Chapter 30

Stephen and Arianna led the procession through the tunnels of District Three. Behind them walked Bill carrying a small bowl of water in which floated several white native wildflowers, followed by Jenny and Laura, who each carried a lit candle. No one spoke. When they encountered Indigenes along the way, the Indigenes kept their eyes trained on the ground and stepped back, showing them a quiet respect.

Bill was grateful for the low illumination running along the base of the tunnel walls. His eyes were filled with tears and the light was all he could see to guide his way. He wasn’t finding it easy to breathe either, even with the gel mask in place. The pain in his heart was unbearable, but he realised it was something he had to do. He’d needed to let go for a long time now.

Eventually, they reached an empty private dwelling located in the south quadrant. Stephen opened a door and entered the dimly lit room followed by Arianna; they stood either side of a small stone ceremonial table. The others followed them into the room.

Bill gasped when he saw the arrangement. The walls had been daubed with colourful pigment—images of humans and Indigenes, and the biodome animals. Isla’s name was scrawled in paint in several places, amongst the images. A necklace made out of the same type of white flowers he carried had been placed on the table. Isla’s picture was propped up against a rock, and sat neatly in the centre of the necklace.

‘The Evolvers wanted to do something for her. I hope you don’t mind,’ Arianna said, guiding his hand with a gentle touch. ‘Place the bowl underneath her picture.’

His hands shaking, Bill placed the bowl on the stone table. He stood there for a long time staring at Isla’s picture. The tears that had been welling in his eyes at last spilled over and ran down his cheeks. In the picture, Isla was wearing her military uniform and her hair was cropped short. She was standing beside Pierre, her arm draped over his shoulder, and she had warmth in her eyes; her smile was gentle and true. Laura and Jenny placed their lit candles on either side of Isla’s picture.

‘This district was where Isla felt most comfortable on Exilon 5. In our culture, we burn a personal item belonging to the Indigene when we are ready for the soul to burn brightly in the next life,’ Stephen explained. ‘Perhaps you’d like to do that with her photograph. I expect that would be something you need to do alone. ’

Bill couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph.

‘Pierre said she cut her hair to blend in better with the other Indigenes,’ Stephen added.

Bill nodded.

‘Take as much time as you need,’ Stephen said and they all left the room. Laura gently squeezed Bill’s shoulder as she passed him.

Bill waited for the door to suck shut. The sound in the room deadened; he could hear nothing except the sound of his own breathing. He studied Isla’s photo some more. She was holding her head high, a sign of respect. He could see in her eyes how she felt about Pierre, and Pierre’s relaxed stance told him the feeling was mutual. A smile formed on his face as the tears fell from his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand.

‘You always were a decent judge of character, love,’ he said.

The scent from the wildflowers filled the small room; the smell seemed familiar. A memory stirred in his mind—the bowl of pot pourri they kept by the front door to their apartment had emitted a similar perfume. He suddenly realised that all along, Isla had been sharing a part of Exilon 5 with him. She had been leaving subtle clues for him all that time.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter. He unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table top. It had been in a separate envelope to the other letters and had not been written in code. He’d read it several times already, but this would be the last time.

 

My dearest Bill,

It feels right to be writing to you at this time, given all the changes that are happening on Earth. I’m spending so much time on Exilon 5 these days and you’re so busy with your job, we keep missing each other. I’ve re-discovered the art of handwriting letters. Forgive me for my shaky handwriting—it’s been a while since I’ve held a pen. I practised for hours before writing this.

I’m picturing you as you read this, surrounded by stuff that I bought for the apartment. Remember the most recent shopping trip you came with me on? I could see you playing with your DPad in the corner, pretending you were interested in what I had chosen. I loved you for coming. I know how little interest you have in all that domestic stuff.

The people on Exilon 5 are so happy. I think you’d like it here. I can see us going to the park on a Sunday with a picnic basket in our hands—maybe you’ve bought some things at Cantaloupe and I’ve taught myself how to cook. Stop making that face, Bill Taggart! I’m not that bad a cook. Don’t worry—I’d test the food first to make sure I wasn’t killing you. Maybe we could take a cookery class together. I’ll enquire at the front desk of the Digital Library and have them send the link directly to your DPad so you can’t squirm your way out of it.

Anyway, I think we’d be happy here together. So maybe when you divorce yourself from that demanding job of yours we can talk about it a bit more. Maybe.

Forever yours,

Isla.

 

Remembering the past; imagining the future—she was sharing with him the life that she wanted but they were never going to have.

Bill sank to his knees and sobbed so hard it felt like he would never be able to stop. But at last the tears subsided and a sense of calm enveloped him. He stood up and grabbed hold of her photograph, then brought it to his lips and placed it in a shallow metal dish at the front of the table. He put the letter on top of it. Then he took one of the candles and held it to the corner of the photograph. Within a few seconds, both photograph and letter burst into flames; they burned brightly momentarily before turning to ash in the dish.

‘Goodbye, my love. You’ll always be a part of me.’