Probability Sun Prologue GOFKIT SHAMLOE, WORLD    The farewell burning had reached its unfolding. Standing at the edge of the circle of mourners in her black robe, Enli held her breath. This was the moment she loved, the moment of joy.    The procession had left Gofkit Shamloe at sunrise. Four moons had still graced the sky: Lil, Cut, Ap, and Obri. The entire village, including ancient Ayu Pek Marrifin carried on a litter and the two ti ny Palofrit twins, just past their Flower Ceremony, walked slowly behind the farm cart. It was pulled by Tiril Pek Bafor’s two oldest grandsons. The old man, chief gardener to the village for as long as Enli could remember, had been laid, unwashed, in t he cart the night before and buried under mounds of flowers: huge bright red jellitib, cluster-blossoms of pajalib, fragrant waxy sajib.    The priest stepped forward, the servant of the First Flower, and raised her hands. The subdued crowd turned toward her. Behind the priest the fire, started last night, leaped higher than the holy one’s head. Its crackling was the only sound.    “Now,” said the servant of the First Flower, a short dumpy middle-aged woman whose neckfur was prematurely sparse.    Tiril Pek Bafor’s grandsons pulled the cart through a narrow lane among mourners, to the very edge of the fire. They tipped the cart forward. The wood had been highly waxed; the body slid effortlessly i nto the flame, mostly hidden by flowers. And everyone in the entire crowd, the grieving and the old and the halt and the lame, simultaneously threw off their thin black robes and shouted loud enough to wake the dead.    It was a shout of pure joy. The dead man was returning to his ancestors.    The village chanted and sang. Under their black capes they all wore brilliantly-colored short tunics sewn, festooned, entwined before dawn with fresh flowers. Each bloom represented some facet of the w earer’s relationship with the soul now so jubilantly released to the spirit world, where every flower bloomed forever.    Everyone began to dance. People sang; the fire jumped and shouted; the air filled with the rich fragrance of the oil the priests used to make Tiril Pek Bafor’s passage smell sweet. Amid the dancing and rejoicing, the sun rose, red and warm.    Enli danced with Calin Pek Lillifar, round and round...it wasn’t only the dance that made her head whirl. She had known Calin since childhood, but this felt like a new way of knowing, a different sharin g...    Her sister Ano tapped her on the shoulder. “Enli...come with me.”    “Later,” Enli said. Calin was a good dancer, and Enli, helped by a generous swig of pel from the jug passed around by Pek Bafor’s daughters, even felt graceful herself. This was a rarity; Enli was a bi g, plain woman with no natural grace, and knew it. But Calin didn’t seem to mind. Round and round...    “Come now,” Ano said.    “What is it?” Enli said crossly, after following Ano away from the fire. “And why can’t it wait? I want to enjoy the farewell burning!” She glanced back at Calin, not yet dancing with anyone else.    Ano’s skull ridges creased in worry. “I know. But there’s a government messenger to see you. He’s waiting in the hut.”    “A government messenger? For me?”    Ano nodded. The sisters stared at each other. There was no reason for a government messenger to seek Enli. Her old trouble was past, atoned for, finished. And to interrupt her during a farewell burni ng!    “Thank you,” Enli said to Ano, in a tone that let Ano know not to follow. Enli walked among the revelers, increasingly drunk on pel, and back along the path, bright with morning flowers, to the deserted village.    The messenger was young enough to still relish formality. “Enli Pek Brimmidin? May your garden bloom. I am come from the capital city, Rafkit Seloe. I bring a message.”    He carried no letter. Enli heard her voice come out too hoarse. “May your blossoms flourish. And your message is what?”    “That your presence is required at Rafkit Seloe, at the office of the Servants of the First Flower. The Sun Blossom himself wishes to talk to you.”    “About what?” Enli said, knowing that whatever it was, the messenger would of course know. Shared reality.    The boy couldn’t help himself. He was young, and excitement won out over dignity and formality. He shook his neckfur and said, “About the Terrans!”    Terrans. Some Terrans had come to World three years ago, from some place unimaginably far away, in a metal flying boat. They had disrupted everything. But then they had gone away again, leaving three graves, and World had returned to sweet peace. Enli got out, “The Terrans left.”    The boy shook his neckfur again and, in sheer exuberance, rose up on his tiptoes.    “Yes. But, Pek Brimmidin—they have come back!”    Enli’s headache began, the sharp boring pain between the eyes. No, no, not again...in the name of the First Flower, not again.    “Yes,” the messenger said, when Enli didn’t respond. “And this time we know they’re real! The priests made their decision last time, remember? We can trade with the Terrans again and...and everything. They came again from all that way out there beyond the stars. They have come back!    “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Copyright ©2001 Nancy Kress