The Wind Between the Stars

Chapter 1

"You are a stranger to yourself and yet he knows you. And when your hard heart made you like unto a stone and broke you from his body, which is the stars and the wind between the stars, he knew you. He knew you then and forever. This world is a veil, and the face you wear is not your own."

 —Joel Theriot (True Detective 1x03)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Husky Harris. Who had ever thought that was a good name? Alliteration was one thing, but to make an obvious jab at his size, something he had been ridiculed for years, was low. The wrestling business could be cruel, he knew—his father and uncles had already warned him—but he thought things would be different by now. Shouldn't they have learned? he thought, gazing out at the murky water. Shouldn't they be better than people were to them?

The swamp had always been a source of solace for him. Some kids thought it was gross or scary, but he and his siblings treated it like a playground, like an adventure. They never swam out too far, of course—they knew better; they had heard the stories—but they knew darkness wasn't a thing to be inherently feared. Everything had its own place, its own way of blossoming. The swamp simply thrived in darkness, in the oppressive heat that seized his lungs. He couldn't hate the swamp any more than he could hate an alligator's sharp teeth. Nature equipped all its children with tools for survival, and tools were themselves were neutral. It was how they were used that mattered.

It was rarely the same swamp. Life and work took him all over the country now, but he found that any swamp anywhere had a piece of the same soul in its depths, the same comfort in its creeping roots and dark waters. As he sat on the rickety dock, avoiding the worst of the splintered wood and bird-shit stains, he idly picked at a sliver in his palm and worked it free, flicking it into the sluggish water. "What do I need to do?" he asked softly, letting the natural softness of his voice seep through. It was yet another thing he was teased about: having a quiet voice when he was so large. Some people thought it meant he was stupid—or simple or dumb or whatever other offensive term they hadn't unlearned yet—but he knew better. It didn't make it any easier, though. The wrestling world was full of tall, muscular, imposing men, and men like him usually ended up being the joke, the comic relief.

He was no one's joke.

"Who do I need to be?" He had only ever wanted to be himself—to be comfortable with himself, within himself. He wanted to honour the legacies of his grandfather and father and uncles but still pave his own way. The wrestling world—fans and bookers and companies—could be unduly hard on second- and third-generation hopefuls, claiming they were riding coat-tails and nothing more.

Be yourself. The words were an admonition, an invitation, a plea, and they lapped up against his mind the way the swamp water curled around his dangling ankles. Be us.

"Be us?" he echoed, his already soft voice nearly lost to the symphony of the swamp, the choruses of insects and reptiles and all manner of creatures best suited to the darkness. He had been slumped forward, gazing into the murk of the swamp, when a flash of light off to his left caught his attention. When he sat up straighter, he noticed one over to his right, higher, darting into the drooping canopy of the trees. "Who are you?"

Who are WE? The correction wasn't chiding or cruel, just a gentle nudge, the way his mother used to guide him by the shoulder if he started straying off the walking path through the forest. The WE seemed to cause ripples in the water and shivers in his bones, and a light bloomed right in front of him, bathing his face in gentle amber.

He scrambled to his feet, staggering back from the edge of the dock. There were all sorts of stories about the swamp, about creatures that would try to lure you into the water and steal your breath for their own. It had been foolish to come down to the dock so late all alone, but he needed some time to himself; he needed to be able to lose himself in the darkness without worrying about someone reeling him back in before he was ready to return. "We?" he whispered. The way the voice said it, it meant more than family, more than friends; it made the tiny word burrow all the way down to his marrow and rewrite him, using his blood as its ink.

Now that he was standing, the lights appeared in a cascade, like sparks flying heavenward from some unseen fire. Fireflies. Was it a thought or a statement? He didn't know, and it didn't really matter. They were part of the we. He wasn't quite sure how he knew that, but the truth of it rang out in his heart, clear and high like a crystal bell.

All things need light. The words came down like a gentle rain, and as he tilted his head back to the sky, he felt the soft patter of water on his face, coursing down his cheeks like tears. The sky shared his sorrow, and also shared with him a sorrow that was not his own. All things need darkness too. You'll find both here. Find them. Follow the buzzards.

When he opened his eyes, he saw two large, gnarled buzzards perched at the edge of the grove, one as dark as soil and the other with a bloody-red patch on its breast. He lowered himself into the water and waded over, trying not to startle the fearsome birds, but they kept their wings close to their bodies as they watched him approach. When he was near enough, they rose slowly and flew into the dense trees, looking back to make sure he was following.

He was. So were the fireflies, trailing after him like a bridal train, lighting up not the path before him but the wake he would leave behind.