Halfway from Home, Halfway to the Stars

The spire stretched up into the clouds and it was the only place the city did not whisper to her.

She never knew whether it spoke to everyone, or if she had somehow been chosen for this, to hear its hissing voice in the breeze and feel its heartbeat through the cobbles, had never thought to ask. It was normal to her, to hear the voice of the city along with everyone else's, and she was only a little scared of what it might have meant if it was only her that did. Most days, she chose not to think about it.

When she was six years old and trembling, she found the church of the ascendant, curled up beneath their pews, and slept with the knowledge that the city would scream for her if there was any danger. She woke up with the knowledge that the city did not consider people dangerous. It should not have surprised her. People cannot hurt a city that has not fallen for a thousand years, not in any way that matters. Even if the buildings fall, even if the paths are torn up and the people leave forever, the city will remain. The city is eternal. It does not care for people, unless they are useful to it, and so people found her; the city let them; and she learnt to never trust its promises.

When she was six years old and desperate, she woke up in the church of the ascendant, followed their people to a place they called safe, and climbed the spire without the knowledge that the city could not follow her. It was the first time her mind had ever been fully her own. The emptiness was terrifying and intoxicating and wonderful all at once.

The church of the ascendant did not like children but they liked her. She never spoke, never cried, never made demands, just listened and watched, and was happy with her lot. They let her sleep beneath the pews, let her eat from their table and drink from their well, and she never asked for more. They did not ask questions, most of the time, so she returned again and again and again, when she needed a place that was safe. The church of the ascendant was always there, its spire stark against the sky, and she could always find her way back. When they did not ignore her, it was a reminder that she was real, that the city was not all that she was, and she loved that as much as she hated the city’s constant nagging.

Sometimes, when it was cold outside, or the city was a quiet murmur instead of a cacophany, she listened to their service. The church of the ascendant wanted the city to change, to fly, to grow, and for that the people had to be better, had to build a solid foundation with friends and neighbours, had to climb up and up and up until they were their best self, and support others to do the same. She liked the church of the ascendant. They wanted to be better than their lowly origins. The city did not like the church of the ascendant. They wanted to be better than the city had offered.

After the service, she joined the congregation and climbed the spire, just for a little while. The city grew fainter and fainter until it was silent, and by the time she reached the top of the spiral stairs she was winded but smiling. All around her stretched cobbled streets and tiled roofs; few people walked the streets on these days but those who did were always bright and visible, even from so high up that she could see beyond the hills of the valley. It was very beautiful and very quiet. Or maybe it was beautiful because it was quiet. Silence was the golden sunset sparkling on the river, was the gleam of yesterday's rain on cobbled streets, all viewed from on high where the cloying blanket of the city fell away and left her free. At the top of the spire, she loved the city. At the bottom of the spire, the city loved her. They could not meet in the middle.

The church did not always recognise her, because she was the city, or the city was her, and even her face was not her own. Sometimes her hair was blonde, sometimes brown, sometimes inky black, sometimes red like flames. Her eyes flashed between sky and earth and steel and anything in between. Sometimes she had freckles on pale skin, sometimes it was smooth and dark. This, she did not know, for she did not own a mirror or glance in windows or stare at her reflection in the water of the river on a sunny day. As far as she knew, the church was just forgetful, or she had a common face. She settled eventually, as she neared womanhood, somewhere approaching average, though her eyes always seemed far deeper than human eyes were meant to be.

She grew older and more recognisable, and the church of the ascendant asked her questions she could not answer, until they asked her one she could. They asked if she wished to join them, when she came of age. Perhaps they knew by now that they had raised her in every way that mattered, that she had no one and nothing but them and the city. Perhaps they cared for her after all. She did not speak, had never spoken, but she nodded and that was enough.

The day she became one of them, they took her down into the bowels of the earth at the centre of the city and it shouted out to her so loudly that she almost covered her ears and shouted back. It would have done nothing, of course. She did not speak because her voice was not her own. Her voice belonged to the city, or her voice was the city, or her voice was the city's voice, or perhaps she just did not have a voice to start with. In any case, she could not have shouted back, and covering her ears would have done nothing when she did not hear the city with her ears but with her whole body and soul. Beneath the earth, the city was more real, more insistent and shuddering and overwhelming and loud and she ached with it but she kept on moving, kept on following the church of the ascendant. They had given her the spire, had given her the silence, and she wanted that more than she wanted the city.

Deeper and deeper they went, and in the hidden chamber they gave her a stone to lay - a foundation, they told her, something to ascend from. She was to mark it with her name, and she was to plant it in the place that felt right and spill her blood upon the earth there. This was a problem, because she did not know her name, had had no name but what the city called her since she had become alone and she did not remember a time before that. It did not matter. This was too important to give up, and if she needed the city for that, so be it. She took the knife, took the stone, and closed her eyes. She called upon the city to guide her hand, the city who hated the church, but who loved her. She called upon the church’s teaching, of reaching down in order to lift others up, of taking the first step to reassure the wary, to still her mind. In this moment, embraced by the city's earth, and seeking after a moment's escape, she reached for it, embraced it back, and asked it to meet her in the middle.

The city did not speak in words so much as it did impressions. It was loud and chaotic and smothering, and its language was the same. The city spoke to her in slamming doors, and harried footsteps, and waving hands, and dropped bread snatched up by hungry mouths, and sunbeams on windowpanes, and dewdrops on the petals of flowers growing up between the stones. It was a constant, unending beat of a drum, thumping in time with her heart. It was a free-flowing river, chuckling low in her throat. She did not exist without the city, and the city did not exist without her. Not in any way that mattered. A city is nothing without its people, and without her, the city had no eyes or ears or feet. Without her, the city did not know itself.

The city met her in the middle.

The city did not know how to write, but it knew its name, and it knew her. She knew the shapes of letters, mostly, but not her forgotten name. Between them, they wrote a name for themselves, mixed her blood with the earth of the city, laid a foundation from which to grow.

Afterwards, she donned the church's blue cape, rose back up to the surface, feasted at their table. She did not speak, had never spoken, because her voice was the city's, but that did not matter. They knew how to speak without words, and she knew the correct ways to respond. The city spoke to her, whispered on the draft from the open door, chattered in footsteps on stone, and she spoke to the city with her heartbeat, and her tapping fingers, and her smiling mouth, and the colours and faces splashed across her vision.

At night, she climbed the spire, just for a little while. The city grew fainter and fainter until it was silent, and by the time she reached the top of the spiral stairs she was winded but content. The city at night was even more beautiful than the city during the day, but it was not the silence that made it so. So high above the ground, the city could not reach her, but it did not mind this time, did not grasp at her or tug at her feet to remain grounded. She would return soon enough and they would meet in the middle once again, like they would every day after.