Welcome.
          Have a seat somewhere comfortable.

     A cheldzan is a meeting place, any place where people can gather spontaneously. It can be a grove in a forest, a tea-house or the steps leading to a storefront. Literally, it means web, or net, a thing other things are caught in . . .

Like you.                         

     You've come because you've read about the Jokka in the pages of Strange Horizons, or you've seen a picture of them at a convention art show or online auction . . . or simply because your regular visits to Stardancer have made you curious. I can't blame you. The Jokka are very curious. I've been working with them for two years and still they surprise me.

     There are easy points of confusion, even among the currently available stories. Kediil of "Freedom, Spiced and Drunk," is a nomad. Ekanoi, narrator of "Money for Sorrow, Made Joy," is a trader between established cities. Some of this confusion can be cleared up by a timeline. If you go to see which clays are set out on the sands, you can get the news and answers to your Frequently Asked Questions, as well as links to reviews.

     While there isn't much alien vocabulary in the stories, there are a few important words that I can't readily translate into English. Some of these concepts, like that of the three sexes – anadi, eperu and emodo – are crucial to understanding the Jokka. You might find this lexicon of Jokku words helpful.

     Finally, some have expressed interest in what the Jokka look like. While sketches of the Jokka regularly appear on Stardancer's Current Images page, I've collected some of the most illuminating examples of illustrations of the Jokka in the gallery. They'll be on permanent display there. Additionally, the gallery contains a guest exhibit, and a scrolling sketch exhibit.

It is the nature of a cheldzan to attract visitors.
     Perhaps you will see some sign of them: footsteps, the flash of eyes in the dark, the swirl of sand, a dropped shell.

Perhaps when you see these things, you might follow them . . . to what, who can tell?