Such Beautiful Wings

The sun never sets in Bool. Nor does it rise.

The sky is painted in perpetual twilight, all blushing and bruised, and here the air always smells of petrichor.

Children never seem to find the way in; their unprepared hearts divert them, and draw them into the darkness – into lands full of frightening things – until their fears return them to their proper beds, if they survive out there at all.

Only grown-ups will see the path that leads to this place, and even then, only they can pass through the gate unhindered.

I know this, because I am one of them.

I have been absent from this land for months, but the thought does not distress me. I had been working hard in mundane space since my last visit: caring for my mother through her illness, picking up the household groceries by myself every week, and always finishing my homework, even when I would rather be doing anything else. There, it isn’t much fun, to be honest; these days it feels like my friends all have so much more time than I do – for shopping, and concerts, and movies. But I think about each plate I’ve scrubbed, and every sock I’ve folded, and all of the phone calls I’ve made – and they all add up; my diligence has been more than worth it. When I’m there, I know that the rewards I get to enjoy later on for my sacrifices are so much greater, and will always mean so much more.

Clouds of bioluminescent moths dance around the lampposts lining the road I walk along. Mist rolls across my exposed toes and I shiver. I stop to watch the bright insects for a moment while my shoulder blades itch with jealousy. I can’t help it – I unfold my own set of gossamer wings; they shimmer in the lamplight and fog, and bear me upwards.

I soar well above the road and climb higher still.

I feel the magic surge inside my paper-thin wings, and for a moment I think that this time I just might remain buoyant in this place for weeks.

Voices near the gate draw my attention. I spin in the air and wheel my way towards their source.

A new face, contorted and flushed, is shouting at the sole sentinel guarding the entrance – a bear.

“You have to let me in there!” They strain to reach through the gate, but then the air catches them and holds their fingers prisoner in a shimmering wall. “I’ve grown up this time.”

“You are still wearing your child-skin.” The bear rises to his full height, and even I can hear him growl. “Remove it and you may enter.”

They stare up at him and I watch them lick their lips. Even having made it this far, having faced the darkness outside and lived – I know the transformation could still kill them. Taking off your child-skin – not many succeed. And I was afraid then, too, when it was me looking in from that side of the gate. I watch and I wonder if they will turn back now – now that they are at the very edge of all that ever mattered.

“Will it hurt?”

“It always does,” the bear responds, and he steps back to let them pass. I think I see them shaking.

Finally, they set their jaw, and they shove their fists right through the sparkling air before them, and their screams go on and on and on.

If you survive this, I think, I hope you grow such beautiful wings.