Chapter 1
Until Heaven Turns Blue
Once there was a time, before cars and trains, motors and engine boats. Such a time when words traveled from mouth to ear and tales prevailed by the faint whisper of the elderly to the young. A time untainted. A time when man stood before himself, not God, not worshiping him, not graving his words into stone. Rather, a time when he listened ardently and zealously to the muffled murmur from the night sky.
On some verdant hilltop, somewhere unimportant in the least, a man fell in love with the moon. The moon, unparalleled to anything or anyone that exists in beauty. Her poise came from her sheer and honest elegance. The night sky was her canvas. She was the artist. With her luminous touch, she painted not just the sky, but the earth below it too. And simple men and women, children and old alike, would worship her presence and her virtue. The fact she was so plain in manor is what made her so pristine. And the man, young and earnest, would climb as high as he could on that hilltop every night, to see his beloved moon.
Each night he would gaze at her with adoration in his youthful eyes, and say “I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue”.
He would write poems for her and pick flowers on his way to plant in her hair. He would tell her all his troubles, all his moments of glee, of his day, of the annoyance of his mother and father. He would read to her Aristotle and Thales. He would sing her ballads on the olden lyra that his grandfather gave him so long ago. He would discuss art with her. Oh how he loved her. And she loved him back.
She’d listen to his words though if they were music or a part of a symphony. His poems would move her, and his ballads gave her ease. She’d spread her moonlight to allow him to read books to her. She enjoyed his presence and thought him to be a strange, but fine man. She waited for his coming as much as he did hers.
Each morning, on his way back home, the man would curse the damned sun. That frivolous sun that would make his beloved retire each night. He despised the sun with all his might.
Yet each night he would come back to his moon, his moon. And each night he would say, “I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue”.
Walking through the village with eyes tired from lust and hunger, the people, slowly awoken by the sun’s egocentric being, would frown at him. They didn’t understand what a man would do for so long for as many nights as there are stars in the sky on some hilltop in the bleakness of the night. They didn’t understand how a man, not hard on the eyes, and not dull of wit, couldn’t find a wife. His parents wanted him to be wed to a nice girl that lived a couple of houses down. They would beg him to pay her attention when he crossed her path.
Although she was attractive, he couldn’t possibly pay her any attention at all. Not even an ounce.
At long last, his parents asked the man what the problem was with the neighbor’s daughter. Shamelessly he said, “I can’t marry a girl, for I am already captivated by someone far greater and more wise”.
His father eagerly exclaimed, “Marry her then”, relieved to hear that their son is in fact in love. Looking back at his behavior, it made sense. He was practically drunk on it.
“You are not listening”, he cried. “I’m not in love with a girl. And not with a boy”.
His words seemed cryptic and obscure to the poor man’s parents.
“I’m in love with the moon”, he finally admitted.
“The moon?” his mother asked, notably perturbed.
“The moon”, replied the man, in almost a whisper.
Not even a couple of nights passed by, before the man was the talk of the town. Everybody considered him to be a fool.
He didn’t mind it though. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter as long as he had his moon.
That night he made his way up the hilltop, just as every night before. He said, “I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue”.
He did so every night. Every night until his hair turned gray and his steps were slow and heavy. His life passed by, and not a single night he missed climbing up the hilltop. He loved her. He truly did, and nothing could change that.
Walking through town one afternoon, the man overheard some merchants. They gossiped like old women, chattering away. What an odd sight to be seen, he thought. He approached them and asked with curiosity, “What is it that two merchants could discuss so intently?”.
One of the merchants, dressed in red rags, answered, nearly teasingly, knowing who the man was and what it is he loved, “It is told that the moon has lost her beauty”.
“She was cursed, or so it is said, by God almighty himself.” The second merchant continued before the first could finish.
“What!?”, uttered the man. “What for?”
“For her sin. Her sin of lust”.
“Nonsense!” interrupted the man crudely.
“But it is true”.
“It cannot be true!”
“God punished her himself”.
The man, enraged by the words he heard, sped home. They couldn’t be true. How could they be true? God cannot be so selfish. God cannot be so cruel. That’s not the way of the world. It couldn’t be.
The man began to contemplate and worry. If the moon really was birched, he was to blame. It was him, that night after night visited her and sang her songs of love. It was he who would bring her flowers and read her poetry. It was he that promised to adore her beauty until heaven turns blue.
He was to blame. For it all.
***
As pink and yellow turned to blue and black, the man paced up the hilltop, flowers in hand. His mind was tainted with fear. With anguish. With guilt. He let the soft delicate winds of the night kiss his elderly face, as he searched for his love.
His love was nowhere to be found.
He must have been deranged, he thought. Maybe clouds covered her like a veil? No, alas, there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Hastily and helplessly he cried for her. He shouted her divine name time and time again, his voice sounding melancholy through the endless echoes. More and more melancholy and pained with each cry.
And then she appeared.
She appeared, but not as before. No longer bright. No longer pristine. She seemed dimmed and muted. Her lights were faint, and her touch upon the night sky was nearly unnoticed. She had lost all her distinctiveness. Every single ounce of grace and charm.
And the man, now kneeling on both knees, yelled a cry so cleft and honest; “I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue”.
He cried again, this time louder than before; “I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue!”.
Even now, her poise washed away, the man found the moon, his moon, beautiful.
His eyes, glimmering from the tears, were glued on his love. “My darling moon, my love” he uttered with a hint of comfort and reprieve, “Night after night, for years upon years, I have come to you. I have come here to adore you and love you as you are. Each night, I promised you one thing, a thing that stands whether you shine or tarnish. I shall adore your beauty until heaven turns blue”.
