Your Sun Will Never Set Again

‘Your sun will never set again,

and your moon will wane no more;

the Lord will be your everlasting light,

and your days of sorrow will end.

                      Isaiah, 60:20

There is a little girl sitting cross-legged with her hands cupped to her eyes. She can see golden-red light glowing in strips between her fingers and can feel the lovely warmth of sunlight on her arms. She does not know where she is, and is a little scared to find out.

The little girl spreads her fingers and finds herself to be in a beautiful dream of golden light and books. It is the most magnificent library she could ever have imagined. Rows of bookshelves lead away to her left and her right, so tall that each has its own stairs and balconies. The books themselves seem to glow with an internal light, and she wonders if the worlds trapped between the pages are leaking through the leather binding. Everything is clean and golden and untouched. She knows without any doubt that every book has been created solely for her. They have been waiting a lifetime for her slight fingers to rifle through their pages.

She beams with delight and clambers to her feet excitedly, for there is nothing she loves more than the discovery of new worlds. Behind her is an endless line of shelves, but in front everything seems to become engulfed by light. This light draws her and for a time she forgets about the call of the books and begins skipping forwards.

The girl unexpectedly finds herself to be in an open space. There is an armchair and table at one end, and a glass cabinet at the other. She runs at once to the chair and throws herself into it. It is the perfect size for her to nuzzle into. On the table she finds a bookmark with a golden tassel and her name imprinted into the leather. From where she sits, she can see the glass cabinet a small way in front of her, and feels an uncontrollable desire to peer inside.

          There is, for her to see, a skull resting on a black cushion. It is small, as though it belongs to a child. By the slack jaw is the narrow strip of a bronze plaque, awaiting someone to label the grim relic in its polished blankness.

: 09 Oct 2007 23:07 |  Tags: Prose |  Comments (0) |  Report a problem