Descending Road - THE SINGER IN THE CITY by Dana W. Paxson

THE SINGER IN THE CITY

1529 4D

I ride with a planefly as it preys lazily on smaller insects drawn to the ceiling lights of the City‘s vine-laden understreets. Its long transparent wings glitter iridescent in the glow; its huge grain-faceted eyes shine umber as it swoops, snatches, sucks, discards. In this deep and crowded place, humans too are predators and prey.

How will these frail creatures defend themselves from the meddlings of the Zashinhalh?

Here is one of them: a little boy wanders, dazed, toward his home. He dreams of the sky, of the forgotten sun, of the stars, of mighty space. The stone he picked up, an anth of my song, is now a part of him. What will it do?

He will grow to manhood and maturity before the Zashinhalh gather, some thirty-three years from now. Thirty-three years from now, I will sing for him.

He will need it.

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	THE SINGER IN THE CITY 1529 4D I ride with a planefly as it preys lazily on smaller insects drawn to the ceiling lights of the City‘s vine-laden understreets. Its long transparent wings glitter iridescent in the glow; its huge grain-faceted eyes shine umber as it swoops, snatches, sucks, discards. In this deep and crowded place, humans too are predators and prey. How will these frail creatures defend themselves from the meddlings of the Zashinhalh? Here is one of them: a little boy wanders, dazed, toward his home. He dreams of the sky, of the forgotten sun, of the stars, of mighty space. The stone he picked up, an anth of my song, is now a part of him. What will it do? He will grow to manhood and maturity before the Zashinhalh gather, some thirty-three years from now. Thirty-three years from now, I will sing for him. He will need it.