Sisters

It’s late in the evening when I visit my sister.

She’s crouched on a hill, perched on a rock, and shoulders hunched. I can see her outline against the blare of the Moon. As usual, my sister is overseeing the migration.

I greet her, because I have manners. Hers sloughed off the moment she was born.

Sister, you’re slouching, I note. Your posture has taken a turn.

She says nothing, eyes locked on her work.

So grim! So dour! So sour!

She scratches her ear. It’s getting harder to tell if she’s ignoring me, or simply doesn’t hear.

I tend to avoid my sister when she’s catatonic with responsibility. But tonight I require her audience, so I aim for the uncalloused spots:

Your duty weathers you, your majesty. You look tired.

She hisses back:

Is there a reason you’re here, Gerasa?

My sister doesn’t move from her labor. For this, I am grateful; I hate it when she looks at me.

Our father is asking after you, I tell her.

And?

He would like to visit the brackish water.

Why?

Sport.

I relay this message out of filial obligation, and not much else.

Fine, she snips.

Our father’s orders leave her equally enthused. Her eyes never leave her labor; this is best for everybody. No need to interrupt the migration; no need to court her scrutiny.

I turn to leave, but she’s not done with me.

Gerasa?

When she addresses me, a barely-perceptible pulse ripples over her still form. I can feel her burn like a forest fire, witnessed from a risky distance.

Yes? I reply.

The Archangel speaks:

The next time Father has a message for me, let him send that motley batch who consign themselves to his affections. You are too important to run his errands.

Her sincerity disarms me. We do not talk like this; we are not those kind of sisters.

It is unbefitting of your station. You forget your worth.

Fortunately, the cosmos intervenes before I am obliged to return her compliments.

Look! I cry. The night is red! The night bleeds!

My sister has an ear for my lies, so she knows to look up.

Well then, this is new.

She is surprised.

Two cycles: one pure, one blooded.

Her stare washes over me:

Someone up there must know we’re coming.

Outro: Meat Puppets – “Lake of Fire”