Post by griffin on Jan 2, 2021 16:42:53 GMT
aster the silver apples of the moon,the golden apples of the sun | @for obsi |
The world is bright and loud and Aster thrills in it.
A canopy of a hundred greens spreads above her, birds bright as jewels flitting between the trees. Dimly she remembers the island she was born on, the same humidity dampening her skin and muffling the air. But here, there is no salt-tang of the sea, no taste of magic.
A hummingbird flits past her nose and her golden eyes follow it to a flower. Aster stretches out her magic like a hand and the little bird’s wings slow down to near-stillness; she can count each feather, watch its tiny tongue lap up nectar.
She might have watched the light shimmer on its iridescent breast all afternoon, had she not heard the roaring from deeper in the jungle.
At first she thinks of Teak. But this is not the sound of a cheetah, nor any cat she’s ever heard. Aster steps away from the bird and it bursts back into motion, the air humming again. She doesn’t look back at it as she disappears into the brush, ferns and cannas brushing her sides.
Nor does she look up at the monkeys and macaws overhead, though she smiles as each scream at her. If she were not in a hurry (what an irony, to be in a hurry!) she might have laughed at them, beckoned them down, or flown up to meet them. But that roaring is growing closer and less constant, and so she winds on, white as an angel along the jungle floor.
At last she finds the source of it. A cave like a crooked mouth full of teeth, just beyond a waterfall like a bridal veil. The noise of it hushes everything else, but she doesn’t slow it down. Her heart flutters in her breast as quick as hummingbird wings - then she tosses her golden antlers and steps into the sweet-smelling darkness.
A canopy of a hundred greens spreads above her, birds bright as jewels flitting between the trees. Dimly she remembers the island she was born on, the same humidity dampening her skin and muffling the air. But here, there is no salt-tang of the sea, no taste of magic.
A hummingbird flits past her nose and her golden eyes follow it to a flower. Aster stretches out her magic like a hand and the little bird’s wings slow down to near-stillness; she can count each feather, watch its tiny tongue lap up nectar.
She might have watched the light shimmer on its iridescent breast all afternoon, had she not heard the roaring from deeper in the jungle.
At first she thinks of Teak. But this is not the sound of a cheetah, nor any cat she’s ever heard. Aster steps away from the bird and it bursts back into motion, the air humming again. She doesn’t look back at it as she disappears into the brush, ferns and cannas brushing her sides.
Nor does she look up at the monkeys and macaws overhead, though she smiles as each scream at her. If she were not in a hurry (what an irony, to be in a hurry!) she might have laughed at them, beckoned them down, or flown up to meet them. But that roaring is growing closer and less constant, and so she winds on, white as an angel along the jungle floor.
At last she finds the source of it. A cave like a crooked mouth full of teeth, just beyond a waterfall like a bridal veil. The noise of it hushes everything else, but she doesn’t slow it down. Her heart flutters in her breast as quick as hummingbird wings - then she tosses her golden antlers and steps into the sweet-smelling darkness.
