Chapter 2 - The Tragedy of Magic

It was a cool summer evening, when Ato first heard The Song. He had turned six the day before. His father, who had before this day worked him in the field from his fourth year, gave him a rare day of rest. He bathed Ato, using fragrant oils hidden in jars that Ato had never seen before, taking great care to leave no speck of dirt on him.

Ato's father dried him off carefully, then wrapped him in the finest ribbons they owned, ribbons that were usually only worn to the solstice celebrations. Ato stood motionless, his eyes closed, his mind taking in the soft jingling of the chimes at the end of the fabric, the way the white cloth rubbed against his skin, and the gentle care with which his father wrapped his torso and arms, humming a soft tune as he did so. As the last ribbon looped around his neck, Ato opened his eyes to find his father smiling down at him. He tussled Ato's hair, before taking his hand and leading him out of their home, towards the fields of harin that composed their life.

They walked leisurely through fields as the sun set, painting the sky in splashes of pink and blue, stretching their shadows to infinity behind them. They walked until the harin ended, past a point Ato had seen but rarely been, to the endless sea of wild grass that lay beyond their rope fences. They stopped some ways beyond the fence, to where their village was only a fuzzy blur behind them. By then the sky had turned to black, it's inky skin freckled with stars, gathering in a large white thread that shed points of light, as it stretched from the top of the sky to the horizon beyond them. The moon was gone—it was not that time of the month—the only lights that guarded them were a lamp in his father's hand, and the stars before them.

Ato's father bent down and whispered into his ear, his warm breath chasing the cool night air away. Ato could feel the love, the joy, in his voice.

"Go forth, Ato-ti, into the grass. Feel the gods' touch on your skin; meet their eyes with yours. Bathe yourself in their love, and see, my son, if you can hear their words."

Ato's father urged him gently, his giant warm hand pushing softly into his back. Ato walked forward, and sensed the lamplight die behind him. He did not look back, nor feel any fear: even at such a young age, Ato could feel the unspoken truth in moments such as these. He stopped a few steps ahead, when he felt as alone as sense would let him. He looked up at the stars, now the only light in his world, his only company in a black and lonely night. He felt the wind brush at his skin softly, it's cool fingers dragging at his arms, urging the wild grass to touch him. He heard it whistle through the leaves and pull at his chimes, filling the night with fragile notes.

Ato closed his eyes, and the world fell silent. For a moment, he was truly alone, in a way he had never been.

Then, he heard it.

Soft notes. A voice singing. A language Ato had never, and would never, hear again. And yet, he understood perfectly, the tale it told—a gentle bedtime story, with no monsters or grand plots, only a simple, quiet scene:

The quiet crackling of a warm fire. Shadows in firelight, cast on a bare wall. A woman singing lullabies. A man speaking...children laughing.

Ato opened his eyes, and stared at the stars once more. They shone in a way unlike before, as if taking notice of him, if only for a moment. He felt his eyes well with tears.

Then, it was over—the wind rushing back to his ears, its gentle push sounding like the gales of a storm. He walked back silently to his father, who lit the lamp as he stepped forward, and buried his face in his father's stomach. His father stroked his hair gently.

"What did you hear, my son?"

Ato could barely choke the words through sobs. "The Song, apa."

His father patted his back. His voice was full of love, and sadness. "Just like your mother, then."

Ato’s father hoisted him into his arms, his giant hand holding Ato's crying face to his neck, his fingers pulling at Ato's hair as he walked back to their home. His steps were slow and serene, his voice humming the same soft tune as before. All Ato could think, was how it did not compare.