Dreams of the Compass Rose Read Free

could be contained within it?
    The soul is a flower, severed from its stem, bearing seed, planted at birth, reaped in death, but never discarded in the bottomless well.
    What sin had been committed here, in this relic of a sepulcher, within a ruined place at the end of the world? What curse of madness, of unfulfilled desire, slithered about the ruins at night, and revealed their true stagnation only with the retreat of light?
    Or—did it thus also show their greatest truth?
    Where was it, the beast that has no name, the one that can only be seen when it sleeps?
    The ruins stirred in their own bottomless slumber all around Learra. But the beast without a name tugged at her nature, her innards, her fear, urging her and yet pulling her back, seductive in its caution, always but one step away, just out of sight, at the edge of her living dream. . . .
    And she knew then, with a sinking, a gentle sadness, that if she were to follow her final desire—the one that pulled at her, that called upon her to open the coffins one by one and thus reveal the final mystery—then she would find out something that was not human, was not hers to know.
    Dare to know! wailed the night. You, who seek, you must achieve that what has driven you all your life.  . . .
    And Learra stretched out her hand with its callused work-palm, and trembling, touched the cold bronze metal of the center casket before her.
    Do it . . . Whispers came from all recesses of her mind. Proceed, or you will die in madness.  . . .
    The brass handle of the coffin was circular, made to fit her palm exactly. The heavy lid had probably jammed with time; lifting it will require inordinate effort.
    Do it . . . This is the one purpose of your life.
    And yet she thought, pausing with her trembling fingers locked in an embrace upon brass. And she thought of her life, looked back suddenly, and saw in retrospect something akin to a flower that had developed from a seed, and had grown along a fine stem of experience, and had been cut promptly upon maturation, and now awaited its next stage.
    The hand that held the flower was now poised on the brink of a decision. That decision could return the flower back to a familiar place where it could be pollinated and harvested of its seed. Or else the hand could take it far, into a place dark and unsure, into a place without fertile soil, without bottom, or end, outside the world. . . .
    The choice was before her, in the form of desire.
    Learra looked at the inscription on the coffin of brass, at the ancient coffin itself that lay before her like a lover.
    She knew the words that were inscribed there without having to read that ancient tongue. She had known for the greater part of her life, and the words had become a part of her. The words, whispering within her. The words, shimmering like mother-of-pearl in her inner vision, every night before sleep would take her by the lashes. . . .
    And the woman let go of the brass, told her fingers to let go, to unclench from their passionate embrace with the possibility of death before her.
    While she did so, the moon continued to spill itself softly through the sky window into the sepulcher, over the black ruins, over the island that was half-real, half-desire, over the whole world. And because she had let go, and stepped away, the wind sighed softly, and died in a final echo of a whisper.
    Learra never remembered walking outside, nor climbing through the desolate ruins of something precious that had long gone. She only remembered the living darkness of the forest, the tenebrous foliage, and the everpresent moonlight, streaking her path, spilling before her like thick silver honey.
    Learra came out of the forest onto the shore just as dawn began to discolor the rim of the horizon over the ocean. Off the shore floated the black silhouette of the anchored ship, a great palm ready to sweep her away, to carry her back to the familiar world.
    She paused, stepping into the cold running foam