Descending Road - THE HUNT by Dana W. Paxson

THE HUNT

1544 4D

As the Zashinhalh stood radiant on the tumbling slopes of green, the unexpected music speared them. The stars throbbed, flashed gammalight, the universe shuddered with joy: the kharshfainh sang.

Mharhthail and Fanhlhaothim and Drhoinhfigh, the children of the hanhorhn of Anhmharh and Orhghailhash, stood rigid, sparkling, transfixed in the torrent of song. The notes hung as vast and ineffable as swashes of interstellar dust, coiling into star-nests, flashing the creation of new worlds; galaxies wheeled and melted through each other in dances of time and space; the melodies caressed and synchronized the motes of being, quark and quasar; all things, their voices raised in pure ecstasy, ascended the exalted stair of meaning.

The storm abated. Mharthail’s voice wove into the softening pulsations, “The kharsh! Quickly, follow me!”

The three children of Anhmharh burst from the emerald hills into the innerspace sky, spreading gigantic cirrus wings to circle the Tarnus-world. The music of the kharshfainh retreated ahead of them, skittering out into the many-pronged folds of space. Hungrily they reached out with arms of energy, knowing and fearing that the kharsh would elude them.

For space is connected to itself in many ways. Places have many names and many routes to each other, and some routes are short and some are long; the kharshfainh sings them as showers of notes in its melodies, and escapes its pursuers.

The ways between the stars are longer than proton lifetimes, and shorter than the singularities’ bindings; to the kharshfainh, they are the rests between its notes, the shadows that confuse its pursuers.

In the deepest folds of manysided time, the Zashinhalh first walked from the ultramarine oceans of the songs of Arohsa, and left behind the voice of the kharsh. Now they seek it forever, and regret their emergence from its song-waters. They hunger and thirst for the music that is the food and the thought and the radiance of Arohsa.

Mharhthail traced a singing gleam. “Here!” And the three Zashinhalh came to stand on the rose and carmine sands of a roiling green ocean, its tossing breakers the brilliant heads and wings of evanescent light-souls, caroling the outriding ripples of the kharsh-song. Mharhthail‘s radiant toes dug into the sands; the grains of sand, each one a nascent world, warmed to her.

She waded into the waters, peered into the ebb, and snatched a long, silver-striped fish from the sea. Her sisters joined her, catching fish of their own.

The fish, the spawn of the kharsh-song, gasped and died. The Zashinhalh devoured them greedily.

As the three ate and watched, the light-souls of the living sea tore free, skyward into blue and violet depths, still singing, and the waves reached high after them, yearning, throwing cometary spume up white against the royal reaches of the dark welkin washed thick with stars.

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	THE HUNT 1544 4D As the Zashinhalh stood radiant on the tumbling slopes of green, the unexpected music speared them. The stars throbbed, flashed gammalight, the universe shuddered with joy: the kharshfainh sang. Mharhthail and Fanhlhaothim and Drhoinhfigh, the children of the hanhorhn of Anhmharh and Orhghailhash, stood rigid, sparkling, transfixed in the torrent of song. The notes hung as vast and ineffable as swashes of interstellar dust, coiling into star-nests, flashing the creation of new worlds; galaxies wheeled and melted through each other in dances of time and space; the melodies caressed and synchronized the motes of being, quark and quasar; all things, their voices raised in pure ecstasy, ascended the exalted stair of meaning. The storm abated. Mharthail’s voice wove into the softening pulsations, “The kharsh! Quickly, follow me!” The three children of Anhmharh burst from the emerald hills into the innerspace sky, spreading gigantic cirrus wings to circle the Tarnus-world. The music of the kharshfainh retreated ahead of them, skittering out into the many-pronged folds of space. Hungrily they reached out with arms of energy, knowing and fearing that the kharsh would elude them. For space is connected to itself in many ways. Places have many names and many routes to each other, and some routes are short and some are long; the kharshfainh sings them as showers of notes in its melodies, and escapes its pursuers. The ways between the stars are longer than proton lifetimes, and shorter than the singularities’ bindings; to the kharshfainh, they are the rests between its notes, the shadows that confuse its pursuers. In the deepest folds of manysided time, the Zashinhalh first walked from the ultramarine oceans of the songs of Arohsa, and left behind the voice of the kharsh. Now they seek it forever, and regret their emergence from its song-waters. They hunger and thirst for the music that is the food and the thought and the radiance of Arohsa. Mharhthail traced a singing gleam. “Here!” And the three Zashinhalh came to stand on the rose and carmine sands of a roiling green ocean, its tossing breakers the brilliant heads and wings of evanescent light-souls, caroling the outriding ripples of the kharsh-song. Mharhthail‘s radiant toes dug into the sands; the grains of sand, each one a nascent world, warmed to her. She waded into the waters, peered into the ebb, and snatched a long, silver-striped fish from the sea. Her sisters joined her, catching fish of their own. The fish, the spawn of the kharsh-song, gasped and died. The Zashinhalh devoured them greedily. As the three ate and watched, the light-souls of the living sea tore free, skyward into blue and violet depths, still singing, and the waves reached high after them, yearning, throwing cometary spume up white against the royal reaches of the dark welkin washed thick with stars.