THE SKYSEEKER

RLANA raced through the night. Planets hung heavy and crimson on the horizon. The stars pulsated in the lavender twilight, reflecting in the hundreds of small pools below. On evenings such as these Orlana was wild, running, the moss soft and wet beneath her frenzied bare feet. Her arms reached out for a universe unknown, a universe beckoning. Deep within she longed for flight.

Tonight she would leave this world and truly fly.

At last the child came to rest, her heart beating an untamed rhythm in her tiny frame, silvery hair glowing in the dimness. There was stillness in this place, as calm as the many waters. She sat at the edge of a pool, dipping her feet into the cool water, her toes disrupting its tranquility.

She breathed the air and heard the music of her tribe, the people who raised her as one of their own. The Nantook had a song for all things and they would gather and let their throats expand and call out, the men with deep hearty croaks and the women with bright chirps. They sang to the land, to the snails they shepherded, to their unhatched young in the pools. Now they sang to the coming of night and this was Orlana’s favorite. She would miss them.

They were direct people, and slow. Steady. They lived with intent, humility, and kindness. Very different from her own people. They clothed her as a babe when she came hurtling down from the sky in tremendous fire. Restless, she looked at the still pools and wanted nothing more than to cause ripples. She splashed her toes again, watching the movement. She was alive under the moon, a fact the tribe had come to accept. A daughter of the gods they called her. She played games with the young, but she knew she was not like them.

The music ended and with its ending came her adopted mother, holding dinner in her webbed hands.

“Good evening, my little skyseeker. One last meal before your journey.” Her mother crouched beside her. “Are you ready for ascension?”

Orlana gazed up. “Will you tell me about my tribe?”

Her mother croaked in soft laughter. “Again with this bedtime story?”

“One last time?” she pleaded.

She took the food and nestled up against the Nantook.

“There is a song for all people. Ours, it is of hills and water. For you, bright one, it is the song of the sky. Can you hear it?”

Orlana closed her eyes and smiled. Her skin prickled and she felt warm.

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“Good. Now, listen as I tell you the story. There is a tribe of those who travel among the stars. The skyseekers— for the sky is their domain. They live as free as the birds of our world. The Nantook saw them fly across the sky each night. They protected us from the raiders of beyond. Nine seasons ago there began to be fewer and fewer, just as you came to us from the dark between worlds. You are one of these skyseekers.”

“Soon I will join them, because I can fly as they can.”

“Yes. This is an ability beyond the Nantook. Some ride in crafts, others on the animals of the space between worlds. But the Nantook, and many other simple creatures, care for the ground, for the moss, and the pools.”

“What if I fail? What if I cannot leave the atmosphere?”

“My child, there are other dangers apart from the flight beyond.”

And her mother continued the story.

“There is also the beast, whose wings cast a shadow on our moons, whose mouth is a black hole. As a fish feeds on the smaller creatures in the pool, so did the beast devour your people of the light. Your tribe was always at war with it. We tell stories that one day the beast will come here too, and we will either be devoured or freed from its evil.”

Orlana looked at her with sorrow.

“I wish my people were here. Do you think I will find my mother and father?”

The Nantook mother nodded. “Perhaps, but first you must go forth and answer the call.”

Her mother tilted her head.

“Not to know oneself is a heavy burden. Many things weigh us down. Not all are bad, but doubting afflicts the mind. Do not always rely on others to tell you such things, little skyseeker,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand, cold skin slimy against warm flesh.

“Remember you are the center, the flame. Listen to the sky.”

“I do! I listen every night.”

“But you are not still, daughter. You chase and call when you should be still. To move great distances you must often be still.”

She stood. “Tonight will be different.”

Her mother began making her way back to the village. She looked back at her daughter.

“As you have listened to my words, so will you listen to the sky.”

With that she left Orlana to begin her flight. She would not watch, for she knew it was too sacred a moment for her to witness.

Orlana rushed through the roving hills of endless green moss. Her mother’s words rang true. She would truly fly.

She looked up to the beyond and reached out. She opened her heart and her mind, starlight touching her skin, warming her, and she felt the melody of the sky, and it came and filled her spirit wholly.

She burst into fire.

The ground around her produced hissing mists and charred earth. Orlana was at the center of this fire; it was this truth that gave her the most excitement of all.

All at once she soared through the air, through the atmosphere. And her heart was joyous. She zipped into the sky as a burning white light, deep into the expanse. She darted about dozens of moons, round rings of planets, and left streaks of shimmering fire. She came to a place of nebulas, maroon and yellow gas giants. She flew solely on instinct, an inner music telling her to go beyond the colors and into the dark. And she did.

At that moment she was a skyseeker.