Even in the comfort of my bed, almost large enough for me to spread my arms and legs in every direction, I am unable to sleep. The night hangs quiet, so quiet that it seems to roar in my ears. I’m used to the shift of metal all around, the hum of my ship, or the ever-beating heart of a city, its streets flowing with millions of lives, all vivid, all bright. The sisters are all in bed too, I guess, everyone having drifted away and into their respective huts after dinner. There is only the sound of the river, and the loudness of my thoughts.
I can’t stop thinking about the cliff behind the village, jutting so high above us, most of the huts pressed right up against it. I keep imagining the entire rock falling down on us, crumbling and consuming, burying every hut, the bell tower, my ship, in shards of raw black stone.
My skin crawls and I sit up.
Though the river’s roar muffles all else, I get the sense that something is outside. An animal? One of those goat things the sisters claim to rear? Or maybe one of the sisters making her way to the privies.
I get to my knees on the bed to peer out the single window in my room. I brace my hands against the sill, and push open the shutter. There are no glass panes here, nothing now between me and the cold night.
I can see the bell tower at the edge of the village. And beyond it, the rising mountain, bathed in darkness. A flash of ochre brilliance illuminates the sky beyond the mountains. Heat lightning, pulsing against a ceiling of heavy clouds. I can’t hear the thunder; it’s too far away. But I can almost feel the electric rumble as I watch the sky flash behind the mountains, silhouetting their sharp black edges.
Something catches my eye, a new shape outlined by the silent lightning.
Did I imagine it?
I lean out the window, inhaling the frigid night air. Lightning pulses.
There it is again: Broken spires, reaching up from the trees like monstrous fingers. Walls, arches, and half-crumbled windows. It’s aruin. Up on the mountain. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before, that no one mentioned it.
Curiosity nags at me, but exhaustion hangs so heavy on my eyelids. I’m about to withdraw from the window and return to my bed when something new catches my attention. A movement in the periphery of my vision. I turn away from the window.
There in the darkness I see a shape. A shadow within the shadows.
And it’s watching me.
A scream lodges in my throat.
I’m frozen, my fingers numb from gripping the window frame. The shadow moves like liquid, changing and flowing, but always coming toward me. It’s as if a piece of the night has broken off from the rest and become its own creature. Outstretched fingers of shadow seem to coalesce, taking form. Extending from the darkness. Reaching for me.
I hold my breath in the stillness, not sure what I’m seeing. Not sure whether I’m seeing anythingat all, or if this is just another of my dreams. But even as I question the reality of this vision, it continues to change. The shadow becomes solid. It fills the hut with its presence. The shadow is tall, much taller than a human man. Two legs, broad shoulders, hands with clawed fingers. Its head is black fire, edges licking white in the moonlight. For a brief instant I think I see a pair of massive horns bursting out from the flaming visage, curving out and up. And then there is a flash – eyes, a pair of smoldering coals in that darkened face.
My shadow.
He moves closer and I feel his voice again, washing over every cell and threatening to drown me.
MIDONIA.
I dart for the bed, throwing myself under the blankets, pulling them tight around me, over my head.
He’shere. But he can’t be; he isn’t real. He’s a daydream. A little girl’s fantasy. A specter that rules over my inner world. He has never been so clear to me before, so immediate.
My heart slams a staccato against my ribs, louder than the roaring river. I repeat the refrain as I try to soothe my racing heart:This isn’t real. He isn’t real.
But I know what I saw. I know how he feels.
My shadow is no longer calling for me. He found me.
***
I wake to the sonorous clang of the bell. Morning light filters in and bathes my room in pale relief. I sit up, dragging my fingers through my hair.
My stomach drops as I remember where I am and what I saw last night. The ruin, my shadow.
‘Space fatigue,’ I mumble stubbornly. I remember what the company doctor told me, the one who inspects employees after any work-related incident. ‘Trauma.’
I dress in the only clothes available to me, the woolen dress, stockings, and leather shoes. I’m on edge, a knot behind my ribs that can’t let go of the shadowy specter, but I can already feel my spirits rising, the unease ebbing with the start of a new day. I’m about to get off this rock.
As soon as I step outside, all I feel iscold. It bitesthrough my wool dress and shakes me fully awake. I’m not used to mornings like this. I’m used to the stale air of my ship or the thick, humid mornings on New Earth, ripe with the smell of population density and centuries of industry. But here the air is thin, impossibly clean, andcrisp. When I inhale, I can feel the chill all the way up my nose. And when I breathe out, a pale cloud of condensation forms at my lips.
