The Wind Between the Stars

Chapter 2

There was solace to be found in the swamp. He had always known that. But all things had a price. Had the cost of that solace been his soul? His heart lurched at the thought as he rocked in his chair, gazing out at the gloaming. So much of him had been born out here—his essence, his thoughts, his core—but was it enough? Had it ever been? Had the fireflies ever given enough light to see by? Had the darkness he had cultivated here ever been thick enough to cover his wounds?

"Who do I need to be?" he whispered into the sinking darkness, spreading across the horizon like spilled ink. He wished he could dip a finger in it and write his story anew. The swamp had given him answers once, answers and buzzards and visions, and he thought it was enough. For a while, it was. But then everything fell apart.

You already know. The answer bubbled up from the murk, so slow he strained to string the words together.

"I don't. I don't!" He picked up his lantern and slammed it down against the dock for emphasis. If the fireflies were his light, why did he need a lantern to see by?

You DO. Or at least you did. You lost your way. You let the lights above distract you from the lights below. It was never about fame. It was never about THEM. The voice felt acidic, reminding him of bile rising in his throat; his ears wanted to reject it the same way. You and your brothers. Your family. You lost your way. You took someone else's.

He sat up so suddenly his rocking chair tipped over, tumbling into the swamp. The water was thick enough that it sank slowly, but he let it go. "It's different out there!" he hissed, grabbing the lantern and hurling it into the heart of the swamp. Let it take it all from me. Take EVERYTHING. Once the lantern sank too, the only illumination was the moon above and the fireflies hovering a safe distance away, made skittish by his outburst. "It's not like here. They don't understand."

So make them understand, the voice said with infuriating simplicity. Teach them. Show them. Tell your stories. Use their words, their pens, their pages, their props, but tell YOUR story. Tell it so slick and slow they don't even know you're in their ear until you've reached their brain and by then it will be too late.

"How?" He had given them so much already, so much of his time and passion. He wasn't sure he had any more to give. He had suffered so much; his family had suffered. When would it ever be enough?

A flash of light to his right caught his eye. The buzzards had been there once, the buzzards that had symbolized his brothers. Now the branches wove together in such a way that they looked like a window with a flower box, pretty as a picture in a children's book. You need friends, the voice reminded him. Friends to help you remember who you are. You're a creator. Do what you do best. Create. Make what you need. Make the world you need in order to live.

He didn't wade through the swamp this time. He took the long way around, walking along the edge of the swamp. The ground was spongy beneath his feet, absorbing his footsteps and pulling at him like a toddler tugging on their parent's shirt, eager for attention, and he welcomed it. It made him more aware, more mindful. He had lost touch with so much: his purpose, his passion, his brothers. He needed to remember what was real, what was true. The swamp, he said, half sigh and half affirmation. No matter what, the swamp had always been there for him. It was there for him now, leading him to the window into the woods for a peek into the depths of his soul.

They say you can judge a man by the company he keeps, do they not? So make your friends in your image. Give the small and the petty and the cruel no choice but to see you, to hear your words and heed them. Show them your heart. Pour it out of your mouth and into your words, and they will drink it down like the finest wine.

"And then?" he whispered. He had reached the window but didn't dare touch it. Perhaps it looked out onto a world where he didn't want to go, a self he wasn't yet ready to see. There was too much at stake, too many ways to stray and fail and fall.

And then, when they're drunk on you and your words, you've won. Your world will be theirs; theirs will be yours. They'll have no choice but to see through your eyes. Whatever light you give them will show them the way. Now the voice snapped and cracked like twigs underfoot, the crisp rattle of autumn-dry leaves scuttling down an abandoned street.

"But what about me? Where's my light?" Finally he reached forward and parted the joined branches, stepping onto more solid ground and following a breeze as cold as a witch's laughter and as harsh as a buzzard's beak.

The same place it's always been. The same place it will always be. In your shattered little heart. Your heart's a lantern, boy. You can blow it out or cast it aside, but it's the only thing that can ever guide you to where you need to go. The voice seemed to weigh down the branches, making them creak as he ventured further into the trees, drawn by a faint outline.

He thought it was another lantern at first, a lantern big enough to live in, but as he got nearer, he realized it was a house, full of nostalgia and fear. He took a deep breath before crossing the threshold.

The fireflies swarmed around the outside, waiting to be let in.