When Worlds Embrace

Today is a day we have all been waiting for a long time because today is the day visitors from another star are coming to visit.

Papa is stressed. He and Mama have been waiting for this day longer than I have, and now he's flitting from odd job to odd job, unable to hide it any longer.

“Eustace, is it absolutely necessary to sort that shelf now? Another day on the slant isn't going to send it tumbling down,” Mama says.

“It won't take long. What if they come to our home?”

Mama embraces him, cooing softly, “Then they will find themselves far too occupied, enjoying a delicious feast by Potsbureau’s finest chef.”

Papa gawked, suddenly realising his folly for pursuing yet another distraction. I thought he was about to choke before he erupted, “The lattice sprouts! I knew there was something I forgot this morning.”

I yawn. We have all been up since the crack of dawn. Mama looks at me, and I shake my head quickly and quietly.

“Fio can go, my love,” she says, running her hand along his back in another calming embrace.

“Mamaaa, I can’t.” I winge and protest.

I have a secret, too.

I’m stressed.

I’m walking from our dome across the rocky paths of the red Martian landscape, and while Earthlings might see this planet as barren, I see beauty. All around me, huge rocky outcrops, worn by an ever-changing breeze, have been sculpted into strange and alien formations. A wind rolls by colliding with these silent guardians and blows a red dust cloud upwards before it dissipates into the sky.

Peppered along the crimson landscape are clusters of barnacles: large white domes tipped with round ceilings of glass. As I approach a cluster of those same domes, my filtration suit filters in the aromas of cloud cinnamon and burning incense. It is the scent of celebration. Another breeze wafts by, and the bunting that Mama and I hung up earlier that day rattles loudly as if welcoming me on the walk toward town.

Reluctantly, I succumbed to my parents' demands and now find myself on the trek to Uncle Gregori’s dome to fetch lattice sprouts for tonight’s evening feast. When I arrive, the dome doors are open, and members of his family, our family, are too busy to notice me. I spy my cousins and my aunt, cradling an earthenware jug, swerving effortlessly past them. She’s racing towards my uncle, who is performing a dance. It’s different from the dance that I will have to carry out later.

That dance is the source of my angst and worry.

His dance, though, is just as fascinating to witness. My uncle crouches like a sand crab, slowly dabbing a large paintbrush into a pot of incandescent colour, before he springs to life, swiping at the pots with wide brush strokes, imprinting unique patterns on the red clay urns and vases. He’s completed a row of pots already, and I’m stunned by the performance before my aunt, carrying another huge urn in her arms, barges past me. She bristles, “Fio. Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

I should, but I’m too afraid of her to admit it.

“Hey, Aunt Sofia,” I eke out, still dazed from my uncle’s show.

“FIO!” Uncle Gregori booms boisterously. His filtration suit is covered in paint. He laughs out of pure joy at my visit; Mama often describes him as someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. There’s a splodge of red paint on his right-most cuff, so maybe it’s true. “It’s great of you to come and help us!”

“Well, actually,” I murmur –far too quietly, and far too late. He corrals me toward my cousins, who seem to greet me in unison.

“Fio’s come to help us load the pots!” he proclaims.

“But uncle–”

“Nonsense! You can handle it!”

When the first Martian colonies arrived hundreds of years ago, the dome-hub of Potsbureau, where we live, was first settled to mine mineral-rich earth and export it back to the major dome-cities to be turned into all sorts of things, chairs, computers, and even spacecraft! That was a long time ago, though, and nowadays it’s a retreat for artisans. There are a great number of families here, all of whom take great pride in the expert craft of Martian earthenware, from pots and jugs to plates and ornamental clay figurines. It was my great-grandfather, Papa’s side, who first immigrated to Potsbureau and took up the craft, and since then has become an entire family affair. When Papa isn’t fretting about the visitors, he’s crafting the most majestic urns. Mama fires them, and Uncle Gregori decorates them before they are prepared for sale.

Today, though, they’re creating a special batch to give to the visitors.

I’m daydreaming when I should be dancing.

I am lifting pots when I should be dancing.

My cousins remind me of this: “How’s the dance routine coming along, Fio?”

“Surely you’ve practiced enough by now?” another asks.

We are lifting uncle’s newly decorated jars and stacking them in a capsule carriage. It’s a miniature version of our domed houses, a sort of spherical wagon which hovers a couple of feet above the ground.

They can tell I’m uncomfortable by their questions, so my youngest cousin chides, “You really should be practicing if you haven’t, Fio.”

“It’ll be an embarrassment if you mess up!” the eldest adds with an addition of spice.

Spice.

Cooking.

The feast!

The loading of the pottery takes well over an hour, and then I suddenly remember why I’m here.

“Uncle!” I exclaim, hit by the epiphany, “I’m sorry, but I have to go! Papa needs lattice sprouts, and he sent me here to come and get them.”

It’s my aunt who remarks first, snooty as always, “Na-uh, Fio. We don’t have any.”

Uncle Gregori frowns, remarking, “Darling, I’m sure we have some in the greenhouse.”

But my aunt is adamant and shakes her head, “No dear, Marco left to take the last of them for the visitors’ bounty.”

Marco is my cousin, the ‘wandering rogue’ of Potsbureau. He travels all over the colonies, exporting our family craft.

“Marco. Got it!” I turn on my heels and head straight back the way I came.

“He’s on his way to the plaza. If you’re fast, you’ll catch him!” my uncle shouts.

But, all I hear is the snark murmur of Aunt Sofia, “Mia’s girl should be preparing for the dance.”

She’s right, and I’m stressed by the very thought of it.

I should be dancing.

Catching up with Marco is easier than I thought, and I find him by the roadside a mile or so out of Potsbureau’s center square, where the visitors will grace us with their presence later today. I spot his capsule carriage lopsided against the earth, and I realise quickly why he’s so upset.

Marco curses and kicks the carriage only to recoil with a yowl, clutching his boot and collapsing against the dirt. A plume of red dust explodes around him. It’s a rather dramatic display.

“Marco? Are you okay?” I ask as I rush over to him.

“Fio,” he remarks in a tone as if I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” he continues.

“I’m looking for lattice sprouts for Papa, Uncle said you might have some.”

“Sure, I do, but I’ve got bigger problems right now.” He screams another curse at the carriage and throws a spanner toward it, and it bounces off with an almighty clang!

I find myself stunned by yet another familial display, and that silence allows him to unload.

“I need to get these goods to the plaza, pronto, and after that, Giovanni needs me, and then there’s the bunting for Meredith, which I haven’t even started, by the way. Oh, Fio! There’s so much to do – and now she breaks out on me!”

I sense his frustration because I’m feeling the same. I perch beside him.

“Fio… shouldn’t you be preparing for the dance?” he asks.

I sigh, “That’s all anyone’s said to me today… and yes, I should, but Papa’s worried that he won’t finish the feast on time and then your Papa roped me into helping with the pots and…”

“Yeah, he’ll do that,” Marco said and smiled. “So, you need lattice sprouts?”

I suspected a plot.

“You help me, I’ll help you,” he offered with his hand. I sighed and shook it.

At first, I’m not sure why I accepted the offer; sure, I didn’t want to make Papa upset, but then I realised I was doing whatever I could to put off practicing the dance. When the visitors come, we put on a great big celebration to welcome them. It includes a whole manner of things: first, the entire dome-hub is draped with colourful saffron and purple bunting; a bounty of produce and artisanal crafts are stockpiled in the center of the colony (they’re gifts!); and it all culminates in a great feast… and a traditional Martian dance. It’s a village tradition that has been passed down for centuries.

This year, I've been selected to dance.

Marco and I have arrived at the plaza. It’s aflutter with bodies rushing about the place. I see some residents decorating the main square with bunting, while others are busy painting murals on the central domes surrounding the plaza. The mayor of Potsbureau is here too, directing his many sons in the arrangement of the visitor’s bounty: a stack of painted urns, home-brewed Martian whiskeys, and an entire crop of goods – now delivered by me and Marco.

“You’ll ace it, Fio.”

“What?” I murmur, taken in by the transformation of the square.

Marco hands me a stalk of lattice sprouts. “The dance. You’ll ace it,” he repeated.

“The dance!” I scream.

He must think I’m a banshee or something, because I scream all the way back up the road and toward home. The sun is soon going to set, and I’m running out of time.

“Come on, Fio. Open the door,” my Mama coos softly. “It’s not that bad. You still have time.”

I give her the silent treatment on the account that I’m face down in my bed, sobbing.

“Open the door, honey,” she tries again.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Papa adds. “It’s my fault. I should have checked the pantry, but I was so sure we were out.”

Turns out, Papa had lattice sprouts all along, but in his panic for the big day, his memory turned to mush. I must be Papa’s daughter because my mind is mush too, and the thought of having to dance within a couple of hours scares me to Earth and back.

The act of staying away was simply a formality, and, growing impatient, Mama shooed Papa away, opened the door, and sat beside me.

“Fio, look at me, dear,” she begins softly. “I know this is a big, scary day for you, but will you allow your mother a moment to impart some wisdom?”

Begrudgingly, I turn my head on the pillow to look at her with one puffy red eye.

“The dance isn’t important,” she whispers. “It’s all about the heart. You know, I was your age when I danced.”

I did know.

“And, I got so wrapped up in my head that I nearly ran away from the entire thing. I wanted the dunes to take me and swallow me whole so that I would never have to think about the dance again. I didn’t know the moves, and I was nowhere near as graceful as you, my dear.”

She was just saying that… but I understood.

I want the dunes to swallow me, too.

“But, Fio, honey. You know the moves, that’s a start, but it’s not the most important thing.”

She teased me out now, and I stared up at her sullen faced.

“The dance is all in the heart. Just believe in yourself. The moves don’t matter.”

She was trying to placate me.

“Mama, did you do it? The dance?” I ask, ignoring her kind wisdom.

“Oh, yes,” she laughs, “And I tripped on the last step.”

I gasp.

“Our visitors loved it. They perceive things differently, you see. So don’t worry about the moves. It’s what’s inside that counts.” Mama prodded my chest. “You’re a kind, thoughtful girl. Look how, despite your own worries, you went out of your way to help Papa, your uncle, and even Marco. You’ve got heart, honey, so you already have everything you need to perform the dance.”

I gave her the weakest of smiles, but it was sincere.

“You’re ready, Fio,” Mama reiterated.

For many of us, this is the first time we’re going to see the visitors, and the last time Mama and Papa saw them, they were my age. Giovanni, our dome-hub artificer, explained the science to me once. Every forty years, without fail, there is a rare alignment of multiple celestial stars, and during a few hours of the Martian equinox, a buffet of energy ripples through a number of planets, and this causes the fabric of reality to splinter. During that time, our little red planet of Mars is connected to another: the visitor’s. It sounds magical to me, but when you see the visitors, you’ll realise it all seems like make-believe.

The entire dome-hub residents are gathered in Potsbureau’s central plaza now, and gosh, what a sight it is! The amount of colourful bunting from this morning has doubled, and the bounty stockpile is stacked high with artisanal goods towering above us. My filtration suit is assaulted by that sweet aroma of cinnamon, and a delightful fragrance of a freshly-baked lattice sprouts – cooked by Papa, of course.

Everyone is watching a particular spot in anticipation, and suddenly there is a ripple of light, and the visitors arrive, stepping through the portal. There’s a moment of bewilderment when I realise they’re so different from us. The visitors are tall with pale lilac colour. In place of eyes, there is a single purple gem-like material. They have no mouth, just three sucker-like holes at the base of what I think is their chin. I would think them utterly alien, were it not for the stampede of Potsbureau’s residents rushing over to embrace them in sheer delight. I see now that amongst them are some elderly Martians. It’s Grandmama! She embraces Mama and Papa, who are tearing up at the occasion. I am waved over to join them. Closer now, I witness the first magic. Sparkles emit from the visitors, and a waft of colour spirals through the crowds as if it is a lone scarf trailing on the wind.

It reminds me of a wedding here on Mars; old friends and family joining one another, whilst I, a teen Martian, and the younger visitors, amble on the periphery. I spot Marco, who has already swooped in and engaged in what seems like a conversation with one visitor. He catches my eye and winks, offering up a thumbs-up.

I gulp. The dance.

After new introductions and reunions of old, the residents of Potsbureau and the visitors exchange gifts. Today, they’ve brought a whole manner of otherworldly trinkets: crystal jewellery, peculiar constructs, and the smoothest glassware I’ve ever seen!

Mama sneaks up to me, “Fio, it’s time.”

The moment has arrived. The dance.

I’m alone in the center of Potsbureau, and surrounding me are long tables where both Martians and the visitors sit. I feel a rush of emotion and realise that the visitors are ‘watching’ me with anticipation. Their excitement bleeds into me, and I’m filled with an adrenaline I’ve never felt before.

I begin to move, left and right, my hands wafting in tandem with the swirl of the Martian breeze. I pirouette. As I turn in circles, my vision blurs. The faces disappear before me, but I feel a rush of joy as my heart beats faster. I conduct the moves I’ve trained all year for, and I think about how Papa, Uncle Gregori, and all of Potsbureau’s residents have honed their craft for this day. Their passion stokes my heart to beat faster, and my heart warms until it is bright and alight with that same passion.

I’m moving too fast to see their reactions, but I don’t need to. Sparks fly, and new waves of colours I’ve never seen emit from the visitors, shimmering all across and around the plaza. As I finish my last pirouette, I bow, and my audience erupts with cheers and the strange sound of wooden wind chimes blowing in the wind. There’s a tsunami of colour spiralling up and around me, and I’m engulfed with a sense of laughter and joy.

Staring out at everyone’s happiness, I am finally flooded by all the pent-up angst of the year gone and it becomes too much. Standing up there, alone, I stream with tears.

The audience dies down, and before I know it, Marco and Uncle are rushing over to me. They lift me onto their shoulders, and as I’m jostled up and down, I hear the audience again. This time they’re chanting my name!

“Fio! Fio! Fio!”

The sun is setting, and it soon means that our brief time with the visitors will be over; a solemn sadness washes through the crowds of alien and Martian alike.

“That was a beautiful dance, darling Fio,” says Grandmama, whom I’ve only met this day. She looks toward the cluster of visitors preparing to leave and smiles at them. “They want to know if you’d like to go with them.”

“Go with them?” I freeze, and murmur, “But I’m not ready…”

I remember Mama’s words of wisdom.

My next dance is about to begin, and this is one I am ready for.