Apricity

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Lavender and violet swirl upon the face of the firmament made shy by the setting of the sun and the eyes of the millions who stand, watching her. Soon she will sparkle quietly in indigo and vantablack, diamonds decorating her darkness and her moon an icy marble eye watching the world while it sleeps. But for now she dances. She dances while they watch.

Millions of people stand in awe in the passing of day into night. It is the time between their births. It is the time belonging to no one- almost no one.

Sometimes there are people born of the moon, and sometimes there are people born of the sun.

Those born of the moon form when the moon is at its highest and they awaken within the rings of mushrooms that grow in the willow forests. They come down, breathing marble skin of gleaming white and snaking veins of inky black sculpted into warm flesh. They are moonlight and their minds swirl with the haze of night and sparkle with the dreams of tomorrow. They are the poets of the world. They are why we breathe, and they sway with the moon like the tides of the sea. Their whole life seems a slow and gentle dance. Butterflies at midnight.

Those born of the sun arrive at mid-day. When the heat of the sun slides slippery and exhausted down every breathing surface and turns the thin, lifeless air into a thick and heavy breathing thing that swirls in front of your eyes. They step out of the opacity- a mirage stepping into life. They are gold and they are bronze. Their minds are clear and sharp and their hearts are warm but their tempers flare like the sun that bore them. They are sunlight, both healing and harsh. They are the builders of the world. They are how we live, and they stroll strong and determined and fast through this life. Flames- they ravage and they protect.

But sometimes there are people who are born of neither the sun nor the moon, but they float on the purple clouds down to where the yellow flowers creep over the chalky white of the earth and awaken in the misty lavender fog at just the moment when the sun and moon look each other in the face before dipping away below their horizons. They are those born of distance. The sun and the moon: lovers at the founding of the galaxy and separated since the founding of the world. This planet upon which all their children live and breathe- it is both all that they hate and all that they love. It is said that these people are never north nor south, east nor west. They hold every joy just as they hold every anguish. They are symmetry and they are infinity, and they are whole and they are broken from birth. They are wanderers and they are home and they have no home. Flowers blooming for a fragile moment.

It was on an evening like this one that Cyra was born. Her breath came sharp into her chest and escaped slowly into the air around her. Her eyes opened, swirling pink and periwinkle looking out from beneath fluttering lashes. Like the coiling ribbons that cascaded from the top of her head and fell down her parchment skin, they were a violet so dark that they were nearly black. If truth was black and white, she was the mystery that lived between the lines. She sat up slowly, her chest rising and falling with the punctuation of every thought. She stood.

As she stepped through the chalky soil and the creeping yellow leaves dotted with rainbow wildflowers, vines and flowers crept up her body and clothed her in swirls of yellow and embellishments of blue. Cyra made her way along the paths laid by those born before her. She was pulled along by a feeling more than a knowing. It lead into the countryside, past blooming flowers and crystalline rocks and rushing waters of crimson and lilac. Soon the sun had disappeared completely, and the darkness enveloped her. The world, so full of color before, glowed faintly beneath the moon.

In the distance, a light danced. The closer she came, the larger she realized it was. Soon she could see the shapes of people around it and hear their voices. They were laughing. They were singing. Their silhouettes moved rhythmically around the flame, swaying bodies and flailing limbs. The melody, haunting as it was, pulled her closer. Her heart began to match the rhythm and, joining the group, she began to dance as they did. Her eyes closed while she moved in time with the music… until it stopped. Mid leap, it was as if the silence had taken, not just the muic, but even the spring from her legs. She landed clumsily in the grass. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the others had stopped, too. Cyra looked around at the faces, shocked and uncertain. They all looked the same except one.

“Hello,” Cyra said, finally mustering up the courage to break the silence. A chorus of hello’s followed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break up the party.”

“No, we’re sorry,” One girl said. “We don’t mean to stare…”

“Then why do you?”

Another replied. “The last time I saw a Sollaluna was… years ago. Decades maybe.”

“I’m a Sollaluna?” Cyra questioned. “And what are you?”

“I’m a Luna. We all are- except Aelia here. She’s a Solla.” Cyra’s eyes darted in the direction that he had pointed and fell on the golden woman before glancing back to him. “You must be very new.”

“Yes, I would suppose so,” she replied.

“When is your first memory?”

Cyra looked around, not sure what to think of his question. “Memory? I… This is the first thing I remember.”

He approached her, rested his hands on her shoulders, and bowed his head quickly in a greeting. She did the same. Again, it was not really a matter of knowing, but of feeling. “Welcome,” he said.

Their hands dropped, and in a moment a string of the others came up behind him to do the same.

“Dance with us,” the last girl to raise her head said to her.

“Alright.”

And in the night she danced. She danced all night until she slept. She slept until she woke. The cool mystery of night was transformed into the gentle brightness of dawn. Cyra opened her eyes, her face buried in the grass, and pulled her tired body from the ground. As she looked around, the breath caught in her chest. The abundance of colors overwhelmed her. It was a kaleidoscope- moving and breathing. The wind picked up her hair and she closed her eyes, feeling for a moment what it meant to be alive. Her chest heaved heavily and quickly and her eyes opened again, running across the landscape that rolled out in front of her.

Cyra stood. Faster now, the wind blew across her face and her hair whipped all around.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful.” It was not a matter of knowing, but of feeling. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She looked over at the man who stood beside her. He was pale white with creeping veins of black seeping down the sides of him. His eyes were a piercing blue. She watched him carefully.

“Do you have a name yet?”

“A name?”

“Yes. Something we will call you.” She shrugged. He thought for a moment. “What do you think of Cyra?”

“Cyra,” she said, tasting the name with her tongue. “Yes, I like it.”

“Good.”

“What is your name?”

“Callisto.”

She nodded. “What does it mean to be a Solla or a Luna?”

“A Solla was born of the sun and a Luna was born of the moon.”

“And a Sollaluna?”

“It means that you were born during sunset, as the sun and moon passed eachother on the horizon.”

“How do you know? How do you know what I am?”

“Because of how you look. It’s very obvious.”

“How I look?”

“Yes. See Aelia- see how her skin looks like sunlight?” Cyra nodded. “She is a Solla. Born of the sun. See me- see how I am pale like the moon?” Again, she nodded. “I am a Luna. That’s why I look this way.”

“Does it matter?”

“Does what matter?”

“How we look?”

“I suppose that depends on who you ask. But no, not really. We are all the same, even when we are different.”

“I think you are beautiful,” she said.

Callisto smiled sweetly at the innocent kindness of her statement. “Thank you.”

“And Aelina- she is also beautiful. But very different.”

“Well, could you imagine if we were all the same? It would get very boring.”

“And what about me?” She asked, her hand reaching up to touch her face. “What do I look like?”

“You are beautiful,” he said.

Cyra smiled and she laughed. To be beautiful. What a lovely thought. “I can not see myself.”

He laughed. “No, no one can see themselves.”

“So I won’t ever know what I look like?”

“Perhaps if you find a smooth lake to peer into, then you will see.”

“Then how will I know? How will I know for sure?”

He thought for a moment. “By how people treat you.”

“Well, isn’t that silly,” she said. “I do not know much about this world, but I already know there is more in my inside than on my outside.”

He laughed. “Yes, it is silly. But what is inside will come out- so make it good and very pleasant. It may be hidden, but they will see it. And once they’ve seen it- well, it will be all they can see.”

“Alright,” she replied. “I’ll try.”

They were silent for a moment. The wind rushed over them again.

“Callisto?”

“Yes?”

“It’s all very beautiful, but why is it here? Why am I here?”

“You’re here to enjoy it.”

“Well, that is very simple.”

“It is, unless you complicate it.”

“How could I complicate it? The world is here. It’s beautiful. That is very simple to me.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly we can complicate things.”

“Why would we?”

“We don’t mean to. We just do. Normally it’s some kind of fear. Or maybe it’s a loneliness.”

“What is loneliness?”

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

Cyra looked around at all the sleeping faces, then back to him. “Are there more?”

“More?”

“More people?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, there are many more. More people everywhere. You’ll see.”

“More Sollas, too? There is only one here.”

“Yes. You’ll find them more during the day than during the night.”

“And Sollalunas?”

“Somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Why do you sound so uncertain?”

“Because there aren’t many of you.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” he said, shifting his feet. “To begin with, there are few of you born. But then also… well. It is difficult to be both hard and soft in life. Few survive it.”

“Will I?”

“If you believe you will, then you will... Cyra?”

She turned to him. “Yes?”

“You know that feeling in your chest when you looked out at the world just now?”

She closed her eyes and felt the wave rush over her again. “Yes.”

“Don’t forget it. Never forget it, and you’ll survive anything.”

“You make it sound like there’s a lot to living.”

“There is and there isn’t.”

“You sure seem to know a lot.”

“Everyone looks like they know a lot. Really, No one knows much of anything. But with time you learn how to navigate the world. It’s like learning to walk. Once you learn to walk, you can walk anywhere- even places you’ve never been. But your feet will move faster when you know the path.”

“Well, I can see it very clearly now,” she said. “It’s very bright.”

“Well then what are you waiting for?” He asked. She looked at him and she smiled.

The road opened before her.