tae leuk at space, draas oot a bit o wittans,

here an thir, on hoo tae steer an hoo

tae leuk an whit tae waatch an whar tae ken

the gret yotun’s dose o daenjers bide.

So whan Olaf says “Whit i’the naem . . .”

an draps the drive o the yole tae a tentie putter,

sheu disno speir right awey an disno mak

a panshite, but leuks oot whar he leuks an waits.

Abeun the yotun afore them the Lights is biggan

a face. Thir isno anither wird. I’the rouk

thir twatree thoosan poynts o Light biggan

a face the size o a meun: aald, aald,

lang beard, ae ee appen, ae ee puckered,

ae mooth appen, appen an rashan forrit.

The god swallaes the yole. Aa’s dairk: nae light,

nae Lights. A notion o speed, o weyght, an than—

thay spret intae the starns, oot the pug

o the planet. Olaf’s screens bleusk, blue,

sproot, staedy. He haals thaim intae orbit

ahint Orcadia. Darling’s grip relaxes:

sheu’s cloort her saet’s shinan aald black poly,

ten white lines doon aither side. Sheu hoasts.

“That doesn’t usually happen?” sheu says, ithoot

a moot o a smile, an Olaf replies, “Na.”

Darling pays Olaf for a tripspeedride

“I’m interested,” she says, “in how you work.” Olaf is stymiestupefied, hangleaning between shynessdiffidence, perverse grumpiness and his own restless vigourwhirr for the boats and the Lights. He sort of wantneeds to tell everything to someone, but doesn’t know what sort of someone she is, but is flattercajoled, but doesn’t want to disappoint, but is proud, but is afraid, so says, “Mhm,” looking out, and nothing more. The boat sails out of the dock, veryfearful quiet.

Darling has paid him, though, and wasn’t born to wealth or come across the galaxy without learning something about coaxcajoling a favour: she looks for less of the suspicion and more of the desire. She questions him laxslow and carefulslowgentle, bit by bit, leaving space to look at space, draws out a little wisdomknowledgenews, here and there, on how to steer and how to look and what to watch and where to know the great gas giant’s many dangers waitstaylive.

So when Olaf says, “What in the name . . .” and drops the drive of the boat to a carefulwatchful putter, she doesn’t ask right away and doesn’t cause a panicfussflurry, but looks out where he looks and waits. Above the gas giant before them the Lights are building a face. There’s no other word. In the fogfrost there are several thousand points of Light building a face the size of a moon: old, old, long beard, one eye open, one eye puckered, one mouth open, open and rushraining forward.