necklace; under the glass, much like our finest human workmanship,
if your imagination can reduce it to the proper scale. The stones
appeared similar to the jewels we know; diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
emeralds, the diamonds snapping out every color under heaven; but there
were two or three very dark purple stones unlike anything I know--not
amethysts, I am sure. The necklace was strung on something more slender
than cobweb, and the design of the joining clasp was too delicate for
my glass to help me. The necklace had been her mother's, she told me.
As she put it back around her throat, I thought I saw the same shy
pride that any human girl might feel in displaying a new pretty.
She wanted to show me other things she had brought, and flew to
the table where she had left a sort of satchel an inch and a half
long--quite a load for her to fly with, but the translucent substance
is so light that when she rested the satchel on my finger I scarcely
felt it. She arranged a few articles eagerly for my inspection, and I
put the glass to work again.
One was a jeweled comb; she ran it through the down on her chest and
legs to show me its use. There was a set of tools too small for the
glass to interpret them; I learned later they were a sewing kit. A
book, and some writing instrument much like a metal pencil. The book, I
understand, is a blank record for her to use as needed.
And finally, when I was fully awake and dressed and we had finished
breakfast, she reached in the bottom of the satchel for a parcel that
was heavy for her and made me understand it was a gift for me. "My
father made it for you, but I put in the stone myself, last night." She
unwrapped it. A ring, precisely the size for my little finger.
* * * * *
I broke down somewhat. She understood that, and sat on my shoulder
patting my earlobe till I had command of myself.
I have no idea what the jewel is. It shifts with the light from purple
to jade green to amber. The metal resembles platinum in appearance,
except for a tinge of rose at certain angles of light. When I stare
into the stone, I think I see--never mind that now. I am not ready to
write it down, and perhaps never will be, unless I am sure.
We improved our housekeeping, later in the morning. I showed her over
the house. It isn't much--Cape Codder, two rooms up and two down. Every
corner interested her, and when she found a shoebox in the bedroom
closet, she asked for it. At her direction, I have arranged it on a
chest near my bed and the window which shall be always open. She says
the mosquitoes will not bother me, and I don't doubt her.
I unearthed a white silk scarf for the bottom of the box. After asking
my permission--as if I could want to refuse her anything!--she got her
sewing kit and snipped off a piece of the scarf several inches square,
folded it on itself several times, and sewed it into a narrow pillow an
inch long. So now she has a proper bed and a room of her own. I wish I
had something less coarse than silk, but she insists she's pleased with
it.
We have not talked very much today. In the afternoon she flew out for
an hour's play in the cloud-country. When she returned, she let me know
that she needed a long sleep. She is still sleeping, I think. I am
writing this downstairs, fearing the light might disturb her.
Is it possible I can have thirty or forty years in her company? I
wonder how teachable my mind still is. I seem to be able to assimilate
new facts as well as I ever could; this ungainly carcass should be
durable, with reasonable care. Of course, facts without a synthesizing
imagination are no better than scattered bricks, but perhaps my
imagination--