By the time they settled out on their cabin’s porch, seated on opposite sides of the bench with a goblet of whiteberry wine each, the heavenly dome illuminating the Sphere of Untouch was a vivid, fire-like red.
Nights, vernacularly known as reddenings or red skies, were every Mate’s secret delight, because they were the time all Makers grew drowsy and retired, thus allowing young Lurienites – who, by tacit agreement, never listened in on each other once reddening had fallen – to let their minds, (and, for those daring enough, even parts of their bodies) frolic around, free from the numerous constraints of the day.
Transgressions included self-mating – performed under the cover of their robes or with their genitals exposed to the nocturnal coolness and to their own avid, fascinated gaze –, liberal running of bare hands across things already dead or insignificant enough to not be missed, momentary locking of the eyes that made the bold Mates’ hearts leap with sweet terror, and, most roguish and dangerous of all, open-mouth speech.
It was this last vice that Gallan most frequently indulged in, even though (or precisely because) he knew how wicked and beastly it was. As in every Mate, mind speech had been beaten into him by his Makers, who had also taught him that to make loud, rude sounds befitted only animals, so stupid they didn’t know that by keeping one’s lips parted, one’s Substance leaked out irreversibly like warmth from a rapidly cooling ember; breathing and eating, though necessary, were damaging enough without submitting oneself to the relentless wear of time by bleating like a sheep.
But again like many Mates, Gallan was enthralled by the sound of his own voice, even if he’d never dared raise it louder than a breathy whisper; it was as though another self, strange and alluring, resided in his bosom, longing to be let out and take possession of his white-sky, tame and timid version. Moreover, unlike mind speech, open-mouth voices couldn’t be detected by thought, and were only audible by direct hearing, a fact which, given enough distance, made the utterance of even the most unthinkable things perfectly safe.
So now Gallan, taking a sip of wine to steel himself, pushed the tip of his tongue between his lips, pried them open with heart-quickening slowness, and drawing in a mouthful of milksuckle-scented air, he let it out again and said, “Raddia?”
He felt his Mate shifting her weight further away from him on the bench; then he waited, while Raddia waged her usual inner, losing battle; and then, her voice as hushed as the rustle of milcloth lace, she whispered, “What?”
Emboldened by her response, Gallan ventured a whole sentence. “Do you ever think of our Makers’ Surfacing Rite?”
A pause; an audible breath; and then, “Why would I think of it?”
“Because of how different we were, even if briefly; I remember looking straight into your eyes, then speaking my name open-mouth, and then, before our gloves had yet fully formed, trying to touch your face.”
“That was because we were as animals; we didn’t know better.”
Gallan drained his wine. “But why is it better?”
“Why? Well, for one, would you rather live a long, dignified life, or end your days in disgrace, submerged before your time, leaving me old, alone and useless?”
“You know I would never do anything to cause you pain; but sometimes I think that maybe those early moments, while we could barely stay erect... what if that was our true nature, which we were never allowed to explore? We think we know ourselves because of what our Makers have led us to believe, with thrashings, food deprivation, and backbreaking chores – all the while claiming it was for our own good. But why would the Sacred River’s milk give us eyes if we cannot look at one another, mouths if we’re not meant to speak, and hands we must never touch with?”
Gallan’s outburst, though no louder than the Sacred River’s distant murmur, made the ensuing silence heavy and ominous, and when Raddia spoke again, she lapsed into mind speech, if stentorian enough to ensure that the chance eavesdropping Mate would think that nothing reprehensible was being discussed.
To touch is to die. To touch is to kill. To live is to be an island. But even as she recited the Three Doctrines, she realized, to her horror, that anyone listening would imagine them to be a stern reprimand to something bad, whispered in the redness.
Lurien was such an island, they’d been taught, surrounded by hostile worlds of unimaginable filth, decay and pain; and yet, wasn’t an island touched from all sides?