Page 72 of As Many Souls as Stars
Miriam cocked her head, and hopped one-footed on the branch of the acacia. Isaac had begun to suspect her years ago, and he’d said similar things out loud before; she’d never humoured him with a response. But on this day, she was almost tempted.
It had been ten years exactly since Esther Harding’s death, and Isaac’s grief had led him to a harbour, a ship, a ceaseless journey through the Mediterranean. He’d been documenting his travels in letters he’d then published in England, to great sensation:The Nouveau Odysseus, the collection was called.
Miriam wasn’t certain why she was following him, but follow him she had, from the crystalline bays of Cyprus to the green-capped mountains of Sicily—and now here, the Eyalet of Tripolitania, still recovering from war and drought. In his wanderings, it often seemed as if Isaac was looking for something specific, but when Miriam looked into his soul, all she found was uncertainty.
He didn’t know what would make him happy. Neither did she—not that she particularly cared, either way.
Isaac sighed, shifted on the felled log he was using as a seat. ‘Talking to a crow,’ he muttered, and he scrubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand.
The desert was at their backs; to the north loomed the fertile plateau that stood between them and the sea, crowned with a wreath of farms and lush vegetation. This was a place of extremes, heat and sand and a sea that glittered white with salt. He clearly liked it here—so did Miriam—but soon they would leave.
Isaac took a swig from his canteen, then poured a measure onto the dirt beneath his feet.
‘Esther,’ he said, ‘it’s been a long time. I like to think that, if you were here, you’d say you’ve missed me; but you’d probably just tell me to wash the dust off my face.’
He took another drink.
‘I think you did love me, in your own way. You weren’t much one for sentimentality, but you did.’ Isaac kicked at the ground with his boot, then stood up. ‘I am sorry for what happened.’
Miriam had never understood why humans apologised for things they did not do. She watched him walk away, to the path that led back to the port, and she launched into the sky to follow him. An eagle swooped in her direction, perhaps sensing a meal—but as it neared, it recognised her as predator, not prey, and it turned to flee.
The breeze shifted behind her, ruffling her feathers. There was something different, suddenly, in the quality of the air—a change in pressure—and by instinct, Miriam turned her head to look back. The horizon was billowing, bubbling, as if the desert itself was water set to boil. Plumes of dust were rising in the distance, gaining speed, approaching as a wave approaches the shore.
She cawed as loud as she could. Isaac paused in his walking to look towards her, and in so doing turned around to see the storm.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Bugger.’
Isaac began to run. Miriam followed, although she knew it’d be little use—the port was too far away, the sand moving too quickly. His only chance would be to find shelter. But there was little shelter here, only a few jagged rocks and the stooped branches of the acacia trees. He curled behind one of these rocks, breathing heavily, face wan with fear. His dark hair was slick with sweat and red-brown with dust. Miriam settled on the rock to watch him.
There was a possibility he could die here. She wasn’t sure of it—humans were so fragile, it was difficult to tell what could and couldn’t kill them—but surely something like this would, at the very least, be detrimental to his health.
He looked up at her and flapped his hand, as if to shoo her away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Leave, you half-wit bird. Fly away.’
Miriam had no obligation to help him. Humans died all the time like this, victims to their own hubris, to the fickle hand of fate. It wasn’t Miriam’s job to save him. They hadn’t even made a deal.
But those eyes that looked up at her now, those curious, leaf-shaped eyes; those were Esther’s eyes, Cybil’s eyes. Darker, yes, but there was still something of his sister there, as there was in the upturned button shape of his nose, the wry humour in his expression as he surveyed the storm. That was why, perhaps, Miriam had followed him all these years. A diversion, a memento. She was not one for sentimentality, either, but—time, in its inexorable march, made fools of all.
The wind howled. In the distance, the sound of the dust was nearer a hiss than a roar—a thousand whispers in tandem. Isaac laced his fingers together in his lap and bowed his head, closing his eyes, muttering softly to himself.
It felt as if all of Tripolitania was holding its breath.
As the dust came, Miriam flung herself forward, pulling the shadows around them. They became as intangible as mist, she and Isaac Harding both; it was only when he opened his eyes that he realised anything had happened at all.
‘You,’ he said, astonished. Miriam realised that, thoughtlessly, she had shifted into the shape he recognised.
‘Hello,’ she replied.
Around them, all was coloured a violent red: the light of the sun diffused by the dust, bathing them in scarlet. It was as close to Hell as Miriam would ever come, and that almost made her smile.
‘I should’ve known it was you,’ Isaac said. ‘Whatareyou, exactly?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not. Why are you saving me?’
‘I’m not certain,’ Miriam replied—but that was a lie, and Isaac could tell.
‘Esther,’ he said.
