Oh Father

Prologue

WHEN THE NIGHT turns from a brilliant blue to the color of ash from the fire, with clouds the translucency of smoke withering from the flames, when the world is fast asleep, when the eyes of the few who lived and the creatures who murmured under their breaths are curled in a blanket of warmth, when the earth is still, the stars peek out from behind the wall of darkness and stare curiously below them. Their fluorescent hue drenched the land in a yellow light, but it only reached so far; their arms were only so long, and, their pale heads wilting, they retreated back to the darkened corners of their land as the day broke.

They had not always been there, the stars chorused together, they had not always been in the high skies. If you listened closely, they whispered in the night, their voices hoarse from allowing their words to travel down to Earth. But no one listened; no one but the bards listened to their hushed words that carried on the winds.

Maybe it was because it was more entertaining when someone’s mouth formed the words, instead of believing the breeze spoke to the people throughout the villages. The bards spoke of extravagant gardens, lavish places, and inbetween, slipped in the tale of the stars in the sky, of what they said; and as the bards passed away, the tale died, too, fluttering into extinction.

We used to be birds, the stars recited, used to be birds that flitted their lavish yellow wings and flew high into the skies, diving down, and clinging to branches. Birds that flapped their feathers and moved across the world, whistling a song that other birds used to repeat in haste of sounding beautiful. They used to be birds before Father snatched them gently from the branches and threw them into the sky.

In the stories that no one knew, tales that were long forgotten, a mythology that didn’t live, one man, formed by the dust that shrouded the atmosphere, stood alone on a glacier of ice, a fragment of a former glory. The loneliness seemed to seep from the ocean current rapidly swirling beneath his feet. He could feel the motion twisting and twirling, dancing, entwining in an embrace hard to be broken. He stood for many a day and many a night, alone, sleepless, without food or water or shelter (for the water was too salty to be drunk), slightly unnerved. At last, he felt truly alone, standing on his ice sliver, and he opened his palms. His hands were rough and covered in callouses, with bits of cosmic dust whipping in the wind that blew, and he allowed his breath to move the particles gently, where they landed in several places across the water covered planet; from there, clods of dirt and clay began to form and adhered to each other, and the first pieces of land were fabricated.

As soon as he reached the land he had made, he felt alone still, so he created companions; two yellow birds, with soft feathers on delicate wings, sharp beaks, talons to clutch with. These birds whistled magnificently, and the first language was born: music, that rang out across the flat land and bounced off of nothing, disappearing into the sky. It was then that the man realized he was alone even yet, with no one but the birds to whistle to, and with no one to shape this home that he had created.

With bits of dust from his own being, he created a woman, from the dirt that he stood on. She had pretty green doe eyes and brown hair that fell awkwardly to her waist, and he smiled, grateful that someone else he could share is music with. He whistled to her, grinning, as a look of confusion crossed her face; it was then that he realized she could not understand him, and his heart plummeted.

She and him began to create a language of their own, and a crude form of Latin was uttered. They created the worlds together, shaping the dry areas, the wet marshlands, the weather, the storms. They made a sturdy home from the wood that came from the forest they had grown. From animal skins, that they had formed, they made clothes; and, eventually, they discovered the blessing of children.

He was Father and she was Mother. They watched as the world around them aged, they felt blessed; Father and Mother created lovers for their children and watched as they lived happily, and created their own families. Aodh and Neith had a child by the name of Era; Era loved the wind, just as Aodh loved the delicious fire that he burned at night, and Neith loved the salty water.

It was Aodh’s younger sister, Ceri, that was afraid of the darkness that fell every night. No light penetrated the veil. She was terrified; even with her eyes closed, she wailed, scared by what might be lurking in the corners of the earth. At this time, Mother ran her hands through Ceri’s hair, and Father left the house, determined to find a way to save his little girl from being frightened.

In the middle of the night, he stumbled upon the bright, yellow birds, hovering in the forest, flying between branches. They whistled their merry tunes without fear, knowing simply that they could outrun every foe. It was then that Father gained an idea; he called to the birds, letting them clutter on his body, before he spun and launched them into the air.

They got stuck in the dark wall, dabbling the sky gently, letting off a pale light, the color of their bodies. Father smiled. Ceri, who sat in her bed, at home, saw the lights in the sky, and felt less afraid of the night. Once her father reached the house, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, happily skipping off to bed.

But all people age, and Father and Mother were no exception. They passed away peacefully, in their sleep, leaving their children happily on Earth to do as they please. Aodh created someone for Ceri to settle with: they called him Demetrius, and he was especially good with growing crops.

Father and Mother’s body deteriorated in their graves - Father became an imprint in the stars, whereas Mother was in the hills and the valleys of the land. Slowly and steadily, the population grew, and people became more educated: systems were set up, and humans were able to live in peace.

But no one remembered the family who started it all, said the stars. And the stars were right.