Aeolia

23: Granite Overlook

For a week they left purple prints behind them, before the eastern shoulder of mountains revealed itself. The grass and wildflowers danced once again in the valley, color fully restored. When the bird sang, hues blossomed out, brighter than before. The woman felt a stirring within her, somewhere deep where nothing could touch it.

     But as time passed, the light dimmed. The nights and days got darker—so dark that they could hardly see the rocks under their feet. At first the change had been subtle but now the ebony wrapped fully around them, so thick and inky walking became a danger.

     Ravine was certain her vision had left her, replaced with grainy black.

     Spire was certain that they had fallen off the edge of the world, into the fabled void beyond.

     Before long, however, they had reached the summit of the eastern peaks. They stood upon a stolid overlook that jutted out in marbled rafters, the ground dangling beneath them. Ravine wasn't sure if her fear was quelled by the fact that she couldn't see how high in the air the cliff was, or if her ignorance was comforting.

     As the perpetual night wore on, she and the songbird settled into the worn grooves that smoothed the surface of the overlook, and watched the horizon.

     A haunting line from the woman's favorite childhood story crept into her head. Human and beast, lives entwined, waiting for the world to end. She felt a melancholy sense of relief—like if she fell from this bluff and cracked apart below, she would be satisfied with where she was now. The feeling was not completely a new one, yet when she tried to remember when she'd experienced it, nothing came to mind.

     Then something wondrous took place.

      Slowly, the sun rose—a marvelous orb of orange dew that softened the sky with quiet yellow light. The clouds were flaxen feathers molted by some great phoenix of the skies, tinted with fire and candle and rose.

      Awash in luminosity appeared a faraway spine of mountains they hadn't been able to see before. The sun illuminated the range's blurred grayscale folds in marigold. They had not yet reached the ends of this grand planet, though a sense of finality rustled gently through Ravine's body.

     Then the sun was fully in the sky, and the moment of spirituality, or whatever the woman had felt, was over. Out of this darkness the sun had risen, an abrupt contrast to the night they had been hiking through before.

     Sighing, Ravine set her little songbird in her lap and crossed her legs. She stroked Spire's delicate frame, studied the way he blinked, admired his plumage and tiny wet eyes, noticed how his toes curled when she pet him, and realized how light and breakable and remarkable he was.

     The woman remembered her younger years, when her parents taught her the ways and stories of their religion. She had been comforted by the tales of heroism and the creative explanations for the way things were, but she had never believed any of it.

     As she stared at the enormous morning sun, she knew she believed in something. One had to believe in something; otherwise one was living in complete truth, and the truth makes one sick of oneself. It would be hard to live without those foolish alleyways to duck into every now and then.

     Just a little faith, in something she felt inside of her and saw when she thought of Spire, of the sun, of amethyst...that was good enough for her. Yes, the woman reflected, I believe in something. I don't know what it is, but I feel it—whether I'm just making it up or not doesn't matter.

     And this wasn't some great orchestral climax that crashed into her, and it's not a huge message that I'm leaving with you for you to take to heart. It was a soft-spoken idea that slipped through her head and left without any marks—only a faint echo of words, repeating away until they faded. A force that had clenched her ribs was released. She imagined her bottled anxieties clattering and breaking on the smooth rock, streaming down in turquoise branches to the dry land below the cliff.

     The songbird sneezed, his body rocking backwards. The woman laughed, feeling light. A feeling similar to the one she'd felt in the Perfect Place stole into her, except her yearning to stay here on this crag wasn't overshadowed with pessimistic voices. Spire acknowledged Ravine's smile with a jubilant chirp.

     "Wait!" the woman said, suddenly narrowing her eyes.

     A question mark slipped from the bird's beak. When the woman turned her head to scan the sky, Spire's eyes grew searching. He watched. Was it—?

     "Could it be possible for anything to echo here?" Ravine continued, puzzled. "We're on a cliff jutting out across a savanna—suspended over nothing. But I'm certain I heard another chirp mirroring yours."

     Spire stared intensely at the sky panning before them. The sun was large and distant in the light of the new morning—and it appeared to be singing. On further inspection, hazy creatures crawling on the sun were singing. But wait—the creatures were coming closer, their songs more distinct.

     A whistle, a caw, a cry, a keen, a tweet, a twitter, a warble, and a burst of spectacular color. Out of the heart of the sun stemmed a twisting array of ribbons, soon followed by a flock of birds—little gray birds from which the color came. Their beaks were open, their eyes shining. They drifted through the morning sky. Ravine was certain she was in a dream.

     The birds drew closer and hovered, a fluttering waterfall, in front of the travelers. Spire shook his feathers, eager to join them. His wings itched.

     The woman felt an ache of pain spring from deep in her, welling up through her body. "No, stop! Spire, don't go, I can't fly."

     The songbird flicked his tail feathers and joined the wall of birds.

     "What are you doing? My wings are gone!" Ravine cried.

     One songbird in the flock sang its reply to her. Its words flashed in her head like fire against the night. They were emblazoned before her eyes—they were all she saw.

     THAT MAY BE TRUE, the words flickered, BUT THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHER WAYS. HUMANS WEREN'T MEANT TO FLY. INSTINCT IS OFTEN THE BEAST YOU CHAIN BACK—CAPACITY AS WELL. HUMANS CANNOT ACCEPT THAT THEY HAVE LIMITS. GIVE INTO YOURS, RAVINE. IN AEOLIA, YOU WILL LEARN THAT ACCEPTANCE IS THE ART TAUGHT MOST OFTEN. IT IS OUR GREATEST ASSET. ACCEPT THAT YOU HAVE SPENT YOUR WINGS. YOUR BENEFACTORS CAN DO NO MORE FOR YOU.

     The woman blinked and stood, wind from the flapping wings blowing her hair over her eyes. She decided to ask her first question, out of many.

     "You know who I am?"

     The flock gave one collective nod.

     "All of you? But I'm just one person. What makes me so special, when everyone else has bigger problems than me? All I have to complain about is the past, which is not the present, and my anxieties. But that's in my head, that can be conquered."

     EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN AEOLIA, the same bird explained. INSIG-NIFICANCE IS MERELY A WORD. WE HAVE NO REGARD FOR IT HERE.

     She pushed through the fog of disbelief and addressed her next concern. "How close am I?"

     One bird volunteered its answer in shining broad letters.

     IT DEPENDS ON HOW WILLINGLY YOU WALK.

     "Walk?"

     YOU WILL TRAVEL BELOW US, THROUGH THE SAVANNA, ALONG THE TRAIN TRACKS. WE WILL BE ABOVE YOU, SHIELDING YOU. THE SUN IS ITS INTENSEST AT THE END OF THE WORLD—IT HAS BEEN KNOWN TO BURN ANYONE WHO HAS NOT YET TOUCHED AEOLIAN SOILS. THIS MAY NOT BE THE CASE WITH YOU, SINCE YOU ARE DIFFERENT, BUT WE SHOULD STAY TOGETHER THE BEST THAT WE CAN.

     Spire nodded. "We will protect you. The whisperers have assigned us to. I think I remember now–or I'm beginning to." From his beak came true words, though still accompanied by colors and images. Or maybe he was speaking in his usual language—but she could understand now.

     With a reeling brain, Ravine found it hard to stay on her feet. She would figure out the answers as she walked through the savanna to Aeolia. Right?

     "...Thank you," the woman whispered.

     "You're welcome," the songbird said.

     And the birds of Aeolia gave a single, lonesome keen and swept Ravine into a wave of glinting gray feathers. They flew as the wheel of day began to turn faster, scattering rust across the earth.