She spread her arms and lowered her gaze, which then wandered amongst the gathered faces, brief nods to those she knew.
“Welcome home, Janeen,” a slip of a girl at the front called up, and a grin split Janeen’s face as her gaze darted the girl’s way. Janeen’s eyes sparkled.
“Thank you, Lyvinia,” she returned, her grin threatening to dissolve into tears of joy. The girl hurried forward, stepped up the ladder and hugged Janeen, almost toppling her from her bud-house perch.
Over the girl’s shoulder, Janeen called out “And welcome to one and all,” which harvested a field of smiles. “And thank you for coming to hear me today, to learn of the wonder that awaits all who will open their minds and hearts to what I have to say—who truly hear the word of Solem.”
Lyvinia stepped down, her face upturned, awed, intent only on Janeen’s own face as she addressed the crowd.
To begin with, Janeen spoke of much concerning their daily lives, allaying fears for the forest, worries that the need for greater numbers would overwhelm its fragile hold. She assured them that the Wisdom of Solem would guide them well in keeping their growing demands within the gift of the Sun’s own wealth.
Then she cried out, “And why do we need to grow our numbers? Why? Because Solem has been starved of our wonder, that’s why. The very wonder that joins us to her, that gives us communion with our greater self, the self that nurtures not just each and every one of us but everything. Everything in all the worlds that dance about the Sun—that dance about Solem’s own heart.” A murmur ran through the crowd.
When it died down, Lyvinia quietly asked, “But why would we want to wonder now, Janeen, when it’s always been discouraged before?” and her question passed from one to the other, until all had heard.
Janeen smiled. “Our wonder, my dearest friend, is Solem’s very thought, what gathers within her as a force of reason beyond our meagre minds. And within that gathering, my friends,” she called out, “is where we can come to live beyond our mortal span. Where who we really are—as our hopes and loves, as our knowledge and wisdom and understanding—will last for ever. For, if we chose to accept her, in Solem we can live eternal.”
As a hushed murmur steadily grew to a chatter of voices, Craith again marvelled at the golden glow that once more shone from Janeen, at her sparkling eyes, at the shimmer of light now streaming from her wide held hands. Her whole body seemed to shake, to tremble at the flood of words that then fell from her mouth. They were swiftly carried through the exultant crowd and up from the clearing, then out into the vastness of space.
Brothers Fulmer and Craith were already on their knees by the time the clearing quietened, when one by one the crowd fell to theirs, each now openly answering the eternal call of Solem.
Craith’s own awe, though, rested on Janeen’s eyes, glinting eyes down which he’d once imagined long black lashes lowering when nonesuch were there. When first they’d each truly rested their trust not only in Solem but thereafter in each other’s hearts.
52 An Awakening
A plethora of pinprick points of light slowly began to coalesce, drifts and clouds and beaming tracts of form taking shape across the eternal blackness. Movement everywhere, yet all so seemingly still, so quiet, so utterly remote. But then a murmur filled the void between, a strain of something at the edge of knowing.
“What is this, all about me?” sent a shiver of shock reverberating through the mass that pressed in so close, that blurred and streaked all that hung before her as it sent everything tumbling and spinning.
“All about me?” and realisation slowly crept up from deep within, permeating her awareness. As she stilled, it all steadied and sharpened. Depth revealed itself: what was near and what was far. “About me,” she asserted—and knew now that these were indeed her very own words.
Then near voices lapped against her, wove their vibrations through the stilled sunbeams that marked her outer form, their stillness so sensitive to the ripples that passed across the void. Voices: somehow familiar. Voices: passing one to another.
Now stronger, one sent a shiver of recognition through her, and she felt a beam form within—within herself.
The voice came again: “Solem? Can you hear me, my dear?” but the muted passing of voices once more drifted beyond her hearing.
“Solem?” came another. “Are you awake?”
The question “Who was this voice talking to?” threaded its way through the weft and weave of her heart’s emanations, through the fabric of her body. “Solem?” she wondered, and the wonder itself brought realisation, filled her with an overwhelming sense of relief. Joy flooded in in its wake, as Sirius… Yes, it was Sirius who spoke again.
“If you are back with us, Solem, then say something. Please. Gives us a sign.” A pause. “I’m sure I saw her eyes flicker,” she directed at Toliman—of course, another memory. “And she does seem more restless.”
“You sure?” Toliman said. “It’s been a long time, and we’ve seen nothing until now.”
“No, I’m not, but I thought I saw something.” Again directed at Solem: “Are you with us, my dear? Are you? Can you hear what I’m saying?”
She and Toliman waited, silently, whilst, unbeknown to them, Solem summoned all her will to project her beam.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” Sirius eventually said. “Probably just wishful—”
“I…” broke out of Solem’s form, its beam swiftly crossing the space between, and Sirius yelped in surprise, her voice soon returning, more softly this time.
“Oh, Solem…Solem. You are back. Thank Galaktos for that!”
Solem managed a smile, one that filled her friends with untold joy, as memories flooded back.
She now remembered the time before all had gone black, when time itself had appeared to cease. It seemed only a while ago, but Sirius was already telling her how long it had been, long enough for all hope to have dwindled.
A flare of relief erupted from the sun at Solem’s heart, stirring through her, its summoned beam finally breaking free: “I’m so…so glad to be…to be awake again.”
Despite Toliman insisting they not tire her, Sirius couldn’t help but pour out her joy. She tripped over her words in her enthusiasm, thirsty to coax yet more from Solem, as though to deny her disbelief.
It left Solem trying to remember what had happened. She was sure they’d been talking about Galaktos. Then she recalled: it had been the return of a childhood memory, and with it her conviction that a great, white hand had drawn aside the swirling fabric of the galaxy’s tightly woven sunbeams. A startled face had appeared, vast eyes bursting wide as it stared at Solem, straight into her heart, and from where she’d felt a mass of flares burst forth.
Their exploding rush had carried her awareness away, out into the void, blazing like the galaxy itself, blinding her startled friends with the light that shone from her heart. Her whole body had shaken, but soon only trembled, trembled at the flood of words that had finally poured from her, far out into the vastness of the universe.
Otherwise:
“…once this brief light ends
There is endless night for us to sleep.”
[Catullus, Carmina V; lines 5-6]
About the Author
Clive Johnson was born in the mid-1950’s in Bradford, in what was then the West Riding of the English county of Yorkshire. Mid-way through the 1970s, he found himself lured away by the bright lights of Manchester to attend Salford University.
In addition to getting a degree in electronics, he also had the good fortune of meeting Maureen (Kit) Medley—subsequently his partner and recent Editor. Manchester retained its lure and has thereafter been his hometown.
Torn between the arts—a natural and easy artist—and the sciences—struggled with maths, youthful rationality favoured science as a living, leaving art as a pastime pleasure. Consequently, after graduation, twenty years were spent implementing technologies for mainframe computer design and manufacture, and being a Group IT Manager for
an international print company.
The catalyst of a corporate takeover led to a change of career, and the opportunity to return to the arts. The unearthing of a late seventies manuscript—during loft improvements—resurrected an interest in storytelling, and one thing led to another. A naïve and inexpert seed finally received benefit of mature loam and from it his first novel—Leiyatel’s Embrace—soon blossomed.
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Solem Page 25