Attuned to the Moon
Wrapped in blankets of constellations and planets, I gazed into the lake, regarding the image mirrored in moonlit depths with artificial interest.
My mind couldn't help but recall the typical description travelers and friends sketched of me: a tall, skinny noodle of a boy with messy white hair. A young adult, but I don't look my age. On average, many mistook me for a teenager, one beginning to hit the prime of adolescent mischief, a ripe old assumption of thirteen. Acquaintances, walks of humanity I was lucky enough to befriend, were more sensitive to my troubles with appearance and raised the number to fifteen. Others, kings and commoners alike, jested (at my expense, I might add) that I must not have experienced growth changes yet. While jokes about my figure weren't responded to, they were taken to heart. Normally, I huddled in a ball, burying my face when I became the center of attention, peering shyly out from behind my knees to shelter myself from obscene commentary. My legs protected me from insulting dialogue, coming to my defense when I felt lost or cornered.
All of my family is dead, so they can't help me now.
I mean that in a very literal sense--I've no brothers to pound someone into oblivion if my patience is tested, no sister to reprimand boisterous merchants who may use me as the punch line for their teasing. This is the embodiment of loneliness, a child without a family or purpose, a vagrant wandering from one landscape to another in search of a place to call my own. In reality, I'm looking for what most already own, something everyone takes for granted, but never counts their blessings for having--a home.
Silver sparkles dazzle my reflection, illuminating to my temporary portrait with an angelic atmosphere. Observing glistening night drifts, gentle waves scrolling through water, and feeling the wind stroke my hair, I found myself transfixed by nature's splendor. For a rare moment in time, my eyes didn't seem so big and scary or appear afraid of unseen monsters lurking in the shadows. Almond-shaped lids looked back at me, rich and full, holding gemstone globes as precious as amethyst stones sold to nobles. Strawberry lips curved in genuine happiness, accompanying high cheek bones and a thin, faerie-shaped visage. Sighing with unusual contentment, I scanned my likeness once more, then pushed away from my glassy twin.
It was a beautiful night, cozy and comfortable, similar to a cabin with covers and a glowing fireplace to admire. I wondered what that was like, a house containing cherished furnishings--chairs around a dining table, bedrooms with cots or bed rolls beside windows, woven bowls and baskets made for picking berries in spring, doubling as vegetable hampers during fall and winter months—
Briskly shaking my head, I halted my roaming thought process. When I fantasized about being in a house, I dreamt of sharing the it with someone, having at least a grandmother to keep me company while I was there. Someone to wake me up with breakfast in the morning, tell stories about their childhood, tuck me in at night and peck my forehead, whispering "I love you" as I drifted off to sleep. But that was not to be. Not now, and not ever. I've been an orphan since my eighth birthday, a treasured occasion stripped of its sacredness when I received the most horrific present of my life.
Blood spattered across my cursed recollections, so much that I am colorblind to shades of that substance today. Remembering that period, screams echo throughout the corridors of my head, shrill cries of desperation resembling noise that condemned spirits spout. Walls of my city were re-painted in awful crimson streams. The smell of smoke from wild fires flares in my senses, haunting my past with the stench of burning flesh from livestock and humans--unlucky captives caught in the clutches of greed.
My fingers tingle, feeling the same wetness they had in that era of terror. Shaking, soft limbs rub against each other slowly, hoping the meditation will ward away viciousness suffered in their history. In mid-stroke, I realize the liquefied texture wasn't an illusion, that there was, in fact, tangible water on me. Had I accidentally touched the lake without knowing it? That was the only explanation I could fathom, but I still found fault with my logic.
Being an explorer, I am prone to carry a week's worth of meals with me; however, the canteen on my hip hadn't been opened since this afternoon. Double-checking my theory, I slipped my arm over my waist, groping for a leather-bound bottle. Almost immediately, my flesh brushed the top of the container, a metallic material exposed by a hole in the cow skin surrounding it. Registering a round, bowed edge at the peak of my beverage, I settled my first assumption: the cap was, just as I had suspected, tightly screwed on the jug. Puzzled, I drew my brow down, setting my lips in a straight line--or a slight pout, whichever proceeded my childish reputation first--then rocked back onto my bottom. Where? Where was this mysterious fluid coming from? Frustrated and exhausted from trekking across a nasty swampland from sunrise until dusk, I shrugged out of my pack.
It had been a long day--draining and miserable--but I dismissed the unwelcome notions. I had escaped death on more than one occasion today, namely in an unpleasantly foggy region a bog, but the grace of the gods saw me through and helped me navigate my way to safety.
Good devils understand I'm not a very religious individual, but they also know I'm similar to other creatures that get themselves into precarious predicaments--if my tail is in danger of drowning in quicksand, being eaten by a Selkie, or coming across a reckless magician, I find out how to pray really fast. Other than that, no one would ever bestow upon me a Blind Faith Medal. Survival is my primary objective. Groveling on the dirt to unseen creators (or demons, for that matter, they are sometimes all the same to me) didn't help me accomplish my daily goal. Considering that I was one of the few survivors of an on-going war, my brain focused on one thing and one thing only--to keep moving. Keep moving and never look back. Not ever. Because I know my life depends on it.
Having cleared a wasteland and quagmire, my strength was so sapped that I had collapsed by the nearest stream in view. Fresh water was few and far between in the mire. Green sludge is plastered to my boots and pants, sticking to my skin like a venomous, uncomfortable leech, reminding my subconscious that I had to take a dip in the lake before I left. Scratching at my ankles, I winced when a ball of putrid goo latched onto my palm, paused to wipe the stale substance on my slacks, and recalled my journey over the sand dunes.
Known as Sahsra Mohr, rolling rivers of rusty gold had stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, harboring wildlife that hell wouldn't even roast for eternity. Kescras make their homes there, warped beings that are half-man, half-komodo dragon. Their legs can morph into fins at will, making burrowing and surprise attacks lethal. They only showed themselves during daylight hours, when the crisp, chilling winds got so high that grainy terrain would rise into the air, creating suffocating storms. Those gritty, messy conditions were prized for their ability to blind trespassers, forcing them to become unwary prey for serpent men waiting for their next meals. There were other risks to take while traversing Sahsra Mohr, such as subzero temperatures, plants like the Creths, which were capable of devouring humans in one slurp, and, worst of all, absence of clean water to prevent dehydration. Inhuman creatures were immortals of the desert, unholy hellians feasting upon the last breaths of the foolhardy. Surprisingly enough, some small organisms could tolerate the lack of natural resources. I was not one of them, so I made it my sole objective to get out of that deathtrap before I was caught in death's trap.
Pushing the fears of the treacherous areas aside, I gripped my bag and dragged it in front of me. There was no sense in dwelling on events and zones that spooked me to no end. Tonight I was in a good position, with breathtaking scenery and not a single soul in sight, pressing me to take advantage of my good fortune.
Flipping the flap of my rucksack over, I stuck a free hand inside, sifting through the items concealed within buckskin. A circular disc glided by my fingertips--a compass, no doubt, I had learned what every object in my possession felt like and could recognize them with one touch--then a small vial, package of meats and cheeses, parchment paper, book, feather ink pen, some satin pouches, and then--there it was! At last, the hunt was over! Smiling to myself, I stroked the fine bone china, relished the silky surface of the artifact, then plucked the device from its neighbors. I held the treasure close, running my eyes over every aspect of it, passing my limbs over ivory curves to wipe the remaining dust off brought a from Sahsra Mohr. Cleaned to my liking now, I raised the instrument to my mouth, closed my lips over the first air hole, then blew into it with the expertise of a true musician. At once, the pearl-colored woodwind vibrated, sending notes of its peaceful song out into the world. Music was carried on feathers of invisible wings in the wind, where enchantment of the gods parted the cloudy sapphire abyss above me.
Entangled in an exotic rhythm, I felt my expression regress back to its baffled state as the phantom wetness returned. Lowering the flute, I raised a palm surveying my flesh cautiously. There was, much to my amazement, a tiny puddle gathering on me. Unsure of what to think, I bit my lower lip, staring at the liquid absently. Where did it come from? Where? But I knew the answer before I had ever thought of the question. I even knew why the drops had sprung from their common spring.
Confirming my belief, I took the back of my hand and rubbed a pale cheek. Sure enough, there was a thin river present, one that trickled vertically from eyelashes to jaw bone. There were tears on my visage and I hadn't even felt them there. I knew what triggered the outburst of sorrow, why my heart was thudding urgently in my chest, pounding hopes and wishes for the future. I also knew why I was able to smile through pain leaking from veins in my heart, flooding passages of my brain and flowing down my face. But what I didn't know was when I would be granted my heart's desire.
"Someday," I promised myself, raising my beloved ocarina to my mouth again. "someday soon. Just you wait, Love. Wait and you may be given what you've been praying for, a wish you've held inside yourself with powerful feeling and emotion--a mother who loves you."
Blowing through the sky, a clever breeze caressed my onyx strands, letting me believe that air wasn't just one of the four elements. It is the breath of my guardians, good souls who earned their archangel statuses, loving beings that became guardian messengers for mortals like me. Imploring my shepards to offer me guidance, I lifted melodic incantations to their ears, desiring to be reunited with entities attuned to the moon.