A Letter from Home

Space fantasy in letter form

Dear Friend,

Have the walls of your city begun to sing? Mournful and misty like a thousand hymns or bellowing sorrow like tormented trumpets? Or a whisper you can only hear in the wolf hours of the night? A weeping song. A song of yesterdays and starways. A song that tugs your heart and prickles your eyes. Maybe you’re reading this letter while your grandpapa’s tears plop into his drink, or your little’un buries her head in pillows. Maybe you’re wishing your city had a bit more gumption. But there hasn’t been a stoic city, yet. And I know cos I’ve raised them. Just like my mama and grandmama. The thing about a city is - sooner or later, it wants to go home.

Home. Should I tell you about it or should I let it be a surprise? Your city is on the verge of unfolding its great silver wings. And when it flaps them – make sure you’ve got something sturdy in grabbing range. You’re in for a journey. On the tumble wings of the city you’ll fly silver through the stars. Your neighbours will be comets and lost moons. Your city will rest in a nebula’s towers. The only clouds passing your window will be the blue billows of stars. No longer will you look on the purple plains of Janmik or the golden lakes of Thiam or … Truth is - I don’t know your planet. See, I’ve written heaps of these letters, and I’ll write heaps more cos I’m only at the beginning. Right now, Grandmama’s still in charge. And I’m slogging away while she and Mama sup brew and she croons about her glory days. And when they see me chasing through the valley after the just-hatched cities and falling on my face, they laugh so loud it echoes until the five suns set. It’s a job for young legs, Grandmama says. My young legs. But you’re reading this way past my end. And you’re on route to my grave.

I won’t need flowers or prayers from you. Not when I’ll have a city mourning me. You’ll lower onto the mountains of Tianabala, and you’ll look down on my headstone. Here lies Bellina the greatest of them all. Or, if Grandmama has outlived me: Here lies Bellina doing naff all as usual. So, I won’t be there. Even though I cried buckets when your city left: fluttering on spindly wings, no bigger than a chunky house and up, up, up, until it was gone. Grandmama says I’ve got to toughen up. Cities don’t stay little for long. Once they’re with the stars, they’re biggening right away, getting fat on the songs of galaxies.

Your city will sing to my grave. But don’t join in. You’ve got a job to do. If your city freezes in sorrow, all the folk will freeze, too. Then you’re in trouble. I’ve seen cities die from grief. I’ve seen them purple and fade. Nothing left but shadow. Only Lija didn’t freeze, even though all the folk of her city were gawpy statues. She was my best friend though I only knew her for one day. You might think we didn’t fit cos she was a queen, and I was me. But when we met, we clicked forever. So you see, I couldn’t leave her on her own, though Mama grabbed at me, though Grandmama yelled. Course I was scared running into a grief-freeze city. But she was more scared. So I ran and I ran. And in that weeping melody that shone from the walls, I heard her running, too.

Under her halo of humming jewels, Lija was just like me. So, I didn’t want to tell her she’d die the fading way – first purple, then shadow. But she held my hands too tight for me to lie. ‘Least you’re not frozen,’ I said. For the gawpers were all about statue-ing at the windows. ‘They can’t see me, can they?’ she asked. I shook my head. And she puffed her cheeks out and juddered. I could tell she’d never mucked about in her life cos she wasn’t very good at it. So I pulled a monster face to show her how. Soon we were jumping at the statue folk and whooping. I giggled until it gave me a stitch. ‘Queens aren’t allowed to laugh,’ Lija said. ‘What do you do when something’s funny?’ And her eyes went big with sadness. ‘Nothing ever is.’

Every bit of that city was hers. And she wanted to show me all of it before it was gone. I’m not daft, no matter what Grandmama claims, and I knew this was Lija’s goodbye. Goodbye to the silver garden that floated through the city on a wind. Goodbye to the catacowls that paced golden on the rooftops. Goodbye to the story trees that shed tales on their leaves. We walked through piles of story-leaves, all crisp and crunch. She gave me three leaves, but I didn’t read them, I put them in my pocket for later. She hadn’t had a friend before, but she was a natural. ‘Queens aren’t allowed to be sad,’ she said. So, I held her shaking hand. ‘You can be sad with me.’ And she was.

Being a queen was being looked at and never seen. I thought I had I raw deal cos Grandmama was a tyrant, but she was nothing compared to servants and subjects and pomp and parades. ‘They see what they want to see – and it isn’t me,’ Lija said. And we stood at the big toe of the shining statue and looked up as far as far. And it was her face. But there was purple beginning in its forehead. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen, and I’d seen cities shiver and die. But none of them had had Lija. ‘Will it hurt?’ But I didn’t know. So I hugged her. And the city purpled about us. And the walls thinned. And I didn’t know if my face was wet with her tears or mine. And those halo jewels hummed in my ears. They hummed like an itch. That was when I twigged. ‘They’re why you’re not frozen.’ And I grabbed a green jewel. It cracked in my hands and a song flew out, wings burning.

The song grew large as the statue. And we clung to each other as it shone and the walls turned from wisp to marble. And then there were folk hurrying and weeping and kneeling at their queen. I heard the city open its great silver wings. ‘Don’t go,’ Lija said. But I had to.

You see, the song in the jewel healed the city. And it’ll heal your city, too. When you land, turn this letter over and fold along the lines I’ve drawn. I put the song in the paper - folding will release it. But I won’t be there to watch. Not like I watched Lija’s city soar into the clouds as the five suns set and Grandmama wrapped a blanket round me in the dark.

Good luck,

From your friend, Bellina – the greatest of them all.

Photo of Orion Nebula by NASA, ESA, M. Robberto