The Fire in Starlight

by Maria Isabel Pita

  * * * *

  B y six o'clock Sofia couldn't stand being inside any longer. The sun was setting between the trees on the western side of the house, but she headed east into the darkening woods. The evening was almost balmy, which felt wonderful and yet was disappointing because it meant she might not need to light a fire later, and the vigorous flames kept her such good company she felt bereft without them. The steady vibration of countless crickets helped soothe her by providing an audio expression of her sensual tension. Unless it was bitterly cold, it was never completely silent in the forest. She glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of the sun's brilliant orange sphere swiftly descending. Brief as it was, twilight had always been her favorite time of day, especially when golden rays pouring between the dark trees made it easy to believe the world was an enchanted place. All her life she had enjoyed vivid, colorful dreams full of people she didn't know, but none of her nocturnal adventures had ever felt as real as the ones she had experienced in her new fairytale bed. It seemed she was taking her sabbatical literally by celebrating her own intimate Sabbath as she explored the mysteries of her subconscious in a way she had never had the time, space or energy to do before. She paused on the path, her pulse accelerating when she suddenly spotted the silhouette of a person standing just a few feet away. A second later she laughed self-consciously when she recognized her own shadow cast by the sun on the smooth grey-black trunk. She held out a hand, splaying her fingers open to study them in fascination. Everything, including all her wicked erotic thoughts, had come from an absolute darkness. She had never been able to wrap her brain around this fact. Everything from nothingness made absolutely no sense. Or was nothingness latently everything? She kept walking, trying to get away from fruitless metaphysical speculations; the evening was too beautiful to waste locked up in her brain.

  She emerged into the open area she had been seeking. Night was quickly falling beneath the trees, but her neighbor's open pasture was flooded with a soft and utterly lovely light. Then another site made her gasp out loud—the moon rising. She had seen countless movies in which the moon looked as big as that, but this felt very different simply because it was real, occupying the same space as her body. Even though it had technically been full the night before, the moon was still perfectly round and a lovely, buttery-white that made her hunger for more ordinary yet totally magical moments like this in her life. Living through all the different seasons in the country was going to be wonderfully different from enduring them in a city, and in that moment she made the conscious decision never to return to Baton Rouge. She would think about what that meant for her position at LSU later, but the truth was that she was tired of writing academic papers about poems written centuries ago by other souls. She was feeling the need to create something of her own, verses that might be able to express—and perhaps help her understand—the exciting relationship between dreams and so-called reality, something she believed in more than ever surrounded by nature's relentless sensuality instead of concrete buildings.

  She was very glad she had obeyed the impulse to leave the house and go for a walk just in time to catch the moon poised directly above the horizon. She was amazed by its size and by how it looked almost close enough to touch. It was rising directly across from the setting sun—a cool and beautiful queen ascending to the throne after the blazingly noble death of her lord. She could understand why, to most ancient sensibilities, the earth's devoted satellite was considered feminine. The moon was smooth and curved yet also latently dark, full of unplumbed depths just like a woman, her surface flesh reflecting the sun's light just as she, personally, never stopped thinking about men. It was true that ever since she could remember Sofia had been in love with boys.

  She looked back out across her neighbor's field wondering where he was, and could scarcely believe it when she saw him. She knew right away it was him even though he was only a tall silhouette forged by the dying light. She glanced down at the loose white cotton housedress she was wearing that fell just below her knees that made it so easy to believe she had slipped into her dream as she began walking quickly towards him, only this time there was a fence in her way. She stared at in consternation, seeing it as a symbol of the rational limits she passionately sought to defy. She watched, penned in by barbed wire, as he unfolded something almost as tall as he was, an object with long, slender legs that formed a pyramid shape ... a telescope. His back was to the dying sun as he pointed the instrument at the rising moon.

  "Hello!” she called, raising her arm and waving to get his attention. The breeze was growing chillier by the second, but at least it served to carry her voice to him. She couldn't see his eyes, but she felt the touch of his awareness when he turned his head. He did not answer her greeting as he approached her, leaving the telescope behind.

  His voice insinuated itself into her bloodstream almost before it reached her ears. “Good evening, Sofia."

  "Good evening! Please, tell me your name. I'm so sorry, I forgot to ask you yesterday."

  "What's in a name?” he teased soberly.

  "You're a man, not a rose,” she parried happily. “Or should I just call you ‘my lord'?” The blood rushing through her head in astonished embarrassment at what she had just said drowned out the sound of the crickets. For a moment the silence felt terrible as it suddenly grew too dark for her to see his expression.

  The crickets began singing again as he said mildly, “If you like. But just so you know, my name is John."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, John.” How casual she sounded made her feel she was lying to him. “You have a telescope,” she observed inanely.

  "I do. Would you care to join me in a little stargazing?"

  "I would love that, but...” She glanced down at the wicked looking metal fence. “Do you know where the gate is?"

  "Yes, but it's far. I can help you across."

  "I don't know...” She couldn't tell him the main reason for her hesitation was the fact that she wasn't wearing any panties.

  He leapt over the thorny barrier, and just like in her dream she felt time and space mysteriously collapse as her knees bent and her arms slipped around his neck when he swept her up into his arms. She half cried out, half laughed, “What are you doing?!” even as he set her safely down on the other side of the fence and lifted himself over it again.

  "Come, Sofia. Let me show you some stars.” He took one of her hands, and all her thoughts seemed to forge themselves contentedly into the warm strength of his fingers. A silly “Okay” welled up inside her like a bubble she popped before it could take shape in her vocal cords and shame her; it wasn't a reverent enough response to the small yet vast gift he was offering her. “Yes, my lord” perched on the tip of her tongue like a butterfly aching to break free of the confining cocoon of her reason, but she said nothing at all as he led her across the grass to his telescope. The moon was higher in the sky but still large and growing brighter, her craters more distinctly etched as the wind picked up and sighed away the last of the daylight up into a sky coming alive with stars.

  "You must be cold,” he observed, and before she could say anything he slipped out of his jacket and draped the heavy leather over her bare shoulders.

  "Thank you, John.” It wasn't so dark yet that she couldn't be affected by the sight of his muscular arms in the short-sleeved black shirt he was wearing over his black jeans. “But now you'll be cold."

  "I'll be fine."

  She wasn't about to argue with this traditional male testament to invulnerability, an arrogant assurance that made her smile because she was more than ready to believe it about him. When Steve had said “I'll be fine” it usually meant he didn't care one way or the other what he felt, but she sensed this was not true about John at all.

  "It'll take me a minute to get it set up,” he told her.

  She didn't say anything, succumbing to the profound contentment enfolding her in the shape of the black leather that had only a few seconds ago rested against his warm skin. As n
ight completely possessed the world the memory of her dream became even more vivid; more than ever she felt as though the violent events had occurred only yesterday and not centuries ago, and certainly not merely in her subconscious. She was going to tell him about her dreams, she knew that now, she felt the weight of this responsibility on her shoulders as she exulted in the jacket he had draped across them—something that was part of him and of his own comfort casually yet significantly sacrificed for hers. But she couldn't tell him now; she couldn't yet bring herself to speak to him about something so impossible even though it seemed like the right place to do it out here in the dark beneath the stars. “I would love it if you would come over for dinner tomorrow night, John."

  "What's wrong with tonight?"

  "Nothing at all!” She laughed. “Except that I haven't had time to cook anything. But that doesn't matter,” she added quickly. “I bought an assortment of gourmet cheeses yesterday, and I've got some smoked trout and some smoked salmon, too, if you don't mind a casual meal."

  "It sounds wonderful. Come here."

  She took his place behind the telescope. She bent over, closing her left eye as she concentrated on placing her right eye over the viewfinder. Her flickering lashes brushed it and for a few seconds all she could discern was a trembling pinpoint of light that slowly came into focus.

  "Can you see?” he whispered.

  "Oh, yes...” Saturn and its rings were glowing in the darkness of the universe and of her pupil, the most sublime colors imaginable all casually vibrating in her visual cortex. She had seen countless photographs of Saturn in magazines and books, but there was nothing like feeling her body occupying the same space with this unimaginably faraway place. “It's beautiful!” she exclaimed.

  "Yes, it is,” he agreed, “but not as beautiful as what I'm looking at."

  She glanced at him even though it was impossible to see his face. She almost didn't let herself believe he meant what she hoped he did, yet the possibility excited her so much she had no idea what to say. She stepped back so he could slip between her body and the telescope. She was standing so close to him the warm aura of his strength turned his heavy jacket into a burden as she suddenly almost felt weak in the knees with the need to touch him, but she didn't dare, afraid he might think less of her for it. She didn't want him to imagine she threw herself at all men so quickly.

  "Now look at this,” he urged. “Aren't they amazing?"

  She smiled and bent over the viewfinder again. “Oh!” The moon was right there, really close enough to touch this time; all she had to do was reach out and her fingertips would caress the luminously pockmarked flesh, craters so vast and deep they appeared impenetrably black. “This is a great telescope!"

  "Sofia..."

  She immediately straightened up and turned to face his silhouette, looking expectantly up at his dark face. His eyes were just barely visible as their glimmering depths reflected the stars. She held her breath because he was about to say something important, she could sense it, and she wanted to hear it more than anything ... some recognition on his part that echoed her own mysterious certainty they were not strangers to each other at all...

  "How is it that you're all alone out here, Sofia? The house was empty for years, then suddenly one day you appeared and I thought I was dreaming."

  "Dreaming?” she echoed hopefully.

  "Yes..."

  "The reason I acted so strangely yesterday, John, was because ... because you looked so familiar to me,” she confessed as much as she could. “Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes, and no. I want you to tell me about it. When we're finished here, I'll walk you home and go get us a bottle of wine."

  "Oh, you don't have to do that, I have plenty of wine.” She couldn't bear to let him out of her sight again, not so soon.

  Abruptly, he pushed his jacket off her shoulders, gripped both her arms and kissed her, his fingers digging possessively, almost cruelly, into her skin as he forced her mouth open beneath his without any tender preliminaries.

  Chapter Nine

  THE MOON*

  The moon, she fears the sunshine sore,

  Because the sunshine knows full well

  Wherefore the moonlight is so pale.

  The moon is loth that the sun should tell

  Her secret; and she hides away

  When the sun comes forth, that so, perchance,

  The sunshine may forget.

  But I am brother to the sun,

  He telleth me his secrets all—

  How he hath taught the birds to sing,

  The ears of corn to turn to gold,

  The forests to grow green.

  And thus he hath betrayed to me

  Wherefore the moon is pale.

  The moon, she is a maiden's heart,

  And love once dwelt therein,

  Ah, in those days the maiden's heart

  Was sunshine through and through,

  But when love left the maiden's heart,

  'Twas then that it grew pale.

  And Heaven took it up on high,

  Yet sadly still it looketh down

  Upon the earth, where love did dwell,

  And paler grows the while.

  The moon, she fears the sunshine sore,

  Because the sunshine knows full well

  Wherefore the moonlight is so pale,

  The rivers say when she appears:

  "O little maid's pale heart,

  Come, rest in us!” and in their sleep

  The birds all say to her:

  "Come, go to sleep in our nests with us!

  The grave saith: “Maiden's heart,

  Pale heart, make me grow paler too!"

  And everything to slumber turns

  That so that heart may sleep.

  Yet though she see them slumb'ring all,

  She slumbers not, nor nods her head,

  But stands and watches Sleep.

  "That was beautiful,” he said when she finished reading the song and put the book down.

  "Do you really think so?” she asked shyly.

  "I wouldn't say so if I didn't."

  "I'm sorry..."

  "For what?"

  "I don't know, John, I'm confused..."

  After his brutally thorough kiss out in the field—when his tongue plumbed the depths of her mouth as though his life depended on it, and hers, too—he let go of her just as suddenly. When she didn't protest—when the only sound she made was a small, breathless moan that only seemed to beg for more—he picked up his jacket and draped it over her shoulders again. Then he turned to the telescope, tucked in its legs, and cradled it beneath one arm. “Let's go,” he said, resting his hand lightly but commandingly on her back. Now they were here, in her house, sitting on the loveseat in front of the fire he had started while she was arranging a plate of cheese and crackers in the kitchen.

  He set his wine glass down on the small table in front of them. “Tell me about it, Sofia."

  Not knowing where to begin, she stared into the fire. The flames encouraged her to burn words freely, no matter how cumbersome and inadequate they seemed, and to express her feelings to him no matter how embarrassingly hot they were.

  "Sofia...” He reached over and rested a hand on her knee. “You said out in the field that I looked familiar to you, that you felt you knew me."

  "Yes,” she whispered, trying to concentrate past the warmth of his touch and failing. Across the room her reading lamp was on and by its steady light she could see his eyes, the fire burning in the darkness of his pupils like the reflected flames of the brazier in the dream she remembered so vividly...

  "And now you say you're confused,” he prompted, removing his hand. “You need to tell me about it."

  "I don't know where to begin, John, it's all pretty ... pretty intense!"

  "Good.” He reached for the bottle. “Let's have some more wine."

  She obediently held her glass out.

  He refilled it almost to the brim.
/>   "That's too much,” she protested half-heartedly. “Thank you!"

  "We might as well kill it."

  "Mm...” She took a hearty sip.

  "I feel as though I've known you for a long time, Sofia."

  "Really?” A log popped and a spark flew into the room that landed harmlessly on the stone hearth.

  "Why do you sound so surprised?” His eyes commanded her not to look away. “You feel the same."

  "Yes, but ... it's more than a feeling, actually ... You see, I've had some dreams..."

  "You don't know anything about me,” he spoke slowly, cupping his glass like a chalice between his knees as he stared down into it, “yet already you're telling me I'm the man of your dreams?” His eyes were so penetratingly serious when he turned his head and looked at her again that not even the fire's flickering illumination could help her imagine there was a smile on his lips. In fact, his mouth looked so hard she caught her breath, afraid of she knew not what, and of everything, all at once.

  "That's not what I'm saying, Please don't tease me, John."

  "Do you really feel I'm teasing you?"

  "I don't know ... I mean, I really don't know you..."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "I feel you're not teasing me, John, but my brain can't be so sure."

  "Well, I can't say I'm not interested in your brain.” He took a sip of wine before staring into its dark depths again. Caressed by firelight, the three-year-old California Merlot was the luminous red of a priceless ruby violently shaped by forces deep in the earth millions of years ago. “I'm listening, Sofia."

  She couldn't speak. His profile as he waited intently for her to tell him about her dreams looked so beautiful to her she could hardly breathe as the need to touch him, to kiss him again, to give herself to him completely intensified almost unbearably.