She had not said goodbye to Persun, Perhaps better that she not say goodbye. Considering everything …
One of the foxen and I are going on a journey. No one knows whether we will arrive anywhere or be able to return. If we do not, someone else will, eventually. There are enough of us that we may go on trying, as long as it takes.
His claw touched her again, teasingly.
She sorted through the pages, setting them in order, knowing they wouldn't tell Rigo what he wanted to hear or even what she wanted to say. There was no time to write another letter, and what could she express otherwise? Perhaps, if things had been different along the way, Rigo would have been with her today. He had chosen to go back. She had chosen to go on. There was no blame in either choice.
She looked up at the city, seeing the wind-thrown shadows move among sun-dappled trees. The letter could be left here in the desk. Tony or Rillibee would find it and see that it was sent. She had never intended her departure to be ceremonial.
Now, He said like a trumpet. Now. There were others with Him, a great many others. Whether Marjorie had intended ceremony or not, the foxen had come to say farewell.
She wrote the last few words and signed her name, as she knew it, wondering whether Rigo would be relieved that she had gone or annoyed that she was past pursuit. What use would he make of these pages? She set the desk on Mainoa's grave. Duty was done, but there were still promises to keep.
They were all around her. She mounted the familiar mirage and arranged herself. A hundred yards away, the Arbai transporter glowed with bubble light, nacreous glimmers, a veil of mystery within the loop. There was only one way to test it: by going through. Decorum, she told herself as they approached. One should go toward one's destiny with decorum.
"Marjorie," she said aloud, voicing the last words she had written so she could hear how they sounded. He did not know her as Marjorie. This might be the last time she heard her name.
Marjorie,
by the grace of God, grass.
Amen.
About the Author
Sheri Tepper was born Sheri J. Stewart in Littleton Colorado in 1929.
She started out writing childrens stories, and released her first adult book in 1982. In 1991 she released the novel “Beauty” for which she won the Locus award for Best Fantasy Novel. She also wrote as E E Horlak, B J Oliphant and A J Orde.
She is now a great grandmother and currently lives with her husband Gene of 50 years in Santa Fe, NM, where the climate is warmer and kinder to arthritic bones than was her former residence in Larkspur, Colorado, which is high altitude and high snow bank country.
She is currently working on a sequel to three former writings:
The True Game books, all nine of them.
Plague of Angels.
The Waters Rising.
Table of Contents
GRASS
Contents
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About the Author
Sheri S. Tepper, Grass
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