Ī-āwé-àà'u'iwà hated how cold and dry it got on the top of the mesa.

No matter if it was the dry season or the wet season, it was always the same weather here above the clouds. The thick shawl his wife had gotten him could only do so much to keep his face warm, considering that he had to pull it back to see, and there was no way he would dare feeling out with his palps in this cold.

Fighting a shiver, he fixed a glove back in place and continued pulling the cart behind him. He hated the uniform he had to wear, how it bellowed to foreign newcomers the sad story of the locals, but at least it kept the rest of him warm. Considering how far away from the grand pulley station the supply depot was, that was a massive boon.

The wind whispered in sharp blues that washed over the muted reds of his footsteps, working into the soft skin of his snout like small daggers. He took slow breaths, not daring to suck in the cold air all too suddenly and induce a coughing fit. He'd made that mistake the first time he'd come up the mesa, and that had nearly cost him the job.

This was not a place his kind was meant to be. The only good thing to be found on this forsaken mesa was the -somewhat- decent pay.

Pausing to rest a few moments, he leaned back on his haunches and looked up at the sky. Here, past the clouds and glowing aeroplankton, the sky was a black dome peppered in white. The Wandering Fire Star hung close to the horizon, a thin crescent hewn from burning coal- by next year, it'd outshine the true stars, before returning to the shadows.

He let out a content trill, and continued marching on. Perhaps there were two good things to be found on this mesa.

The observatory was one of twelve, arrayed all around the roughly circular top of the mesa. It looked like little more than a brick that'd had a section removed, so a great metal tube could be pointed to the sky. In those rare clear moments, when the mesa could be seen in full from the ground, some of the older and more disgruntled locals said it looked like the hideous guns of long ago.

Trudging up the ramp, he leaned back on his hind legs and held the door open with one hand, while pushing the cart in with the other. Unfortunately, it was just as cold and dry inside the observatory as it was outside. Something about heat and humidity being bad for the great reflectors, he'd once heard as rationale for keeping it like that. He didn't know if that was the case. All he knew was that he was freezing his tail off.

Staying on his hind legs, he pushed the cart along. He started along the walls, alternating between a soap-soaked searoot to clean the grime and errant molds out of the brickwork, and dustweed on a stick to remove errant puffs of dust from the floor and corners. People's skin flaked too much in this horrid weather, and it contributed to the mess.

A few of the foreign starwatchers passed him by in the hallway, discussing the formation of worlds and the distance of stars, never even acknowledging him. Why would they? He was just trash cleaning trash. Better than drawing their attention- a Tánwàà-ā male wearing a cleaner's clothes may as well have had a sign on their face reading "throw dirt in my face".

He eventually finished the walls, then made his way inward, close to the great reflector. His arms were already growing sore from the effort, and every few minutes he'd go back on all fours to ease the burning in his legs. Everything was harder here, thanks to the thin and frigid air. No wonder most of the starwatchers were Grapala- those mountain folk must've felt right at home here.

It was in the middle of one of his breaks that he overheard two of the starwatchers as they spoke at the reflector. Normally, their conversations were dull and lax, full of technical terms he didn't know. This time, however, the two matrons were animated, excited. They sounded like two anwa singing excitedly to each other in hues of blue, and so he folded an ear in their direction.

"-the University of Buo City has confirmed the hypothesis. The Thread is, somehow, a beam of light. Just like what Yalam herself said all those years ago."

"What could possibly be producing light of such potency, Yadza? No stars, nor their pools, are anywhere near the Thread."

He understood what they were talking about. For the past hundred or so years, Yalam's Thread had graced the sky like a thin strand of the faintest blue, at first detectable only by telescope, and now could be seen by sharp eyes in clear weather. The great mystery of the modern world, many called it.

"I think the answer is in this." He heard the old matriarch tap at the eyepieces of the great reflector. "Look. Following the Thread deeper into space, it dims with distance as all light does, but it is not continuous in that dimming."

"I see it... the Thread seems to abruptly dim at this point, then get much brighter than before. Like something's blocking it."

"Yes. Blocking it for all the time I've noticed it."

"Which was?"

"Three years ago."

Ī-āwé's ears perked at that. Even he knew that things didn't just stay in place in space- the Thread had first been discovered when a small comet, dim and unseen, had suddenly grown a tail for the few seconds it crossed the hot strand. Nothing could stay in the path for years.

"-can check. They're there," the older one continued, and he chided himself for getting lost in thought. "This object must be related to the Thread."

"Are you supposing that it's... producing the light?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps the light we receive is residual, scatterings from the greater beam. All I know is that I can't imagine a natural phenomenon that would produce focused light like this. To remain coherent even across light-years."

"Perhaps it's not natural after all."

"You're not suggesting what I think you are."

"It may be the only explanation. We'll have to check again, and corroborate with the other observatories."

"Oh, the possibilities, of being able to speak with kindred from another star."

They paused, and Ī-āwé felt them looking his way. Risking a glance, he saw their cross expressions.

"What are you looking at?" one of them asked. "We keep clean here."

Ī-āwé quickly resumed his work, directing the cart away from the two starwatchers, until he was sure they weren't looking at him anymore. As he cleared the room, he was sure he heard them hooting quietly with laughter, faint puffs of pink coming from around the corner.

-o-

His body ached by the time he made it back to the pulley station with the rest of the custodial staff. He wasn't even quite at what others would call middle-age yet, but his joints already creaked the same way his mother's did right before she passed. It had to be the cold thin air at the top of the mesa, aging him like dried root every time he went up to work.

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Thankfully, as the pulley finally began to descend, and the air began to warm, he felt the ache lessen. Stripping off his gloves and shawl, he shoved them in the russack dangling from his chest, and all around him the other cleaners did the same, whistles of relief filling the cramped cabin in warm reds. A few began a conversation, griping about the way the new cleaning supplies burned their nostrils, but he did not join in.

Rather, as he watched the clouds rise up to greet the pulley, then envelope it completely, he thought back to the conversation he'd overheard. Beings from other worlds were the stuff of cheap dreamsongs, like the ones his sister-daughter read. There was no possible way that Yalam's Thread could be the work of some unknown people coming this way.

Right?

The pulley came to a stop, and he stepped out into the rain. He extended his palps, letting the water moisturize the chapped tips, then he began the long walk home. The roads surrounding the capital still hadn't been paved yet, despite the repeated promises of the infrastructure committee -what a surprise!- and the fibrous undergrowth squished beneath his knuckles as he walked.

The streets were packed at this hour, filled with merchants and beggars, agitators and plainsclothed constables. Their calls and yells filled the air in a swirl of colors, but his focus was elsewhere, more distant and yet more close. Mechanically, he walked up to his usual root stew stall and made his order. The cook, a fellow Tánwàà-ā, put extra spice in the bowl, and he offered thanks as he dug in.

Yet even the sweet burn of the stew couldn't pull his thoughts away. As he sipped from the wide bowl, he watched the people passing by. This was their world. The streets, the rain, each other, and nothing else. How would it feel to have that world shrunken down, reduced from the ocean to a mere drop, something that could be seen in its entirety by something bigger than itself?

Despite the heat, he felt like he was back on the mesa, and in that moment he was glad for the rainclouds hiding the stars from sight. He quickly clacked a handful of coins on the counter, and continued walking home.

As he passed the local Tánwàà temple, however, he paused. Looking through the squat doors that had never been closed in memory, he saw Mother Ūlù tending to the thick stalks of umlos reed that lit the main chamber. Climbing up the steps, he let out a meek chuff.

The young priestess looked his way. "Ah, Ī-āwé! I haven't seen you for the past two sermons. Are you well?"

"I am," he replied, bashfully. "Work has kept me away."

"Slavedrivers, they are. I'm sure they can take the time off to pray." Mother Ūlù set down her clippers. "Blessed brother, are you in need?"

"I suppose I am. First, of a question, and then perhaps of a request."

"Speak your question, Brother Ī-āwé."

"Do you think... does the Allmother's Song allow for other people, on other worlds?"

"Other worlds?"

"Like the Wandering Fire Star. People who are from there, just as much as we are from here."

Mother Ūlù clicked in consternation. "Well, what would these other people be like? Are they also Listeners of the Song?"

"I don't know," he replied, quietly. "It's just... I have heard excited talk at the observatory about the matter. As if it's not just a possibility. As if perhaps by next rainy season, we'll take it as truth."

The priestess said nothing for a few moments, ears swiveling in thought. Then, she leaned on her haunches.

"The Allmother's Song is vast. Perhaps... others can listen." She quickly added, "But this is all speculation, blessed brother."

"Yes, just talk." Ī-āwé let out a whistle of hesitation. "Then, would you humor me for a request?"

"What is it?"

"Could you write down a letter for me?"

"I've never turned you down before, blessed brother. Who do you wish to address this letter to?"

"If they exist, the people from another world."

Mother Ūlù chirped. "Very well."

She walked back to her altar, and produced a sheet of paper. Dipping her brush, she looked his way.

"Tell me, what would you wish to say?"

Ī-āwé thought for a moment, then, in halting words, he began.

-o-

The rain slowly came to a stop as he made the last stretch to his den. Even through his fatigue, the site of the squat dome of rockroot was comforting, filling his hearts with warmth. Trudging up the incline to the door, he whistled twice.

Tìí-ó undid the latch and opened the door, and her hoot was a red as warm as the hearth as she nuzzled his snout. Their palps intertwined for a few moments, then she ushered him inside. Her mother and his father were there as well, resting near the hearth, and he made sure to walk over and lean his chin on each of their heads for a few moments.

"It's never good when I get back from work before you do," Tìí-ó said, weary. "Was there another problem with the pulley?"

"No, not this shift," he said. "I just dropped by to chat with Mother Ūlù."

"She must be upset about you missing the sermons. Allmother knows I am, my love."

"I know," he replied, quietly. "We weren't talking about that, though. Just a silly question I thought up of at work."

"Oh?" She thumped her tail in amusement. "What was it?"

"Just something about people from other worlds, like in those cheap stories Lāān reads."

"That is silly." Her voice lowered. "Almost as silly as you staying at that job."

"My love, we've discussed this-"

"A husband should tend the hearth, not be forced to scrub floors." She leaned her head on his, humming in faint pinks. "I know you worry about money, but I can do it. I'll work another job if I have to. Just stay here."

"We both know you can't work two jobs, not with the one you have. Someone else would have to do it, and who can? Your mother?"

Said mother hooted with hoarse laughter. "Oh yeah, I can do it. Just lemme replace my everything."

"Mother, you aren't helping."

"Neither are you, kid. The Allmother says you should heed a husband's wisdom. Maybe you should try it for once."

Tìí-ō clicked, but said nothing. A few moments passed, then she pulled away.

"Want to see how they're growing?" she asked, softly.

Ī-āwé nodded.

Together, they walked to the pool room, and Tìí-ō pulled aside the latticework of reeds covering the hole they had both dug into the rich earth. The trio of eggs were still there, floating gently in the the water. Even through the thin membrane stretched over the surface, he could still see that they had finally grown their eyes.

"I think one just wriggled a little," he said, excitedly.

"I don't think they're there yet. But look at those eyes. I think they'll have their father's."

Ī-āwé flexed his throat, and opened his jaws over the pool. A thin stream of milk poured out from under his tongue, the silky nutrient broth passing through the membrane as if it wasn't there and clouding the water beneath. The eggs disappeared in the faint blue swirls, only to slowly come back into sight as they absorbed the milk.

"You kids have it so easy," Mother called from the hearth. "I still remember the old years when the health inspectors would come knocking by-"

"-to see if the eggs 'needed' to be smashed because they weren't in 'safe conditions'," Tìí-ō said, tiredly. "And almost all of us didn't meet the requirements, so on and so forth. You ever going to stop griping about the old years?"

"When they apologize, or when you feed me to the sea." Mother cackled. "See you at the funeral."

-o-

Later, after they had a meal and made their prayers, he stood by the open window, looking out. One of those rare moments had come, and the stars were visible from the ground. As his eyes swept over the night sky, he realized he could see it. The faint blue line, so narrow half of his eyes couldn't see it, that stretched across the entire sky.

He'd seen it before, working the top of the mesa, but now it felt different. The name had felt explanatory enough, but now he couldn't see it as a thread, no matter how thin it was.

Perhaps Yalam's Road was a better name.

He looked away, back to the hearth. Everyone else was sleeping soundly, and didn't stir as he walked past them and to the small table they had set up for the holy scroll. Slowly, he pulled away the unused drawer, then reached into the russack by the hearth. The letter felt cold in his hand as he studied it. He still didn't know why he wanted to have one for the otherworldly beings that might not even exist.

Perhaps it was the same feeling in his hearts whenever he had asked Mother Ūlù to write something he could never actually read himself. What he felt when he prayed by the hearth and in the temple, and sang. And, he knew now, what he felt when he looked up at the sky.

Quietly, he spoke the prayer of good travel for the ones coming down the Road, and stashed the letter away in the drawer.

-o-

Ten seasons later, when the news broke to the world and the streets were filled with celebrations and panic, and his home was filled with playing children, he pulled the letter out of the drawer and studied it again.