Lies In The Hand

For a brief, stomach-dropping half-second, I don't know where I am.

Then the world coalesces into a warm, comfortable, curtained bed, bigger in itself than my whole tent back home. The angle of the draperies echo its rough canvas, but in such a refined, tempered way that even my first wild moments of confusion seem pleasant by contrast. The solid, richly carven wooden posts leave my old FlexiTen construction so far behind I wonder that I ever found the tent acceptable in the least.

Until this moment, I never realized just exactly how much I hate that ugly old canvas tent. Not for what it is, but for what it means. That I have nothing, and no one. That all I love is dead - and the only thing left is bare survival. No growth, no development, no joy, just plain, plodding, soul-sucking drudgery, forever and for all time.

I've only spent one night away from it, and already it's unthinkable to ever go back.

I push the thought away, putting off that paradigm shift for sometime when I'm fully awake.

I've scarcely ever slept as well as I did last night. I barely had time to settle in between the clean, dry sheets before I was dead to the world.

No matter. I'm awake now. I sit up, and look about me with considerably more interest than I did yesterday. Whatever I may feel about the last nine months, I've retained the habit of getting up at dawn, so everything in the room is still somewhat shadowy and amorphous. I think I can make out a desk, a large cupboard, a table, two chairs, and a couch to one side of me, and the washing station, a dressing table, and three more chairs to the other. There are several minor things I cannot make out in the gloom. And there are two banks of full shelving across from me, with a door in between them. I remember just noticing them last night - no more than that. Now, in the bluish-grey light of early morning, I can't help but wonder what the slim rectangles that populate the shelves are, or where the door leads.

I shake my head at myself.

"Curiosity killed the cat," I murmur, and instantly wonder if there are any cats on this island. I've only seen cats in pictures - I wouldn't mind seeing one in real life. . .

I shake my head again, and then slip from underneath the heavy covers, and go in search of the toilet facilities.

Maybe that's what is behind the door.

And it turns out it is, but I stand in the doorway staring for several minutes before I find what need. A huge freestanding vat sits at one end of the long, narrow room, on an expanse of gleaming white tiles. Half the wall to my left is covered in shelves full of bottles, jars, brushes of all shapes and sizes, tubes of things I've never seen before, coloured bricks of sweet-smelling stuff, multi-coloured plastic boxes, tiny mirrors, jewel-toned spheres in glass cylinders, see-through bags of puffy bits of cotton, and a myriad of strange devices I don't know the uses for. Beside them is another dressing table, this one stacked with fluffy, neatly folded lengths of cloth. Directly ahead is a wall of full-length mirrors, and to my right is a wide archway that leads to an enormous walk-in closet. My mother had such a closet - a much smaller one - that was her pride and joy. Only in Central Township is space ever wasted in such a way.

And then I spot it, between the full-length mirrors and the big empty vat - another door, sitting small and plain, almost like an afterthought. In there is the device I need, and, thanks be, it is the same VacuSan composting model as we have on the Skycities - no strange buttons or pull-cords, or fancy fripperies like scented sprays or heated seats. The DriWash sanitation tissue is even the same floral scent we have on Skycity 15. The familiarity is quite relaxing.

The cold white tiles around the vat strike a chill across my bare feet, both walking to the tiny side-room, and coming back out again.

I pause, briefly, to wonder what such a large vat could be for. Surely, this isn't an AR gel decon room, is it? Right across from the closet? Surely not. But I'm at a loss as to what else an empty vat could be used for, in a community that grows its food in soil instead of specially treated water. If this was a lab, now, or a farming station, there would be any number of uses for it, but this is a toilet station and dressing room that is also used for. . . First aid? Display? Storage? Magic potion. . . ing? I realize I don't actually know that it isn't a lab of some sort - those bottles and jars could contain anything, really.

But next to the toilet station and clothing storage? Why?

I also wonder where the steamshower station is, but there's time enough to ask about that. My feet are beginning to ache with cold.

I throw on the long ÆXo-cloth hooded overcoat I brought with me, and pull on the house slippers - which are perfectly dry from yesterday, thanks to Mrs. Graham - and go in search of a hot cup of tea.

Unsurprisingly, I find one in the kitchen, along with Mrs. Graham herself.

"Now why am I not at all shocked to see you up and about so early?" I ask, teasingly cheerful, but still subdued in the large quiet of this house at dawn.

"Oh, I'm not usually," she says mildly, pouring me a cup of tea before I can ask for one, "It's just the time year, you know."

I don't know, but I don't ask, either.

"So, you like working for Uncle?" I say. It's less a question and more an invitation. If ever there was a woman who emphatically does exactly what she chooses to do, it's her.

"Oh, Lamb's a dear," she says, sitting down across from me, "But I worked here long before he ever came to the island. This was the old manse, you know."

"Oh?" I say, as though I have any idea what a manse is, "Was it?"

She nods, and by her expression, she is remembering some wonderful days gone by. "Yes. And Reverend Wakefield was a dear, dear man. He's gone over forty years ago, now, bless his soul. He had no children, more's the pity." She sighs a little, in regret or happy remembrance it's impossible to say. "But he looked after Ben and me - left us legacy enough so's we could set up our Beth in her own little shop in town, and more than that, we've a permanent place here, so long as the house stands," she chuckles softly, "And they can't tear it down - it's an official historical building now!" She sips her tea, placidly, "Yes, the old Reverend thought of everything." She turns her twinkling eyes back to me, "But here I am, maundering on. What do you think of the house, dearie?"

"I think it's the most beautiful place I've ever been in," I say, sincerely, "Wood paneling, drapery, lamps and mirrors everywhere! I've only ever read about such things. You must have an exceptionally good house-generator. All of the lights in this place!" I nod in the direction of her square-meter sized cooking pad, atop the full-size baking/warming oven, "And that cooking station must take as much energy as a skycar, at least. Not to mention heating the whole house must be a nightmare and half. I can't imagine keeping it all clean. . ."

Mrs. Graham smiles wryly, "It is something of a chore, that's true enough. . ."

"But I'm talking nonsense. Of course you have a good generator. I saw it last night. Though why you keep it so far from the house I don't know. . ."

Her brows knit in confusion, "Our. . . generator?"

I nod, "Yes. Those stones on the hill? Uncle said they were a power generator. I didn't quite understand what he meant. But, of course, with a house this size-"

"He didnae!" she interrupts, very angry, but clearly not at me, "The first night he takes ye thear! Of all places, on yer first day! The numptie! He might at least have let ye have a night's rest first!" She puts her head in her hands a moment, as though trying to dispel a headache, which maybe she is. "Claire, dearie, I. . ." she makes an exasperated noise at the back of her throat, "I'm none too sure exactly how much he plans to tell ye about those stones, but. . . they ar'nae our house generator. They're. . . sumthin' else entirely."

"Oh. . ." I trail off, too bewildered by her reaction to be too curious at the moment, "Well. . . I'm sure I'll understand eventually," I put down my empty teacup, and stand to go back to my room, "I suppose I ought to go get dressed. . ."

"Wait!" she says, snatching up my teacup with a strange urgency I've not seen from her before, "Ye. . . would'nae mind if I read yer tea leaves, dearie?"

I blink, totally at sea. "Read my. . . tea leaves?" I say, so clearly confused that I don't have to tell her I have no idea what she means.

"Yes dear," she swirls the dregs in my cup, and looks at them intently, "They do say that tea leaves left in a cup can tell a person's future. . ."

This strikes me as so absurd that I cannot help smiling. "Oh, is that all?" I sit back down. "Well, go on then."

For a few minutes she says nothing, only stares into my cup, looking at the base of it, swirling it and tilting it towards the brightening light coming through the window. Finally she puts it down, a strange look on her face.

"Well?" I prompt, less amused than I was a few minutes ago.

"Well, it's odd. . ." she points at the inside of cup, "You see those swirls around the edge, and the scalloped shapes underneath them?" I nod. "Normally, it would mean a journey over water, but since that's been your whole life anyway, there must be more to it than that. There are some very strange shapes that break up the pattern, meaning your near future will change greatly, but. . . also, stay remarkably the same. And then. . . I've never seen such a clean center." She points again, and sure enough, the middle of the base of the cup is remarkably clear of tea leaves, "It's as though. . . your more distant future will curve back on itself. Time after time. Almost. . . looping. And then, it just. . . disappears."

"My future disappears?" I say, swinging back to finding the whole thing absurd. "You mean. . . I'm going to die eventually? Isn't that normal?"

"Nae. There's no sign of yer dying. Not yer old age, not yer death, not. . . anything."

She puts the teacup down with an emphatic clatter.

"Agh," she exclaims in the expressive, wordless way I'm starting to expect from the people here, "'Tis just tea leaves, dearie. They do say. . . real truth. . . is. . . well. . . written in your hand. . ." she holds out her own hand, wordlessly asking to see mine.

Now palmistry I have heard of. It's part of a sort of parlour game we on Skycity 15 sometimes play during the spring or winter holidays. One participant is the "Veiled Lady" and their part is to wander around the room draped in a sheet or other thin cloth, calling out, "Your Future! Your Future! Your Future for a penny!" or some similar nonsense. Whoever else wants to participate, puts a tenth-liter token on their palm, and holds it out to the Lady. Then she (or he, there's no rule saying it must be a woman, but it's usually not a man), they extend the veil over the outstretched hand, take the token, and then shine a bright torch underneath the other person's palm and fingers. This casts a dim red glow through the skin, and the Veiled Lady then reads out some patter or other about lines of thought and life, lightness and darkness of the heart, heights and lows of the future - all prearranged over-theatrical tosh, I've always thought.

But now, I'm not so sure. . .

This seems so different. . . and Mrs. Graham isn't being at all theatrical. In fact, I've never seen her look so serious.

Slowly, I reach out my hand, and place it, palm up, in hers.

She takes even longer over my hand than she did over my teacup. She tilts and turns my hand, gently, looking at. . . looking for. . . I don't know what. There are lines and wrinkles, dips and curves, a few scars - I have quite a normal hand.

Or so I thought. . .

"Most extraordinary," says Mrs. Graham, at last. She hasn't released my hand, and now she lifts it up to show me some particulars. "Ye see here? 'Tis yer life line. It splits half way through and the two lines run parallel. Now, there's nothing so very strange in that - it could mean naught more then you work a job very different from yer private life - but the odd thing with ye is. . . both yer lines are broken up, and each part curved outward. They make these little ovals, see?" And it's true, that part of my hand wrinkles into tiny oval-ish shapes.

"And. . . that means. . ."

"Don't ye see, dearie? It's looping again. Yer future curves back on itself, over and over again. Almost like ye live. . . a dozen lives in the middle of yer life. . . and then the lines join again, and. . ."

"Yes. . . and then?"

She hesitates a long moment, then says, slowly, "I've not seen these exact signs before, but. . . everything says that ye'll die. . . before ye'r born."

My forehead wrinkles, "But. . ."

She quickly moves on to another part of my hand, "And here, ye see, ye'r passionate, intelligent, empathetic, hopeful, a quick learner. . . ye might be destined for great things, but ye'll have to choose to do them. . . and here," she smiles coyly, "Ye know how to please a man. And it looks like ye'll have two husbands. Or maybe three. With such a labyrinthine future and yer marriage line all branched and fragmented, it's hard to tell, but for all that, it's certain ye'll get to exercise yer power over men before the end."

It's all too much, but that last is quite enough.

"Oh! I don't think so," I pull my hand away, not sharply, but firmly, "I mean, Frank's been dead over four years, and I've not felt any inclination to marry again."

"Even so," she says, rising to clean up the tea things, "Don't discount the possibility."

I smile placatingly, "Oh, I won't. I mean, I only came to this island because I hoped to find my future anyway-"

A ringing clash interrupts me. Mrs. Graham has dropped a cup and saucer, smashing them to shards. She doesn't seem to notice.

"What did ye say, dearie?"

I pause a little, confused, "I. . . I said, I came here hoping to find my future. . ."

She whirls back to face me. "When ye saw Craigh na Dun, what did ye feel?"

"When I saw what?"

She waves a frustrated hand, "The standing stones. They're called Craigh na Dun. Now when ye saw them last night, what did ye feel?"

She's so intent, I have to answer her, though I hardly know what I felt myself.

"I. . . I suppose I felt. . . solemn. . . and. . . awed?. . . maybe. . . curious, I suppose. It was such a short glimpse, and we didn't stay long. . ."

"Did ye want a closer look?"

I nod, slowly. "I did."

"Ye felt their power, then. . ." Her eyes focus far away, and her mouth settles into a determined line.

"Mrs. Graham, what is that place?"

She takes a long, slow breath, and with some effort, focuses her eyes back on mine, "It is a place of power, dear. Just. . . not the kind that is normally understood. The power of Craigh na Dun is contained within what each person hopes they may find. And you have some powerful hopes, my dear. . ."

I sigh, tired of so many impossible things before breakfast, "I'm. . . so confused."

She nods, "Aye, ye would be. . . my apologies Claire, dearie." She pats my shoulder, reassuringly, "I'll tell Lamb you want to know more about the place - he's always willing to explain it all to an eager listener. . . If they're the right kind of person, of course. And. . . in two days time. . . perhaps ye'll be able to see what I'm talking about. Lamb will know whether you could bear to see it. . ." She trails off, and goes to fetch a dustpan and broom.

At that moment, direct sunlight breaks through the kitchen window for the first time that morning, bathing my face and the table in brilliant radiance.

I can only hope the dawning of my understanding will be so bright.