Aeolia

36: Ephemeral World

Spire sank and Spire sang; he sat and he soared; he drifted all throughout the vast mind-field, his body and voice light. For days he had been floating through this beautiful world—a world that was as real to him as the beak before his eyes. He felt as if, for once, his wings were satisfied with staying idle—there was no urge to leap and loop, to fly until he found something greater.

     Now he was content to simply be.

     With hazy eyes the bird assessed his surroundings, gaze sweeping over the land around him. His small mind bore no unease, no sense of foreboding or premonition. He quivered with joy.

     He saw the sun, a warped red sun that clung to the highest point of the sky, above a shelf of crumbling cliffs. He saw white spiraling hills to the north, land like roots aboveground, tangled with paper mountains. To the south he saw a lovely forest of trees that pierced forever up, emanating mist and light. To the far west laid a barren desert ravaged by raging weather.

     And all throughout, he knew, he knew, furled a hypnotizing river—a river so diverse and so strange—that even through the fog in his head he remembered it starkly with no misconception. For this was the same river he had drunk from with his mother when he was young. He had drunk from this marvelous river until he had grown strong, until he had developed his synesthetic voice. This river was imbued with every peril and pride of the land—of color, images, emotions, transport, Mist, and dreams.

     Currently he sat in the midst of a forest through which this river ran, his talons clutching an emerald branch that rose above the canopy. From there he watched the red sun turn its face farther and farther away from him.

     But it was all so peaceful. He was alone here, the vibrant forest his cathedral. In days prior it had been congested with birds—their beaks nicked, eyes dull—who sang of dust and dark creatures. One day then, a being had emerged from the earth. Spire hadn't liked it; the being filled him with deep dread. Every bird had left their perch in a fit of fear, winging to the east. Then Spire had frightened the being away. He'd watched it slither back into the ground once more.

     The birds never came back. Spire was the only creature for miles around. And that was okay. There was no one in this lonely world he knew. He remembered his mother, but that was a lifetime ago. There was no one else that would come for him, none but the dark under-being.

     Spire leapt from his branch and into the air, where he assessed the leaves and limbs below. At last he decided to settle into the boughs of a cozier tree—one that swayed and bent, ebbing like the river that fed color to its roots. He closed his eyes as the tree tossed pink congratulations into the air.

     It was there he fell asleep.