The Privilege of the Sun

Thank you for taking such time to consider this Piece! I know it's quite lengthy, consisting of 3,238 words, but I have posted a question to the Hunger Games Blog. I wrote this piece towards the beginning of the year, as a writing goal. If you do choose to comment on this piece, I would appreciate any feedback, especially pertaining to aspects that could be further explained, major and obvious grammatical errors, or any other bit of concern. Again, thank you for considering this piece, and, if needed, please tell me where I might be able to condense, or expand. Thank you!

The Privilege of the Sun

Imagine, if you please, a being; one alive and in constant though, one with curious eyes and a kind heart. And to her good-natured soul and independent spirit, add nimble fingers and a correspondingly swift mind. Imagine that this creature was clever, and witty and keen. Not devious; No, she would never, intentionally at least, use her senses for direct deceit, nor harm. But this being would, in due course, stumble upon, and thus make known, one of the greatest treasures this Earth is ever to see, and also the safe-haven for the mistakes our futures will wish to prevent.

***

“Scora!” The hiss was on the wind, and had been, and for many miles it was alone, but at its destination, the leaves chimed in. “Hush…”

The two sounds mingled together, force and forced, singing in harmony to herald in the night. It was evening, and the final breeze of the day was twisting past the river.

“Scora”

“Hush…”

One last time they played as one with whoever’s’ ears were listening, at last reaching the subject of their song.

“Scora”

“…Hush…”

The leaves now lay still, their melody ended, but their partner had one last note to breathe. It was soft and mellow, yet so beautiful and simple that not a soul heard it. But one felt it. Scora, who had long since taken to dreaming under the dead willow tree, felt a twinge in her heart. The hairs on her arms stood on end, and her eyes opened. She exhaled, and the last firm gust of the day’s air ended with her breath. Small as the gesture was, the tired girl recognized it, letting a smile twist her face. She was about to respond, in her own learned tongue, when the river chose to speak. Echoing the leaves, it let out a low, continuous gurgle: “Shhhhhush…” And the forest watched the figure at the base of the willow let her eyelids fall, and heard the last sound she made that day, a note to rival that of the wind.

This was very close to routine for Scora, to fall asleep to the soothing river’s coos, after being bid ‘good-night’ by the singing air. It was her favorite tune that the leaves chimed in the evening, and they played it only for her, as had seldom happened to anyone else. For very few listened for the melodies of nature. Very few, and Scora was lucky enough to be counted as one of those who ignored the urge to ‘better’ her life. She lived more simply than even her rustic peers, trusting alone to her home to guide her. And her trust was not ill-placed. Each morning the sun woke her, and the river and trees kept her sustained. The wind and the leaves were her chief entertainment- closing her eyes she could listen to the voices that so often lulled her to sleep. Her fellows left her alone, and she was content. They lived within a mile’s range of the strange and solitary being, to be rid of her constant lurking and sharp eyes that noticed everything so silently. They left her to her thoughts, and would have forgotten her completely, and by intentional will, had the wind not carried her laugh to their place of dwelling at each noon, with the sole purpose of reminding them of the lone girl they had shunned. For it was when the sun was at its peak that Scora was most content. And it was when she was in peace that she would laugh, slow and soft and beautiful, at the thoughts revolving around her perfect life, blended with the music of the river and that of the wind. She had no fear of the dark, and no fear of the blinding light. But there was one grove of trees that shielded her completely from the sun’s eyes, so that she could watch the dancing beams, but they could not watch her. It was then, when she sat and watched and listened that she would let thought carry her to her longings and her laughs.

It was true, she was never truly busy, but then, in a sense, neither were her fellows. While they sought ways to hide from rain and darkness and boredom, and from any discomforts, she marveled at the fact that she, who was so obviously thought different, had beaten those who felt superior to her. Everything they desired, she had obtained. Shelter from winds in anger, from the tears of the sky, had presented themselves to the lot of them, her and all her people before her, but she alone accepted them truly. She set her mind with the wind, and with the water, and with the rain. Even in storms she was more content than others, for she listened to the voice of wind and leaves, and let her mind clear to leave room for revelations. She had everything to rival the desires of her people, everything they refused to see.

So, she could not rightly wish for anything more, not with clear conscience, at any rate. But every human wishes for something, whether it be infinite comforts, or a hobby or house. But what she desired in her heart was very different from what her peers would ever dare contemplate.

Was it so much to ask to have the privilege of the sun- to help and to watch over those under it-and until the world’s very end? It was never shunned, and could never be, and yet, it was alone. It had the entire world at its mercy, for it saw all mistakes and heard all negative cries. It could pity, and yet not take part. And it had eternity to watch the river scold, and hear the wind sing with the leaves. It had forever to think, and to reconsider. It had forever to find the truths of each person and being, and the truths of each natural force. It had forever to be, forever to help and yet do only what it could do- watch and listen and think. This was, of course, exactly what Scora desired- to have the privilege of the sun.

Scora lived each day in relatively the same manner. She would wake with the light in her eyes and the wind around her, the water gently demanding her to wake and see the day. She would gather her meals, and wander about, watching the wind play with her hair and feeling the hanging leaves brush her nose. And every noon, when the sun was at its peak, she would contemplate her dream. She’d look directly at the sun, and let a smile, slow and sad, light her face. She would only glance away from her idol when the wind started yowl with the water.

Years passed, as they tend to do, and Scora realized, one noon while watching the sun rays dance upon the leaf-dappled grass, that she, like many of her fellows, was not to have her wish.

///

Scora had never grown fond of her people, nor they her, and yet, she was drawn to them. Now and again, with each arrival short and the time long in between, the solitary figure would appear amidst those she had left. Each time she came, she was glared at. But she, like the sun she so longed to be, ignored them and watched. Each time, with few exceptions, she sat against the makings of a fence, taking in the activities around her. Sitting and conversing, she often noted, were the most common acts. But there was also real work- inventions of stone and dead wood were everywhere- and Scora never failed to shake her head as she thought of her perfect environment at home. When she had gotten her fill of civilized and social life, she would get up and slowly stride towards the direction of her long-dead willow tree.

But as she would leave the clearing, she would lay down a few items upon the ground, out in the open where all could find them. The river had always insisted upon courtesy, if she was to insist upon interrupting her peers’ comings-and-goings with her presence. It would seemto swell in her eyes, as Scora glanced back in a parting gesture to her home. And so she would gather some of her own usual meal- a few nuts and a couple of berries- to give to her kin.

And on one of the last such visits of her young life, when she stooped to set the gifts at the edge of the clearing on her way back home, she heard a faint murmur. And for the first time in a long while, Scora conversed with her people.

Briefly, she was thanked, and she bobbed her head, in imitation of the leaves in answer to the wind. And then the conversation turned, and became grave. People were passing, heading away from the watchful eye of the sun. They had always done- it was common fact of life. But there was one being, who had been as much of a leader to those people as he could have, whom every person in the clearing wished to honor. And because there was no spot perfect enough for him to rest that they could provide, Scora’s kin bid her to take their own idol and bury him in such a spot that she saw fit- but in a place where all could find him, as often as they pleased. And so asking, they begged her, essentially, to forgo her solitary nature and console those who could not console others themselves, so overcome where they in shock and self-pity. She agreed, and was accompanied back home by three others, whose names she would never know, nor care to find out, and also the body of the once- leader. She led them to her favorite spot, the grove under which she felt like the sun, and let them bury their hero, their minds full of remorse and longing, while she closed her eyes and listened to the wind.

“Scora”

She blinked in understanding. The river bubbled, as if trying to contradict her.

“Shhhhhush!” And then the rain fell, softly and slowly, drop by drop, each representing the grief of all four living figures in the grove. But only Scora listened, her eyes still closed.

“Stay”

“Stay”

“Stay!” The rains met the river, swayed and lead by the wind. Their voices soothed her, but she, for once in her life, ignored them.

She waited until the folk had finished honoring their beloved leader, and escorted them home, bidding them to come and visit him at any given time, save evening. She had no wish for them to hear the sweetest of the wind’s songs, no wish to share her favorite pleasure. It was her revenge, and the only one she would ever make in her life. The folk had showed her that no one, no matter what their nature, would ever live like the sun. They would pass out of her sight, and never return. Scora too would one day join them. With that one unusual visit, she realized that, really, her life was thus far wasted. She had not warmed her people as the sun warmed the Earth. She had not helped any force or living being, had only let those she neglected help her. The folk who brought the news of grand death had brought her the revelation of being human- that nothing could ever be fulfilled, for the path you trod, is often the one you would later have wished to have forgone.

So when Scora turned her back on the clearing, she prepared to turn her back on her peaceful life, determined to find a way to help her home and neighbors, but, of course, without direct involvement. She walked away, away from new choices and possibilities of watching over her people’s dead that she did not see. She walked away from her dearest friends- the scolding river and singing leaves. She prepared to search for her life, for the way to be like the sun. She did not know how she could ever contribute to the world she had long adapted to, but she resolved to do it, before she joined so many others beyond the sight of the sky.

She walked on, in the opposite direction of her glade. What good walking would do her, she did not know, only that it would take her away from her old life, the one she wished to forgo. She travelled slowly, and wearily, heedless of all but her own miserable thoughts. She had failed, as far as she was concerned. Failed without knowing, or trying. And at this particular thought, she came out of her trance. She sat exactly where she had been standing, out in the open, beneath no protective tree. And she listened, listened for the wind and for the rattle of the leaves. For the songs that had intrigued her for her entire period of being. But they did not come. She heard only herself, her frenzied worries and disappointed breaths. Even though she paused to hear the secret voices of nature, her own new-found selfishness, however minor it was, acted like a veil between her and imagination.

She had no one on her side now. She had left her friends, as well as those who could learn to know and to love her. And no one else, if she found them, would be likely to take to her, she was certain.

But then, at once, it all came back. What good was it to forsake the life she knew, and all for one moving idea? It was as if she felt a small tug at her heart, and heard the cry of the creek, telling her to be like the sun, and to take the time to reconsider. Confused as she was, and as miserable, Scora turned back. It took her the rest of the day, trudging as she was, but she did not care. She avoided the clearing and went straight to her glade, where she would let the wind sing her to sleep. Perhaps it just wasn’t her lot in life to have the privilege of the sun, and that was her last thought before she laid herself down under the dead willow tree, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the scolding waters and angry words of the wind. At last she fell asleep, vowing never to force her company upon her peers in future. Then perhaps no maddening ideas would filter into her mind.

The next morning, Scora woke in the dark, before the sun called her to consciousness. And it was then that Scora had her idea. It would be the key to everlasting thoughts- her eyes when she was gone. Her warmth, her gift, to the Earth she would one day leave. And it was then that she spoke, truly spoke in the ways of her kindred, every word she new. In the next weeks, she became oblivious to her surroundings. She had planted herself deeper among the trees than she had ever gone before, alone. She did not hear people call her name. For many still grieved the loss of their leader, and came daily to his grave, each time calling for Scora, who they barely knew, to comfort them. But no one, save one, would see her again in her glade, nor in their clearing. And none, save the awed stream and wind, heard her making noises day and night.

Soon even the forest shunned her, but that would not matter. She had forgotten them in her eagerness to leave her mark when she passed. And she did. She, with sharp ears, wide eyes and a keen mind, left behind her the start of written literature.

She had seen patterns in the words she had spoken, and had distinguished many sounds, and had soon come to develop symbols for each. She would scratch circles and lines on the ground with her fingers, saying the sounds they represented aloud. At last, she felt she had done enough-enough to finish the part of her plan that she could complete alone.

For the first time in months, Scora stepped back into her glade, receiving, of course, no welcome from the breeze. But she did not care. Being one with the essence of Earth mattered very little to her at that point. She sat, and she waited, at the foot of her old grove, where her kin’s leader lay. She waited awhile, scratching her symbols in the earth. And eventually, before evening, from the trees there came a little boy with his head down in respect for his elder. And then when he saw her, he smiled. And she asked him if he would do her a favor, and stay for a while. He obliged, sitting next to the grave, looking at the strange woman before him. She bent a smidgen, so as to look directly at him, and told him her discovery, the revelation of shapes and sounds. And she told him their uses, how those simple shapes could leave messages for people later on, or record folk lore, or many other things. She told them that those words had the power of the sun- to last forever more, and teach others who could decipher the shapes. It was this last stage of her plan that Scora was worried about- what would happen if her pupil was not interested, or dedicated in her contribution? But luck saved her here, for her words mesmerized her newly-enlisted student, and he resolved to learn.

The boy came back many times, until he knew all that Scora had to teach him. And when she was at last confidant in his abilities, she scrawled to him a message on his elder’s grave, and left the sight of the sun. Her mark had been laid, and her duty done. She had brought a new idea to her people, new warmth. She was content. And that is how she faded from sight, and eventually from memory.

On his very last visit to the grave, the boy saw his mentor’s message. It told of how she knew she would soon join those that left the sight of the sky, and that she had a job for him to do in her memory.

He bowed his head in respect, and buried Scora, inventor of ever-lasting knowledge, in her place of exile- for she had once shown him the woods where she had discovered letters. That done, he went back to his home, in the clearing Scora had so seldom visited, and spread her gift, like the sun’s rays are scattered about between shadow.

And that is how the art of reading and writing came about, from confidence and then lack of assurance, from inventor to community.

And that, alas, is also how Scora received the privilege of the Sun, the ability to stay forever among the earth, and to help its people forevermore. And so now, thanks to her kindred and her faithful pupil, Scora’s ways and teachings would never fade, but stay forever on the printed page. And sometimes, when people sat and read at the base of a tree, the wind would howl a remorseful tune, joined by the leaves and river, all singing of the secrets of the sky and sun.

“Scora”

“Hush…”