A Culture of Solitude

Cuani walked without seeing, the countryside around her empty of the people that could give her sight. It was a rare joy. The wind was a warm comfort against her face and set the drapes of her shield mesh dancing across her legs. She pulled the mesh, a shapeless dress of web-thin ceramic beads, off over her head and draped it around her shoulders, realizing that here she didn't need it. Here she was not inundated by the sensations and thoughts of other people. She could feel instead the reality of the nuanen farmland through which she strode.

"Stay on the road til there is no more road, if you really want to walk that far, then turn left. There's a driveway but it's kind of windy, and the house a bit up slope to the right. Hopefully they'll spot you if you can't find the house. It's open enough, but they might not be looking."

That's what the shuttle pilot had told her when she disembarked and asked for directions instead of a ride. The shuttle wasn't allowed in the farmlands, nor motorized vehicles, but buggy drivers could be booked in advance. Buggy drivers and hosts and empaths were all that were allowed. And her. Wherever empaths but not telepaths, wherever telepaths but not empaths, she could go almost always. But she had checked. The exceptions were rare but important. She hadn't bothered with the buggy driver. It was a walkable distance and she wanted to experience it without the encumberance of people.

The sun, she could feel, was already high overhead, warming her hair, her forehead, a little of one cheek. The mesh was keeping the sun from heating her shoulders, an unexpected benefit. Academically, she knew the mesh was a kind of temperature moderator, but that wasn't it's purpose, just a side bonus she forgot about in the already-controlled temperatures of the comm center where she lived and worked. Her legs, lightly wrapped by the thin overalls, were cooled by the light breeze, almost chill despite the high sun and she reminded herself not to pause in her walking. She would want to be there by the time the sun fell. Her luggage had been sent ahead with another buggy rider and she hadn't thought to grab a coat.

She took a deeper, cautious, breath, reminding herself that, though this wasn't the filtered air of the comms center, the odors might be better as easily as worse. She sniffed with her nose, took a deep breath with her nose, smiled her own smile with her own delight. Bread, she thought. Warm bread baked with flower petals and served with honey butter, perhaps, or, no, herbed butter. Sweet and savory herbs eaten on a picnic blanket with crushed grass underneath. She stumbled and laughed at herself with her own amusement. The eyes of people around her gave her sight, and the floors of the comm center were smooth unless someone had left a box or bag in the walkway, but she gladly gave up the sight they offered for the pleasure of knowing she wasn't smiling because someeone else was happy, her own feelings lost and buried by the joys and sorrows and frustrations and amusements of everyone around her.

She paused, made sure she was still feeling the grainy texture of the stone beneath her boots and that she hadn't stumbled because of shifting off to the shoulder or into the fields that would line the road to the farm houses. Yes, still road, and the soft feel of distance presences, the cluster of homes and stores and services around the shuttle dock, remained behind her. She lifted her arms to feel the air more fully, breathed through her nose again, and considered turning around just to dance in the emptiness of it all and the warmth of the sun and the cool of the air, but kept herself from doing so. Keeping to a straight line was relatively easy, getting on the right straight line again not so much. For just a moment she might dance when the hosts at the farm were close enough to sense, so long as they were happy to see her.



Fiction Friday Prompt: Use this phrase or sentiment in your story ” a culture of solitude”