Everything was fleeting, swift, intangible – he didn’t know enough to understand the pivotal weight of loss or what he’d left behind – just that his mother was gone (simply gone), and no matter where he looked, stared, over the strange, new horizon, she wasn’t there. The mountain boy had no sense of death and the end of vitality, how their bodies left and their essences faded, how bits and pieces of them simply remained in the memories of others; Isopia was still sunshine and raven talons, cunning and quiet, aloof and golden. She’d been life, that much he could comprehend, given and granted and bestowed upon his little grulla hide – and when he’d reached for her time and time again, she’d accepted his touch, his silliness, his youthful, whimsical delights, with a small smile. Now there was no glimmer, no sign, no restless corporeal signature of her existence anywhere, and no matter how many times Mauna had asked, into the wind, into his heart, into his small, fledgling soul, she’d vanished into particles of air and dust, of shadow and demise, of power and pestilence. He didn’t dare inquire his father again about her whereabouts, because he’d hate to see the pain strike across his features (and he didn’t deserve it, not his dad, who was like the very notion of the sea and waves, the air and tides, remnants of sand and surf). So the child let it simmer and settle like a riddle, like an enigma, ghostly and phantomlike, a wraith on his tongue, an emboldened venture on his mind, and thought at the first chance he’d look for her, find her flames and feathers on the fringes of this odd, bizarre horizon, safe and whole and warm, and their family would be fine, would be strong, would be enduring.
But he listened – to the way Zero’s voice shook, flicking his ears back and forth as he lay pressed against the ground, lifting his head in a cheeky little smile reserved for his sire (like delight and mischief, like joy and wonder, like an impish faction he’d yet to lose). He uncurled, unfurled, released his wings and plumage in a wondrous, evening haze, where they ran from ivory to blue, yelling over the granules of earth stuck to his maw (and the soil seemed to call to him, over and over again, but he didn’t comprehend its notions either; a pattern on this unknown plane). “Dad!” Then, his crimson gaze (too serene, too gentle now to be reminders of blood and crimson; rubies, clawed from the confines of caverns and soil) focused on another being, uncle Iskra, staring over various objects littering the ground. For a few seconds, he almost thought to inquire over what they were and how he’d gotten them, but then the shape of Ampere, his grandmother(lightning and ferocity), rekindled across his brow, all instances and moments from shattered hours, and he wisely kept the query to himself. “Are you all right?” He said instead, sidling closer to the older lad, blue and gold, offering his tiny, velvet muzzle along Iskra’s shoulder, a tepid smile in turn, afraid of how far too press, if he could see Ampere on the skyline and all would be well (too many wraiths, too many horrors, in one singular place). The tiny whale shark golem floated beside him too, angelic and enchanted, his father’s gift before the world turned and spit them all out (and all the while he could hear his sire murmuring how they’d be okay, and something apprehensive pulsed within him – eyes glancing, staring, across the endless abyss, the channels, the Rift, searching for someone who would never come again).
Then, one more – a stranger, nestled into their realm, shouting their hellos, and his stare settled on her (long ears were the first things he noticed, then the rampant hues and colors, like the midnight sky, like the constellations, like the galaxies floating up in space). “Hello,” he mumbled, much quieter than her, uncertain, unsure, flicking his attention briefly to Iskra and Zero, then back again to the stranger.
Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
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The Portal
