Nune: The Sky Maiden

"You are so cruel, Nune-jan!" Vaneni cried, her thighs pressed together.

Even while they talked -- with great rapidness -- the sky-studding sails of all the dirigibles came down as the luft-mariners ran up and down their rope ladders; suddenly the storm engulfed them.

Some of the ships whose crews were slower and less skillful than others were caught by the tempest before they could fix everything snug; their great sheets of white canvas were blown from their bolt-ropes as if made from ox-bound paper; their hemp rings holding the fabric of the dirigible's sides together erupted. In the sudden blackness which covered them the only lights that could be seen were the storm's numerous lightning bolts, boiling away under the clouds. There was no longer any thought of military order. Each dirigible had to shift for itself; each captain having to do her best to save those under her charge, all without thought of what might befall the others of the armada.

In the dirigible which carried both the Prime Minister of the Guild and the Duchess Yeranouhi, however, discipline still prevailed. The prime minister's mezzo-soprano voice could be heard above the sound of thunder upon wind, shouting to the musketeers to secure themselves below. Her royal standard was lowered, the bright flags removed from the sides of the craft, the shields which were hung over the bulwarks hurriedly taken below as well. From the minute the hurly-burly winds shook them, tearing through the skies at a tremendous speed, the dirigible's gondola shook back and forth -- like a divine fist rattling nuts or silver almonds in a cage. Four of the best hands were placed at the helm, their safety lines pulled taut. It was here that the prime minister and the captain of the ship took their posts as well.

The danger that they faced was now due to their comrades in the unnatural darkness; the captain worried that they might be blown into one of their consorts. Even in the chaos of the air they could hear from time to time crashes as of vessels struck against another and -- with scream and shouts -- exploded, momentarily cutting through the murk in ragged reds and yellow of flame. Once or twice from the darkness ships emerged, close enough to see the anxious faces of the crew, only to then immediately disappearing back into the murk. The steadiness of their captain, however, a woman who had twice sailed around the globe, saved their dirigible from destruction.

As the storm continued these glimpses of other vessels became less and less frequent; finally their dirigible was an isolated sliver of silver in the howling dark, the captain indulging in the hope that she was now clear of the rest of the fleet.

For two days and a night the tempest raged about them. The madness of primordial gods, emotions beyond human understanding, what is called the Howling Stream, refused to abate.

"What," finally asked the prime minister to the captain at the end of the second day, "do you think is our position? Where are we?"

"I cannot say that with certainty, my lady," the captain replied, bowing, "for the winds have shifted several times each hour during the last two days. I had hoped to gain shelter in St. Gallen, but the wind bore us far away from there. I much fear that from the direction in which we have been running that we must be very near the mountains of Aarau."

"Brata!" muttered prime minister, then: "That would, indeed, be a speedy end to our venture if your prediction is true. Those Anatora pirates are cutthroats. Even should we avoid the risk of being shot out of the sky, we should end our lives as slaves oi a Grimstad galley."