Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

IV

The hopeful stars yet hold their vigil, though their speckled light is by far outshined by the moon. The deep blue fill of night stretches over most of the scene, defied occasionally by stray towers. A falling star is caught in whimsical act, just above the pale light of the moon, a wayfarer all its own, unwilling to take its place among its companion twinkles. Doubtless it burns bright; it merely never chooses a single place to burn.

The pale disc itself finds strange relief against its smaller companions, and the blue-black heart of night. It is a memorable moon, a moon larger than any other yet known. Even its haphazard designs find themselves a place in the light’s center. Small circles, miniscule points to better define the moon’s character.

And what is its character? The moon’s light is borrowed, only by coincidence able to gather enough light for a full circle. It takes the light so that it may see what lies below. Unlike the sun, which shines so bright to merely make itself known, the moon borrows just so little light as to see what the earth shines back. The moon observes.

Below and to the left of the moon stands the city’s grandest gathering of awe-inspiring material. The pale blue shines off of pointed domes and clustered towers, smooth gradients over the rounded structures, bright gold wrapping around in curves and curls which meet and diverge irregularly. The tallest tower is found in the center, the great structure casting its shadow far into the scene, over rows of buildings and windows. One more light emerges from a single window in the entire conglomerate of architecture, notably found, but still unable to cast any shadows separate from those of the pale disc. It is a curious light, found alone in the time of stars and shadows.

On grey streets stands a familiar blend of shape and color, a light blue and black, his back turned, expression hidden. His hooves are firmly rooted in place, neck up at attention, ears perked up. His bag has yet found no remedy for its emptiness, though it is hardly of concern now. His gaze is turned farther forward, looking violently ripped away from his comfortable tempo. His mouth – it can barely be seen from such an angle – is just an inch open, as if about to utter noise yet uncalculated. He is captivated, paralyzed.

Far forward, a set of golden gates bars entrance to the palace. Just in front of them, the shadow of the tallest spire ends, and just an inch farther stands an easel, with a canvas partially coated with vague colors of deep blue and dull white shines. A brush of faint yellow is pressed against the canvas, held strangely and somehow expertly between two lips, which hold small skyward curves at their edges. It is faintly amusing, the prospect of holding a brush in-mouth. Why, then, is it held so intriguingly, depicted in such crisp detail? A pair of brown eyes, not unlike the brown coat surrounding, casts a focused gaze over the brush and beyond, to the magnificent palace, hints of deep black-brown excitement drawn in the centers of white, thin eyelashes cast out to the sides, and petite lines drawn in concentration just above. The ears are lowered, unneeded and somewhat unwelcome for the task at hoof. A long, curly dark mane descends just behind the left eye, and stretches down the length of the cocoa-colored neck. A slender body, with a pair of folded wings, comes into stark relief against vague black-greys behind, extending back into a dark curled tail. Upon the flank rests a single black stroke, wide with sharp edges, like that of the first outline made on canvas.

She takes the center of the image, remembered in stark uncompromised detail. She bore no adorning colors, nor obscuring fineries. Her soft brown coat might be missed on a night lesser lit, and surely obscured in daylight, abandoned in the other mixes of faded color, ignored. Yet, that odd shape demands attention now, alone against weak pale shine. To the blue form in the foreground, she is clearly remarkable, unknown. She is a color, alone, and beautiful.

It is strange and warped, this scene. No such detail should be found on a cold night, especially on a being so far away, made so small in the scene, despite its central role. It makes her unnatural, jarring almost. Even the moonlight strikes her strangely, lighting her far more than any other rampart or spire present in the background silhouettes. She does not yet notice the wayfarer’s form. Absorbed in her work, a scene still amorphous for the most part.

So, the moon lies in wait. No doubt anticipating the meeting to come, though much afterwards still is undefined. Such realizations are too well-shadowed for the moon to illuminate, and yet too well outshined for the sun to define. They merely remain enveloped and sealed until one decides to glance at dusk or dawn, when the light is just right, when the air is calm and not permeated by heat of day or cold of night, but is merely still. Stillness can sometimes reveal more than is apparent in motion. In motion, that which moves is given the advantage, while the rest is defined as static, uninteresting. Stillness harbors no deafening sounds, no intrusive scents or tastes or touch. It merely carries apparent sight, and apparent feeling. It catches the mare in the center in fitting dull light, and catches the heart of the stallion during the skip of a beat. In the stillness, a new glow is caught at its first spark, a flame to catch and be caught, and perhaps envied. The stars are caught still and untwinkling, and that shooting star caught and hung above the cold moon, under which a new warmth is found, and blue feathers are no longer found on edge due to cold, but from the unexplored.