The Border
between Day and Night
by
Jill
Zeller
SMASHWORDS EDITION
******
PUBLISHED BY:
J
Z Morrison Press on Smashwords
The Border between Day and
Night
Copyright ©
2012
by Jill Zeller
Cover art by
http://www.stockedphotos.com/
Smashwords
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The Border between Day and Night
Riding the gondola up the highest mountain on the planet, I wish I could open the door and dangle my feet and scare the wits out of my sister Carmen. With gravity here ¾ what it is back home on Earth, I wonder if the fall, perhaps 100 feet? A thousand? I have no clue about the distances to the slopes below—would kill me or simply maim me; crushed, slashed and bleeding, impaled on the spiked trees with the long, slender barbs—at least I think they are trees. Here, they could be anything, sentient beings rooted to the earth
She sits, hands folded, looking at the astonishing view with bright eyes. Perfectly still, only the hem of her cotton dress quivering slightly to show that she is very excited. Carmen always, still, like a vigilant vole.
“Look, Carmen,” I say, and her eyes catch mine; I see a charm in them I haven't seen since Jorges left her. “Look at the bird. It could sweep this gondola off to its nest, feed us to its fledglings. Look!”
She turns, her straight brown hair swinging against her cheek. We watch the monster, its wing-span wider than a small Earth airplane, as it glides through the thin air. The gondola is pressurized as it rises through the atmosphere. The bird will be unable to go with us all the way to the top, but it seems to follow, gaining altitude with each spiral.
The other passengers, a man and woman, their sullen teenage son, an older couple, all make noises of appreciation as we admire the bird. Its long tail-feathers are blue and green, glistening red encircles its neck, and it sports a black top-knot. From the ground these birds are mere dots in the sky; here we are their equal, but interlopers, trespassers in the sky.
The residents aliens—are they aliens? We are the aliens!—have warned us about the birds, but claim we are really in no danger because the birds live only in the highest altitudes, places we as mere tourists would never go outside of the gondola ride. This from the park ranger who loaded us onto the gondola, for that is the only way I can describe him—white-skinned, ten feet tall, shepherding us tiny humans, his nostrils huge and his chest a barrel; they have vestigial tails, we are told, but none of us have seen one yet. I cannot pronounce the name of the planet. Xitoxlez, or something like that. Carmen, of course can pronounce it perfectly, even understands their high-pitched, clicking language.
The park ranger said, laughing in their weird, huffing way, “Be careful up there. The mountain is called Shotolxelzatpin. It means Keeper of Secrets. You may find yourself telling someone something you don't want them to know. That is the only danger.”
I was hoping to see Carmen afraid. She is timid and afraid of everything. She has phoned Earth each day at great expense to check on Mendez, my teenage nephew who couldn't wait to see his mother leave the planet. But Carmen is enchanted by the sight of the bird, and she takes a photo of it with her phone, as does everyone else in the gondola.
I have been aware of the two men and the boy both checking me out. I have worn the tight green top and the butt-hugging capris, piled my blond-streaked hair on my head. I enjoy the attention; I was always the pretty one, but I had bad luck with men, especially my last husband Franco. I remember that I felt a moment of relief, almost glee, when I learned that Jorges had left Carmen, disappeared after leaving the house for cigarettes. Just like Franco.
So I think again about what it would be like to fall so far, down into the blue and green slabs of rocks, the spiny trees, or get snatched from the air by one of those behemoths.
Our mother too. Our father left when we were small; I was six, Carmen ten. Bad luck with men. It was in our genes, an inherited trait. We thought, mother and I, that Carmen would break the cycle, be happy, have a successful marriage. But after seventeen years of a seemingly story-book union, suddenly Jorges grew tired of her, walked out the door, and never came back. Carmen didn't know where he was.
Clouds allow us through, blank out the sun—their sun, not our happily burning Sol, but a similar star. This planet Exey-whatever is popular with humans because it is so like Earth, Earth on steroids, where everything is bigger. Even this mountain—what is it called? I ask Carmen and she smiles and replies;
“Shotolxelzatptin.”
Even this mountain is two times the height of Everest back home. Once at the top, we have been told, we will see stars during the day.
“The observatory is pressurized, too,” the man explains, his wife nodding. “Even the Xitoxlezians can't breathe up there.”
And they have those huge lungs.
Below a blue haze rests on everything, the mountain ranges, the lake, the valley of farmland and the city in the distance. We have passed 30,000 feet. The bird is left behind, circling lazily; it doesn't seem to mind.
On the mountain slopes snow is piled, its white sheen scarred by gray-blue boulders. The mountain was a volcano, we have been told, long quiescent. The Exey's monitor it with sophisticated equipment. Earth scientists have come here to study their eruption predictions. But the fires beneath this one are long dead, they claim. No danger, no danger. No giant birds. No explosive ash.
I wonder what it would be like to live here. Every place I have visited, I consider moving to. Maybe in the next place I will find a man who will not try to hurt me. For a moment, I feel tender toward Carmen. I don't regret bringing her here.
I had a hard time convincing her to come on this trip. Of course the expense was the big barrier, but when mom agreed to help, Carmen finally consented to come. The space-fare alone was the price of a condo in Laguna Beach, but mom had money and she was happy to share, especially with Carmen, who never asked for money as I constantly did.