20 December 2012
Pax sat on his cloud, cold and wet in the October rain. The sky was a dull shade of grey, streaked with uneven patches of navy rain clouds. A shudder echoed through Pax, settling in a heavy lump of dread. When it rained up here, his thin clothes clung to his body, and sitting up through the night was dreadful. He was the North Star, and so had to make sure he stayed very still, so the ships could be guided in.
He reached forwards, and tucked his knees tightly under his jutting chin. The night was unforgiving to humans, especially in winter. During the day, the warm sun would rise, and fill the sky with a brilliant blue. Pax would lay back, cradled on his cloud, and feel the sun warm the cockles of his heart. During the day, it didn't matter that he was lonely, because he could hang precariously off the edge of his cloud and listen to the conversations people had below about ceiling wax and courgettes, and who would go and fetch the new curtains from the seamstress on Blake Street next Tuesday. It amused him, to hear the bustle of life, and to watch the children play together in the sunshine. He had been taken in the night at seven years of age, and so never really had the chance to play many games. After watching a group of children for a few warm summer afternoons, he thought he could perhaps give marbles a good go, and cricket looked like good fun.
The nights were lonely and cold. The moon gave everything a pallid, gaunt look, no matter how hard she tried to match the sun. The people down below obviously knew this, because they all slipped inside at the coming of dusk, and snuggled under soft eiderdowns to dream the velvet hours away. Pax was jealous; he longed to sit by the fire with a cup of something warm, and listen to his fathers stories of battles won and loves lost. Ten years he had sat on this cloud and shimmered for the people below; an unnoticed lump of cosmic sugar in an otherwise tasteless brew. He was almost a man now, and there comes a point in every mans life when he wants adventure, and to seek his destiny. He no longer wanted to be a silver child, perched on a cloud like some exotic flightless bird; he wanted to be a knight, a warrior, a saviour of damsels in distress!
But, of course, this was not going to happen. Pax had knocked the north star out of the sky, and so had been knocked out of earth. He belonged to the sky beings, until they chose to let him go (which he was one hundred percent sure couldn't happen, because the beings used the North Star to guide ships into harbour. Why would they let the new North Star go?). Pax slumped back on his wet cloud, and brushed a damp, straggled piece of hair behind his ear.
"Oh pretty world so far below, Sleeping through the darkened night I long to just flee here and go To sleep upon a bed 'til light"
He sighed, gazing down upon the valleys of tiny, flickering lights which sprawled above him. All the other stars were nothing more than wisps of light. They had no dreams, no hopes; no one would even notice if one of them was missing. Then, he thought, here was he: a tiny, flickering wisp of life. No one even knew he existed anymore. His father had moved to Drint, which was thousands of miles away, his kingdom had followed, and it wasn't like he had any friends to speak of.
Shedding a single, pearly tear, which he brushed away with shame, pax closed his eyes and drifted into restless sleep.
***
Pax awoke with a start: he had rolled onto his side in his sleep and nearly fell from his cloud. His heart pumping with adrenaline; he steadied himself once more, and breathed deeply to calm his shallowed exhale. He had to be more careful: one day he could fall off for real and tumble downwards through the air like a shot bird. Defeated.
He looked around. Time was suspended in the thin thread between night and dusk, where everything is a colourless haze, and nothing seems to have any relevance. The moon hung in the distance, veiled by the mist that clung to the air.
Then, he heard it. A beautiful, crisp string of notes, each following the first like a single drop of rain. To him, it was like he had not heard a single note in years, and here some were, floating along on a whim of wind towards him. He felt guilty for listening; this music clearly wasn't for him: no one knew he was up here. It was like forbidden fruit though, and he soaked it up.
After some time, he laid flat on his cloud, and looked over the edge for the source of this glorious noise. He couldn't see anything for a while, until he looked over to the grand house on the hill. There, on the balcony, a girl sat and played a silver flute by candle light. She was so far away, but Pax could pick out her beautiful dark hair which tumbled down her back, and her elegant fingers which skipped along the keys.
He watched her for hours, until the sun broke through and she slipped inside once more, leaving nothing more than the wispy smoke of an extinguished candle. She was so beautiful... He was mesmerised by her. Perhaps it was because he had sat up here for so long, but he swore that in all his life, he had never seen such a stunning, interesting creature.
Pax waited the next night, but she did not return. Nor the next night, nor the next. But he did see her pass by the windows occasionally in bright dresses and ribbons, laughing with friends. She once saw her dancing with two dark-haired boys: perhaps her brothers. She was a wonderful dancer, so graceful and flowing. Because of these brief and distant sighings, Pax knew she had not been a hopeful dream. She was real. The girl with the flute was real.
Pax & Virtusa (Part II: The Girl With The Flute) • Opuss № I