The ball of light is calling to me. Things do that sometimes, when they have a story to tell. I can’t quite describe how it feels– it’s like describing color to a blind person, you need poetry to do so, and even then… it’s not the same, is it? This magic of mine, it starts with like, a gentle current of whispers. Like wind ruffling the plains, if that wind had words. I can’t make them out but I can feel the tug of the current, I can feel where the whispers are leading me and this time it is to that orb of light.
I step forward, closer to the warm glow. It paints my baby face in shades of gold. The sharp angle of my thoughtful brow casts long rich shadows down my face. (my father’s brow, everyone said, because I must constantly be compared to my parents) I gently place my horn against the orb and the current of whispers grows to a wave of shouting. Screaming. Crying. A molten-hot soup of words that arranges and rearranges phrases, then sentences, then paragraphs in my mind.
I don’t understand it all, but. It’s sad. And it’s personal, this story, it’s personal and important and I wish I could unhear it, unbind myself from all that sorrow.
I look at Kibou, pity and grief gleaming in my blue blue eyes. “I’m sure she’s just worried, because of what happened to your dad.” I bite my lip. Did I mess up by saying something? I scramble to change the subject. “But she doesn’t need to be! Fable can watch you.” I nod sagely. Fable was always following me and Avesta around, even though we didn’t need him to. It would be good to keep him occupied with another child.
Then, Kibou says he likes to chase butterflies. I smile then, a real smile finally, and I don’t even have to try.
He likes to chase butterflies.
I like to chase wolves.
I guess I do like to play, although I never thought of running as playing. Running, to me and sister, was as essential as eating, breathing, sleeping. “Yeah, I like to play” I say, after a blip of hesitation. And then I smile, again a real smile. I’ve decided I want to spend time with this boy, mostly because I feel bad for him because his dad is gone. But also because… I don’t know, he’s different. He’s a boy, but not (I think) like the foolish headstrong boys in mama’s stories. He’s soft and open as a book and makes me nostalgic for a lightness that I never had. Maybe I could teach him how to chase wolves, and he could teach me how to chase butterflies.
But I don’t want to talk to him. I’m interested in company, not words.
“Race you to the markets?!” Before he can answer I bolt down the street, not looking behind me but hoping, with a brightness that surprises me, he will follow.
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