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Return to Valjiir Continum
The evening was warm and breezy. Ruth Valley couldn’t stand being cooped up inside, particularly with Jilla Majiir’s silent sobs over the com screen. Tapes from Sulu always did that to her. Not that there was bad news, it was just seeing what she couldn’t touch. Ruth understood; she felt the same way when tapes from Spock arrived. It was simply that her empathy was too good. So she dragged a mattress out away from the porch, sat down with her guitar and a cup of coffee and played to the stars.
No. Don’t need that.
Nope. Don’t need that either.
Don’t sing about time.
Definitely not.
And he, in all his glory, was far ahead of her,
And then he sees her coming
“Couple in the next room bound to win a prize
They’ve been goin’ at it all night long…”“Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train…”
“And the summer became the fall. I was not ready for the winter…”
“Though it’s getting harder to face every day, don’t let it show, don’t let it…”
“Alas, he was the highwayman, the one that comes and goes.
And only the highwaywoman keeps up with the likes of those.
And she, in all her magic, with hands as quick as light,
Took him to be a challenge, and went into the night.
But she was never sorry for wishes that would burn.
Enter competition
She chased him beneath the moon
Her horse is like a dragonfly
She is just a fool
And she wonders, is this real?
Or does she just want to be queen?
And he fights the way he feels.
Is this the end of the dream?
Heartbeats on the wind
Considers slowing down
But then... he could never win
And she, out in the distance, sees him against the sky,
A pale and violent rider, a dream begun in why.
And she wonders, is this real?
Or does she just want to be queen?
And he fights the way he feels.
Is this the end of the dream?”
The sky was very dark. The lights of San Francisco seemed dim and far away. Even the spiderweb of the shipyards seemed unable to pierce the blackness. Ruth put her guitar aside, reaching for her coffee. It was cold. How long had she played?
She looked back in at the house. It, too, was dark. Jilla must have gone to bed. Ruth stretched, then shivered, debating whether it had turned too cool to spend the night outdoors.
Then she heard a soft footfall in the grass. Before she could turn again, something warm fell about her shoulders, followed by the firm but gentle touch of two hands.
“You looked cold,” was whispered in her ear.
She recognized the voice, immediately rejecting the recognition. “Who…?” she began.
“Do you expect me to believe you’ve forgotten me, zilama?” came the teasing reply.
Ruth stopped breathing, her heart pounding wildly. “Ter… Terry?” she managed.
A low, musical chuckle sent chills through her. “I go with this house, don’t I?”
With abrupt passion, Ruth twisted around, clasping the figure she still couldn’t see. Arms came around her, returning the embrace. “How, why…?” she stammered. Her words were buried in the silky hair that fell over his shoulder to his throat and still smelled of coffee and sea salt.
“You called me, zilama,” he murmured against her cheek.
The silence was obvious confusion, and he answered it softly. “Alas, he was the highwayman, the one that comes and goes.”
“Are… are you real?” Ruth whispered.
“Or do you just want to be queen?” he returned, and she felt his smile.
“I need… I have to know. I’m…” The touch of full, sensual lips on hers silenced her.
The kiss was all it had ever been, all she had ever dreamt since; passionate, playful, caring, accepting, giving, loving. When it broke – as sweetly as it had begun – Ruth pulled away, just enough to see his face. His pale skin shimmered, the dark almond eyes the color of the midnight sky, matching the fall of thick, silky hair. He was smiling, night and sunshine, both sadness and warm, living joy. Tears filled her eyes.
He brought her close again. “But she was never sorry,” he said, “for wishes that would burn.”
They lay together on the mattress, under the night sky, cold coffee and her guitar beside them, and this time she had no trouble falling asleep beside him.
She awoke in pre-dawn dimness to a clap of thunder and sudden, cool drops of rain on her skin. She could see a faint silver shimmer between her and the house. Without thinking, she ran toward it, catching up in the doorway, knocking down and falling over…
…Jilla.
“Honestly, Ruth, it is only thunder,” the Indiian said, picking herself up. “When I saw your guitar out with you, I thought you might want it rescued from the storm." Ruth blinked, looking back out to the mattress. “You fell asleep outdoors last night,” Jilla added, searching Ruth’s face with obvious concern. “Is everything all right?”
Ruth swallowed. “Yeah, sure. I just… I was dreaming. The thunder – startled me.”
Jilla nodded. “I will make fresh coffee. We must report to the yards at 0700.” She handed Ruth the guitar and walked toward the kitchen.
For a while, Ruth stared at the rain falling on the mattress, listening to the plunk an occasional drop made in the coffee cup beside it.
A dream, she told herself. Only a dream.
Still, the melody she had played lingered with bittersweet memory.
A dream, as the thunder wakes her and her highwayman disappears.
For a life already lived before in eyes wet with tears.
Today is still, today they ride. With they ever win?
He the glory, she the love, still, they try again.
Music credits:
Click on the name to hear the song!
Duncan by Paul Simon
Me and Bobby McGee by Kris Kristofferson, as recorded by Janis Joplin
Nightbird by Stevie Nicks
Don’t Let It Show by Alan Woolfson, as recorded by The Alan Parsons Project
The Highwayman by Stevie Nicks
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