She landed in the hills above Los Angeles.
Not roughly.
Not with the brutal downward drop I expected from something large enough to remove a bedroom wall and carry a grown man out of jail.
She descended gently through the darkness, her wings slowing until they were no longer a thunder above me but a vibration I felt more than heard.
My bare feet touched dirt.
I bent at the knees and nearly collapsed.
She caught me.
Again.
This was becoming a pattern.
“You are injured,” she said.
“I have had better evenings.”
She lowered me onto a flat stone beside a narrow stream. Moonlight moved across the water in broken silver pieces. Somewhere below us, Los Angeles glittered as though it had done nothing wrong.
From that distance, the city looked peaceful.
This is one of the city’s many tricks.
I sat there in an orange jail uniform, barefoot, cut across the chest, and newly rescued by a six-foot extraterrestrial queen bee.
As a physician, I attempted to assess my condition.
Pulse rapid.
Respiration shallow.
Blood pressure unknown.
Mental state questionable.
The cause of the questionable mental state stood before me, folding her amber wings behind her back with surprising modesty.
For the first time, I really looked at her.
In my bedroom she had been force and terror.
In the jail yard she had been salvation from above.
Here, under the moon, she was neither.
She was beautiful.
Not in any ordinary human sense.
Ordinary human beauty had abandoned the conversation several miles back.
Her body carried hints of insect and woman without fully belonging to either. Her limbs were slender but powerful. Her skin, if it was skin, shimmered faintly gold and brown, like sunlight trapped under glass. Her eyes were enormous, dark amber, and more expressive than any eyes I had ever seen.
I had spent forty years looking into human eyes.
Frightened eyes.
Grateful eyes.
Angry eyes.
Eyes searching mine for hope when I had little to offer.
Hers contained intelligence, sadness, and something that looked almost like apology.
“I frightened you,” she said.
“Only during the wall, the dead man, the jail break, and the flying.”
“That was not my intention.”
“What was your intention?”
“To save you.”
“Then I have no complaint.”
She studied my face as though trying to determine whether I meant it.
I did.
Mostly.
She knelt in front of me.
“May I touch you?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers touched the wound on my chest.
They were warm.
Unexpectedly warm.
A faint scent rose from her.
Honey.
Wild grass.
Rain on dry earth.
My chest tingled.
I looked down.
The bleeding had stopped.
“That is useful,” I said.
“It is minor repair.”
“Minor to whom?”
“To me.”
“Then remind me never to complain about your major repairs.”
For a moment her expression changed.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
“Your humor appears when you are afraid.”
“It is either that or screaming.”
“Screaming would also be understandable.”
“I try not to be predictable.”
This time she smiled.
Small.
Brief.
Devastating.
Something about it disturbed my professional objectivity.
As a physician, I chose not to investigate further.
“What are you?” I asked.
“A traveler.”
“That is evasive.”
“Yes.”
“At least we are making progress.”
She looked toward the city lights below.
“I am not from this world.”
“I had begun to suspect that.”
“My people are older than yours.”
“That narrows it to almost everyone.”
“We crossed the darkness between stars before your species learned to shape metal.”
She said it without arrogance.
Which somehow made it more impressive.
“Why are you here?”
“I was sent to observe.”
“Humans?”
“All life.”
“And your conclusion?”
“Your planet is magnificent.”
“I notice you separated the planet from humans.”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
She turned toward me.
“Your species is difficult.”
“That is the polite version.”
“You build hospitals and weapons with the same urgency. You comfort children and poison rivers. You create music that alters emotion itself, then argue over invisible borders.”
“We also invented doughnuts.”
“I have observed this.”
“And?”
“They are persuasive.”
I laughed.
The sound seemed to please her.
Only then did I notice something strange.
She was nervous.
Not frightened.
Nervous.
Like someone attending a first date while pretending it was a scientific conference.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“My true name is not made of sound.”
“That complicates introductions.”
“Yes.”
“What should I call you?”
She thought for several seconds.
“When I first came to Earth I listened to many languages. I selected one human name.”
“And?”
“Elian.”
I repeated it softly.
“Elian.”
She watched me say it.
“Is it acceptable?”
“It is beautiful.”
Something moved behind her eyes.
A quiet gratitude.
“And you are Jed,” she said.
“You seem remarkably certain.”
“I have watched you.”
“For how long?”
She looked away.
“Seventeen years.”
I stared.
“That is a very long house call.”
“I did not watch constantly.”
“That is not as reassuring as you think.”
For the first time she laughed.
The sound reminded me of wind chimes and distant water.
“I observed many humans,” she said.
“Why me?”
“Because of the bees.”
“The bees?”
“When you were young.”
And suddenly I knew.
The hive.
The Alberta summer.
The Popsicle sticks floating in a pan of water.
“You saw that?”
“Yes.”
“I was sixteen.”
“You believed they understood your intentions.”
“I always thought that was childish.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It was correct.”
The stream whispered over stones.
Neither of us spoke for several moments.
“The bees knew?” I finally asked.
“Yes.”
“That I was helping?”
“Yes.”
“Scientists would disagree.”
“Scientists disagree with many things until they become obvious.”
I found myself smiling.
Then, unexpectedly, I said:
“My wife died three years ago.”
The words appeared without permission.
Elian lowered her head.
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
“I am sorry.”
There was no alien quality in her voice then.
Only compassion.
“She was kind,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You watched her too?”
“Yes.”
“For science?”
She hesitated.
“At first.”
That answer told me more than any speech could have.
The wind shifted.
Below us the city glowed.
Above us stars filled the darkness.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“You cannot return.”
“The jail would be awkward.”
“Not only the jail.”
She looked toward the horizon.
“Others will come.”
“Police?”
“Police. Soldiers. Scientists. Men who call fear by other names.”
“You know us remarkably well.”
“I have studied you for a long time.”
“And still came back for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Moonlight passed through her wings.
“Because while Carl Jensen stood over you, I watched your thoughts.”
“That sounds invasive.”
“It was an emergency.”
“Proceed.”
“You thought about his mother.”
I said nothing.
“You wondered if there was something more you could have done for her. You blamed yourself for the grief of a man who came to murder you.”
I looked away.
“That is not intelligence as my people define it,” she said softly.
“Then what is it?”
“Something better.”
For once, I had no joke.
Elian rose.
“There is a place I can take you.”
“Safe?”
“For a little while.”
“That phrase has ruined many vacations.”
Again the smile appeared.
“You may refuse.”
I considered my options.
Return to jail.
Return to a house missing a wall.
Explain giant bees to homicide detectives.
Or trust the impossible.
I stood.
“One question.”
“Yes?”
“Will there be doughnuts?”
“I cannot promise doughnuts.”
“Then this relationship is off to a troubling start.”
“Relationship?”
The word lingered between us.
Neither of us corrected it.
Finally she extended her hand.
I looked at it.
Then at her.
Then at the city below, where sensible people were desperately trying to explain a world that no longer made sense.
I took her hand.
It closed around mine with astonishing gentleness.
And together we walked into the darkness.