my ear. “Look at her eyes; look at the skin of her —”
Her skin was white as milk of pearls; gossamer fine, silken and creamy; translucent as though a soft brilliancy Memphis Depay Tröja dwelt within it. Beside it Ruth’s fair skin was like some sun-and-wind-roughened country lass’s to Titania’s.
She studied us as though she were seeing for the first time beings of her own kind. She spoke — and her voice was elfin distant, chimingly sweet like hidden little golden bells; filled with that tranquil, far off spirit that was part of her — as though indeed a tiny golden chime should ring out from the silences, speak for them, find tongues for them. The words were hesitating, halting as though the lips that uttered them found speech strange — as strange as the clear eyes found our images.
And the words were Miami Dolphins Barn Persian — purest, most ancient Persian.
“I am Norhala,” the golden voice chimed forth, whispered down into silence. “I am Norhala.”
She shook her head impatiently. A hand stole forth from beneath her veils, slender, long-fingered with nails like rosy pearls; above the wrist was coiled a golden dragon with wicked little crimson eyes. The slender white hand touched Ruth’s head, turned it until the strange, flecked orbs looked directly into the misty ones of blue.
Long they gazed — and deep. Then she who had named herself Norhala thrust out a finger, touched the tear that hung upon Ruth’s curled lashes, regarded it wonderingly.
Something of recognition, of memory, seemed to awaken within her.
“You are — troubled?” she asked with that halting effort.
Ruth shook her head.
“THEY— do not trouble you?”
She pointed to the huddled Bayern Munich Barn heaps strewing the hollow. And then I saw whence the light which had streamed from her great eyes came. For the little azure and golden New York Islanders Barn stars paled, trembled, then flashed out like galaxies of tiny, clustered silver suns.
From that weird radiance Ruth shrank, affrighted.
“No — no,” she gasped. “I weep for — HIM.”
She pointed where Chiu-Ming lay, a brown blotch at the edge of the shattered men.
“For — him?” There was puzzlement in the faint voice. “For — that? But why?”
She looked at Chiu-Ming — and I knew that to her the sight of the crumpled Mesut Ozil Drakt form carried no recognition of the human, nothing of kin to her. There was a faint wonder in her eyes, no longer light-filled, when at Andres Iniesta Drakt last she turned back to us. Long she considered us.
“Now,” she broke the silence, “now something stirs within me that it seems has long been sleeping. It bids me take you with me. Come!”
Abruptly she turned from us, glided to the crevice. We looked at each other, seeking council, decision.
“Chiu-Ming,” Drake spoke. “We can’t leave him like that. At least let’s cover him from the vultures.”
“Come.” The woman had reached the mouth of the fissure.
“I’m afraid! Oh, Vancouver Canucks Barn Martin — I’m afraid.” Ruth reached little trembling hands to her tall brother.
“Come!” Norhala called again. There was an |
