The Way of Things
by Airan Wright
It drifted through the troposphere, lavishly inhaling the warm fall wind with its cavernous mouth, expelling it with a raucous hiss through fissure-shaped nostrils. Flourishes of wet coastal fog settled about its bristling coat; a shimmering spider’s web of tiny diamonds. Moisture glinted iridescent in the rays of the setting sun. It paused in vibrant pre-dusk light, its head listing left toward a faint beating of drums and horns, tasting the playful notes of music on its tongue. It changed course, turning inland toward the sound.
This was the way of things. A lineal calling. An instinctive answer.
Their ancestors had declared this day significant long, long ago. They’d seen it in the passage of the stars. They’d marked it with color and sound, taste and texture, their rhythmic call a traditional ceremony to welcome the frigid frosts of winter. Little had changed over the years. Cyclical change from harvest to the warmth of long dark nights spent laughing and feasting with family was as welcome now as ever. From their tiny town they continued to invoke the will of nature without fail, their voices fervent on the wind.
It cannot recall the first time it made this journey, for to do that would require a remembrance of its past. It does not have such a memory, having come into existence only for the moment, inevitably moving seasons forward as it travels. Gargantuan. All encompassing. It sways and swings in patient time to the ritual beat, enraptured and captured, consuming each quiver and quaver of repeated resonance.
Before it lays the town, tucked into a valley of red and orange. The music is stronger here, the form of it taking shape. Dhol, Timbau, Bodhran, and Djembe. Bansuri, Dizi, Duduk, Shawm. They are all as alike as they are different, giving birth to the same tune in a thousand different languages. It pads forth, adding a gentle rumbling roar to the euphony from deep within. It is a sound felt more than heard announcing its return, the crisp cold of winter ushered in upon its back.
This is the way of things. A never-ending transition.
In the darkness they look out from behind ice-framed glass at the pristine, new white powder. A yellow-orange light pours out from dwellings similar to theirs, dancing across the drifts in front of them and swirling about the bulbous white forms of covered benches and shrubs. Stone flues project from snowy rooftops, releasing warm smoke into the now star-filled sky. They turn away from the window at the smell of meats and apples and cider, smiling.
It has left them, turning them inward. Refocusing them. This collection of farmers and fishers, couriers and carpenters, merchants and mayors now settled in for the long night as children, parents, and grandparents. They do not know where it has gone but trust that it will return again when the stars align.
This will be the way of things.
– End –
