Category: Writing

“Welcome, welcome, come in, come in,” Magi Ooma said as she waved Tress into her small thatched home. “Sit by the fire, stay warm. Long walk from your tribe, your feet must be cold.”

“Thank you, Magi.” Tress ducked her head in bow, her braids tumbling over her shoulders. Her feet were cold actually, something she was not aware of until the old witch mentioned it. Tress sat on a woven mat near the fire, and pulled her tattered gloves from her hands, the last struggling stowaways of snow that hugged her body started to melt in the warmth of the witch’s home.

“None of that, Tress. I am Ooma to you now. Ooma Fallingdrifts was my name when I came to my master all those years ago. His name was Magi Cobem. What you feel now, I felt. I understand how strange this is. A building of wood? With a roof? And it is always in one palce? It does not get rolled with its supports and loaded on a wagon or an beast? It is strange.”

“It is,” Tress nodded. “I don’t understand it all. How do you get your food? Water?”

“All that in time. Tea?” Ooma smiled graciously.

Tress shook her head, and continued to shed her layers. It was cold in the passes this time of year, and the fact that she could only come to the Magi’s hut in the dead of winter made all this even stranger. Ooma walked shakily to a rack of dried leaves and herbs on one wall, gathering leaves and flowers from different plants. She spoke a magic word and the dust from the ground at her feet and in the air around her coalesced into a pot. She dropped the miscellaneous ingredients into the pot, poured water in from the basin at the wall, and with a wave, the pot floated gently over to the fire to rest itself near the hottest coals. Tress noticed the pot turned black before it even settled into the fire. Ooma pulled a some cheese and bread from her larder and sat back down in front of Tress stiffly.

“Hungry?”

Tress shook her head. “Not yet. Still shaking off the cold.”

“It is fierce this year. My measurements so far are making it a record year indeed.”

“Why make me come in the middle of it?” Tress asked as politely as she could. She kept her tone inquisitive, trying not to stray into accusation. Her smart mouth and quick mind had often gotten her in trouble with the elders.

Ooma smiled knowingly at the near miss. “The snow is the best time for an apprentice to join the master. The magic sleeps in the winter. Makes it easier to control in just this small space.”

“What?” Tress said, confused.

“I suppose we can start with the first lesson while our tea steeps,” Ooma shrugged. “A question for you, first. Do you think our kind has always been nomads, following the herds, making our way across these wide lands generation after generation?”

Tress put a finger to her chin, scratching lightly in thought. “I guess I have never thought about it. The ruins are there for a reason, I know. But I guess my ancestors always roamed, and another people made the big places. We avoid them for a reason.”

“No, my child. It was our ancestors that built the big places… tens of generations ago, our kind lived in those big places as a single people. They were called cities. The one closest to here was called Denver.”

“Den-ver? What does that mean?” Tress smiled.

Ooma made a face. “I honestly don’t know. It is just a name.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You will. In time. That is why you are an apprentice, because you are smart, capable, and most importantly, malleable. That is why you were selected among the tribes, at the last summer gathering. You are here to change your mind.” Ooma said another magic word, and two cups formed in the dust between them. She waved at the pot and it hovered its way from the fire to pour itself into the cups. “Your tea, my child.”

“Thank you, Ma… I mean Ooma. Thank you Ooma.”

“Of course. You will learn all this. You have to. The traditions must continue. You must learn everything so that you can pass it on in your own time…” Ooma took a sip of her tea and grinned. “Ah perfect temperature. Marvelous.”

Tress took a deep breath over the mug and sipped with relish. “This is good.”

“A herb called peppermint. It grows wild in the fields around here. I will show you how to gather it in the summer. The Dust will help of course, but you should always have the knowledge, even if you do not have to do it yourself.”

“Dust?”

“The magic. It only works because of the Dust. It is everywhere, saturating everything. It lives in our clothes, the wilds, even our own bodies. It is everywhere… we are suffused by it. Dust is the beginning, the middle, and the end of our existence.”

“Is it a god?” Tress asked breathlessly.

Ooma laughed. “No more than a spear is a god or a torch is a god. Is your travel sack there a god?”

Tress looked confused. “Uh… no. It is just a bag.”

“Likewise, the Dust is just the Dust. It may seem wondrous what I do with my little movements and uttered commands, but it is all but simple tools. Back to my first question. Why do you suppose our people are nomads of the great plains? Let me lead you further, and assume we were not this way a long time ago, and now we are. Why do you suppose that is?”

Tress furrowed her brow and thought it over. “We were forced to be?”

“Partly correct. We made the choice to be this way. The world was falling apart and the human race was dying. Our ancestors had a couple options. They could secure themselves against the madness, fighting the hordes of starving and sick, and attempted to keep an island of society amongst it all. Or they could dissolve into the hordes, and try to right the horrors from within. Or they could accept the failure of the human race and die.”

“They obviously did not die…”

Ooma tilted her head in agreement. “They did not.”

“They made an island then? The big place called Denver?”

“Ha! Not at all. They chose a great diaspora, teams empowered with advanced technology that would guide the survivors to the next stage in human survival. Our people started as engineers, doctors, scientists. Some of the smartest in the world. They met in a nearby city called Boulder and designed the end and beginning of our species. Some of them came to the city in the last metal birds that carried people, in large sky carts called airplanes.”

Tress’s eyes were wide in both surprise and disbelief. Ooma could see the danger of Tress rejecting the truth. Ooma stretched her hand out and laid a palm on Tress’s arm.

“Do not worry yourself in understanding everything. Small steps. You will understand as you learn. You did not learn to create a water-tight basket in a single day?”

Tress shook her head and let out a rough rattling laugh. “Of course not. It took many tries. Months of them.”

“This is no different. Small steps, many tries. At the end of my life as a Magi, you will be the same as I. You will be the Magi, and you will be able to control the Dust.”

---

Tress shoved the spade of her shovel into the black earth while Ooma scrabbled on her hands and knees, poking fingers in the trench and dropping seeds in each hole. The spring had come with the winds, and afternoon sun was warm.

“We could use the Dust for this,” Tress sighed in exertion.

“We could. We could do the a lot of things with the Dust. Blot out the sun, create great monsters to kill all living things, poison all the water on the planet. But just because we could do something, does not mean we should. There is something human in the work, it makes us remember that we are a part of this place as it is a part of us in turn. It cares for us, and we have to care for it.”

“The Dust is a tool, no different than this shovel. You said so my first day here. Months ago,” Tress pointed out.

“True.”

“But…”

“But we forgot that we are of this place. When the human race forgot that, we lost ourselves. Did you know that Earth once had over ten billion people on it?”

“What?”

“Take your ten fingers, multiply by ten fingers, and do that seven more times. Then take ten of those. That is ten billion.”

“Impossible number. The plains would be filled with people from horizon to horizon,” Tress said in awe.

Ooma laughed. “I have seen the records myself. It was not as crowded as you would think. Most people lived in the big places… all over the Earth. That was also a part of the problem when the famines began… and then the diseases spread… it was a waterfall of consequences that killed almost all of them. All those children that did not know why or how. Very sad. But our ancestors knew this would happen. They made themselves all powerful.”

“With the Dust,” Tress was starting to understand the diaspora now. It had taken months to dissect the reasons why, but now she was witnessing the truth for what it was. The Earth was sick, it’s people were sick, and the people of the great schools knew that they were the ones that had to save the human race. The human race would never be able to generate the kind of power that they would need to go through the previous history of technological advancement again. There would be no way for the same steps to happen again. The human race was at the end. So they could falter, die, and eke out a survival, or they could create a path for the human race to follow to the next step. That was the purpose of the Magi.

“And that is our biggest secret. Everything is possible with the Dust. Imagine tiny machines, everywhere. Self creating, self fixing, self monitoring in our air, our earth, our water. Healing the planet by tiny degrees over millennia, waiting for the human race to catch up. And in the meantime, we use it to perform miracles and transfer knowledge. Like so.” Ooma waved a hand, and spoke her magic words. “Open Interface. Audible output, range ten feet from my location.”

A murmuring woman’s voice rose from the dirt and air around Tress and Ooma. “Understood, User Ooma.”

“Create new user,” Ooma said, poking another hole in the dirt mound, dropping a seed. Meanwhile, Tress stood stock still as if a bear stood downwind.

“New user created. Name profile,” the voice whispered.

“Profile name; Tress,” Ooma answered.

“Tress created. Welcome User Tress.”

Ooma turned her head to look at Tress with a shrewd eye. “You have stopped digging.”

Tress startled and pushed her shovel back into the earth, turning the next spot, stepping forward to do it again.

“Voiceprint needed, User Tress,” the voice continued. “Please say ‘Hello Interface, my name is Tress.'”

Ooma slapped Tress’s leg. “Repeat the command, you silly girl.”

“Uh… Hello Inter-face, my name is Tress?”

“Voiceprint failure. Please say ‘Hello Interface, my name is Tress.'”

“Hello Interface, my name is Tress.”

“Voiceprint success. Please repeat with ‘Hello Interface, my name is Tress.'”

“Hello Interface, my name is Tress,” Tress said again, more confident in her response.

“Voiceprint success. User Tress, you can request an Interface by stating ‘Open Interface.’ Session closed.”

“Go ahead and try it,” Ooma grinned, slapping her hands together to shake the wet dirt from her fingers.

Tress pushed the shovel in again, and pulled the next spadeful out of the ground. “Open Interface.”

The same voice whispered, but it was in her ear and only her ear. “Interface.”

“Did you hear it?” Ooma asked devilishly at seeing the young woman’s discomfort.

“It’s in my ear!?” Tress clapped a hand over the right side of her head.

“Of course it is. The Dust is everywhere. It is all over you. Me. It’s inside our bodies. In the air around us. Dust is everywhere.”

“Interface,” the voice whispered again.

“It is saying Interface in my ear,” Tress relayed.

“Say ‘Close Interface.'” Ooma laughed.

“Close Interface.”

“Session closed,” and the voice was gone.

“Those are magic words to others, but you will understand what they do,” Ooma nodded respectively. “In time, you will learn how to encode your own language into movement so you don’t have to say words at all. Like my tricks with the teapot and cups.”

“Really?” Tress wondered aloud.

“Just wait until I show you how to access the Histories. These tiny machines have among themselves all of the records of our ancestors and their ancestors. They have all the knowledge that it will take to elevate the human race back to the stars. When we are ready.”

Tress let the thoughts wash over her as she worked the soil. “When will we be ready?”

Ooma tittered her laugh at the thought left unspoken. “That we are ready now? Absurd. We will not see in our lifetimes, or over the next ten generations. The planet has to reach a new equilibrium, and the Dust must finish their remediations. So we wait.”

“But why?” Tress pushed.

“The Dust is correcting about five hundred years of human mistakes. It is having to process the atmosphere of old pollution, it is working its way through the soil, consuming vast wastelands of trash and waste, and it is having to consume and transmute similar messes in the oceans. The big places will all but disappear by the time the Dust has finished their jobs,” Ooma waved at the wide garden space around them, nestled in the trees. “This paradise that we live in is because the Dust has already been at work for a thousand years, but it will take another thousand before the human race is ready. It will take an entire age for the animals, birds, and fish to recover. Right now, the Magi across the world are prepping the people… sharing a common myth and religion system, building a shared foundational belief in human nature.”

“I still don’t understand.” Tress kicked another shovelful over, taking another step to the side.

“In time, you will. In the ancient times, people were separated by many things. Race, language, belief, sex, age, wealth… and all these things compounded the failures of the people. Every tribe was only for themselves, and every tribe ended up paying the cost of such closed-off thought. The Magi are the fix. While the Dust heals the Earth, the Magi heal the people. We guide them all, everywhere, across all the lands and seas, under a shared set of beliefs and morals. We correct behavior, guide leaders, allow life to take its course. And the people do not know it, and will never know it, but the Magi are their rulers. Secret rulers, but rulers never the less. Strange world, is it not?”

Tress reached the end of the row and leaned against the shovel. Beads of sweat were collecting at her forehead from the toil. “Why was belief so different? Why so fractured?”

Ooma shrugged. “I do not know. But my guess is simple. I believe it was a lack of hope.”

“Hope?”

“When you fail to hope for a common future, and fail to hope for the generations that will come, and do not hope for your neighbors and their neighbors… when all that hope fails, doom is inevitable,” Ooma stood shakily, her knees making small cracking noises as she rose from the ground. “It is simple, Tress. We Magi are Hope.”

The shaman coughed into his hand, and laid his udanta stick to the side of the fire. He rubbed the spittle between his blackened palms, flicking a bit of ash from the ring of stones to absorb it all before he use the pestle to scrape his palms clean. Mata sat, his hands folded carefully in his lap, watching with great interest as the old man worked his magic. Mata’s question still lingered in his mouth, even after asking it, as if the question was a bird that needed to be freed at the next opportunity. The shaman pulled a leaf from his dream satchel and crushed it with the pestle against the mortar. Nodding with a grunt, he lifted the mortar to his brow and prayed under his breath to the great sky gods for guidance for his spirit self. Hoping his prayer was lifted on the smoke of the fire, the shaman dumped his mortar into the fire, inhaling the flash and thick gray fumes before they left the cave.

Mata sat very still, like a rock on a beach, wondering what the answer to his question would be.

The shaman held his breath, and exhaled with a grimace. As his eyes opened, Mata saw the shaman’s pupils had consumed his eyes, with nothing but endless black beneath his lids. The darkness was fathomless, ending in the whirling sparkles of galaxies undiscovered and stars unseen. In the shaman’s eyes laid a window to the depths of creation, and the old gods looked back at Mata, constraining themselves to this old man in a dark cave on a planet they had never seen.

“SPEAK, CHILD.” The shaman’s voice was not his own, it was the voice of a god.

Mata let his question fly again, finally releasing the flurry of words from it’s prison within himself. “Where do the spirits of the dead go?”

“SPIRITS OF THE DEAD ARE SPIRITS NO MORE.” The shaman’s head tilted like a bird’s, a sudden movement with a sudden stop.

“They live again?” Mata asked. The shaman had warned about multiple questions, but Mata felt he had to know. He had to find his Seka again.

“THEY LIVE ELSEWHERE. THEY ARE OURS.”

“Can I go Elsewhere?” Mata tried. He felt panic in his stomach at the question. It was bordering insult for a god.

The shaman’s head tilted the other way, and the shaman’s lidless eyes flashed with a dark energy. “PERHAPS. WHAT CAN YOU GIVE US?”

Mata looked at his thin, yet strong hands, thinking of the little he had to offer. He had nothing… an orphan, barely a man now, with only his leather skins, his axe, and his hunting gear. He could survive in this world, but he had nothing to offer, and his heart had nothing to feel since Seka had fallen ill.

“I can only offer myself,” the young man answered.

“WE DO NOT PROMISE YOU WILL FIND THE SOUL YOU SEEK.” The shaman’s face almost was one of conciliatory worry. As if the god felt pity for Mata.

“I am willing to take that chance. I have nothing here,” Mata answered.

“SHE WILL NOT KNOW YOU.”

Mata’s eyes flicked upwards and he felt the connection with the god. He felt like the god had reached into his heart and pulled it open. He saw strange things as the god whipped its tendrils of dark energy over his mind, shoving knowledge and experiences in the folds of his brain. His eyes rolled up into his head as he started to convulse, the madness of the god’s touch on Mata was unavoidable. He felt his bladder release, and the warmth spread across his thigh.

A flash in his inner eye. A young woman laughing with her friends. She had red hair, not the jet black of Seka, but Mata knew it was her. He could see her delicate fingers wrapped around a strange white bowl, in the shape like a small vase, a white spout that Seka drank from. He heard her friends laugh with strange words, a language he had never heard before. Another flash, and his different-but-same Seka was sitting in a dark cave, a fire brightly lighting her face, booming noises coming from all around, rows and rows of people behind her, their faces alighted the same. The fire that must have been in front of them must have been huge. Another flash, and his Seka-that-was-not-Seka was dressed strangely, in a second skin that was not animal leather, on boards strapped to her feet, flying down a snowy mountain, her breath escaped her lips in a cloud, being left behind in the snow as it drifted down. Her face was covered in a see through water that did not move, her eyes flicking left and right, her body shifting on the boards at her feet, plowing the snow upwards in the opposite direction. Mata’s confusion only grew, the changes flashed in his vision, and he saw Seka again, her hair tied on her head, straining on a strange thing that moved the ground underneath her feet. She ran, but did not move forward, sweat poured down her face as she smiled in her exertion.

The god removed his fingers from Mata’s mind, and Mata felt both empty and full after this strangeness retreated. “EVEN NOW? DO YOU WISH IT?”

Mata smelled his urine in the cave, mixing with the strong smell of the wood smoke, and the shaman’s body stink as he strained under the force of a god pushing itself into the shaman’s shell. He felt naked and disconnected from himself. Mata the Hunter of the Long-Tooth smelled the place of the first Seka-that-was-not-Seka, felt the noise of the other memory, heard the rhythmic pounding of her feet on the strange machine, all these things were his memories now. Mata knew his answer as it was already leaving his lips, “I wish it.”

“MATA, YOU WILL SERVE OUR DESIRES AND YOU WILL BE OURS FOR YOUR LIFETIME IN SEEKING HER. WISH IT.”

Mata swallowed. “I wish it still.”

The shaman’s neck broke as his head swung around backwards and the corpse fell forwards into the fire, the shaman’s lifeless eyes looking at the ceiling as the fire took to the hair and necklaces. If the shaman had been present at his own death, he would have been surprised to see that his cave was empty, and Mata was not sitting in front of him. Only the skins, the spears, the ax, and the bag remained, but Mata was no more.

---

Mata’s eyes snapped open in shock, and he stood up suddenly, scaring the people around him. He reached out for a pole nearby to steady himself as his mind reasserted itself in a panic. An elderly lady on the bench across from Mata smiled at his reaction.

“Are you alright, young man?”

Mata felt the strangeness of the words in his ears, hearing a language that he felt that he should not understand, yet he did. It was English. What language had he spoke before? It almost escaped him. It was El-am. He spoke El-am. Not English.

“Bad dream?” Mata-that-was-not-Mata replied, his mouth forming strange words, he ran his hand down his front in embarrassment, feeling strange clothes and fabrics under his fingers.

“I thought so. Sit down, you dropped your backpack, by the way,” the old woman smiled. She lifted a crooked finger and pointed underneath the metal bench.

“Thanks,” Mata returned, ducking his head thankfully, his senses finally returning to normal. He released the swaying metal bar and sat down, grabbing his backpack and setting it on his lap. He was on the metro. A tunnel deep underground that had a metal cart travel through it, a subway? The words filled his mind as he unlocked the knowledge as he needed it.

The old woman leaned forward, and her eyes blinked to a deep black void, unending, unknown stars wheeling in the depths. In a whisper that only Mata could hear, she uttered, “YOU KNOW ALL THAT YOU DID AND ALL THAT YOU WILL NEED AS YOU WILL SERVE US HERE AS YOU WISHED IT.”

With another blink, the old lady’s eyes returned to normal and she leaned back to read her magazine(?).

Mata felt it all. The strangeness and the familiar fighting each other viciously. A short faced cave bear and long tooth (sabretooth tiger?) fighting each other on the moor slopes above his village, the growling and high pitched scream of the great ones seeking dominance as the village burned their fires high to keep the beasts away. He had lost Seka not long after, the fires could not keep illness away, and the spirit of death had found her. He felt the subway rock and tilt as it took a slight curve, heading for midtown. He felt his letter jacket on his arms, the backpack full of coursework and textbooks in his lap. His name…

His name was Matt Johnson, and he was a junior in high school. Mata closed his eyes tightly, and he saw Seka-that-was-not-Seka in his memory, a hand holding a Starbucks(?) coffee, her red hair framing her face. She took a drink from her latte, and he saw her name.

“Sarah,” Mata said under his breath. He grinned. He had to find Sarah.

Down at the other end of the train car, a blond man in a suit grimaced behind his newspaper. He felt the presence of an Emissary nearby… which was strange, because a competitor would not just appear without warning. Something had changed. He lowered his hand to the small caliber handgun under his jacket for reassurance. He adjusted it and lowered the newspaper. The train car was typically full for this time of day, and nothing looked out of place. He felt the whisper in his ear, the light touch of his Sponsor.

“ITS THE BOY IN RED AND WHITE, UTU HAS CHANGED THE GAME,” it said and then his Sponsor was gone.

The man leaned forward looking down the train car, and saw an young black man in a letter jacket holding a backpack, looking at the crowd around him in awe. He was definitely new, and an easy kill.

Detective Ethan Ness leaned back in his seat, deciding he would follow the young man for now… and see how the gods laid it out. It was their will after all, who was he to contest it? An Emissary had a place, a part to play, and the Game was the only thing that mattered. He would follow his Sponsor and do his part.

Kids got shot all the time. He would be careful.

As Jaskueli had in every lifetime so far.

The darkness was pervasive. It was a living thing, oozing and sucking about among the trees, working its fingers through the underbrush and around the tree roots. It was also in the air, flicking and flying lightly around the boughs and in the crowns, silent birds nestled into their hallows paying the dark no mind. There was a dichotomy of the dark being both the tentacled monster of the ground, and the mist in the air, both present and harmonious, yet acting so different. They were the same.

I saw the dark for what it was. Not an absence of light, but a living thing.

As a child, the darkness would come every evening, and my father and mother would shutter the house, stir the hearth, and go about their business. In the winter, we were further removed from the dark, even though it lasted longer through the day and night. The house would stay shut, and I foolishly thought the dark ‘out there’ would have a harder time getting ‘in here’. The summer was scarier for me. My parents would keep the windows open long into the night, and the screens would only keep the bugs out. It would not keep the dark ‘out there’. My nightmares were always the worst in the summer.

When I went to camp as a preteen, I saw the darkness eat for the first time. I was at the camp fire with fifty of my classmates, and we sat laughing and talking in our ring of fire light. I was uncomfortable being out in the dark, and I thought I was outgrowing the fear of the dark. I thought I was finally maturing to the point where I would leave such childish things behind. But as I sat there, watching the sparks travel upwards in one of those inevitable lulls in conversation and carrying on, I saw an owl sitting on a branch watching me. Not the group. Me.

It’s eyes were tawny brown, nestled in the white and brown speckled feathers of the plumage of a common barn owl. Next to it, another owl, made of inky blackness. I thought at first it was the firelight shadow of the owl, but it was not. It was a simile of the owl… a shifted copy of it. As I watched, the brown owl faded, becoming less and less real. And the dark owl, the fake, it became all the more solid. It was but a shadow, but as it formed, it gained depth and mass, and its eyes went from an absence of dark to a deep black, reflecting the fire below.

I screamed in terror. My scream wrenched my throat, tearing at my vocal cords, my breath exploding out of me so fiercely that I was a bomb in detonation, my lungs felt near collapse with the violent expulsion.

My classmates startled and shrunk away, some falling off their perches on logs and timber, others standing, readying themselves for flight or fight. My mouth remained open as the scream faded to nothingness and my body finally remembered it could move. I shot upwards and ran like a lightening bolt to the cabins to cower under my covers fully clothed until morning.

Two things happened that night with the owl. My nickname became Screech, and my hair turned completely white. I was twelve when that happened, twelve. When my parents were called, I had to deal with years of therapy afterwards. Years of telling nodding old men and crotchety women what they wanted to hear.

I would like to say that was the last time I saw the darkness for what it was. Or I should say, see what hid in the darkness. As I got older, the therapy helped me realize I only had one chance in all this. Ironically, it was the therapist studying me that opened the realization to me. I could study the darkness, understand it, and perhaps fight it… or I could cower to nothingness. I could do something about it, or fail to do anything. I took the nickname as a reminder of what I was meant to do. It became a part of my identity.

I was Screech. My arms slowly became covered in tattoo sleeves of owls in all shapes and sizes. I never let my white hair grow out, keeping it closely cropped, the white stubble looking more blond than anything. Now being 24, and studying the darkness that I see, I can tell you what I have found.

The darkness is not some ancient evil. It is not a demon, or Satan, or some form of destruction and death. It is not an incomprehensible strangeness that would drive men mad. It is none of these things. It is in need of someone to understand it.

I was chosen to be that person. So I stand here, at the edge of my parent’s old cabin in the tangled old wood of British Columbia, watching the darkness approach between the trees. I extinguished all the lights long ago, waiting for the sun to set far behind me in the west. I stood a few paces from the porch, in the open area where we usually parked the family truck when we drove out here to vacation away from the hustle of Vancouver in the summers. I always was in fear of the darkness as it approached through the trees. Tonight, I stood before it.

I would like to say I was defiant or courageous. I was neither. I stood waiting my guest as a death row inmate would the executioner. I was resigned to it. After all my study, all my reading, and all of my thought about this, I knew that the confrontation was inevitable. I would have to not only face my fears, I would have to face the source of them as well.

The darkness was tentative, flicking in among the trees, running its fingers over the underbrush, moving from shadow to shadow, pushing itself towards my open area. It reached the edge of the grass and hung in the air like a curtain. Night within night. But the hesitation belied of something else, as it seemed that the fear may have been a two way street.

“I see you,” I called out.

“I see you,” the voice mimicked. It was soft, gentle, like a soft caress of a lover.

“I am not afraid,” I tried. It was…

“A lie,” the voice finished my internal thought for me.

“I am afraid. But I am not going to let that fear keep me from this,” I corrected.

The curtain waved lightly as if a breeze moved over it’s surface. There was no wind tonight, it was still. It was if the darkness regarded me. I smiled inwardly at the thought of it studying me.

“I am Screech,” I said.

“I want to know your real name,” the voice returned.

“Why?”

Silence.

“My name is Brian.”

“Why did you not like my owl, Brian? I made it for you.” The voice sounded sad.

“The owl that you killed?”

“I did not kill anything. That owl was my friend. Her name was Saskeneah. She died years later of old age, and I carried her to her ancestors on the highest branches of the forest.”

“I…” I did not understand. “Why did you make an owl?”

“I wanted to show you that I saw you, Brian.” The curtain lowered itself to the edge of the grass and folded around itself until a woman stood at the edge of the grass. Her skin was like moonlight, with hair of molten evening, stars dancing within it. Her eyes were luminous, with dark black irises that could see through anything. Including me.

And I realized that the thing that I had feared for most of my life was beautiful. She stood, draped in what was the curtain, only her hands, her bare feet, and her neck were visible from the shifting robes that adorned her lithe frame.

“You did not tell me your name,” I asked furtively. I ran a hand over my shaved head absentmindedly. I felt suddenly out of place, my feet shifting in the grass.

She grinned at my discomfort. “It is very long in my tribe’s mother tongue. But you can call me Unnuaq.”

“Unnakwok?”

“Close enough, Bareen.”

“You are teasing me,” I felt a smirk turn the corner of my mouth. “Say it again?”

Her voice was light, not a whisper, like the quiet slice of a wing on the air. “Unnuaq.”

“Unnuaq.”

She smiled widely at her name falling from my lips, her own parted to reveal perfect teeth. “Yes.”

“Why?” I finally asked. The question that I had held on to for fourteen years, and I was finally able to ask it.

“Why does the sun rise and the wind blow? Why do things grow and die?” She murmured. “I do not know. I know that I came to be, as you know you have come to be. We were birthed from parents who loved us, we were raised to observe and understand, so we can survive ourselves. We are no different from each other.”

“But I can see you, Unnuaq.”

“And I can see you,” she smiled gently. “Don’t ask why. Seeing is enough.”

I started to chuckle, and it shifted to a laugh. It surprised me. “All these years. All this time… I was afraid. I was… oh nevermind.”

“Me too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I had a boy see me. See me! I… showed you a gift. An owl that I made from myself, a precious gift for my kind. And you screamed in fear. It broke my heart. I have been waiting all these years to ask you…” Unnuaq demurred.

“Why?” I finished for her.

“Yes,” her eyes focused on my face and she stepped closer, her bare feet barely touching the grass. She was not standing on the ground, she was deigning to alight her feet upon it.

“Don’t ask why,” I replied in kind, mirroring her own declaration. “I was a child that did not understand. And I will be honest, I still do not understand… this… but I would like to.”

“As would I,” she nodded, and her hair shifted forward, twinkling in the light. She raised a hand and pulled it behind her ear. Again, I suddenly felt very much out of place. “I, uh… would you like some tea?”

“I would love some tea,” Unnuaq laughed. She seemed as uncomfortable as I was.

I offered my hand.

Unnuaq took it.