Sci fi prose

She sat in the garden and listlessly listened to the bowing of the xilqate among the tall blue reeds. The planet’s star hung low in the sky like a plump unripe fruit, blazing with green and ultraviolet. The waves of the saltless sea lapped gently at the beams of the low wooden pier, tickling a high-pitched chatter from the waterchimes that hung in bunches between the pillars.

The yawning pain of her missing organ ached dully with the same kind of gentle oscillation. She scowled, still irritated by the invasive security demanded by the Bvoq’cha, before turning her attention back to the cultivated abandon that surrounded her in an attempt to calm her mind.

She mentally reeled off the first stanza of the Etudes with an ease born of long practice:

Mvhon, the Watcher

Silho, The Speaker

Marsaal, The Shaper

Kreshin, The Seeker

Gorrdu, The Maker

F’les, The Sleeper

After breathing slowly and deeply for several minutes, she slowly opened her eyes, noting with idle curiosity as a xilqa inquisitively trilled closer to her before darting away in a blur of serrated legs as she shifted in her seat.

Finally, she stood up from the low wicker bench, stretching luxuriantly. Glancing back, for the first time she noticed a small lacquered plaque affixed to the center of the bench’s back, engraved with the cramped, geometric glyphs favored by the Bvoq’cha.

Dedicated to Pusalu Heranatu - passed to the rivers Cycle 54 Rain 637

Ah, must be Kr. Hernatth’s mother. Or grandmother? I can never remember which epicycle Rain is.

A cool breeze was blowing towards the sea. She shivered and pulled her wrap closer around her, and started trudging down the winding, stone-paved path back to Hernatth’s cabin.

Narrow posts lined the path, each supporting a small, swaying brass lantern. Small, bright ammonia flames blazed behind panes of acrylic glass, arranged into the typical hexagonal prism. Their yellow-green light mingled with the pervasive purple radiance of the setting sun,  bringing to mind a sudden childhood memory of sweet citron-blackcurrant lozenges.

She heard a sudden loud rattle and scraping noise behind her and turned sharply, only to see a gardening rake that had fallen onto the path, no doubt pushed by the wind. She breathed out slowly, trying once again to soothe her gnawing anxiety. She felt exposed to the world, in constant danger, without the comforting sphere of certainty usually provided by her electrosensory sinus.