Filaria - Brent Hayward [8]
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen your face before — it is rather distinct. Perhaps in a dream?”
“I, uh, don’t think so.”
“No? Tell me, Young Phister, where do you want to go? Where do you want to look? I know a lot about this world.”
“Just stay there.”
“I can offer you some water, and something to eat. You both look like you could use some real food.”
Stricken, McCreedy paused, his hard stance foiled. “Food?” Drymouthed, in a whisper. “And water?”
“Homemade bread. Water. And canteen wafers. Real wafers. Not that modified garbage you try to survive on down here. You two are living proof that the canteens of these lower levels are seriously lacking nutrients. In fact, there’s no sustenance at all in these parts. A man could starve here, literally, in these remote service halls.”
“Let’s see your stuff.” McCreedy held out his dirty, cracked hands.
Long before Philip had drawn the mouldy bun and two vials of water from the front pocket of his jacket Young Phister was salivating. And maybe McCreedy was relieved that he no longer had to pretend to know the way home, or perhaps he derived assurance from the idea that he could henceforth apportion the blame, if things continued to go wrong. But Phister decided that the most likely reason for the about face was that McCreedy was way more hungry and frightened than Phister had imagined. Whatever the motive, Philip was allowed to clamber aboard, untouched, and squat awkwardly between the young boy and the old man, without so much as a word of protest.
Grabbing the bun from the stranger — as Philip leaned forward — McCreedy took a crumbling bite, and another, and another, passing only broken remains across to Phister.
“Onward then,” Philip said, grinning, showing those big square teeth.
Young Phister stuffed his face. Crumbs fell from his lips and his dry black toothless gums as the car moved once more.
“Onward, new friends, onward!”
Philip clapped them both on the back, and there his big hands rested, strong and heavy.
DEIDRE, L2
The Orchard Keeper’s youngest daughter, Deidre, woke intentionally during the night, dressed silently in darkness, and descended to the plantations long before her esteemed father had even entertained thoughts of his morning’s ablutions.
Guided by the bluebird that greeted her as she stepped from the lift, Deidre located today’s moth — startled into flight from where it rested in the wheatgrass, not far from where she had disembarked — and knew, the instant that the insect re-settled on the stem of a moisture probe, a mere metre or so before her freckled nose, that Sam had made for her, this time, a big Underwing. But honestly, never, never did it occur to Deidre that she’d confront catocola bianca until this grey moth shifted position and she glimpsed surprising white bands on the lower wings where she’d only begun to imagine red. Mouth gone suddenly dry, she found herself immobile with excitement, unable to move the collecting net any closer.
The moth was so perfect. All of Sam’s specimens were. Almost glistening, as if fresh out of the cocoon. As if a cocoon had once existed. No dust rubbed off the wings; no visible splits or ragged edges; firm, torpedo-shaped body covered in delicate hairs; two broad and beautiful antennae, intact, waving gently, tasting the warm morning. She knew by these fern-like antennae that the moth was a male —
Deidre also knew all too well of Underwings’ predilection to use their colour as a means of startling predators, yet she found herself succumbing to the simple trick, watching helplessly as the moth lifted off, a flurry of grey and white almost too fast for her to follow, insane trajectories taking the insect across the wheatgrass tops and into her father’s spindly citrus trees, where she finally did lose sight of it.
Zephyrs pushed hair back from her face. Dew burned off the foliage where the moth had been, steaming visibly. The air down here was so darn moist that when