'He'll be dead in two years.' Both turned and looked
out to sea, to the place where whale and rider moved, nearly out of
sight.
'Goodbye,' she said darkly. 'Always goodbye.'
'You need never say goodbye to me,' Kalus answered, almost before
he knew what he had said. He shook his head reproachfully. 'I'm
sorry.'
She was neither hurt nor angry with him, nor even soothed and pacified.
She seemed, rather, calm with a strange, fatalistic indifference. Her
eyes regarded him, slightly mocking.
'I know what you mean, Kalus. You love Sylviana, but feel a sense of
loyalty to me. I guess it's better than nothing.' And with this
she mastered her emotions. Or so it seemed to her then.
Kalus' mind began to race along strange passageways, trying to find
the right words. But again instinct warned him off. He wanted to heal
her hidden wounds but could not, and perhaps should not try, until he
better understood them. Though unknown feelings were at work inside
him, too.
*
They returned to the camp in silence, not touching, not sharing, and if
they had dared to admit it, feeling more alone than if each to the other
did not exist. They returned to Sylviana's glaring reproach, and to
the doctor's knowing questions about the Children, the others having
gone off to work.
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