The Moreva
of Astoreth by Roxanne Bland
Blurb
In the
world-building tradition of Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey and Ursula K. LeGuin,
The Moreva of Astoreth is a blend of science fiction, romance, and adventure in
a unique, richly imagined imperialistic society in which gods and science are
indelibly intertwined. It is the story of the priestess, scientist, and healer
Moreva Tehi, the spoiled, headstrong granddaughter of a powerful deity who is
banished for a year to a volatile far corner of the planet for neglecting to
perform her sacred duty, only to venture into dangerous realms of banned
experimentation, spiritual rebirth, and fervent, forbidden love.
Excerpt from Chapter Six
A marun
after the vandalism, I found myself at loose ends. Except for Temple services
and monitoring the beacon, I had nothing to do until the next supply flight
brought my new lab equipment. Hyme tried his best to keep me busy, but there
wasn’t enough work for the two of us. I studied the pictures in the medicinal
herb manuals he brought to me but tired of it after a day or so since I
couldn’t read the text. I was so bored I even walked over to the small factory
Eresh had pointed out and watched the village men and women make cloth.
One morning after
breakfast, while prowling through Hyme’s stock in the lab, I noticed he was low
on masich berries. He’d told me the masich bush blooms only during the winter
and the berries appear late in the season. Though winter’s cold still lingered
in the springtime air, the weather was definitely turning. If Hyme wanted to
replenish his stock, he’d better do it soon before the berries rotted. “Hyme,
you need more masich berries. Want to go out and get some?”
“Not right now, Tehi.
I have to fill these orders before lunch.”
“All right.” I sat in
my swivel chair and spun it a few times. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
“I’ve got to do something.” I spied Hyme’s collection bag in the corner by the
door. I walked over to it, picked it up and peered inside. The cutters were
lying at its bottom. I decided to get the berries myself. The village rule always
in pairs, one with a gun when in the woods outside the village
gates ran through my head but I dismissed it. It’s not
far. And I’ll be back before anyone misses me. I
grimaced a little. If they miss me at all. Picking
up the bag, I slipped out the door.
Outside, I hurried to
Mjor’s rear gates. As I’d predicted, the villagers ignored me. I sauntered
through the open doors and then I was on my way.
I walked forty šīzu or
so along the paved road leading out of the village then stepped off onto the
dirt path that led into the forest. I was a little nervous heading into the
woods alone, but Hyme and I had been out here before to gather masich berries and
I knew exactly where the stand of bushes was. I turned right at the path’s
first fork, bypassed the second, and turned right again at the third. Walking
along, I noticed the twin suns had warmed the air more than I would have
thought. In my winter uniform, I only felt a little chilly rather than cold. My
lips tightened and I quickened my step. What berries were left might have
already rotted on the bush.
The forest was filled
with the sounds of life awakening after a long winter’s sleep. I smiled a little.
It’s beautiful out here. Kherah was a desert,
its water provided by diverting the Den, a wide, deep river to the east of
Uruk. Because of that, we had lavish gardens planted with exotic flowers and
stands of qal, water-loving trees with delicate, willowy trunks, and long
pointed red leaves. But it was nothing like this.
The leaves on the
trees and bushes may not have budded yet, but after walking through the
hologram with Morevi Reng, I knew the wild, lush foliage that would appear in
the marun to come. Soon it would be hard to believe that a good-sized village
lay just a bit more than twelve nindan away.
I walked on. I heard
little creatures scuttling in the underbrush and every so often saw a striped
mouse cross my path. Birds sang in the trees. Just around
the bend now. And there they were, the masich bushes looking
like big, fat balls with their shiny, dark blue leaves. I stepped off the path
and forged my way through the underbrush, pushing skeletal branches out of my
way. I reached the stand of bushes and peered at them. I was just in time. In
less than seven or eight days, the bushes would have gone dormant. Humming a
tune from childhood, I fished for the cutter, found it, and started clipping
twigs sporting the best-looking orange berries. I dropped these into the bag.
After about an hour,
the bag was half full. I wanted to get more, but the rest of the berries I saw
had started to dimple, a sure sign of rot, Hyme had told me. I smiled, thinking
about the happy reception I’d get on returning with a bag even half full of
berries. I placed the cutter in the bag and turned to leave.
I made my way back
through the underbrush. I’d just reached the path when I heard something
crashing through the forest. Whatever it was, it was a lot bigger than a mouse.
Then the crashing sounds ceased.
I stopped and looked
around but couldn’t see anything. Curious and uneasy, I stepped onto the packed
dirt. I froze. Standing on the path between the village and me was a great,
shaggy beast. A curved horn grew out of its snout. It had feet the size of
dinner plates ringed by wicked-looking claws. And it was staring at me.
It bellowed, stood on
its hind legs and then charged.
The world seemed to slow to a crawl. I
screamed, a long, drawn-out sound, hurled my bag into the underbrush and ran.
Even though I had the speed of the Devi, I sensed it gaining on me. I imagined
its hot breath on my neck. Unless I did something and fast, I wasn’t going to
make it out of the forest alive.
Author
Info
I've been a fugitive from reality since
forever. As a child, I constantly made up stories--some would call them
lies--about my family, friends, neighbors and even strangers on the street. I
had friends that only I could see. Oh, the adventures we had!
Learning to read was a revelation. Words
fascinated me. Whole new worlds opened up, and since my parents forbade
nothing, I read everything. Some of it I didn't quite understand, but I didn't
mind. I read it anyway. I even read the dictionary. When I was a little older,
I was big on mysteries--English cozy mysteries, that is, Agatha Christie, were
my favorites. Then I graduated to horror. Whenever a new book came out by
Stephen King, Peter Straub or Dean Koontz, I was first in line. I was reading a
little science fiction at this time--Robert Heinlein and authors like him--but
I really didn't get into it until I was in college. The same with fantasy. I
really got into high fantasy--Lord of the Rings style--in college.
During this time I was still making up stories,
but not writing them down. They were private. Besides, I thought my family and
friends would laugh at me. In fact, the only story I recall writing was one
that won a contest when I was in elementary school.
So anyway, life goes on. I went to law school.
After I graduated and entered the workforce, I finally started writing down my
stories. I wrote a bit here and there, short stories that never saw the light
of day (which was probably a good thing). Then I fell ill. I had the flu for a
month. Bored out of my skull, I started writing a piece of fan fiction, though
I didn't know that's what it was at the time. I showed it to a friend of mine
who suggested I finish the story.
Well, that piece of fan fiction fell by the
wayside, but in its place came a manuscript that would eventually become my
first book, The Underground. I absolutely adored writing it. I absolutely adore
writing, period. Slipping into that alternate reality for hours on end, there
was a time in my life when it was called daydreaming and I got into trouble for
it. Now it's legitimate. And that's the best part of all.
Plain-spoken and spare, Laura Foley's poems in "Night Ringing" trace a life story through a series of brief scenes: separate, intense moments of perception, in which the speaker's focus is arrested, when a moment opens to reveal a glimpse of the larger whole. Memories of a powerful, enigmatic father, a loving but elusive mother, a much older husband, thread Foley's stories of childhood, marriage and motherhood, finally yielding to the pressure of her attention, as she constructs a series of escapes from family expectations, and moves toward a new life. In these lucid, intense poems, Foley's quiet gaze, her concentration, and emotional accuracy of detail, render this collection real as rain. 
