Sunrise
A scarlet butterfly fluttered through the air, washing back and forth on the shore wind, coming to rest on a standing stone, overlooking the rocky cliff that descended into the waves below. It stretched its wings in the sun, clinging to the mottled rock of the standing stone.
“Raaah!” yelled the stone.
The butterfly took off in haste.
“Stupid bugs, tickling my face” complained the stone. The others harumphed in agreement.
The speaker was the largest of the stones standing by the cliff, of which there were seven. No one knows how the stones came to be there, whether by a freak of nature, or an act of god, or the crazed desire of druids, their method arrival had been forgotten, along with their use. The largest stone, a dark granite block sunk into the ground, gently creaked.
“I remember when there were no bugs,” it sighed. “Things were different then. The sun was brighter, and the ice never worked its way so deep into my crevices.”
The gathered stones sighed, in the way only a hunk of rock can. It's a very quiet sigh, but carries a very great amount of nostalgia.
“I was heavier then,” recalled the third largest stone. “And taller too, real impacting I was. To look at.”
The other stones harumphed.
The smallest stone, who had not been standing by the sea cliff for as long as any of the others couldn't remember a time when there had been no insects. It joined in the general sighing and harumphing to fit in, but a general curiosity began to well up in its craggy mind.
“I forget,” it began, hesitantly, “when did the bugs appear?”
The largest stone chuckled. The others joined in with it, clicking like pebbles in the wake of a good joke. Although a couple of the other smaller stones were also looking a little curious themselves.
“Listen closely then,” the large stone began
“Before there were insects, there were flowers. They carpeted the ground, where we stand, and the entire world behind us. There was no grass, any green, but yellow in its stead, and blue, and pink and crimson. The world was frenetic and beautiful.
“The day came when the sun dropped from the sky. The world fell into darkness, steep shadows pulling backward from the pool of light made by the sun, as she walked the land. Many great heroes came to force her into the sky, diplomats pleaded with her, devils tempted her. But she would not climb back into the sky, and the world withered.
“The people of the world gathered close, but not too close, for her fiery temper was infamous.
“The sun, tired of the attention and the sky gifted her light to the fairies and became a mortal."
***
Querent's hand danced, tugging and slackening on the strings tied to his fingertips. Beneath him two rough-crafted wooden puppets danced. One puppet was a spindly driftwood man, bleached white and playing the moon. The other puppet was deep red heartwood, the setting sun. They swore bonds of love beneath the endless sky of their home, on the stone bench by the side of the road where Querent performed they swore oaths beneath his hands, in his voice.
The moon wept, he had left his lagoon for the sun, its deep waters had washed him clean, turned him white. His old home had crawled beneath his skin and changed him. He loved the sun, but he knew that he had to return to the mountains; to the water.” Querent told his story to the man sitting next to him. “And the sun nodded, she told the moon that she would follow him to the mountains until he was ready to rise back into the sky, and follow him there.”
Querent smiled softly and shook the puppets, which jiggled disjointedly.
“And that's how it has always been.”
The other man's shoulders shook, as if he had shivered. He grinned, “How it's always been.”
His name was Frit. He was thin, and tall enough that thin became spindly. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair red and wild. Even sitting still, resting on the back of the stone bench, he seemed to move.
He stretched and scratched. He was mostly a man, but there was some small part of him that was fairy. When asked where the fairy came from he would tell them it was from his love of flowers, but most didn't trust him. You shouldn't trust someone who is mostly a man.
Querent, who was entirely a man, didn't ask.
Tartha smiled and stood from the verge of the road. She brushed the petals from her clothes and paced across the dirt road toward him.
“That’s how it’s always been?” She asked, a tone or incredulity in her voice.
Her hair was red, as red as Frit’s. Her eyes shone with an amber glow. There was a part of her that was fairy. She would say that it was the part she didn’t want anymore. Or more likely, would laugh and walk away.
Frit sprang to his feet.
“Of course!” He appeared behind her, leering over her shoulder. “Until now!”
And then he was back on the bench; legs crossed like a man deep in meditation.
“Until the fairies stole the light.” He said. “Until the fairies began to die out, and the sun realised too late, the penalty of mortality.”
“Oh?” Tartha asked sarcastically. “The sun herself forgot of death? And of pain?”
“No no no.” Frit sprang to his feet, standing on the bench, towering over Tartha. “She forgot of love. And desire.” He grinned. “And that fairies are bastards.”
Querent listened to the fair folk talk.
“That is why I am here!” Frit exclaimed. “I’m the last of the light that she relinquished.” He puffed up proudly. “I’m all that stands between her and her immortality.” He appeared behind the bench, hands firmly on Querent’s shoulders.
“And who are you?”
Querent laughed. “You know me, Frit,” he tried to turn but Frit’s hands held him in place. “We’re travelling companions.”
Frit lowered his head to Querent’s ear. “But who have I been travelling with?” he asked dryly, “I’ve seen you wake in your sleep. Your wet eyes watch me while I dream.”
Querent said nothing. Frit looked up. “And who are you? Mysterious lady we meet on the road to the valley of light?”
Tartha shrugged, “I live here, at the edge of the light.”
Frit cried jovially and tiptoed backward into the field of flowers, the dew left wet streaks on his legs. “These answers are not answers at all!” he chuckled. “I’m going mad from this.”
He looked at Querent, and for a moment Querent could see, behind his joking eyes and fairy smile Frit was afraid, so filled with fear that every laugh was a scream of despair.
“I want rid of my gift.” He whispered.
And then he smiled, regressed, and he was Frit again. Dancing through the flowers, looking so much like a seed in flight.
Querent stood, putting his puppets away.
“I’m Querent,” he told the dancing Frit. “I’m on a quest that doesn’t concern you, whether you carry the sun or not.”
Frit paused in his capering.
Tartha cleared her throat. “I too am on a quest, of sorts.” She smiled, and in the light from the valley her teeth shone. Her red hair silhouetted. “A fairy stole a very important part of me.”
Frit spun and pointed at her, his arm quivering. “Liar!” he shouted. “There are no more fairies.”
“There is some fairy left,” Tartha replied. “There will always be a little bit, like dregs in men.”
Querent stood between the two fair folk, the friction in the air causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He could feel Frit’s breath on them.
“You are the sun.” He said.
Tartha’s eyes flared amber and gold.
“You gave your power away, nothing was stolen!” Frit said. He was suddenly in front of Querent, his hand raised to strike Tartha.
He froze, his hand still in the air above his head. A single petal stuck to the dew on his fingers.
Tartha laughed, plunging her hot fingers into Frit's throat. His sobs were pulled out of his lungs and scattered across the field. He fell back onto the mat of flowers beneath him.
Tartha cried out exultant and climbed back into the sky, light flooded back into the world, colour seeped in from the edges. The sun stung Querent's eyes, he fell to his knees and tore the flowers from the ground and threw them into the air.
The flowers touched by Frit's blood sprung open like new buds. They sprouted legs, opened eyes and glided over the field. Beneath them other flowers took notice, triggering a latent desire for flight.
The ground seemed to rise.
The air was filled with a myriad of colours, fluttering insects, and the sound of ruffling wings. And through the kaleidoscopic chaos around him, Querent did not lose sight of the sun. Tartha changed, and yet stayed the same. Her grinning face hung in the sky, and grew, and brightened and filled his vision. He screamed.
He screamed and screamed and cried, until his tongue turned dry, and his throat and his eyes and his heart. He turned to stone, standing among the butterflies.
***
A brightly coloured butterfly landed gracefully on the largest stone. The stone didn't yell.
“He became a stone?” asked the smallest stone. “Like us?”
“No,” the largest stone smiled. “We've always been rock. Haven't we?”
The other stones muttered in agreement, but a few of the smaller standing stones looked unsure; they couldn't remember.
“Raaah!” yelled the stone.
The butterfly took off in haste.
“Stupid bugs, tickling my face” complained the stone. The others harumphed in agreement.
The speaker was the largest of the stones standing by the cliff, of which there were seven. No one knows how the stones came to be there, whether by a freak of nature, or an act of god, or the crazed desire of druids, their method arrival had been forgotten, along with their use. The largest stone, a dark granite block sunk into the ground, gently creaked.
“I remember when there were no bugs,” it sighed. “Things were different then. The sun was brighter, and the ice never worked its way so deep into my crevices.”
The gathered stones sighed, in the way only a hunk of rock can. It's a very quiet sigh, but carries a very great amount of nostalgia.
“I was heavier then,” recalled the third largest stone. “And taller too, real impacting I was. To look at.”
The other stones harumphed.
The smallest stone, who had not been standing by the sea cliff for as long as any of the others couldn't remember a time when there had been no insects. It joined in the general sighing and harumphing to fit in, but a general curiosity began to well up in its craggy mind.
“I forget,” it began, hesitantly, “when did the bugs appear?”
The largest stone chuckled. The others joined in with it, clicking like pebbles in the wake of a good joke. Although a couple of the other smaller stones were also looking a little curious themselves.
“Listen closely then,” the large stone began
“Before there were insects, there were flowers. They carpeted the ground, where we stand, and the entire world behind us. There was no grass, any green, but yellow in its stead, and blue, and pink and crimson. The world was frenetic and beautiful.
“The day came when the sun dropped from the sky. The world fell into darkness, steep shadows pulling backward from the pool of light made by the sun, as she walked the land. Many great heroes came to force her into the sky, diplomats pleaded with her, devils tempted her. But she would not climb back into the sky, and the world withered.
“The people of the world gathered close, but not too close, for her fiery temper was infamous.
“The sun, tired of the attention and the sky gifted her light to the fairies and became a mortal."
***
Querent's hand danced, tugging and slackening on the strings tied to his fingertips. Beneath him two rough-crafted wooden puppets danced. One puppet was a spindly driftwood man, bleached white and playing the moon. The other puppet was deep red heartwood, the setting sun. They swore bonds of love beneath the endless sky of their home, on the stone bench by the side of the road where Querent performed they swore oaths beneath his hands, in his voice.
The moon wept, he had left his lagoon for the sun, its deep waters had washed him clean, turned him white. His old home had crawled beneath his skin and changed him. He loved the sun, but he knew that he had to return to the mountains; to the water.” Querent told his story to the man sitting next to him. “And the sun nodded, she told the moon that she would follow him to the mountains until he was ready to rise back into the sky, and follow him there.”
Querent smiled softly and shook the puppets, which jiggled disjointedly.
“And that's how it has always been.”
The other man's shoulders shook, as if he had shivered. He grinned, “How it's always been.”
His name was Frit. He was thin, and tall enough that thin became spindly. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair red and wild. Even sitting still, resting on the back of the stone bench, he seemed to move.
He stretched and scratched. He was mostly a man, but there was some small part of him that was fairy. When asked where the fairy came from he would tell them it was from his love of flowers, but most didn't trust him. You shouldn't trust someone who is mostly a man.
Querent, who was entirely a man, didn't ask.
Tartha smiled and stood from the verge of the road. She brushed the petals from her clothes and paced across the dirt road toward him.
“That’s how it’s always been?” She asked, a tone or incredulity in her voice.
Her hair was red, as red as Frit’s. Her eyes shone with an amber glow. There was a part of her that was fairy. She would say that it was the part she didn’t want anymore. Or more likely, would laugh and walk away.
Frit sprang to his feet.
“Of course!” He appeared behind her, leering over her shoulder. “Until now!”
And then he was back on the bench; legs crossed like a man deep in meditation.
“Until the fairies stole the light.” He said. “Until the fairies began to die out, and the sun realised too late, the penalty of mortality.”
“Oh?” Tartha asked sarcastically. “The sun herself forgot of death? And of pain?”
“No no no.” Frit sprang to his feet, standing on the bench, towering over Tartha. “She forgot of love. And desire.” He grinned. “And that fairies are bastards.”
Querent listened to the fair folk talk.
“That is why I am here!” Frit exclaimed. “I’m the last of the light that she relinquished.” He puffed up proudly. “I’m all that stands between her and her immortality.” He appeared behind the bench, hands firmly on Querent’s shoulders.
“And who are you?”
Querent laughed. “You know me, Frit,” he tried to turn but Frit’s hands held him in place. “We’re travelling companions.”
Frit lowered his head to Querent’s ear. “But who have I been travelling with?” he asked dryly, “I’ve seen you wake in your sleep. Your wet eyes watch me while I dream.”
Querent said nothing. Frit looked up. “And who are you? Mysterious lady we meet on the road to the valley of light?”
Tartha shrugged, “I live here, at the edge of the light.”
Frit cried jovially and tiptoed backward into the field of flowers, the dew left wet streaks on his legs. “These answers are not answers at all!” he chuckled. “I’m going mad from this.”
He looked at Querent, and for a moment Querent could see, behind his joking eyes and fairy smile Frit was afraid, so filled with fear that every laugh was a scream of despair.
“I want rid of my gift.” He whispered.
And then he smiled, regressed, and he was Frit again. Dancing through the flowers, looking so much like a seed in flight.
Querent stood, putting his puppets away.
“I’m Querent,” he told the dancing Frit. “I’m on a quest that doesn’t concern you, whether you carry the sun or not.”
Frit paused in his capering.
Tartha cleared her throat. “I too am on a quest, of sorts.” She smiled, and in the light from the valley her teeth shone. Her red hair silhouetted. “A fairy stole a very important part of me.”
Frit spun and pointed at her, his arm quivering. “Liar!” he shouted. “There are no more fairies.”
“There is some fairy left,” Tartha replied. “There will always be a little bit, like dregs in men.”
Querent stood between the two fair folk, the friction in the air causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He could feel Frit’s breath on them.
“You are the sun.” He said.
Tartha’s eyes flared amber and gold.
“You gave your power away, nothing was stolen!” Frit said. He was suddenly in front of Querent, his hand raised to strike Tartha.
He froze, his hand still in the air above his head. A single petal stuck to the dew on his fingers.
Tartha laughed, plunging her hot fingers into Frit's throat. His sobs were pulled out of his lungs and scattered across the field. He fell back onto the mat of flowers beneath him.
Tartha cried out exultant and climbed back into the sky, light flooded back into the world, colour seeped in from the edges. The sun stung Querent's eyes, he fell to his knees and tore the flowers from the ground and threw them into the air.
The flowers touched by Frit's blood sprung open like new buds. They sprouted legs, opened eyes and glided over the field. Beneath them other flowers took notice, triggering a latent desire for flight.
The ground seemed to rise.
The air was filled with a myriad of colours, fluttering insects, and the sound of ruffling wings. And through the kaleidoscopic chaos around him, Querent did not lose sight of the sun. Tartha changed, and yet stayed the same. Her grinning face hung in the sky, and grew, and brightened and filled his vision. He screamed.
He screamed and screamed and cried, until his tongue turned dry, and his throat and his eyes and his heart. He turned to stone, standing among the butterflies.
***
A brightly coloured butterfly landed gracefully on the largest stone. The stone didn't yell.
“He became a stone?” asked the smallest stone. “Like us?”
“No,” the largest stone smiled. “We've always been rock. Haven't we?”
The other stones muttered in agreement, but a few of the smaller standing stones looked unsure; they couldn't remember.