Prologue: Silver DuskI stood in a little gazebo on a roof in the last hour of a long Maine summer's day. It had once been a widows'-walk, where (as stories go) a wife would await her seafaring husband's return. Now, the sailing ships were gone into the fog of memory, the sunset-red sails on the horizon were really only clouds, and the widows'-walk had been roofed over and provided with mosquito nets, another selling point for the realtor.
The clouds at sea had passed through the town that sultry afternoon bringing thunder and a short, heavy burst of rain. The following air was cool and dry--this blessing of
Patrina-Tero putting manmade air conditioning to shame--the mosquitos weren't flying so soon after a shower, and I needed a chance to relax and cool my hectic mind. So, I had made a mug of chamomile tea and rolled up the nets. I watched
the sunset and the birds going to roost. For a moment, I thought of how much fun it is to fly, but it wasn't the right thing to do at the moment. No, the right thing to do would be to take a picture:
Vespere serchas
por logharbo passeroj
nun horizlume.At dusk they search for
roosting-tree, the sparrows now
in horizon-light.
That old horizon-light now, our ancient neighbor. We've known him since our beginning, before we even how to tell stories, before, that is, we really lived.
I set my pen down and sipped the last of the tea. The smell of the flowers and wet pavement, the fading purple and orange glows filling the neither hot nor cold salt air: I was at home. The confused clamor in my mind had subsided. I was alone with my thoughts and a voice. Not a voice that spoke words, but a voice that spoke in hungers, desires, excitement, and little fear.
It was a voice I knew. I met it when proud mankind tried to cast a new light at dawn and dusk.
La Nov-Horizlumo, the hopes and dreams of a perhaps-united humanity, where with a little pain and a lot of luck I had earned my pension, this old house on the hill, and one other legacy.
The glow of the sun faded behind the Appalachians. In the twilight I waited, watching the clouds at sea. Through a notch in the clouds, a silver ray of the full moon arched towards our town, and I began to ache with anticipation: my jaws, feet, spine, and hands. All the sights, smells, and sounds of this beautiful world were mine to experience. Some I would consume and make a part of me, marvelous me.
Already, my kingdom was beginning to grow up around me: the posts of the gazebo became the columns of my royal castle gilt with silver moonlight. Then, the twilight world became bright like noon--even better than noon, because it was dark enough to see.
The song of earth, sun, and moon echoed through my kingdom, and a secret part of my soul sang along. I joined in with my conscious mind: be sinewy, long, liquid movement wrapped in cream fur, black mask, ears, feet, and tail.
Mustela nigripes. My escape from the false world of papers and priorities. The gift of
Patrina-Tero, the living world of trees, storms, and this warm summer night. She is an inconsistent mother: her blessings hurt, but too her injuries bless. Tonight there was not much pain at all. Only a simple joy.
I yawned, exposing four razor-sharp canines then lept to the balcony of my castle. I was a only little part of my kingdom, yet a little part of my kindom was a big part of me. Now it was time to play, to dance in the moonlight, and perhaps find a mole who would come home with me.
Vespere pashas
tra feudo sia lerte
varmetan nokton.
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