The alien chant faded, to be replaced by a familiar melody, one of his and her favorites.
“I can’t reach the tree, John,” came the whispery, paper-thin voice. He moved the lounge a little nearer to the tree, took her arm, and pressed her hand against the expanding, contracting trunk. She had to touch the tree, of course. Not only because she loved the forest and its music, but for the reason he’d discovered fifteen years ago.
The reason why she always followed him with her eyes—so she could see his face, his throat … his
lips.
She’d been completely deaf since the age of twelve. No wonder she’d been so sensitive to the vibrations of the trees. No wonder she’d been so willing to isolate
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WITH FBIENDS LIKE THESE …
herself, to leave the rest of a forever incomprehensible mankind behind. No wonder.
There was a cough after an hour or so. Gradually cold crept into the other hand, the one he held. He folded it over the shallow chest, brought the other one across, too. Crying he’d have none of. He was too familiar with death to cry in its presence.
Instead he watched as the music played out its end and the sun went down and the stars appeared, foam-like winking friends of evening looking down at them.
Someday soon he would go down and tell the rest of mankind what lived and thrived and sang up here in a deep notch of the Silver Spars. Someday when he thought they were hungry and deserving enough. But for a little while longer he would stay. He and the shell of this remarkable woman, and Freia’s daughter, and listen to the music.