Together, the two hooded figures moved quickly, their bare feet barely making a noise on the forest floor. Although, if anyone had looked closely, they would see that one of them was not a woman at all, but a young girl with flame-red hair and bright, defiant blue eyes that blazed from beneath a purple cloak. She moved so quickly that her small feet barely touched the ground.

They reached a cobblestone street and turned right. The woman held tightly onto the girl’s hand, urging her forward, redirecting her to keep her in the shadows where no one would notice them. They rounded another corner, and now the oil-canth street lamps illuminated row after row of gleaming two-story houses. Bright green and blue vines crawled up their brightly colored walls, sprouting white flowers that gave off a sweet berry scent.

They hurried forward. A voice carried on the wind, magnified by some unknown means. It was a man, and he was speaking in a somber and serious tone:

“— so it is that, on this day, we remember the contributions of the great scientist and philosopher, and celebrate the Festival of Aristotle!”

The two figures moving through the streets could hear the cheering of a crowd assembled somewhere nearby. The tall buildings parted for a moment and they could see that they were on the edge of a short hill, and down below was a field packed with spectators. Some were standing quietly near the edges, but most were thronging in the center, waving flags mounted on long thin poles and cheering wildly as a man floated above them as if by magic.

The girl walked towards the field, trying to see the crowd, drawn by a powerful curiosity, but the woman stopped her. She took her hand. The girl did not understand the danger that she was in, but the woman did, and she pulled her in closer so that if anyone were to look up at the brightly colored houses on the hill, all they would see is a single form moving quietly between the gardens.

“Every year we celebrate the insights,” continued the man floating above the crowd. His voice seemed to come from everywhere around them all at once. “We give thanks for the peace and the hard-fought patience that freed us from our ignorance and cruelty. On this, the anniversary of Aristotle’s death, we celebrate his life.”

The crowd burst into even greater cheers. Streamers of all colors shot into the air. Red, blue, green, white, yellow, countless flashes of light arced across the gathering twilight of the sky.

“But today is even more special. Today marks the first millennial since Aristotle’s passing, and four hundred years since our ancestors settled on this new planet.”

The man seemed to be building up to something. The two figures, taking advantage of this, cut down the hill and joined up with the crowd. They passed by unnoticed as they headed towards an invisible spot farther down the field. The crowd was rapturous, as was the young girl being led along the outskirts, and they had eyes only for the man in the sky.

“Tell us, Tangier!” a woman nearby shouted.

“Say it!” agreed a man beside her. He raised his fist high into the air, his face glistening with tears and glowing with pride.

The man in the air, whom they had called Tangier, seemed to relish this moment. He rotated in place, taking in all the faces looking up at him; it was almost as though he were teasing them.

“Today we celebrate our world, our accomplishments. Today, we celebrate CHRYSE!”

The crowd roared with this last word. The young girl threw her free hand up to cover her ear and pressed the side of her head deep into the cloak of the woman beside her, trying to hold back the shouting. A single point of white light shot into the sky, and a moment later it was joined by others on the horizon. Soon, there were so many pillars of light that it seemed to be daytime again, and they blended together into a wall that seemed to encircle the gathering.

While everyone else looked up, the man in the air looked down. He spotted the two cloaked figures sneaking around the crowd. The woman paused, pulled back the hood of her cloak, and made a beckoning motion to him.

“Enjoy the celebration, everyone,” Tangier said. “You’ve earned it!”

The crowd broke apart into dozens of small groups as a strange music filled the air. The two figures reached the end of the field and the man flew over to them with astonishing speed, landing lightly on the grass next to them. As he landed, the girl saw him swipe two fingers along a shiny gold bracer that was wrapped around his forearm.

“Sotiria?” the man asked, glancing quizzically between the woman and the young girl beside her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on an expedition?”

“Something terrible happened, father,” she said.

“What is it?”

The woman he had called Sotiria shook her head; she suddenly seemed much younger, frightened, uncertain. “I had no choice, I had to save her, there was no other way…I couldn’t just leave her there…”

Her voice faded away.

“Sotiria,” her father said. “Who is this girl?”

Sotiria put her arm around the girl and pulled her in close. She looked up at the man and her face was fierce, defiant. “She’s a refuge,” was all that Sotiria said.

Her father’s eyes grew wide. “She isn’t from…”

“Yes.”

“But our rules, we agreed—”

“I know.”

Her father looked down at the girl, who understood nothing about what was happening. Her eyes were wide and attentive, but they weren’t afraid. If anything, the girl seemed to be curious, as though watching a play she had never seen before, or perhaps lost in a strange dream.

“This is wrong,” said the man, although his voice wavered as he said it. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“You didn’t see what I saw,” Sotiria said, defending herself.

“It doesn’t matter! We discussed this! We must not—”

“She would have died.”

Sotiria stated this as a fact: Simply, flatly, without emotion. It stopped her father in his tracks, and he held her gaze for a long time, as if deciding what he should do.

“Did anyone see you return with her?” he asked after several long moments.

“No,” Sotiria replied. “I made sure of it.”

Just then, a young boy emerged from the crowd and ran towards them. He seemed to be eight or nine, with a thick head of dark, curly hair that spilled in front of his brown eyes. He wore a plain white tunic, and a blue cloak was carelessly wrapped around one shoulder and tucked beneath the opposite arm.

He grinned as he saw them.

“Aunt Sotiria!” he called out, his voice bright and excited. He ran forward and the woman wrapped him up into a hug. He was small enough that she could lift him into the air as they hugged, but big enough that she couldn’t hold him up for long, and she let him fall back down onto the grass.

“Hello, Mason,” Sotiria said, grunting a little with the effort of lifting him up.

“That was a great opening, grandfather,” the boy said to the man. “Your best yet!”

As if to underscore his comment, someone nearby sent a streamer flying high into the sky, where it burst into a shower of colors around them.

“Thank you,” Tangier said stiffly.

An orb appeared next to Mason. It was a little larger than the boy’s head, and it was perfectly smooth except for a single slit along the middle. No one had seen it coming; it’s shell blended into the night sky.

“I’m sorry, Tangier,” said the orb. “I told him to stay in the stands, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s alright, Pel,” said Tangier.

“It’s good to see you again, Sotiria,” the orb said, inclining itself slightly in a kind of bow.

Sotiria smiled at him. “You too. I hope you’ve been well?”

Mason seemed bored by the exchange of pleasantries. “Who’s that?” Mason asked, looked at the young girl by Sotiria’s side.

Sotiria locked eyes with her father. They seemed to be deliberating something quietly, almost telepathically. Neither of them moved, and Sotiria didn’t dare to breathe; there was so much riding on the next moments that she almost felt dizzy.

Finally, a look passed across Tangier’s face, and he nodded slowly.

Sotiria breathed for what felt like the first time that night. Then she looked down at the girl and said, “This is Delia. She’ll be staying with us for a while, but she’s from a very distant city, and doesn’t know our language or ways yet. I’m hoping you’ll help me make her feel welcome.”

“Oh,” Mason said. “Has she ever been to the Festival of Aristotle?”

“I don’t believe so, no,” said Sotiria.

“Can I show her around?”

Sotiria glanced at Pel. “As long as Pel goes with you two.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” he offered graciously.

Mason’s eyes lit up. He was so rarely trusted to help the adults with anything, and this seemed like a big one. He reached out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Delia took hold of it. “Come with me!” Mason said. “I’ll show you the best parts of the festival!”

The two children ran off into the celebrating crowd, followed closely by Pel, who had already started to yell instructions that the children were steadfastly ignoring.

Tangier and Sotiria stood and watched them quietly until they were gone, and then they watched the crowd dance and cheer and sing. After a few moments, Tangier spoke, his voice barely audible above the jubilation around them:

“That was a great kindness you showed to her. Zeus must be proud.”

“Thank you,” said Sotiria without turning her head. “But I didn’t do it for him. I did it for her.”

“I just wonder if she will thank us for it,” said Tangier, “or punish us.”

***

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