The Stars' Keeper

First Impression

Climbing out of the dust I meet a pair of eyes. He is old and looks distressed about it. Or maybe he's unhappy I broke his mountain of dirt jars. The elder holds his hand stretched out in between us. I see each stringy vein that crawl over thick knuckles. The skin is gray with early signs of death. I am so glad I'm not him.

I pull my selfout of the dust.

"Cool." My voice echoes around the room. "I'm alive."

The man lowers the outstretched arm. The long white sleeve rushes down the length of his arm until the tips of his fingers disappear. There's a silver threading as if he took a good century to focus on the detail of weaving the cloth together. It's a tightly woven pattern too carefully made to appreciate.

He steps out of the spot and trudges away from the dust with the same careful steps as someone trying to disarm a bomb. It seems like he doesn't care for the mess until a pathetic stick of a broom joins arms with him. It's nice he's going to clean this up. I've got places to be.

"Well," I say. "Bye!"

A trembling hand grasps my shoulder. The grip is harder than expected and not easy to break loose from. I look upon his face. The long tangles of Sahara sand and snow hair, pale pearl irises in clam shapes eyes, the permanent frown etched into the crooks of his lips by the sour humor of age. There is a power in his gaze that freezes me. He gestures for me to hold my hand out.

I comply.

The ugly wooden broom touches my palm with a passive-aggressive smack. He grunts. "Clean it up."

I look around for the person receiving his command. What a sorry sap that person would be to have to clean up this garbage. The mountain of ashen filth is almost the area of the room and half my height. Sweeping it out into the open fields would be no problem, except for the dusting. It'd take days.

The old man doesn't avert his gaze. "Do you understand?"

"I understand you." I smile.

"Then get down to it."

I stop smiling. I, Halley, am that sorry sap.

*