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There exists an ocean that stretches into infinity, encompassing the entire reality of a world far away. There exists a sky that does the same, reaching out forever and mirroring the clear waters of the ocean. It doesn’t matter which existed first. The sea and sky both extend outwards, reflecting one another, showing each other their colours. Or rather, their lack of colour.
In such a realm floats a single, solitary island. A large stretch of land, yet also infinitesimal relative to the eternal sea that circles it. Life persists on this island through dancing trees, walking stones, fluttering leaves and singing waters. It is all alive and it all harmonises with the abstract essence of the island. The very core. The Mother.
There is one that resides on this island in the centre of infinity.
A young boy.
He knows not of what came before, or what comes after. He simply exists on the island, living and breathing as any boy should, his purpose known yet unknown. The boy wears shadows on his skin and upon his head sits a hat of the same shade, never removed from his crown. Amongst pale features are silver hair and eyes, much like the crystal sands that surround the island, or the shimmering moon in the evenings.
The boy lives on the island and he nurtures it. A cycle of tasks repeated day after day. To harvest the fruits from trees and plants, picking out the fuzzy glowing centres of flowers and storing them in a jar, as well as trimming and combing the long roots of trees that hang down from pink branches. To water the land, sprinkling the life of rivers and lakes over rolling rocks and glistening ores both exposed to the open air and hidden in illuminated caves. To nourish the soil, stirring crystal sand together with ground up pearls from the centre of fruits and salting the ground with the fine glittering minerals.
The boy has a home. A house of tree and rock that pulls itself up from the soil to accept the fruits of harvest, carefully storing the items under its strong roots for another time. When the boy rests, he climbs up the trunk and nestles in a cosy nook amongst a tangle of branches. The night is always calm with the waters singing their sweet lullabies and the trees swaying in a gentle waltz. When morning comes, the boy wakes from his dreamless sleep and it all starts once more.
The boy carefully watches over the island in which he lives, and the island watches over him in turn. He dutifully completes his tasks under Mother’s watchful eye, never delaying nor failing in his devoted delivery.
The island flourishes and Mother is pleased.
This is simply the way things are.
Until the wind blows…
As part of his tasks, the boy is in the midst of collecting crystals along the shore, when he hears singing. Not of the waters in the rivers and lakes, but a lighter whisper which caresses his ears and dances freely. The singing of the wind.
A sound never heard by the boy. Something new.
The boy halts in his task to hear, to listen, to dwell. The wind sings, but the boy does not understand what it sings of. From the glassy waters of the sea to the sparkling crystal sands it crescendos, then onward into the vibrant life of land it decrescendos. The boy does not feel anything when he hears the song. It simply is.
Along with the singing of the wind, the ocean shifts and swirls and wobbles in its own unique dance. And then the waters part, splitting down an arbitrary centre and forming a clearing. A clearing in which three figures stand. Seeing this, the boy abandons his harvest to hide in the shadows of dense shrubs, curiously peeking through to watch the three figures travel up from the ocean floor onto the surface sands. The waters simply close behind them upon arrival.
The three figures stand still on the shore, facing the vibrant greens and blues of the inner island, and the boy quietly observes from where he hides. The figures stand straight and tall, and over their forms lay white robes lined with specific colours. An earthy brown for the figure on the right, a bright yellow for the figure on the left, and a rich purple for the figure in the centre. There are no faces to be seen, for the hoods of the robes are long and fully obscure any features with shadows.
The wind blows and the robed figures begin to move. They traverse into the island swiftly and smoothly, white robes trailing behind them along with the wind’s song, and they move deeper and deeper. The boy follows them in the shadows, running after their fleeting presence without a sound. He almost loses sight of the pale figures a few times, but the knowing rocks and trees clear a path for him to continue onward.
Suddenly, the robed figures come to a stop. The boy stops too and watches them intently from the shadows of the forest.
The figure on the right sweeps their feet along the ground, causing it to commence rumbling and shuddering and convulsing. Panicked rocks tumble and crash while frightened trees are forcefully uprooted.
The figure on the left pulls flashes of light down from the sky, overwhelming energy sparking and crackling viciously. Plants are struck, their stems being split down the middle with a crack.
The figure in the centre pushes a wave of fire out of them, burning bright and fiercely. The flames rapidly spread over the life, scorching everything it touches and reducing it all down into black ash.
The life of the island howls and screeches in pain.
The robed figures are hurting the island. They are hurting Mother.
The boy cannot allow this.
Summoning a small blade of shadows into his hand, the boy bursts out of the foliage in an attempt to strike one of the robed figures. His blade doesn’t even graze the white fabric before the ground under his feet lurches, forcefully sending him backwards and stumbling into shrivelled bushes that crackle under his weight. Paying no mind to the scratches on his hands and legs, the boy gets back up and readies his blade to strike once more.
But then the ground suddenly begins to tremble and shake more violently than before, causing the boy to topple over again. The ground shifts and morphs and lifts and lifts and lifts, and the boy is being elevated higher and higher up.
On the island now stands a giant of stone and the boy finds himself laying on its shoulder. The giant menacingly towers over the three robed figures which throw projectiles of rock, of light, of fire at it. The stone being stands unaffected and slowly raises a long, rocky arm to slam it downwards.
But the attack is interrupted.
A high whistle pierces through the air, stilling everything into a silence. The giant still has its arm raised and the robed figures are still holding their defensive stance.
Then, the figures suddenly whirl around and run, retreating through the cover of foliage speedily as though chasing the wind. They break through the forest into the clearing of the shoreline, gracefully diving into the clear ocean waters… and that’s it.
The water calms from the reverberations of three figures and none of them resurface. The ocean remains undisturbed.
The figures are gone. Leaving only the traces of what they destroyed behind.
With the absence of a threat, the stone giant sinks back into the recesses of the underground, plants and rocks making way before shifting back into place as the giant disappears. Now seated on the ground, the boy just stays there and looks at the uprooted, cracked, burnt life around him. Life which is just as quick to begin recovery, with green starting to sprout from upturned soil and other trees taking the place of fallen ones. Black ash is distributed and absorbed into the ground along with every other product of destruction as though it never happened to begin with.
Now, not even a trace of the robed figures’ presence remains.
The boy stands up and pats the dust and ash off of himself.
There is much unknown. There is much that can be questioned.
But the boy has tasks to complete. So off he goes. Back to the shore.
With every cycle of day and night, the boy continues with his daily tasks as usual. Harvest, prune, water, nurture, nourish. With diligence and care.
But every now and then, the winds will blow. A whistle will sing through the air, signifying the appearance of the ones robed in white. They rise from the water onto the shore, travel into the island to commence a battle, and then they are driven away by the powers of nature. The forces of Mother are indeed strong and mighty, and the boy rests easy knowing that the island will not fall to the robed ones.
It is not always in threes. Sometimes there are four robes, sometimes more. Regardless, the end result never changes. Always chased away and diving back into the waters whence they came. And so it all becomes a part of the cycle.
The boy does not concern himself with the robed ones, and it’s clear that Mother does not wish for him to. Stones and foliage defensively surround the boy when the robed ones arrive, and when he accidentally gets too close, vines and trees will pull him back from danger.
Thus, away from them he remains and away from them he stays.
Until the wind arrives…
One day, the boy awakes to the sounds of loud chimes and light tinkles. The sounds ring continuously, reverberating, echoing and rebounding. Repeated again and again in some orderly way, as though announcing something significant.
The boy scrambles out of his home and dashes towards the shoreline, the ringing increasing in volume the closer he gets to its source. He doesn’t break through into the clearing of the sands, instead peeking out from behind a tree at whatever is occurring.
The glass waters of the ocean part, revealing ten robed figures that begin walking up to the shoreline, arranged in two columns with five on each side, and they surround something in the centre.
It’s like a ceremony. A procession.
The march is strict, uniform, and orderly. With every step, chimes sound in the air, ringing outwards in a declaration, perhaps a warning.
Something like this has never happened before. Ten figures has never happened before. But even more unprecedented is the prominent figure at the centre of it all.
Tall, imposing, powerful. Pure white robes cloak their form, pristine, long and flowing. The figure’s ethereal existence is realised only due to the pull of gravity creating folds of shadows in billowing white fabric.
The central figure, the tall one, the white one, stands on the shore and stares into the foliage. The eyes cannot be seen under the heavy hood but the gaze is still piercing, passing through everything and striking into the heart of the island. Their power cannot be seen, yet it is tangible. The wind surrounds them, embraces them, obeys them, serves them.
A cold breeze sweeps by and the boy shivers. He is unable to ignore the feeling of foreboding, the knowledge of impending danger. The tall one is formidable, no doubt possessing power much higher than their robed followers. Whatever goal they have, they will likely succeed.
So the boy dashes out of his place of hiding and tries to stop the robed figures from advancing. He stands before the procession with his arms spread wide in defence, head held high in defiance. The robed ones all look down at the small boy in black, as does the tall one who slowly walks right up to him. The boy determinedly looks up at intimidating white robes and sees bright white eyes staring down at him through the darkness of the long, heavy hood. The boy cannot stop himself from shaking, but he does not back down.
With a simple flick of the tall one’s hand, the boy is unceremoniously pushed aside with the wind. He stumbles and falls onto crystal sands with a yelp and the procession continues on their way into the island. The boy gets back up to pursue them, but he finds himself surrounded by three robed ones. Though they all stand a substantial distance away from him, the boy can tell that they’re watching him closely.
Perhaps it’s best that the boy stands down and simply stays where he is, but he cannot. He needs to stop the tall one from unleashing destruction upon the island.
So the boy sprints across the sand towards the forest but a robed one moves into the way and pushes him back. He tries to dodge and weave past the three robes, but to no avail. They simply shove him back into the sand. The boy yells and screams, charging towards one of them with a blade summoned to his hand, but even that is pushed aside with a forceful slap and the boy is sent rolling on the ground again.
Having sensed aggression from the recent attack, however, the robed ones take up offensive stances, summoning elements of fire and lightning to their hands. The boy shuffles backwards, finding his blade too far away and so he has nothing to defend himself with. A ball of fire is sent his way and he curls into himself, hoping the shadows he wears will protect him.
Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blows in. Almost strong enough to topple the boy over and he feels fabric flutter against his skin. The intensity of the wind just as quickly relents and, hesitantly looking upwards, the boy sees the pure white robes of the tall one who stands right in front of him. With a wave of the tall one’s hand, the three robed ones disappear into the forest, the whispers of wind trailing their speedy departure.
Seated on the sand, the boy simply stares up at the tall one. In shock, in surprise, in awe, he isn’t sure. The tall one seems to stare back down at him, but the boy cannot see those white eyes from before. The staring just continues for a moment… a few moments…
And then the tall one with all their imposing height smoothly bends down and reaches out a pale hand. To the boy.
An offer.
The boy pointedly doesn’t take it. Instead, he gets up on his own and proceeds to dust off the glittering sand he’s accumulated from all his falls. The tall one just watches. The boy watches back. The staring continues once more, and now the boy isn’t only experiencing confusion, but also a slight annoyance.
The boy has somewhat succeeded in his goal, however. With the tall one here, under his watch, that means they’re not attacking the island. So that’s good.
But what now?
Keeping an eye on the tall one, the boy steps to the left. The shaded hood turns with the movement. When the boy takes a few steps to the right, the same happens. Anywhere the boy moves, the tall one’s gaze follows, and when he’s too far, the tall one moves after him. The boy runs along the shore for a bit, glancing behind him every now and then and always seeing white robes floating after him. He stops sprinting after a while, needing a moment to catch his breath, and the tall one just stills and watches.
Suddenly spinning to face the tall one, the boy brings up his hand and waves. He’s not sure why he does it.
Expectedly and unexpectedly, the tall one raises their hand and gently waves back.
Now what?
…
Rather thirsty from all the running and rolling he’s done, the boy decides to walk into the island intending to find a river to drink from, not thinking too much about the fact that the tall one is still following him.
Arriving at the singing and flowing waters of a river, the boy cups his hands under the current and then takes generous sips to soothe his dry throat. He suddenly wonders if the tall one is thirsty. Do robed ones even get thirsty?
The boy turns his head and glances at the tall one behind him. Just standing there, pure white amongst deep and vibrant forest colours. Turning back towards the river, the boy cups some more flowing water in his hands and then quickly spins around to splash the tall one. Except with the briefest flick of the tall one’s hand, the wind diverts the spray of water away from white pristine robes. And then with yet another flick, much more than just a handful of water leaps out of the river and splashes the boy, completely drenching him from head to toe.
While the face of the white robed one cannot be seen, they seem amused.
Meanwhile, the boy is definitely not amused, drenched as he is. A deep frown twists his face and he stomps off towards his home, while the tall one simply follows a couple steps behind.
The tree roots of the boy’s home slither out of the ground, offering fruits, grasses and stones from storage, none of which can assist the boy in drying himself off. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have anything that he can use for drying and the boy’s frown grows deeper.
A light whistle sings past the boy’s ears and he turns towards its source, the tall one. He glares at them in his sulkiness and they remain unaffected by his childish scowl. The tall one takes a small step, then another step towards the boy and holds their hand out with their palm facing him. The singing of the wind begins to pick up in volume and a warm breeze whirls and spins around the boy, slightly lifting him off of the ground. The wind has a soft touch, lightly gliding across shadows and skin, carefully taking only the cold moisture with it. Once the boy is completely dry, the breeze dissipates, letting him down gently.
Looking up at the tall one, the boy isn’t sure what he feels. Surprised, uncertain, light, warm… and also thankful.
So he picks up one of the fruits that the roots offered him and holds it out to the tall one in his little palm. The tall one just stares down at him and the hood tilts ever so slightly in… confusion? So the boy takes the fruit back, digging his thumbs into the stemming point of the fruit and splitting it in half. He shows both halves to the tall one and takes a bite out of one of them while holding up the other half in an offering.
A pale hand reaches out to daintily pick up the fruit and the tall one seems to stare at it for a moment before it quickly disappears under the hood. Not long after, the tall one shimmers a little and spins around, white robes flowing and swirling with the movement, and the wind sings with a cheery note. It seems they liked the fruit.
The boy feels a warmth in his chest. He finishes his own half of the fruit and then picks up another one, holding it out in offering.
The tall one reaches out, but then resounding chimes and tinkles suddenly echo throughout the island. Immediately, the tall one faces the direction of the ringing and moves. Away. Leaving the boy for the loud chimes calling to them.
Uncertain, the boy trails after them and a question is uttered. The tall one doesn’t respond and continues walking, striding, running. They move faster and faster, white robes flying behind them as they run with the wind.
The boy tries to follow but he soon loses the blur of white to the vibrant greens and blues of the island plants. He continues running anyway, through bushes, past trees, over rocks, until he reaches the clearing of crystal sands at the edge of the island. There, he only sees the trail end of footprints, fading at the shoreline from the ocean’s lapping waves. An impermanent trace that is bound to disappear within seconds.
The boy stands on the shoreline and stares out at glassy waters for a moment. In one hand he holds a pearl, the pit of the fruit he had just shared with the tall one.
He could grind up the pearl along with the others, mix it with crystal sands and sprinkle it over the land to fertilise the soil. It’s the boy’s task. It’s what he always does.
…But the boy finds himself hesitant to do so.
He could also throw the pearl right now. See how far it flies before it hits the clear water, causing temporary ripples which will eventually dissipate into calmness. It will be as though it never existed.
…But the boy doesn’t wish to do that either.
Gazing out into infinity, the boy clutches the pearl in both of his small hands.
He decides to keep it.
The cycles continue as usual with occasional appearances of robed ones that arrive only to be driven away yet again. And the boy simply proceeds with what he does every day.
The tall one, the white one, the one who the wind sings for, has not reappeared since the procession. The boy wonders if he will ever see them again. He’s not sure why he wonders about that… He should not be wishing for the return of the powerful robed one, and yet a part of him does.
He still has the pearl. Carefully tucked away, not in the underground storage of his home, but in a little basket where he also keeps his favourite things. Some crystals of interesting colours, some pebbles of interesting shapes, but overall, very few things in there. The pearl is a nice addition, if not a little peculiar.
Sometimes, in the midst of his tasks, the boy will stand on the shoreline and gaze out at the infinite sea and sky. Sometimes, he closes his eyes to listen carefully, searching for the light and airy tunes of the wind. Sometimes, the boy thinks he sees a tall figure out in the far distance, standing on the glass waters and staring at him.
Sometimes, they wave at him.
And he waves back.
One day, the boy wakes up to a light breeze caressing his skin and soft melodies humming in the air. He immediately gets up and chases the sound to its centre.
Bursting out of the foliage onto the crystal shore, the boy sees the long white robes of the tall one who stands on their own. They aren’t watching the boy, nor do they turn around at the boy’s sudden appearance. They face the open waters, gazing out into the distance… much like what the boy has often done. Their white robes flow with the current of the wind, fabric billowing and dynamically changing in a soft dance.
Firmly keeping his eye on the tall one as if they would disappear at a moment’s notice, the boy walks up to them and stands by their side, along the shoreline. He stares up at the tall one who continues to stare out.
The boy could do the same. He could turn his gaze onto the waters and look at what the tall one is seeing. But if he does that, would he still see white robes when he turns back?
So the boy continues watching the tall one, wondering if their shaded hood will ever turn in his direction. He then has an idea.
Amongst the light songs of the wind, a young voice joins them. Just a few notes, a few tones. A short succession of four or five.
And the tall one turns to look down at the boy. The white eyes cannot be seen but the attention is there.
The boy isn’t sure what expression he’s making but he feels a little warmth within him. Tentatively, he reaches out and gasps some flapping white fabric in his hand. Silky, soft, and strong. An interesting texture.
The tall one watches the boy who clutches their robes. Then, white fabric flows lower and lower and shorter as the tall one descends from their full height, kneeling in front of the small boy. A pale hand rises up, palm open and facing the sky.
The boy lets go of the robes and stares at the hand. He isn’t sure what it means. But an idea comes to him.
He slowly inches away from the kneeling one and side steps towards the forest, seeing that while the tall one is still watching him, they do not get up to follow. Perhaps that’s good, perhaps that’s not.
In that case, the boy needs to be quick. He dashes into the island, towards his home as fast as possible. He retrieves some of his harvest from underground and climbs up to grab his basket too. Then, he sprints back to the shore, hoping that he will still see white robes when he arrives.
He does.
And the boy lets out a sigh, tones of relief accompanying the song of the wind.
The tall one watches with an air of curiosity as the boy makes his way over with his gathered items. He plops down on the sand, places each object next to him in his own orderly way, and carefully assesses the layout to make his first choice.
A pink fruit. He knows these ones are sweet.
He splits it in half and offers a piece to the tall one. They take it, and the fruit is shared. Gentle tinkles join the wind’s melody. The boy happily bites into his half of the sweet fruit and tucks away the pearl into his basket.
Next, he picks a blue one. He knows these ones are a little sour.
This time, lively chimes jump into the song.
Green, brown, red, dark purple, off white, bright yellow. The boy shares every fruit and listens to the changes of the wind. All the while, the number of treasures in his basket increases pearl after pearl.
Eventually, the boy runs out of fruits to share and he looks down at his basket, almost full. The tall one is still kneeling before him, watching intently.
So the boy plunges a hand into his basket, past the newly added pearls, and rummages around a little. He pulls out a pebble, flat with a crescent shape, and offers it up to the tall one in an open palm. They pick it up, rolling and turning it over in their long slender fingers, and then hand it back to the boy, apparently done looking.
The boy dives in to grab something again. A small shard of blue and yellow crystal this time. He offers it up, the tall one takes a look, and then they hand it back. It’s repeated with every favourite item, becoming something of a methodical process. Consistent and predictable.
Of course, the boy eventually runs out of things to show, having even offered up his recently earned pearls. The tall one just watches him. Whether expectation is in that gaze, the boy isn’t sure.
The boy has nothing else to offer, so he simply offers up his empty palm.
And the tall one reaches down and takes it, pale fingers curling around a small hand in a tender hold.
The tall one’s hand is warm. The boy didn’t expect it. The tall one is airy, elusive, and fleeting, so he thought that their hand would be like touching the wind, air breezing over skin and battering it with light kisses.
But the pale hand is solid and warm. Like the boy’s own hand.
The grip is not too tight, nor is it too loose. It is gentle and comforting and the boy’s hand feels warm.
How long it goes on for, the boy doesn’t know. But eventually, loud chimes ring out along the shoreline, signifying the tall one’s leave. The boy squeezes their hand, some kind of want or wish on the tip of his tongue that he hasn’t quite realised. The tall one simply squeezes back and the wind sings a soothing melody.
But then they let go.
Long, slender fingers slip away from a small hand.
Turning towards infinity and walking into the ocean, white robes submerge and disappear under glassy waters.
And the boy watches.
The day is bright, the island is alive, and the boy is awake, completing his tasks as usual.
But today, when the wind arrives, it blows stronger, harsher, louder.
The ocean gives way to howling winds, amongst which walks the tall one. Alone. No procession. No followers.
White, bright, imposing, intimidating, cold.
The boy stands on the shore and waves at the tall one.
They do not wave back.
They do not look at the boy.
They do not acknowledge him.
They simply stride past him and proceed into the island, disappearing into green and blue foliage which rustle and shiver in their presence.
Confused, the boy follows their path.
The tall one moves swift and quick, wind whirling rapidly around them as they walk the air. The boy struggles in his pursuit, but he chases after the howling wind and harsh chimes that only seem to grow more discordant. To where the tall one goes, the boy has no clue. But he cannot shake the feeling of foreboding that pulls down on his heart.
The wind blows harsher. It shrieks, it screams, it roars, around the tall one who rips their way into the centre of the island. They command and the wind obeys, pushing away plants and rocks, exposing the undergrowth and unearthing secrets. Uncovering what was hidden.
The tall one finds what they’ve seen since the very beginning.
A solid glowing entity.
It is the centre. It is the heart. It is Mother’s very core.
A pale weapon is summoned to the tall one’s hand, sharp, thin and deadly. They hold it up high, pointing it to the sky as though announcing something significant.
The end. The finality. The terminus to infinity.
The tall one plans to strike, pierce and destroy the heart. The boy sees this.
That cannot happen.
So the boy runs towards the tall one and barrels into them.
They are unmoved.
The boy clings to silky white fabric and looks up into the dark shadows of a long hood.
White eyes stare down at him. Piercing and cold.
The boy makes a plea. A plea for it all to stop. He yells and cries over the howling of the wind.
The tall one remains unmoved.
The raised weapon is pointed down. Down, down, down it goes, to strike, to pierce, to impale.
It hits its mark. It touches the heart.
And a wave of energy explodes outwards from the glowing entity, throwing everything back. The boy is caught by thick bushes that gently lower him down, while the tall one smacks into the trunk of a tree that twists its branches to restrain them.
Arcane energy pulses and flows from the heart, while the wind roars in reply, whipping and tearing and shredding. The long hood of the tall one is ripped off in the turbulence, allowing the boy to see their face.
The pale features of a man. Silver hair that shimmers like the moon. Bright white eyes that eerily glow over the void of black sclera.
The man in white glares at the island’s heart, anger and anguish bleeding out of his eyes and his expression. He forcefully pulls on his restraints and the tree that’s holding him back is torn apart by the screaming wind. Freed, the man calls upon his weapon again and moves to strike at the heart.
The whole island is called to arms to battle the man. The rocks rumble and roll, the ground trembles and shakes, the trees block and the vines lash out. The man fights alongside the wind and the wind fights for the man. Slashing and whipping and shielding and diverting.
The earth shifts to unveil the hulking stone giant, but the wind is faster. The man slices off the rocky head with a shrieking blade before the giant is even able to fully surface, stone shattering and crumbling under the continued assault.
All of this happens, and the boy remains unaffected. Vines slither around him when they strike, rocks are just shy of missing him when they leap. The wind only flutters lightly against him for he is too far away from the concentrated whirlwind of the battle.
The boy tries to run in, wishing for it all to stop, but the vines, trees and bushes pull him back from the fight. He cries, yells and pleas, but the roaring of the wind is too strong for anything to be heard.
The man seems to hold his own, but the forces of the island are clearly much greater than the one element that obeys him. Trees, vines, rocks, and rivers push the man back. Further and further and further away from the heart. The sheer numbers are overwhelming and the man could retreat, turn around and run away with the wind. He has the speed, he has the capability.
And yet the man doesn’t run. He continues to fight back, the wind answering to his call, whistling and wailing in protection and attack. It cannot be heard, but he howls and screams with the wind too.
Back, back, back the man is pushed. So far back that he reaches the crystal sands of the shore.
The boy follows. He keeps trying to run in, only to be repeatedly pushed away from the fight. Every time the boy shouts, the roaring of the wind rips away his voice.
He needs to do something. He wants the fighting to stop. It needs to stop. This shouldn’t be happening.
If only they would understand. If only they would hear. If only they would listen.
With little hope, the boy screams a plea to the wind. For it to help deliver his words. For it to help stop the conflict.
It shouldn’t work… and yet it does.
The wind grants the boy’s wish, and his voice carries over the island in a harsh cry. He runs towards the battle, sprinting faster than he remembers himself capable of, and he dodges past the vines that try to pull him to safety.
Getting closer and closer, the boy loudly shouts over the wind, and this time, it is acknowledged.
The man’s head turns towards the boy, white eyes meet silver and then widen.
It all happens so quickly.
In a whirlwind of movement, the man sprints towards the boy and leaps.
In defence. In protection. Shielding against an attack.
An attack intended for a man.
An attack that could have killed a young boy incidentally in its path.
An attack intercepted by both the right and wrong individual.
As white eclipses black, sharp stones pierce through the white, boring holes and lodging themselves deep within. Black splatters outwards from both behind and in front.
Everything freezes.
The boy stares up at the man who stands before him.
…
Who kneels before him.
…
Who falls before him.
…
Who lies before him.
…
From the many holes in the man’s back, black spreads over white, further and further, staining and colouring the pure pristine fabric.
The boy stares down at the man who wheezes and attempts to push himself up, only to roll over onto his darkened back as he collapses again.
The boy drops to his knees by the man’s head. He reaches out with his two small hands and cradles the pale face. Black pours out of the man's eyes, the tears seemingly draining out the darkness, leaving behind white sclera around silver irises.
Despite all his yelling and shouting earlier, at this very moment, the boy has nothing to say.
The man doesn’t say anything either.
Cloudy eyes look up at the boy who stares down. The man reaches up with his large hands that tremble and shake with effort, gently framing the boy's face and softly wiping away clear tears with a thumb.
Then, the corners of the man’s lips curl upwards, stretching wider and wider into a smile. An expression the boy doesn’t fully comprehend the meaning of, but it floods his heart with a wave of indescribable emotions.
The warm hands leave the boy’s face, and with great effort, the man rolls to his side, then onto his front.
The man reaches…
He reaches out… out towards the calm shoreline. Hand after hand, grasp after grasp, gasp after gasp. He reaches and pulls himself forward towards the waters, inky blackness spilling out onto crystal sands.
The man crawls in a slow but determined journey.
And the boy watches.
Heaving, gasping, wheezing. The man reaches and reaches towards his destination while warmth seeps out of him with every movement.
He does not call for the wind.
The air is still. The wind is quiet. The song has ended.
Once past the shoreline, glass waters surround the man’s body, sinking into the stains of his robes. The blackness permeates in turn, colouring the ocean from clear into cloudy grey. Water pulls on the man, carrying him away from the island and he surrenders to the current of infinity. He sinks and floats and flows across the sea, further and further away until not a single speck of white nor black remains.
And throughout all of that, the boy simply watches.
Moments pass, and the boy still stares at the infinity beyond the shoreline.
The tears still haven't dried.
But, finally ripping his eyes away, he looks down at what remains in his lap.
Black-stained hands.
And a white hat.
The days come and go, and the boy lives on the island, dutifully completing his tasks. Every day, always the same. Harvest, prune, water, nurture, nourish.
The robed ones no longer appear.
The chimes no longer ring.
The song of the wind is no more.
It is all back to normal.
The boy now spends a lot of time on the shore. He brings his basket of treasures, along with the white hat.
A hat much like his own. A hat that has something written on the inside, at the back.
「 Emmet 」
When the boy saw that, he had removed his own black hat for the very first time. Looking inside, he found that there was also something scribbled at the back.
「 Ingo 」
He says those two words, practising the sounds on his tongue. He repeats them over and over and over. The more he does it, the hotter his face feels and the wetter his vision gets.
Every day, the boy sits by the shore, his precious basket of pearls on one side while he tightly hugs the white hat to his chest. He gazes at clear waters that flow in a calm rhythm.
Sometimes, tears fall from his eyes. He makes sure the white hat doesn’t get wet from them.
Sometimes, he sings for the wind. With his shaky voice, he hums a soft tune in an attempt to imitate airy melodies. But there is no reply.
The boy watches and watches and watches and he dreams about the man returning. A tall figure breaching the calm waters and walking onto the shore, flowing robes white and pristine as though never stained.
The boy sits on the shore and gazes out into infinity, waiting for when that dream becomes a reality.
A day arrives in which the boy thinks he hears a light tinkling in the air. He immediately abandons whatever he was doing and searches for its source, clutching the white hat in his hands.
He follows the sound. One he hasn’t heard for a long time.
And he arrives at the shore.
There, the boy sees something along the shoreline…
Some one along the shoreline.
Washed up on the sand. Water lapping at a small, curled up form. Wrapped in white and swaddled in a gentle breeze.
The boy runs up to the white form, kneeling next to them and rolling them over.
Expectedly and unexpectedly, he sees a boy in white. Possessing the same features and completely identical to him.
The boy in black nudges the other’s face and closed eyes blink open, silver meeting silver.
Without a sound, the boy in white slowly sits up and looks around him. On his right, he sees the vast waters and sky that stretch into infinity, reflecting one another. On his left, he sees vibrant colours and dancing movements from the life of the inner island. In the centre, he sees a boy in black who shares his features, looking at him intently.
And the boy in white smiles.
The boy in black looks down at the white hat tightly gripped in his hand. Holding it in both, he reaches upwards and gently places the hat on the smiling one’s head. When he pulls away, the smiling one reaches out to grab his hand. Right in left.
It’s warm.
Hand in hand, both boys stand up on the shoreline.
And the boy in black leads them home.
Day after day, the cycle of nurturing repeats, but this time the boy is accompanied by another.
Together the boys harvest the fruits, occasionally splitting a few in half and snacking on them. Together the boys trim and comb the long roots of trees, sometimes getting themselves all tangled up. Together the boys water the land, often chasing each other around and spritzing one another. Together the boys nourish the soil, running along the earth in a race to see who finishes salting the ground first.
The boy in black still sits by the shore and the smiling one always joins him. Sometimes, they both sit quietly and gaze out into eternity. Sometimes, they sing the songs of the wind together. Sometimes, they play games and draw pictures in crystal sands.
Living in this new normal of always being together, the boy realises that he has been lonely. So very, very lonely this whole time.
Perhaps Mother saw the boy’s loneliness and granted him the wish he never voiced.
Perhaps something beyond infinity took pity on the boy and decided to offer a gift.
Perhaps this was always going to happen from the very beginning.
Regardless…
With「 Emmet 」by his side,「 Ingo 」is happy.