Work Text:
The boat is the crib.
The sea waves are a mother’s loving arms, rocking their little one to a restful slumber.
The night’s air is cold.
It is unforgiving.
It is persistent.
It is piercing to the skin in frigid gasps and chilly gusts.
It is enough to make anyone shiver.
But the little one standing in the bow of the wooden boat is swaddled in backstitched wool, protected in that hermit crab shell from any horrors nature will try to throw at them.
And nature will try, in due time.
A single child, alone, in silence, stands in the crib. Not a word leaves their lips. Not a sound dares try to claw from their throat. Their lungs do not move, except to keep them breathing just enough to keep them living in this snowglobe of stars and wonder, where nothing else and no one else can find them.
Their eyes cast ahead at the surging fog.
A blanket of clouding shrouds a mass of land in its arms. Pure gray and light in the air mask the mountains and sands and shrubberies and trees, camouflaging them into the nothingness of the space and time around them.
In an instant, home vanishes.
In an instant, “home,” is no longer a word in the child’s vocabulary.
In an instant, the boat has been repossessed to the child’s, and the child’s only.
The sea waves are nobody’s but the sea’s.
The being swaddled in backstitched wool is nobody's child but the Universe’s.
And they are lost.
Their lightless eyes cast upwards, to the heavens, the cosmos, and all in between.
Their heart aches and pleads for a purpose.
Old playground taunts and quarrels can no longer echo through their mind. The sand and gravel streets they used to walk start to lose shape and twist and maze and labyrinth in their head. The hands that once wiped their tear-stained cheeks dry ghost and fade into lingering wisps. The breast that once fed them milk has left them starved and cold.
Their eyes fill with tears and they cannot help but wonder why.
Their skin is stained in salted wetness as sniffles turn their nose a flushed shade.
Their hope is gone and their heart is empty.
They catch a glimpse of a twinkle in a distant wink of the space above them.
It smiles at them.
It speaks to them—not in words, in sensations directly to the breast where the heart resides, and to the skull where the brain slumbers.
A sign.
[Turn the boat around and keep going straight until you see the coast.]
The child’s hands grip the oar tight in their palms, but do not move further. The ship does not budge against the sea. Only the breeze does, tirelessly. Uncertainty makes the child’s stomach churn and their chest tighten.
(Turn the boat around,) your heart says, (but I do not live on the coast that way.)
The stars do not dim.
[Turn the boat around and keep going straight until you see the coast.]
The child hesitates.
The stars do not dim.
The child collects a shaky breath in their deflated diaphragm and dips the flat end of the oar back into the water.
They turn the boat around and begin to paddle ahead.
(Where are you taking me?) You think.
[To safety.]
[The stars are still bright there. The Universe will be able to see you because the Universe sees all.]
[You are not alone. You will not be.]
[The Universe is here.]
Fear still trembles in the child’s chest.
(But where am I going?)
Uncertainty still lingers in their stomach.
(Why am I here?)
Aching starts to wrack their brain.
(Who am I?)
[You are going exactly where you need to be.]
[You are here because the stars have willed for it.]
[You are stardust in the heavensward plains, bright and true.]
(You are the Universe.) Thought of more as a statement, than a question.
[I lead,]
(I can only follow.) The child completes.
They yearn still for a comfort their mind cannot picture. Their eyes cannot see it, their tongue cannot taste it, their ears cannot hear it, and their fingers cannot touch it.
[You will not remember these words, but you will remember this sentiment, so listen not with your ears but with your soul:]
[You are going to lands far beyond your home.]
[You will meet people who do not speak your tongue or anything like it.]
[You will hear stories you’ve never been told.]
[They will all be undiscernable from what you do know.]
[But you will prosper, because it is to be so.]
[You will survive because you mustn’t die.]
[It is someone’s Wish that you live to see every promise of a new day.]
[You are a beloved child of the earth and stars alike.]
[You are loved, little star.]
[And the Universe wills that the earths will keep you loved no matter where you traverse.]
[You have a charm the inhabitants of lands close and far cannot resist.]
[You are worthy of shining in the bask of others, like a grand constellation, together, as one.]
That cosmic voice of silence ringing in the child’s mind keeps them company until the lightless seas giveaway to the shore of an unfamiliar beach. The nose of the boat approaches as the oar keeps paddling.
By the moon’s light, the child is guided upon the sand. The waters weren’t too restless or manic. The tides were kind to them, tonight. They thank the Universe.
[You are welcome.]
The beach is nothing like the child knows, here.
Fruits grow on the trees that they do not recognize. The hill that connects the beach back into the forest is not nearly as high nor steep; there is no gated pathway connected by stone stairs up into the wilderness. It is just a simple walk where the sand blends to dirt, the dirt blends to grass, and the grass maps out the trees and bushes along it.
This is not home. They know that.
They look back over their shoulder, brushing the loose strands of unruly bright hair from their face.
The sea greets them.
The night sky greets them.
The fog greets them.
They know they are not home, yet cannot picture where or what home might have been anymore.
[But you are here, little star. The Universe sees you.]
… But they are here. Blood still surges through their veins. Breaths still come in and out of their lungs. Their feet still feel the ground beneath them. They are still filling a space in the Universe, as all living things do.
They are still alive.
The Universe has willed it to be so.
(What do I do now?)
[Live.]
[Grow.]
[Learn.]
[And perhaps, one day, the Universe will reach out to you again. Perhaps your home will be yours once more.]
The child spots houses of a small village in the distance. The silhouettes of a few people outside, conversing with one another, close to the beach.
[Let them guide you for now.]
(But they don’t know me. What if—)
[They will care for you. That is what this land’s people do. The stars have seen such.]
[And they will care for you because you are loving and deserving of such care.]
[It has been Wished and willed for you to live.]
[(Because you are loved. )]
They are.
They will be.