Journey With the Spirit of the Spectator, by Saahirah Nimat

A man stands on the Tudor City Overpass waiting for the Manhattanhenge event to fully emerge. As music gently plays in his AirPods, he leans over the railing. A soft breeze caresses his cheek, almost like a lover showing sweet affection. He breathes in deep, and his skin prickles.

“Never gets old,” he mouths quietly. For the last seven years, he’s watched the Manhattanhenge phenomenon from this very spot, but it never fails to take his breath away or fill his mind with wonder. This time, something does feel different, though. Or perhaps, looks different? Surveying the activity below, he scans cars crossing the intersection up ahead, gathering crowds with cameras and tripods in hand, and the last stragglers coming up the bridge looking for a decent viewing spot. The usual hustle & bustle flurries before him.

“Looks like a lot more people this time…maybe that’s it,” he thinks to himself. But that isn’t quite it, for there is a buzz in the air, almost alive, weaving and pulsing through the multitude of eager spectators that surround him. He shakes his head with a small chuckle, chalking it up to his own general excitement or the warm weather feeding the charming metropolitan ambiance. He straightens his stance, rolls his shoulders back, pulls out his phone, and sets a timer for two minutes before peak visibility. Then he opens Instagram and begins to scroll. After some time, the alarm sounds, startling him out of the social media vortex back into reality. He quickly shuts it off, returns it to his pocket, and looks around to make sure his start didn’t earn him any funny looks. Luckily, everyone seems occupied with their phones and conversations.

“Almost go-time,” he thinks as his heartbeat quickens in anticipation. He looks over his appearance as he rubs his hands through his shoulder-length black dreadlocks. After fastening his hair into a ponytail, he smooths out some wrinkles on the front of his t-shirt, so it’s fit for the “Selfies with the Sun” he captures each year. The white cotton obeys his efforts just enough to suffice, and a twinkling eight-pointed silver star hangs loosely by a velvet cord around his neck. His mother wouldn’t be fond of his loose-fitted blue jeans or his black Nike sneakers. He could hear her now,

“Too informal! You never know who you might meet when you walk outside, honey,” she would exclaim.

“Who could be that important on my day off, mother?” he’d ask.

“Mrs. Right, of course!” She’d reply. “Your father and I have high hopes, you know!” A small smile spreads across his face just as excited murmurs from the crowd pull him from his daydream. It has begun. He looks ahead, and a gasp escapes his lips.

Full, vibrant, electric, awe-inspiring. The gleaming sun nestles so completely between the grid, it’s as if it has always belonged there. Streams of golden light fill his eyes, and his heart swells in euphoric delight. It’s like the world is opening up before him.

“My goodness…it’s beaut-” he begins to say just as an electric charge shoots through his veins, raising goosebumps atop his milk chocolate-toned skin. A chorus of oos, aahs, and camera shutters fills the air. He knows he should be taking pictures, but the jolt of electricity has seemed to disconnect him from his body. What was once a buzz in the air has grown into a whirling dance of coming and going, expanding and contracting, here and everywhereness at once. Feelings of vertigo threaten to topple him over. Hoping to steady himself, he manages to grasp the railing before him. The sun’s brilliance has become even brighter. Its waves of radiance cascade throughout the sky, and then toward him… Weaving tendrils of light begin to stretch in his direction, a startling and stunning sight in equal measure.

“What on earth...” he begins to say. Before he can continue, roaring reds and yellows fill his eyes as cobalt-green fluorescence spark within his pupils. Desperate to regain his senses, he looks around at his surroundings on the overpass. Much to his surprise or dismay, no one seems to be experiencing anything outside of the norm. Golden-hued faces of contentment stare past him, undisturbed by his alarm.

“I don’t understand…” he says to himself before looking back toward the sun. He only has a moment to suck in a sharp breath before the weaving tendrils enter his body. Fire fills him. His shoulder blades pulse and prod at his skin as if something wound tightly is begging for release. Then, with a gust of wind, mammoth jet-black feathered wings so deep in hue they absorb the sunlight, emerge from his back.

“Oh my god…” he stammers, still gripping the railing with all his might. The crowd around him remains completely unaware as his colossal appendages phase through them like apparitions. His wings expand out to his sides as he stares, now too stunned to speak. Despite the shock, he can’t help but be fascinated by these magnificent manifestations. Upon closer inspection, faint silver celestial patterns dance on the feathered interior of his wings.

“Fly, little one,” says a voice on the wind. As if he were not just a simple man moments ago, the desire to fly and the certainty that he can fly settle in his mind. With the grace of a hawk, he perches himself atop the railing, launches himself into the air, and hastens down the tendrils of light toward the sun. As he approaches the sweltering star, a fissure in the atmosphere opens in the distance. Space seems to bend around this tear in reality. As if pulled by an invisible force, his speed increases toward the anomaly.

“Do not be afraid, you must pass through...” That voice on the wind assures him. Within seconds, he enters, and absolute blackness fills his vision. In an instant, the burning coals in his blood turn to abysmal icy waters permeating every cell of his body. It doesn’t last long, though; in the blink of an eye, picturesque blue skies and fluffy white clouds surround him in every direction. He glides effortlessly in the sky. As if by their own accord, his massive wings flap with tremendous strength, propelling him through the heavenly-like atmosphere.

“I must be dreaming…this can’t be real..” he says to anyone or no one.

“No, little one. This is very real. You are where you’ve wished to be for many moons, and now, you will see what you’ve longed to see.” That unnamed voice calls softly.

“All I’ve wished to see? All I see is SKY?? Who…are you?”

“The one who watches, the one who sees.” The voice replies. “I have seen the longing in your heart. I now wish to see your heart fulfilled.”

“Oh..okay... Well, I’m Sagan.” he says with obvious trepidation.

“Your name is known to me, little one. Descend.”

Unsure of how to reply, he responds sheepishly, “Um...you mean dive?”

“Do not think, just do. Descend,” the Watcher commands.

With a simple thought, Sagan folds his wings behind him and dives through the pillowed clouds. Down and down he goes until a vast turquoise ocean is revealed beneath him.

“Stable yourself.” The Watcher instructs firmly.

Sagan promptly obeys, unfurling his wings, causing a gush of wind to push him up before he can return to a glide.

“It’s beautiful.” He says. “Though, I’m not sure this is all I’ve longed to see?”

“Patience, child. Continue ahead and you will see.”

After a few minutes, black glistening forms in the water appear in his line of sight. As he approaches, the forms become clear.

“Are these….Right Whales?!”

“Of course, heading north,” the watcher replies.

“But it’s summer, they should be down south. Where am I? Where have you brought me?”

“I have brought you to the waters of South Africa. Two months from when you just were.”

“Two months?? I haven’t been flying for two months!” Sagan shouts in shock.

“Correct. You went through a break in time and space, dear, and your heart led the way. Listen, they are singing now.” The Watcher continues. “You wished to hear their song in person, did you not?” The questions bubbling up to the tip of Sagan’s tongue cease as a familiar up-call begins to filter in his ears. Deep echoes of 16 whale songs reverberate through every nerve in his body, causing his bones to vibrate and dance in response. He can’t help but smile as he gazes joyfully at this astonishing sight.

“There were barely nine or ten that were part of the migration last year. I watched it live online. Oh my…the calves, they’ve grown.” He mused.

“Try getting closer. They know you are here, your presence is encouraging them to sing,” said the Watcher.

With care, he glides closer to a position just off to the right of the gentle giants. Nearing as close as he dared just above the water’s surface, he releases an up-call of his own. Suddenly, as if in response to his hollo, the gargantuan mare leading at the front of the herd breaches the ocean’s surface. Glittering water droplets cascade off her head, fins, and belly as she barrels in the air before plunging back into the ocean. As if this were the cue, the herd follows suit. One after the other, two, then three at a time, the congregation of whales leap and bound out of the water again and again. A few of the calves raise their fins out of the surface as if greeting their flying companion. Sagan weaves through and over the leaping whales, lightly brushing these waves of “hello” with his hands. Water splashes his face and body. Bursting with childlike glee, Sagan shakes the water from his vision, but that doesn’t stop tears of joy from forming in his eyes.

“Woooooo hoooooo!” he shouts with delight. “Thank you, thank you for bringing me here. To witness this, to feel this. Thank you!” he calls out to the Watcher.

“You are welcome, dear one. You possess a great cosmic gift within. If you are more settled with your power of flight, you may go to another place.

“Would you like to?” asks the Watcher.

“Are you kidding me?!” he quacks. “Of course! Of course I want to go to another place!”

“Choose,” says the Watcher. “Remember, your heart leads the way. Fly to the sun and enter the rift with the place you have chosen in your heart.”

Taking notice of the sun now setting over the horizon, Sagan breaks off from the herd with one final hollo. Those same fiery tendrils of light flow from the sun in his direction. In moments, the rift quickly comes into view. Closing his eyes, he enters and is enveloped in that same frigid covering as before. Just as swiftly, he exits the rift and opens his eyes to the magnificence before him.

Thunderous sounds of raging water fill his ears as a knowing gleam glints in his eyes. “Mosi-oa-Tunya,” Sagan announces.

“Ah..The Smoke That Thunders," the Watcher replies. “A beautiful choice.”

Sagan nods in agreement as he approaches the magnificent view of Victoria Falls. “A mile of pure bliss,” Sagan adds. “I never would have imagined I’d get the chance to fly over the pass.” Once at the north end of the falls, Sagan hovers to soak in the sight. Hundreds of steady streams of water pour over the western cliffside as a blanket of white mist rises out of the northern end. He notices trucks and cars crossing the Victoria Falls Bridge, and he hesitates.

“They’ll see me, if they haven’t already...” Sagan says. What would the people think? That he was an angel, an alien? His brow furrows in worry.

“They do not see you, little one. You are here, but not as they are. Right now, you are little more than an unseen phantom on the wind to them.” The Watcher replies. Sagan nods in understanding and begins a slow flight over the western cliffside. The sheer beauty and might of what he sees and hears stop the breath in his lungs. Thriving vegetation peaks out from deep blue waters that stretch across the landmasses on either side. Without the plant life blossoming through, one would think the water on the surface was a perfect mirror of the sky above. White mist blocks the bottom of the falls from view, but he is more than aware of the daunting depth that sits below. He rapidly accelerates until he is splitting the air with blade-like precision. After reaching the southern end, he circles back for another pass north.

Sagan jokes out loud, “The weatherman said to expect showers; this is the one time I’m glad I didn’t bring an umbrella!” He zooms through the pass as splashes of water soak him through. After a few seconds, he barrels out of the mist to the sky above. With each role of his body, water falls from his face and clothes. He then extends his wings out so they get some much-needed air.

“I still can’t believe this…” he says in charmed disbelief. “It’s unbelievable.”

“There is so much more that is possible,” says the Watcher. “Stop to rest, you will have to return home soon.”

Heeding the Watcher’s direction, Sagan banks for the bridge and perches himself on the edge of the Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to top this,” he says, slightly out of breath.

“You have a dreamer’s heart, little one,” the Watcher replies. “I have a feeling you will find a way. When you are ready, the path home is waiting for you near the sun.”

Sagan looks out toward the blazing disc of gold illuminating the surreal expanse of greens and blues.

“I’m ready,” Sagan says, straightening his stance. After wringing out some remaining water from the bottom of his shirt, he launches himself into the air and heads for the sun. Tendrils of electrified brilliance reach toward him once again, and the rift ripples in greeting. Upon entry, that now familiar cold darkness spreads over his body. Then muffled murmurs and car horns fill his ears. But now he isn’t flying. He isn’t moving at all.

Sagan feels a hand shake his right shoulder. “You alright?” comes a voice. Sagan blinks open his eyes and sees the reddened sun three-quarters out of view of the Manhattan grid up ahead. He looks over toward the source of the voice and freezes. A woman, nearly as tall as he is, with skin the color of night, stands before him with a slight smile on her face. Golden wisps of light billow beneath her skin, and a thin, shimmering, silver, floor-length dress hangs loosely off her shoulders. Sagan stands, mouth agape, struggling for words.

“Enjoy the show?” The woman asks.

“Uh…yeah.” Sagan manages out. The weight of wings is gone from his back, and his clothes have no trace of the adventures he’s just had. “Maybe I AM hallucinating,” he thinks to himself before meeting her impossibly bright gaze. Liquid fire churns in her irises.

“Yeah, I come here every year, to the sun….I mean to the Henge, Manhattanhenge. It’s great…” Sagan stammers.

The woman chuckles. “Oh, that’s great. I’ve seen this many times myself as well. But I wasn’t talking about that show.”

“Huh?...” Sagan questions. The woman gives him a wink and walks into the dispersing crowd on the overpass. Not a single person finds the woman’s appearance strange. “Just like my….wings,” Sagan thinks. “They don’t see her at all…”

“Wait! You! What’s your name?!” Sagan calls out.

She stops and turns over her shoulder before replying, “I told you, little one. I am the one who sees. I am the voice you could not place, now in a figure you can see. While I’m in this form, you are welcome to call me Sirius.

“Sirius?...” Sagan repeats.

“Mm..” Sirius nods. “Go, rest, be with your family. You’ve had a long journey. There are many more to be had, and you have much to learn.”

“But…I…” Sagan begins to speak.

“You will see me again,” Sirius speaks before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Sagan stands on the overpass for several minutes, running through all the events that just occurred.

“Damn...I didn’t get a single photo of the sun,” he breathes. “Alright,” He smiles to himself, “Guess I’ll just find something better.” He begins his journey home as the faintest of buzzes moves through his skin.

The adventures of The Dreamer have just begun.

The End