As They Rise in the East

I am never sure how long it has been, but long enough that I have grown most intimately acquainted with the sky outside my window. I know that it has been years. The stars continue in their exquisite timing, the finest of clocks and the finest of entertainments. I have gotten to know my corner of the sky better than a lord knows his tenants – better than a shepherd knows their flock. When the sun rules the sky, I am able to see an occasional cloud, and if I strain to my top height and the day is clear, I sometimes glimpse the smoke-like smudge of the mountains I once loved. It has become too painful to glimpse those slight remembrances of my lost life. I have long since abandoned the daylight hours, so that I may actually enjoy my view.

I know also that my tower is no longer empty, save for the guards and the cook. It has been only us for many long days, though they seldom spoke to me even before I abandoned daytime wakefulness for nights of stargazing. The walls are thick stone, but the shutters are thin wood behind the iron bars.

I heard them crying for the first few weeks. This winter was undoubtedly brutal. The cold came through the shutters and sunk into the stones. My pail was full of ice every morning and heavy icicles often hung from my ceiling. I do have a small fireplace and wood to burn in it – after all this time, they trust that I could not fashion an escape from such a thing, and any contrivance to end my life using same would be far too painful. I presume the cell next to mine is much alike, so they must also have some small fire. Not the height of comfort, but also not inhuman.

 Yet, to be imprisoned in the tower does not suggest that this is any sort of criminal. They are likely much like I: an inconvenient aristocrat who may not legally be killed, but whom they hope will die quietly and most conveniently of despair. As such, I can see my own past in the tower. One does not adjust easily from a silken bed to a straw and board pallet, nor from a blazing fire and swans-down coats on a cold night to a rudely cut firepit and a woolen jerkin.

One does never know what to say in such circumstances. If I can hear them, then undoubtedly they may also hear me. Still, in the confusion and sorrow, they may not realize that these are the sounds of a fellow caged creature and may rather assume that I am a guard or a servant of the tower. Also, it is not exactly a situation ever covered in lessons of etiquette – how does one introduce oneself to their cellmate? My tutor would likely have fainted at the question.

Call it reticence or shyness or even callousness, but it could not last forever. However, on the night of the new moon, I was finally compelled to speak.

“I beg your pardon,” I called, rather low. There was no sound but the usual muffled sobs.

“Excuse me?” I called, a bit louder. “Can you hear me?”

There was finally a hesitant: “Yes?” The voice was muddled by crying, so I had no way to tell if it was a previous acquaintance. Then again, such things hardly matter under the circumstances. My own name is no longer of any account; as such, it is hard to think of theirs being of one.

“Terribly sorry to disturb you, but there is something rather interesting happening that you may want to see.”

“I beg your pardon?” the voice on the other side of the window returned.

“Can you see out of your window?”

“Yes, I can… but there is nothing out there. I can’t even see the fields when the sun is out.”

“Oh, there is nothing to see during the day,” I replied.

“Then why did you strike up a conversation now?” the voice sounded a bit peevish.

“Look up to the sky – turn your head a bit to the right and look more towards the horizon.”

I was able to hear them shuffling a bit as they followed my directions.

“I see nothing. I thought there might be a fire – maybe even a rescue!” the voice definitely sounded peevish now. I realized my own phrasing had created confusion.

“Dreadfully sorry for the misunderstanding,” I hastily apologized. “I mean the stars.”

“The stars?” returned the voice flatly.

“Yes, just above the horizon on the east. That was what I wished to show you.”

There was a long silence on the other side of the wall.

“I suppose you have been imprisoned far longer than I if you are getting excited about the stars,” they said at last.

“Yes, but it is not just them. Look again. Near the edge of your view should be a star of particular brightness.”

Once again I heard the shuffling. They may just have been indulging me, but there was also scant else to do.

“Yes… it is quite bright,” the voice said in a rather placating tone. “Why does it matter?”

“Because, friend, that is Regulus.”

“And that is…?”

“The rising star of the spring. Our first sign that winter is ending. Soon, Spica and Arcturus will be visible in tonight’s sky, shining ever more brightly. I wanted to share them in full glory.”

“But what does that matter when you and I are locked away in this miserable tower for the rest of our lives?”

“They are beautiful,” I said simply.

I heard shuffling again and a loud huff, rather like my compatriot had collapsed upon their pallet. I hesitated, trying to form what I wanted to say.

“If your life was like mine, then the seasons meant a change of fashion and a change of amusements. If we saw the stars at all, it was from a balcony while resting from a ball or walking to our carriages after a play. I never gave them a thought myself. I never thought about the life that is going on, despite me, despite my whole world. I was brought here against my will. I am resigned to my fate but would take liberty if given the chance. I will not tell you this is good for the soul or will teach you divine truth… but there is beauty. There is life. There is an eternity which I had never contemplated before this hermitage. The warmth of the Earth and the smell of the fields and flowers are coming, even to us, the forgotten. I will leave you be, but I wanted you to know of it.”

I lay on my own pallet, which I had arranged so as to best view my

window. The stars continued to slowly rise, with occasional

flashes as one fell through the sky. The night continued to pass in silence, until…

“Which is Spica?”