The Stars

The Stars
By Daniel Wilcox

         “Psst, Eli, wake up! Look at!” The young girl shook her older brother’s sleeping shoulder in hushed excitement.
         After more than a bit of shaking, the boy finally murmured, “Alba, what is it? Leave me be.” Then the boy pulled his blanket up and over himself as he rolled away in his straw bed.
         “No,” she insisted, “Look at! A tooth, a tooth! I lost one!”
         At this, her brother turned back, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. The little girl knelt eagerly at his bedside, holding in her open palm a tiny pearl of an incisor. Blinking in the dark, he followed his sister's small voice up to her face. In the moonlit room, her smile gleamed a bright and excited white, but for a small patch of empty blackness.
         Elias smiled, “I’ll take you tomorrow evening.”

         The young girl woke before the sun. Life in the Estuary was slow, plain, and came with no shortage of chores--and bores--for a six year old girl. Particularly one such as Alba. As the youngest in the household it was her responsibility to feed the birds each morning, gather eggs, if any had been laid, check the traps along the jetty, and help her mother in the kitchen and garden. She noisily went her tasks, hurrying through the house, being sure to pilfer the larder before heading outside to the pen.
         Feeding the brood wasn't particularly complicated or difficult work for her, Elias had shown her how spread the meal evenly amongst the birds, ensuring that no one chicken was left out. But on this day Alba couldn't be bothered with any one hen. She charged into the coup, her sack of meal in hand, startling the birds awake. The two mature cocks the family owned lept quickly to their morning perch, looked confusedly towards the east for a moment, then to each other, then to Alba, who was heaving more than a few fist-fulls of meal into haphazard piles on the ground. Silently, the lept down and made their way back into the yard. In the dark of morning, Alba grabed whatever eggs she felt while rumaging around in the nests, and less than gently, placed them in her basket. When the first one cracked, she didn't notice. When the second one cracked, Alba used a word she'd heard her capricious Uncle use on more than one occasion--one that earned her brother a tongue-lashing from mother when it slipped from his mouth earlier in the week.
         The eastern sky was beginning to lighten. She hastily finished collecting eggs, set them at the back door of their small home to wait for mother, flung a rock at the shutters of her and Elias' bedroom to wake him, and began the hike down to the jetty to check their families small crawfish traps.
         Alba conducted herself similarly in this task. Rushing from step to step, trap to trap. Losing several good crawfish in the process.
         When she returned from the jetty, she found her mother working a fire in their small ceramic stove.
         "Is Eli awake?" she asked.
         "Yes. And your father, and with all the racket you made this morning, it's likely that even your uncle Mateo is."
         "Sorry, Haba..." Contritely, the girl moved to her mother's side. "I lost a tooth last night. See?" She smiled and pushed her pink tongue into the small gap between her tiny teeth.
         "Oh, congratulations, Littlest," turning from her work, Alba's mother put a hand to her chin and peered attentively. "I imagine that brother of yours will want to take you to see to that old witch." At the mention of this, Alba's green eyes lit up. "Don't bother. Her magic is nothing but distraction."
         "She was nice when Father and Uncle Mateo talked to her at the market in Psori." the girl contested.
         "I can tell you many tales that begin with kindly old witches, my dear." the woman continued to look squarely into her daughter's small face. "And end with boiled children. Now, the griddle is hot. To breakfast..." With a nod and a wry smile, her mother directed her to the basket of eggs. "Start with the two you cracked earlier..."

         Breakfast came and went. Alba and her mother worked through the early morning as they had many mornings. But today, Alba was difficult. The girl bounced from task to task--never completing any one fully unless scolded by her mother. And she talked.
         Initially, the girl's mother simply ignored her. Then to humor her. She tried redirecting her, to talk about other things: girls from around the village, boys from around the village, kites and dolls, even the possibility of accompaning her uncle fishing; something the girl had frequently asked to do but her age and gender kept her from doing.
         Alba wanted to talk about the storyteller and was not taking her mother's hints.
         "I wonder if it will be of Ankaillium and the Nymphs? Or about Nim--and her magic hair woven from the clouds." Alba chattered "Uncle Mateo says that she always tells exactly the story you need to hear..."
         The woman just rolled her eyes and continued to work. Once, beneath her daughters endless chatter she quietly muttered, "Maybe she'll tell you of Sileans, the goddess of peace--and quiet."

         "Maybe it will be about the Satyr. Elias says she told him about satyr's the last tim--"
         "Satyrs!?" Alba's mother's patience had officially ended. "Gods, Alba. you know how I feel about all this."
         "Mama, but Elias has been six---" her small voice was poised on the edge of a whine.
         "Yes, I'm well aware of Eli's and your uncle's misguided admiration for that woman's 'stories'. And before you continue, I'm also aware of your father's promise to let you go too. I've voiced my disapproval to every mind in this house, but seeing as how mine appears to be the only sane one left within these walls, it's all been in vain."
         Alba could only cross her arms and subtly, but definantly stamp her foot.

         The day wore on, painfully slow, even by Estuary standards, to Alba. Elias didn't help matters. He had lost six teeth, and could recall--and insisted on telling--each of the stories he had heard. He told her about the storyteller's magic, about how it remade the world, but Alba couldn't quite grasp what he was telling her. How could she remake the world? In her mind's eye, she saw the old woman's magic turning trees into pillars of stone.

         Finally, evening hung about the air. The sun began his journey to the world beyond, and the Alba and Eli made their way to the hills beyond their homested.
         "How far is it, brother?" Alba asked, striding ahead of her brother.
         "Not far. I hope she's still there. It's been a while since I lost my last tooth," the boy put a finger in his mouth and checked a molar---"dis' one won 'e ready 'or a while." he muttered disapointingly."
         "Why wouldn't she be?" Alba turned and walked backwards.
         "No one lives forever, Alba--even magic wears away eventually."
         At this realization both children began to quicken their pace.

         When they reached the hill, the old story teller was there, as she always was, hidden away from the world among the tall green summer grass and broken grey-white marble pillars. Watching as the boy and his sister climbed, pleased to have him near again.
         When the children drew nearer the woman croaked, "Come to hear another tale, eh boy?" she asked as the children approached.
         “My sister,” the boy replied, a little winded. “We’re here for her today.”
         “Oh, is that so?” the old crone smiled, her grin aged and toothless. "Here then, sit beside me, girl, and I'll tell you of Jhove and Yeva, and of how the mountains, rivers, and forests came to be."
         The young girl raced forward the few remaining paces, waving her tiny tooth in her hand. "I want to hear about the Satyr!" She exclaimed eagerly as she threw herself down beside the old woman. "Brother has told me that they were so ferocious they’d even snap off their own horns just to have something to gut you with." Then she twisted up her tiny gap-toothed face and made a wild and monstrous stabbing motion with her hands.
         The woman leered at the young boy as he came near. "My lady,” she said, keeping her eyes on the girl’s brother, “you are much too young to be hearing such tales, and the Satyr have not been a part of our world for many, many centuries."
         The girl folded her small arms across her chest and released an exasperated, "Hrmph!"
         “Let us sit for a while and enjoy the evening. Aeoliod has brought some some soft gift from the south this night." She paused, and lifted her chin to the warm southern breeze, "And, stories of monsters and satyrs are best told beneath a blanket of stars after all.”
         The evening passed, warm and comfortable. Not content to sit and take in the moment, Alba flitted about, chasing grasshoppers and butterflies though the tall green summer grasses--pursuing them nearly to the bottom of the large hill. Pausing from her game occasionally to curse the sun for not setting faster.
         Finally, while the last of the sun’s rays sank below the horizon the Elias and the storyteller sat and chatted casually, content to take in each other's company and the summer air. One by one, the stars grew in the sky.
         "Girl," called the storyteller, "it is nearly time." But Alba was too lost in her own fantasies to notice.
         "Alba!!" shouted her brother, his adolesant voice carried by the wind, reached his sister who immediately turned and began racing back up the hill.
         The boy stirred in his spot, glanced inquisitively at the leathered old woman, and wrestled with a question in his mind.
         "Hama, you are old..." the boy said, half a question, half statement.
         "Very." the woman replied.
         "Can you remember everything?"
         The old storyteller folded her hands in her lap, "I have many memories, boy. Some I cling to dearly, as if they were my children," then her eyes drifted softly down as she spoke. "And still others that wear away at me, and I am sad to say I cannot shake them."
         Sensing the better of it, the boy let his curiosity wander into the night air.

         Alba returned in moments, and flopped, panting at their feet.
         "Is it time?" She asked, swallowing and breathing hard.
         The old woman regarded the girl warmly and a comprehending smile. "I know you're spirit." she mused. Her smile faded, and the old woman said no more.

         After a while, the boy reached his hands toward the sky and pretended to pinch and pull down the stars, placing them softly in the girl's eyes. "Mother says you have the stars in your eyes, sister, let's not make a liar of her." She giggled as he played.
         "Hama, do you remember before there were stars?" asked the girl.
         The elderly woman laughed. A quiet, ancient laugh, like broken stones shifting softly on a hill, but with a warmth that came from far within. "I'm old dear, But I am not a mountain. Still, my old hama told me a story once--one that her hama told her."
         "Is it of where the stars come from?" asked the boy.
         "Yes, but it is a sad story. One that is much too sad for warm summer evenings. And too sad for lovely children like you and your young sister."
         "Oh, please tell us!" the children cried, folding their hands. "We're not so young as you think!"
         "I'm almost seven!" shouted the little girl. “And besides, it’s my tooth, I want to hear any story I wish!”
         "Oh my, you are sure, then?" asked the woman.
         "Yes!" the children returned in unison.
         "Very well." The old woman held out her withered, cadaverous hand and the girl dropped the tiny tooth into the deep palm. The woman’s bony fingers folded over it, then the old storyteller raised the hand and gestured toward the sky with her left hand. She swept that hand across the sky and wherever it passed, the stars seemed wiped clean from the sky.
         "Come here, girl." she said solomnly.
         For the first time since she woke that day, Alba stepped hesitantly. The old woman put a hand on Alba's tiny forhead and tipped her head back..."Don't close your eyes." She held her left hand above the girl's upturned face; within it, a dim light glimmered. The woman squeezed the hand, and a shinning fluid issued from between her fingers, dripping into the girl's eyes.
Then she spoke aloud. And the magic of her voice filled Alba's mind she saw a great and sprawling white metropolis.

         "Long ago," she began, "the gods did not hide away in the high heavens or beneath the waves. They walked among men and women, living embodiments of the world around us. And like us, they were of all shapes and sizes and colors. Some were benevolent, compassionate, and wise. Others were schemers, miscreants, and defilers of the worst sort. And like us they loved and hated, were noble and kind, jealous and cruel.
         Aeoliod, the god of the wind and sky blew through the white city of Anapol, and there his gaze fell upon a beautiful young woman. Lustfully, he swept into her bed one night and beneath the sheets he left more than a chill--he left the young lady with a child in her belly. But fickle and fleeting is Aeoliod, and as all breezes do, he left her. But often, he returned to graze her cheeks and run his fingers through her hair.
         Soon the young woman gave birth to a boy. She named him Telemos, Windborn; and the two, mother and son, were happy--for a while.
         Telemos and his mother lived on a small farm, not far from where we now sit, away from the hustle and fast living of Anapol. The boy's mother raised him well, taught him to revere and fear the gods, taught him to honor courage and bravery, and to love deeply with compassion and good humor. However, for Telemos, the slow life his mother dreamed of in the countryside would be just that--a dream.
         For he ran and played and laughed much faster than all the other children. As he grew into adolescence his feet became faster than any others in all of our world. Telemos would race through his woods faster than any deer or pheasant, faster than the great river, faster even than his blusterous father that whipped around on the high mountains.
         Before long Telemos grew into a young man. Anxious he was, and one evening as the sun set and Aeoliod wandered through and about their fields, he went to his mother.
         'Mother,' he said solemnly, 'I wish to speak to you about...' But as he looked upon his mother, lit from the setting sun, his will faltered.
         'What is it Telemos,' she asked. 'Your father is near. Tell us, what troubles your mind?'
         Telemos felt tears well within his eyes. Lifting his brow to the heavens he heaved a weighted sigh and told her he desired to leave--to Anapol and become his own man, as all young men must do.
         And she was sad.
         'All mothers dread this day,' she told him. Now, in her eyes tears began to swell, but a smile of pride grew beneath them. She moved to her son and took his strong, young frame in her arms. 'But it is not unexpected.' Aeoliod too was proud, and he whipped through their farm. Shaking its tall grasses and trees in celebration to show his love for them. 'Look, boy,' the woman said, patting the racing heart beneath her son's chest. 'See how your father cheers for you.'
         Telemos wiped away the tears from his mother's eyes with her scarf and smiled as he said, 'Oh mother, do not cry and do not worry. I can outrun the deer in the forest. I can outrun the wind. I can outrun even death.'
         'You can. I know you can.' and she wrapped her crimson scarf around his waist. 'Here, take this and remember your mother.'
         And so Telemos left his mother and his farm for the city, and there found a world which ran almost as quickly as he did. Anapol was a great but troubled, and many who lived there suffered under the yoke of corrupt politicians, powerful criminals, and petty gods. Telemos saw this and knew he could help.
         With a zeal to match his speed, Telemos raced about the city, putting in order the rabble of Anapol's streets. Wearing his mother's scarf, Telemos was a crimson flash to the people of that troubled place. He thwarted would-be thieves, exposed immoral men, and confronted even the most dangerous of gods. Soon, Telemos became a beacon of hope for the city, inspiring others to stand up to injustice, to cruelty, and to fear. One of these citizens was a young lady.
         Her name was Linda, a healer in the Houses of Water. She was skilled at her craft and soon, the hero and the lady met and fell in love. She and Telemos had a full and loving relationship, short as it was. They often walked the streets of Anapol, and shared in all the simple things that make life for men and women meaningful.
         Telemos was a light-hearted young man, who joked, danced, and played, and above all wished to make his young lady laugh. Her face lit up at the sound of his voice. And, although he was not the world’s greatest musical talent, he often sang to her; ridiculous tunes that made her smile and warmed her heart.
         Her profession, however, exposed her to many dangers and she became ill. Telemos believed, perhaps foolishly, that if he worked hard enough, if he saved enough lives, if he prayed more, the gods would reward his heroism, granting his love a speedy recovery.
         But Telemos had blundered. Unknowingly, he angered Kohlos, the father-god of time and death, depriving him of the very souls he fills his great hourglass with to keep time. Telemos could not see Kohlos’ grand design, and each rescue he performed won him the ire, rather than the favor, of Kohlos.
         So Kohlos took his love from him. Linda died, alone and suffering in great pain, in a silent hall of the Houses of Water, while Telemos was away saving yet more lives to buy his beloved lady's life. When he returned to find her departed, the hero cursed the heavens and swore all his soul against them.
         But the gods are not all cruel beings. Feeling pity for a hero and maid who had done so much good, Yeva, goddess of life and light, who loves all living things with goodness in their hearts, went to her brother, Kohlos, to barter a deal with him in order to release the soul of the young lady. The timeless god granted her wish, ‘If your hero can best a challenge from the gods, then I will release the girl’s spirit.’ Kohlos said. ‘But I will set the terms.’
         Yeva agreed. Kohlos dictated the terms of the challenge. Yeva was to go to her son Aeoliod and ask him to build a grand and cosmic road through the heavens upon which the hero could race. This she did. Eagerly, the god crafted the road for his beleaguered son. But endless Kohlos, plotted against the young champion and withheld from his sister a vital secret about the nature of time and the heavens. Fooled by her brother, Yeva went to the grieving Telemos urged him not to forsake the gods, and told him of the road his father built for him and of the deal she struck with Kohlos. Should he be able outrun the expansive pace of the universe, he would free his beloved Linda. And she and Telemos could be together again. To this Telemos hastily agreed.
         Telemos pushed the very limits of time and space along that road. The heavens whipped by him in a blur, and all but the road and the memory of Linda faded from him. Driven by the love of his life, he pushed harder and faster than ever before. And it was then that the trap of Kohlos snapped shut; for the faster Telemos raced, the slower time passed, until at last time itself stood still for the hero. Trapping him in the cosmos for eternity."

         Then the woman pulled back the veil of her magic and the world returned to the children.
         "Even now he races above us, unable to complete the task. For he doesn't know that it is his own unfathomable speed that keeps him from his love. He is doubly cursed, for he cannot now be ignorant of his folly: we cannot know the nature of all things. Particularly, the will of the gods. All they do, they do for a reason, children--be they noble or petty. To run eternally with such guilt...I cannot imagine the pain he bears.
         Telemos, and all the goodness he brought to the earth, is lost to all of us. From his eyes, tears fall streaming into the heavens. And those tears, my children, are what you and I call the stars."

         When the old woman's story was over she wrapped a caring arm around the tear-filled girl at her side. The morale had clearly hit close to home. The young boy remained saddened and silent, staring at the starlit sky above.
         Holding the young girl gently, the old storyteller sighed, "Do not cry, child." Then she whisked a tear from the girl's cheek with her ancient finger and flicked it into the endless night sky, "There are already too many tears above us to count."





give alba (studder)