Aeolia

21: Aeolian Train Tracks

Her body ached. Her head throbbed. The grass sighed all around her. She was strung along a thin tight line, a strand of consciousness. She felt as if she were perched continuously on the edge of sleep—a sleep that enfolded her body in comforting bunched darkness—but someone kept nudging open the blinds and letting a strange sort of sunlight through.

     Musings meandered in and out and she stayed drowsily awake. She remembered what her father had whispered to her during her waves of anxiety: A thought will come, a thought will go. You let them do as they please. They are like the wind. Sometimes they are warm and soft but sometimes cold and sharp. They funnel in and funnel out and mean nothing to you. They are just breezes. Acknowledge how they ruffle your hair but let them mosey on.

     She thought about this memory and let it mosey on. Another thought came: She missed her home.

     She hadn't thought about it much these past—well, how long had it been?

     She felt something shift along her line of consciousness. As she attempted to recall the length of days that she'd been running, her memories eluded her grasp. This was the whisperers' doing, she guessed.

     A thought of Aeolia blew in. This one was a gentle wind, and warm.

     She smiled, lying on her back at the center of the grassy circle. Aeolia. The word was like a traveler's lilt, foreign and enchanting. Maybe she'd adapt the accent and learn to speak like they did in Aeolia. If anything spoke at all.

     What would it be like? Really? Images whistled through her head.

     She thought of ladybugs and sunlight and leaves folding into green summer parasols. She thought of golden wheat fields and her gray bird flitting through an empty red sky. She imagined clasping him in her hands while he sang of family and other things, like white picket fences and pinto horses.

     Now the woman thought of rain and streets and loneliness. She thought of city lights, something she hadn't seen in person yet. She saw the swish of skirts and the clap of hooves on pavement. She thought about sitting at the gorge cliff and watching her spit fall. She recalled the day by the river, when she wanted to jump into it because she couldn't bear the silence much longer. Then little winged Spire had appeared, along with Haze, and the idea had evaporated.

     She could remember clearly now, a new thought noted.

     After a minute more, the whisperers flattened their ears in unison, knowing this was enough. The woman's thoughts had been helpful and promising. She feared the Viper, herself, fire, and failure. She had a strong will to find Aeolia, and with a little guidance she would get there. The whisperers liked Ravine. They released their hold on her.

     The bird was the next for them to probe. The searching process with Spire was quick and efficient, like flipping through catalogued chapters of a book. His head was so organized, he even had a fixed set of thoughts he liked to rifle through periodically.

     These thoughts included his mother, his nest, sunrise, dew, Ravine, Haze, and distant memories of Aeolia. He couldn't recall how he'd ended up in the forest where he met Ravine or remember a clear outline of the Viper. He knew the Viper as a sort of everpresent shadow. It seemed he preferred to think about it as little as possible. He also couldn't remember what his name had been at first. Until they'd met Haze, he'd been nameless.

     Though not really. Nobody is nameless.

     The whisperers agreed with this thought. It was not a new one, nor birthed solely from his own head, but it was a good idea. He was quite the intelligent little bird. Nobody, nothing, is nameless. They further dissected this thought and found raw ideas from Spire: Nobody, nothing, is nameless. Not a blade of grass in an ever-expanding field or the brown down feather of a wren. Nothing is nameless.

     The whisperers released him from their hold now, exceptionally pleased. Not only had Spire proved he was apt to guide Ravine, but he'd shown he was a poet too.

     Spire fluffed his feathers and called to the woman.

     Ravine looked up from her bed in the long, weaving grass and stood. Her dark hair glinted and she smiled. Though she was tired, she felt cleaner than she had in a long time. She held out her arm for Spire to grasp. He sang of Aeolia once again, and the woman knew that they were close.

     The moon came out as Haze stepped forward.

     "I'm so sorry to see you go," she said in her ethereal voice.
     "But you must journey on, we know.
     Find Aeolia—no doubt you will—
     And there you shall find your hopes fulfilled.
     You'll meld into the warmth, the peace,
     Into the hills of purple fleece—
     Every trouble whisked away
     Waxen gold by the old sun's rays.
     You will fit there, accepted truly
     By acquaintances acquired newly.
     Because after all, you are not nameless
     A new thought Spire added to his book—
     And now, my dears, turn to the east
     And at your incredible opportunities look.
     So much lies before you there, expanding ever—
     A painted plain, a serrated bluff, a raging field of weather
     But beware as you journey far, the Viper keeps on tail
     Hiding in the deep black earth flashing fangs so pale.
     If you keep your wits together, you shall be alright—
     You'll find the Aeolian train tracks if you follow the tainted light.
     Now my dear Ravine and Spire, come nearer to us now.
     Our oldest member will bless your travels with a solemn vow."

     A whisperer who appeared no different from the others stepped forward. It said nothing, only searched deep into the woman and bird's eyes. Finally it dipped its head.

     "Go," it said. And that was all.