Maglor


He sits on the beach, his nimble fingers digging swiftly through the sand. His hair falls over his face as he crouches, barefoot, spreading the sand out with quick waves of his hand. I do not have a notion as to what he is doing. Perhaps he is attempting to write. Nay, the flat palm is too quick, too fast, not the painstaking, careful finger of a beginning writer. Still, the gentle dunes that he has made must mean something to him.

'What are you making?' I call to him, rising to view his work more carefully. I still can see nothing in it; there is no pattern, no order. 'What is this?'

He looks up at me, brushing his dark bangs of his face with a dirty hand; he smiles in delight and eagerly grabs great fistfuls of the white sand.

'It is too dry here, love,' I tell him as he attempts to pile one fistful of sand upon the other. 'It has to be wetter to make a palace.' I lift him up and carry him to the damp sand lower on the shore that the waves at times cover. 'Here,' I say, setting him down, 'you can build great cities.'

I sit down a little ways from him, to give him room to work. The air is warm and the ocean laps lazily upon the shore. I pick up a small gem lying beside me and turn it over in my hand; it flashes blue. There are many such gems scattered about among the shells and smooth pebbles. I show it to him. 'When you have finished making your palace, you can decorate it with gems and shells such as this. It will be a work marvelous to behold.'

He takes the jewel and studies it solemnly for a few moments, and places it down beside him. His near ceaseless humming begins again as he plummets his hands deep into the cool sand.

I wait, and soon he forms a small mound that could very well be the foundation of a building. 'Very good, love,' I say.

He turns back to me, smiling, his eyes shining from my approval. I smile back at him, and he pats the mound carefully into a smooth circle.

'Do you need help?' I ask.

He does not answer me right away; he smiles down at his mound, and stands up, his knees bobbing to his own rhythm. The sand clings to his legs and arms, glittering in the light; it is dark between his toes, damp and heavy. He turns to me with a smile of delight, and jumps onto the mound as hard as he possibly can; the sand flies about him and splatters down.

'Kano!' I cry in surprise. 'What are you doing?'

'It makes a funny noise,' he says, jumping again. He drops back to his knees on the ruined foundation, and hits the wet sand loudly with his open palms, humming along to the quick rhythm.

'Do you not want to make a palace, Kano?' I coax, forming a quick tower in the wet sand.

He studies it seriously for a few moments, and shakes his head shyly. 'No.'

I sigh and crouch back on my heels, watching him as he starts to sing a song, his hands slapping the sand with glee.

'Ai, Kano,' I whisper, 'I should have known.'