by Robert Cely
make it, each one sacrificing one of his precious feathers. Never had such a gift been lavished on the sons of man.
Tenderly, the Lethe wrapped Armande in the soft, white feathers. The elder lifted him up, and after Armande had said his goodbyes, took to the sky.
It was said that the elder who carried Armande had begun to feel the weight himself. So after wrapping his friend in the blanket of feathers, he lifted him up and carried him on his Sunset Flight. So Armande, who could do nothing but admire the beautiful and fantastic Lethe in his life, now joined in death with his beloved friends.
So wonderful were the Lethe, so blessed and loved by God, that it makes it so much more painful to tell of their fall. How could such a happy and light people become the grim and practical folk that bear the name today? Even the memory of their former glory is forgotten, the only trace carved on an unseen memorial, covered in vines and frequented only by children.
The tragedy and fall of the Lethe began, as many tragedies do, with brothers.
Children are not born frequently to the Lethe, and twins are unheard of. So when Avalain and Oberlain were born to the same mother, just minutes apart, it was hailed by the Lethe as a most auspicious sign, full of certain blessings to come.
As the boys grew up it became quickly apparent that the two children couldn’t be any more different. Avalain exemplified all the qualities and traits of his gifted race. He grew up beautiful and swift, all his features perfectly proportioned and as golden as the radiant sun. His voice soared through the heavens, clean and powerful above all the others. And when he flew it was song in motion, riding lightly on the wind as if he were the god of air.
Oberlain, on the other hand, turned out quite different. Never measuring up to his barely-older brother, the younger of the twins always made others wonder if the two really were brothers. For one, though Oberlain would be considered beautiful by any earth-bound standards, as the Lethe reckoned he appeared a bit on the plain side. His eyes were set too far apart on an already wide forehead, and his mouth was noticeably too large. If this weren’t bad enough his skin seemed pale next to his brother’s and his hair far too dark. Even his voice, though lovely at times, fell out of him weak and without power, sometimes dying long before it could reach the ground.
But apart from all of this, what marked the brothers most different, and eventually divided them to the bitter end, was their flight.
Perhaps Oberlain was born too heavy. Maybe his bones thickened too much or his wings didn’t grow long enough. But whatever the reason, Oberlain was a terrible flier. For sure he soared, maybe not as effortlessly as the others and certainly not like his brother. He never played on the wind like the other Lethe. Never was Oberlain seen twisting and looping and riding as if he lay astride the back of the breeze.
Despite these seeming differences the two children were inseparable. They played and laughed together, though Avalain always got the best of his plodding brother. They sang together, even though Avalain received all the praise and no one complimented Oberlain for anything. And together they explored all the high and low places, more than once venturing too close to the earth-bound, and Avalain had to save his slower brother on more than one occasion.
What they loved most was resting together on the high peaks. The rare times when sleep would overtake them they would nestle side by side on the highest, most inaccessible mountain they could find. Oberlain, always frightened that someone would steal his feathers, couldn’t sleep unless Avalain promised to watch over him. Only comforted like this could Oberlain sleep, sheltered by the warmth and love of his brother.
At first, Oberlain was oblivious and uncaring about his brother’s high achievements. After all, he loved his brother dearly and looked up to him, so much so that whenever Avalain received praise Oberlain swelled in pride as if he had been the one complimented. But as the boys grew, and awareness sank into Oberlain with age, he began to take note of what people said.
How beautiful Avalain shines, so many would say, much more than his brother. Look how he flies, why can’t Oberlain fly like that? Hear Avalain’s voice, it soars as much as Oberlain’s sinks.
These, though terrible enough, and inducing all sorts of sadness in Oberlain, were not what turned his thoughts dark. What finally broke the poor, younger brother, and darkened his heart and mind with all manner of brooding thoughts, was people whisper that the twins couldn’t possibly be brothers.
“Why look at them,” he would hear the other Lethe say when they didn’t notice him around. “They can’t be twins. How do we know they are even brothers? Did anyone actually witness their birth? Were ever two Lethe more unlike than these two? Much less twins?”
It was finally these, these awful suggestions that Avalain was not his brother, that drained the light from Oberlain. For his entire life, that had been Oberlain’s sole source of pride. He was Avalain’s brother. Of course he knew that he wasn’t as handsome, or agile, or lovely as Avalain. He knew that he couldn’t soar or sing like most of his legendary race. But he was Avalain’s brother, and that had always been enough for Oberlain.
At first Oberlain gave no thought to these gossips and whispers. But as he heard more it became harder to ignore. Against his will, and on more than one occasion, Oberlain found himself considering the possibility that these rumors might be right, that maybe he was not brother to Avalain after all.
At the same time, or perhaps because of what was happening at this time, Oberlain began to develop a taste for earth-bound food. He had always had a greater weakness for it than Avalain. When they would come across the offerings of sweet pastries and candies, Avalain would take a nibble and throw the rest away. Oberlain devoured his portion, savoring every bite of soft bread or icing or cakes.
The problem with earth-bound food is that it tended to make the Lethe heavy. Unlike the fruit of the Andor tree, which filled the wind-borne with such bursts of energy as to make them lighter than they already were, the breads and sweet foods that the ground people ate only added sluggishness. Perhaps because the ground dwellers ate what grew close to the ground made their food heavier. For the fruit of the Andor sprouted only from the highest branches of the tall trees.
So the more of the earth-bound offerings Oberlain ate, the heavier he became. The heavier he became the slower he would fly and the closer he hovered to the ground. He slept more, made drowsy by the soporific fare. Weighed down he grew lazier in flight, circling well below the other Lethe, far below the high winds that carried the others with ease among the clouds.
His isolation from the others increased. The more Oberlain thought about how different he was from his brother the more he withdrew. The more he withdrew the more isolated he felt. The more isolated he felt the more he withdrew. Such is the path alienation often carries us down. It feeds itself, increases by its own mad, irrational inertia.
Had Oberlain voiced his doubts to his brother, no doubt Avalain would have put them to sudden rout with vehement tears and embraces and oaths assuring Oberlain of their fraternity. For Avalain truly loved his brother, and Oberlain would have believed any assurance his twin would give him.
Many times Avalain did fly down to his brother to ask him why he separated himself so. He begged to know what vexed Oberlain and tried to lure him back to the high winds. How events would have unfolded differently had Oberlain relented to his brothers entreaties and allowed the awful gulf that had sprung up unawares between them to be bridged.
But you see, another change came over Oberlain as he nursed his resentment. The more distant, the more isolated, the more apart he felt, the more a shadow crept over his heart and bolted it firmly against any soft words that might appeal to him. As bitterness crept into Oberlain, so pride took root right beside.
Indeed, you hardly find one without the other. For if you believe yourself loved by no one, then you tend love to yourself all the more. The deeper your resentment goes, so deeper goes the plunge within, mi
red in self-pity. The more bitterness and anger gnaw away at your soul, the blinder grow the eyes to light. And in darkness we can’t help but be prideful creatures, for in that place nothing seems as real as the hurt we so lovingly nurse.
So Oberlain would not let himself be comforted by his brother.
“I am fine!” he would snap whenever Avalain would ask him what was the matter.
Poor Avalain, though he had many virtues, knowing the heart of sadness was not one of them. The happy elder twin had never known a dark hour in his life, and had certainly never been consumed by the kind of torpor that consumed Oberlain. As a consequence he missed the obvious signs of his brother’s misery. Had he experienced any grief of his own he would have seen the brooding and waspishness for what it really was, and then would certainly have wept with his brother until he allowed himself to be cheered.
Instead, Avalain accepted at face value when Oberlain said he was fine, and would fly off and leave him alone. This only further convinced Oberlain that even his brother had begun to doubt their relation. For if he really loved him, Oberlain told himself, he would insist to know what bothered him. Surely he could tell that something was wrong.
Oberlain fell further into