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Madison Scott-Clary 2021-02-15 23:25:02 -08:00
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writing/hand-of-god.html
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@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sarai gestured to the bookmark, the etched letters on its surface. &ldquo;That. Every time we&rsquo;re here at camp, you read like two pages of your book and then just play with that. What is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>She shrugged and handed it over. &ldquo;Gift from my dad. We had a&hellip;complicated relationship, but he gave this to me before I left. Just a bookmark, probably from some tourist trap.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;May the road rise up to meet you&rsquo;, huh?&rdquo; The linguist looked as though she was on the edge of saying something snarky, but her gaze softened. &ldquo;Go n-éirí an bóthar leat. It&rsquo;s Gaeilge. Irish. Supposed to be &lsquo;may your travels be successful&rsquo;, but someone messed up the translation ages ago, and we got this version.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;May the road rise up to meet you&rsquo;, huh?&rdquo; The linguist looked as though she was on the edge of saying something snarky, but her gaze softened. &ldquo;<em>Go n-éirí an bóthar leat</em>. It&rsquo;s Gaeilge. Irish. Supposed to be &lsquo;may your travels be successful&rsquo;, but someone messed up the translation ages ago, and we got this version.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yeah. I studied Celtic languages for a while and wrote a paper on the whole blessing for an undergrad anthropology class. Write what you know, I guess.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aaron asked, &ldquo;&lsquo;The whole blessing&rsquo;?&rdquo;</p>
@ -65,7 +65,8 @@
<p>Hands.</p>
<p>Hands.</p>
<p>Always hands.</p>
<p>Jude had tuned out, and some distant part of her was surprised to find that she had stood, that she had been pacing, that she had stopped and hunched and tensed, once more facing the outcropping. The outcropping of dead rock, new these last few months, resisting study and understanding. That finger pointing toward God.</p>
<p>Jude had tuned out, and some distant part of her was surprised to find that she had stood, that she had been pacing, that she had stopped and hunched and tensed, once more facing the outcropping. The outcropping of pale and dead rock, new and uncharted, growing these last few months. The rock that resisted study and comprehension. Resisted humanity, pushed it away with some dark sense of unwelcome.</p>
<p>That finger pointing toward God.</p>
<p>Elanna&rsquo;s voice broke through the compulsion. &ldquo;You okay?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The botanist frowned, the tension draining from her as a blanket settled over her unsettled mind. Turned, abashed, back toward camp. &ldquo;No. Maybe. I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The hand of God had loosened its grip around her mind and here she was, back at camp, back beneath the trees, back by the tall reeds, back by the ferns fingering the air and the fronds like hands reaching out to them.</p>
@ -75,7 +76,7 @@
<p>And one by one, they went to bed. The physicist. The linguist. The archaeologist. The botanist.</p>
<p>One by one they retreated to their tents and their own personal narratives diverged once more. Perhaps they slept, perhaps not. Perhaps they dreamed.</p>
<p>Perhaps the others dreamed. Jude knew that she did. She lay on her camp pad and closed her eyes and there must have been some point at which she fell asleep, at which she crossed that border, but she was not aware of when. She was only aware of opening her eyes again and seeing before her her own face.</p>
<p>It was not a mirror, for the movements were not exact. It was another her. Another version of herself, and while it blinked as she might, and when she lifted her head, it lifted its own, the exactitude was imperfect. There were subtle differences. Their breathing was off by half a second, perhaps, or she was sweating more heavily than it.</p>
<p>It was not a mirror, for the movements were not exact. It was another her. Another version of herself, and while it blinked as she might, and when she lifted her head, it lifted its own, the exactitude was imperfect. There were subtle differences. Their breathing was off by half a second, perhaps, or she was sweating more heavily than it. It, like the outcropping, seemed to resist its own humanity.</p>
<p>And when she reached out her hand to touch its face, it reached out its own to return the gesture, and, very specifically, moved its arm above her own so that they would not collide. Was that something that a reflection could do?</p>
<p>And the touch was real. It was palpable. It was warm. It was present. There was the softness of her palm. There were the callouses on her fingers. There was the dirt beneath her nails.</p>
<p>And her cheek was as cool as her own felt, and those tiny hairs that lent to the softness of her skin were beyond familiar: known in a way that proved the relationship beyond a doubt.</p>