A Discokid

Ær wishes that for once on Earth, he could take time. He wants to watch shadows grow from the leaning and broken towers that hadn’t scraped the sky for so long, only a few towers now scratched it. He wants to chase shadows disappearing and reappearing in showers of constant lightning strikes. He wants to dance forever enough to know when to leap and land on the thunder or even be allowed to question if it’s possible.

Tripping again on his way to the ruins of a mall to see what’s left in store, Ær searches the ever swirling storms of electricity and moonslash – a mixture of snow and leftover dust from the occasional meteorites, and sometimes rather difficult to see through. But during these intervals when Ær isn’t focused on exploring the ruins of the city or steering the dogsled, he often looks up to stare down GodS without his goggles on.

Ær would search the heavens for hours or days with his one good eye, waiting for the minute chance to see the Moon, if not for fear of the sky falling or the mountains moving.

The fear is so deeply rooted that it still rings in Ær’s ear, years after surviving a meteorite impact that robbed him of half his sight and anymore silence. But the persistent ringing always reminds him of his role as a discokid – a rediscoverer and pilgrim of the holeylands. While there is always reason for any of the undergrounders to search the land above, the land before, for anything that could extend or improve their lives, not everyone had the tenacity to be a discokid. Tinnitus ironically reassures Ær as to who he is and where he is meant to be. The elevated uncertainty, the storms, and the dogsled rushing across the holeylands are in harmony with Ær and whatever sounds around and inside his head.

For the times such as now, when the howling winds or dogs aren’t available or sufficient, Ær has a heart-shaped locket and a long, metal staff named Styx.

With his thumb, Ær follows his leather necklace until he finds a key and the heavy, heart-shaped locket, pulling them out from under his coat and away from his chest. He rubs his thumb and index finger together, wiping away dirt and numb before inserting the small key into the front of the locket. The key doesn’t necessarily “open” the locket, but it does release a song from the mechanism inside. Ær knows exactly when to stop turning the key after a few twists, just before it feels like forcing it, and he puts the locket up to kiss his ear and tune in with the tinnitus.

Styx is hollow with definition that could be called symbols and scratches carved along its length; the wind blowing by and through the staff causes it to sing, too. Ær begins to tap Styx against the Earth to accent the song. Each time he unlocks the locket he tries to accompany it with new melodies or remember old ones, whether it be at the tip of Styx or the way he twirls and whirls himself or the staff, each whistling along with a song that’s less than a minute but has lasted Ær a lifetime. He alternates dancing and walking, spinning in such ways that he flies and falls without ever collapsing to the ground or touching the sky. In a world excessively reshaped by the descending remnants of a full Moon, the song in the heart-shaped locket provides consistency, and dancing unrehearsed makes sense.

Knowing he must always hurry, Ær settles for releasing the music less than ten times, but as soon as the locket’s song slows down from the last go around, time winds down, too. He gazes upward into the storm that’s parting like an eyelid opening, and for the first time in his thirty-some years, and for about three minutes…

Ær finally sees the Moon staring back.

The celestial being’s incomplete circumference forms a cracked pupil that peers into Ær from beyond the moonslash and elsewhere. But like the stories that Grandpapapa gave of a certain Semele looking upon one of the GodS (her lover, the Olympian Zeus) with devastating results, the initial sensation that overtakes Ær when he sees the Moon seems to scatter his soul to the storm.

Most stories say that a giant meteor, the Ragna-rock, had destroyed part of the Moon an unknown or forgotten number of years ago. Equal in measure to the probability of a meteor striking the Moon was the misplacing miracle that the impact moved the Moon closer to Earth, but removed as much of the satellite’s mass that it maintains an orbit (while much of the other aftermath does not). And so, the Ragna-rock made the Moon a whole lot bigger and smaller than whole, simultaneously, and displaced time and space enough to be entirely.

Before it was broken, the face of the Moon was, in some ways, more familiar to Earthlings than the face of their mother Earth. Ær is now one of the few to see the Moon so immense, even with a fifth of its face gone (like, gone gone). But Ær’s singular experience conflicts with the collective memories circling and cycling among Earth’s system. Innumerable souls have innumerable memories of the Moon being full without filling up so much of the sky, even when waxing or waning or one of many colors. And no matter what number of souls are awake or asleep or alive or dead, the memories of the Moon continue, and they almost overwhelm Ær.

To look upon what has become of the Moon is to see or be a perfect flaw in the fabric of things.

Ær finally hears or remembers silence, maybe because the Moon helps him forget and find himself, or maybe because he’s dreaming. He dreams of dreams come true; nightmares, too. He suspends all disbelief for what is and is not possible. And where the rest of us would usually and eventually float back to believing in impossibility, Ær stays suspended.

When he awakes, Ær finds that he is dancing again. He lands three leaps on thunder beats with synchronicity before the ringing in his ear returns, as does the occasional whistle of Styx and the storm. The Moon is gone, but nevertheless so very there.

Ær quiets his dance and begins to recognize a sadness, a wishing for what was before.

In and among the stories that Grandpapapa gave about GodS, Izanagi looked upon his lover Eurydice in the underworld, or Orpheus looked upon his lover Izanami in the land of the dead, or… whatever the case was, looking back can cause you to lose again.

Ær thanks the Moon, the dogs, the GodS, and himself for the experience and begins making his way once again.

After a few steps, though, he hears Wepwawet’s howl. The dogsled team leader’s siren has somehow saved their lives from incoming meteorites so many times that Ær immediately turns around. The discokid takes a deep breath of air and prayer, coughs out some moonslash, and starts running back to the dogsled. Before making it too far, though, he is pained by the epiphany that this could be the last time that he is able to find more records at the ruined mall’s music store. He worries how many howls he might have missed under the influence of the Moon, but his feet are now moving him into the ruins regardless.

Ær only glances at the remains of stores carrying items that others would deem more valuable, the items that he would usually get first. He wonders himself selfish, but with the ringing in his ear and a piece of the Moon potentially piercing the atmosphere, he doesn’t waver from his course.

Eventually seeing the “Musi ” sign above his destination, Ær dashes into the store full of songs. Styx still in hand, he first grabs a record for a lover, Lyn, before trying to collect a variety of records for other people in his underground town, fitting as much music as possible under one arm before circling back.

Another howl sounds off and soon thereafter a minor moonrock crashes through a mall wall and destroys what was left of a large, waterless fountain. Shielding himself from the explosion, Ær drops all of the records and then scoops a few back up about as quickly, making sure to recollect the one that Lyn might like. He curses the GodS for the music lost, but thanks them for the deus ex meteorite and the new exit.

As soon as he makes his way outside, Ær signals for the dogs, unsure if they’re all alive or can hear him. He accelerates his sprint and tries to whistle and yell louder between his panting. When he finally sees the charcoal color of Wepwawet moving towards him out of the dirty-white moonslash, Ær already feels like he’s headed home. Behind Wepwawet are the dogsled and the rest of the team, trying to keep up.

Ær asks the dogs to turn left, and as the sled curves by he tosses the last two records into a strapped-down, steel crate and leaps onto the foot boards, gripping hard on both the sled’s handlebar and Styx. He doesn’t have to say anything else; the dogs haven’t stopped moving and any direction will do.

The ringing in his ear and the sting of the Moon’s memory intensify as Ær feels a meteorite slice the air above. With one hand holding the sled, he readies Styx with the other. An impact is heard from far behind him and the sled rides the edge of a shockwave. Using the weight and swing of Styx to keep the sled steady, Ær applauds the dogs and then looks back to see one of the few enduring towers in the city crumbling towards them.

Unsure if they can escape the building’s trajectory, Ær asks the dogs to turn sharply to the right, slamming Styx into the ground to prevent the sled from turning over. The team barely makes it away from the tower’s crash site, however, and the debris spells disaster.

Able to catch himself in a roll and spring back up, Ær immediately scans the wreckage for the dogs, difficult to see with more moonslash blown up. His quick search reveals red bloodstains on the dirty-white ground, not too far apart, as two of the dogs were hit by pieces of broken concrete and steel. Ær rushes to the bloodied dog that is barely moving. The rest of the team is nearby, many of which are still caught in the straps of the busted sled.

Ær sees the destruction caused by the meteorite in the distance. He was correct that this was the last batch of music that he’d be getting from the mall ruins. He finds a record near his feet, the one he had chosen for Grandpapapa.

Wepwawet howls again and Ær looks up into the heavens. He can’t see the significant piece of the Moon approaching through the storm, but he can sense it. Nearly accepting fate (but not quite), Ær returns to comfort the wounded dog and cuts the rest of the team loose, asking them to run. They don’t. Instead, they gather around him, all aside from the one remaining motionless in bloodsoaked moonslash.

Ær looks back on memories of Lyn and love for just long enough. He imagines sharing new, old music with family and friends. He apologizes to the dogs for his hubris. He laughs with the GodS. He gives thanks that he’s at home.

With the dogs sloppily circled and singing, Ær finds his heart and gives it a few twists before he begins to spin.

The sky falls. And Ær, a discokid happy to have rediscovered the Moon, fearlessly takes time to dance upon mountains as they move.