Ocular to the Dying Sun

The Birth of Passing the Magician’s Baton; part 1

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Large chains shackled the lands under the foot of a young girl curiously peering over the edge beyond the magical concrete fence. She calls herself Green. She stood at the edge of their family’s property, a good mile away from the edge of their house fence. Soil faintly disappears under the extending lush grass-covered ground that floated into vast cloudy nothingness.

Over, yonder high above the trees, Green’s tiny head illuminated with bright sunlight through the yellow leaves of a tree, its veil covered into a lovely hair for Fall.

‘Tis season of “Taglagas,” a point of the year the lands shift gradually. The rock is considered a source of light in their world, where chains bind from the ground to keep afloat, repositions to loosen its magical hold and slowly lower them away from its warmth.

This season is not the first time Green experienced Taglagas. She remembers how the season goes and comes. But she forgets how the world became, again, under the watchful eyes of the warmth-giving floating rock called Slitark*.

Sitting on the edge while trying to remember her storybook tales about Slitark, winds blew across the land and brushed her hair, cooling the sweat from her neck. Adjusting to keep her from the cold, she fixed her shawl that covered her shoulders ever tighter and wondered with patience if she should go back inside or stay for the rest of the day.

Night came, and her mother’s skirt swayed beside her, bringing Greens’ thoughts back to the world. She heard her mother tell her that it was time to rest as she felt carried in plump, warm arms. Green always loved being surrounded by the smell of her mother. There in her presence, she could dwell in comfort against the cold. Grass under her feet was a fresh welcome. The warmth from the rays feeds her heart, but nothing compares to how dreams become in her mother’s love.

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According to time immemorial, a lone rock used to house itself in the confines of the vast universe. Traversing the expanse without thought or form, knowing nothing but its existence with a fleeting emotion known only by emptiness, it reflected the space it stayed in like a mirror with an opaque reflection. Internalized ideologies profoundly swirled like water chrysalis, gently becoming strong and embodying the coat of the rock that it called itself Slitark.

The rock counted its time into decades passing, several of it, and it began to start aching from inside. The center of its core shaking, branded by an invisible push and pull, no guessing how these figures in the lesser life it floats without sunder. Still, the knowledge it gained as their inside grew painful but comforting; edged outside that slowly deformed the rock into the shape of nothing but spikes and course like an unpolished crystal.

These protrusions stormed and surged like a life intent on flying but never got too fleeting. Because Slitark could not sustain and oppress these rushing no longer, it let itself combust in extent without letting the feeling be but gently pushing them out like columns. From this, the first Spire was born. An entity came within, reaching outward like a container releasing its contents into the vast.

Several other Spires birthed, and from there, every succeeding element as land, clouds, greenery, the sky, and all body of water, came to be. It starts there. The lone rock became a family along with its children called Angwail. Because of this attachment, they flew around the rock and made bonds thick and strong, to remain together until time immemorial.

For the Angwail and Slitark to exist together, Slitark continued to provide sustenance until each Angwail grew to their potential. Like babes suckling from the mother whose womb they came from, they each cherished the reaching hand of their mother. Each Angwail took what Slitark can provide, a growing exchange spanning years and years.

Going by through the decades, the Angwails grew intimidating and vast, almost overpowering their bearer. Without a doubt, each Angwail felt overwhelmed, expanding far and wide. Because there was no point reaching beyond far from their mother, the Angwails let their surface bear a different kind of being. They gave birth to critters and creatures. Beginning from the limbs, climbing up to their outspoken orifice-laden head, from the hair of the soil stood the first residents of Angwail. “Life” was born. “Life” that only took but never gave. Yet, “Life” found ways to “give” that Angwail would never disappear. They may not act as an ideal equal, but they still became integral.

Timely “Life” became, behind their conception, Slitark slowed its Spires it fed to the Angwail that stopped becoming. Inching hunger and being deprived of nutrients, a different fill succumbed inside each Spire. These Spires did not provide anything to give, yet they “yearn” for something to “give.” In exchange for contributing, they take and take. Until nothing became of them. Instead, they grew to be “Dire.” Born from a yearning for the idea of bestowing, they culled.

These Dires that bridged to Slitarks children, that used to provide, became nothing but a vacuum void of kindness and giving. They only took it as a form of provision, corrupting the Slitark who knew how to give and take with equal amounts. Taking copious Angwail back into Slitark destroyed its insides and brought chaos with no end. The rock can only do so much to heal itself until it stops and becomes overwhelmed with unwanted.

Witnessing Slitark become which itself make sick, Angwail gave “Life” strength and blessings fit to serve a mighty purpose. Nurtured within Slitark are magic ever surpassing without limit and no need of source because they internally embroil and release it to be fed to the Angwails in portions fit for each. The Angwails could not do a similar action but yearn to parallel sustenance.

Because “Life” saw gratification in taking, they desire to give but fail to see how. The Angwails saw the opportunity finally reconvey to the Slitark, and it’s through the two grasps of “Life.” In their hands, from a gift buried deep within, they are blessed to take. And, take they did, but to who?

They took from Slitark. They took Dire’s from its rock skin, enabling Slitark to breathe again without feeling its nearing death.

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“‘Life’ made sure to only separate Dire’s from Slitark,” said a soft voice. Owned by a man whose face Green could not see but knew very well that it was from a man she calls “father.” Pushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead with his rough palm made Green close her eyes as she felt the warmth of his palm. “Since then, ‘Life’ or us humans of the Angwail’s made sure to visit the light bearer every two cycles. To assure that the Dire that sprouts from its bosom avoid becoming something that destroys.

“That became the reason for the existence of the Prime Magicians. They are residents of the Angwail’s that follows through ‘Life’s’ duty, the Ocular to the Slitark.” He pauses to look at the book he held in his other hand while he sat lazily beside Green over the blanket. Turning the page, he read the contents before looking back at her. “Are you sure mama stopped here?” He asked with a confused but lazy gait, his voice croaking and mild.

Green tried to look up and make the ‘puppy dog eye’ effect but failed due to her sleepiness. She only managed to open her eyes halfway while pouting, coupling it with an effort-heavy slow nod. Her father’s face still looked at her, his expression unclear.

“Alright, you do need to sleep soon. Mama won’t be pleased you stayed too long in the bath...” He finished the thought that made him pause for seconds, then made his way to three more pages before he realized Green was finally asleep. Her wonderfully long light brown eyelashes cover her cheeks with dew from her yawn.

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