Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XI)

XI

Micael opened the door for Amy, gracefully and willingly. IT had really been a while since he had done since ages. “Oh, thank you,” said Amy, of which something behind that thanks were being uttered more.

“It is just something, incessant?” told Micael which ensued a quite glance to Amy, whilst laughing softly. They went off to the upper deck. It was quiet, as it was six past midnight. And it was very late for a kind of stargazing, one must had said. They walked gracefully and quietly, and then something went on Amy’s mind, and she uttered those in the latter. “Hey, ugh, do you have a girl that you call a friend?” she asked. It was not very clear for Micael it was a kind of question that would drive someone into hysteria. “Do you want a true answer or a clever one?” “The clever one, I must say,” and then Micael thought for a little bit of time, and went on.

“It’s you that I would love to call as a friend, Amy. If that is not a clever answer, I don’t know what’s,” he said, and Amy genuinely smiled. It was a kind of bit off but it made her smile up to her cheeks. Time slowed down, really. It was like being near one’s event horizon, and then going back to the conventional continuum of spacetime, of which both of them had lived. Like, a minute was years. It was ephemeral but at least it sounded happy. They were halfway down the hall when he noticed that Amy was unto something. “What’s that?” he asked. It took Amy an eye to answer, as she was really busy doing something which Micael wouldn’t even want to comprehend. “This? It’s just something that I’ve been waiting to do for a very long time which is—” Before she had even pronounced it completely, Micael abruptly guessed something that would might be related into his think-abouts.
“Writing? There’s a pen and a paper. So, I think it might be writing.”

“Oh. How cool would that be if you were right?”
“A million times cooler. No. A billion times.”

“What do you think I am into?” she asked. “Music? You’re quite a singer, actually, just based on your looks.” “How do I look like?” “You look pretty, dear,” said Micael last, and then they kept on walking, when Micael suddenly noticed something on the ceiling. It was spiders and their web, waiting for flies to fly about and be caught, becoming their meal or their children’s. There was no verbal conversation at that point at all. No one really wanted to. But there was something. Something inside of his head. No. It was at the back of his head. It was a story. A story that he never really wanted to share but it went echoing inside his head.

And then the spider went uphill, and he went some more. He had seen something that the universe would not want him to see. It was the road. The old Clinton Road. There, he saw a light much brighter than the sun and it was blue. Bluer than blue. He was dazed, let alone hypnotized. He acted like a pest tangled unto a grinder, where the string’s slowly tearing apart; but still, it held. And there was a crank, where the string was neatly fixed, and turned by something (one could not even know), or someone, gradually and eventually, killing the pest. He was stuck unto it. The spider went on, but not what he had meant to be. And soon, the bluer light was not really from the sun at all. It was never a weird, extraordinary, and different from anything else but the sun, and it truly WAS different. But he quickly reckoned that it was just an ordinary web, just like his.

“What’s bothering you?” Amy asked when they were about to take the stairs to the upper deck. “Nothing,” he answered, “I was just amazed by the spiders on the ceiling a while ago,” and they took the stairs. It was a mere twenty-six steps which had separated them to the upper deck. It was also made of wood, something that might be built for quite some time. Every step was followed by the wood’s squeak. It was out of the ordinary that time as not only it was very silent, but it was also pitch black on the upper deck, with the only lights of the moon and stars and their eyes’ dilation which gave them enough grey colors to continue upstairs.

It was their twenty-fifth step, and twenty-sixth, and they had reached the upper deck. It was quiet, deafeningly quiet. The only thing that they could hear is the splash of ocean waters hitting the keel of the ship. The splashing sound was something very relaxing, something which someone would want to hear for thousand and thousands of hours. It was very random and disordered, and yet Micael and Amy went on found the calmness on what was calculated and predicted as more than just being random.

“Well, here we are,” said Micael, and he dragged Amy on the side of the ship, where the moon was much near and seen. “Come. I will show you something,” he followed. Amy gladly followed, with her right hand tightly being held by Micael’s, and it felt like it was genuine. Something that one would not really have predicted or even foreseen. It was just. It was different. It was unique. A few steps more, and then they reached the side of the ship, where Micael dragged Amy to his side.

“Look! Have you seen the moon this close? I bet, not,” he said to Amy while pointing one of his fingers on the waxing moon. It was as if the moon was seeking for attention from someone who would surely appreciate. It was round, at least when its shadow was taken into mere account. It was moving, both translating and rotating and both Amy and Micael were amazed by the fact that it indeed was, naturally. No strings. No any external effort. Just gravity doing its very job for them at least for some thought that it was magic. It was being moved by someone as black as the sky, and adorned by the white bling which the oldest of brains named them as stars. And then, Micael followed. He started grabbing something on his left pocket. He was really reaching for it, so desperate of effort-wise that made Amy bat an eye, and Amy buggered.

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