The Sun on Her Shoulders

Prologue:

Head filled to overflowing, he dreamed in ink and charcoal. Hands dancing upon wood, his life breath coaxed melody from the inanimate. Nightingale and woodlark warbled their whimsical notes for his fancy. His song cut through a dark night, danced amongst the stars then swept down on the unexpected with unseen wings. In his hands, at his will, song could be a weapon or a tool, this time however each note was a thread, each thread a mark embroidered upon reality. Silken tones wove upon each other to make the sound garner a thickness, repetition was like layers, and soon enough there were many, many layers.

Like covers, sound, slid upon the unconscious even as the stars winked out. A black tide rose, first from the west, than the east, until at last all horizons were covered and all stars extinguished.

The cities lights gleamed against the black, a puny defiance against the encroaching cancer that spread from the place between each star and dripped down. Like noisome venom, unnatural dark fell, trailing blackness that was invisible in the greater dark. Unseen, but not unfelt. To those few who remained awake in spite of the song the descending dark was nothing but unfelt. They scanned the skys, eyes wide, seeking but not finding a glimmer of sunlight, no matter how hard they looked. As if sensing the encroaching doom they drew closer together, regarding the perfect onyx which was heaven with a suspicious eye.

If only mere suspicion had power... if only.

It was said that faith could build walls and restore hope, if so than the laws of antonyms would dictate that doubt and skepticism were open doors and crumbling foundations. Disbelief was the unguarded front, the forsaken fortress. And all know that the unguarded, the undefended, are the most susceptible to attack.

This unnatural night could attack, it would attack, and it did so without remorse.

It was only when the screams reached his abode amongst the clouds that the music maker stilled. The nightingale hushed and disembarked, the sparrow ducked its head under a comforting wing and shivered, and the guiding breath that had been life to them both went dead.

Cocking his head to one side, the music maker considered the black waves that lapped at the earthen roots of his home with a skeptical eye. Satisfied that it would be many nights before his home was submerged he withdrew, not wanting to be caught under the star and moonless night for longer than necessary.