You find a boy with a bottle held to his ear. When you ask him what he’s doing, he tells you he’s listening to a story. This is that story.
The story I’m about to tell you may seem far too ludicrous to you, a sliver of madness spun into words. That much is fair, but I assure you such is not the case. This story is as true as the hooting of the owl, as pure as the flight of a moth. This I know, for it was a lonesome boy who told it to me, and he had heard it in the bottom of an empty bottle, and there, in such an echoing nook, lies have no place.
Perhaps I should begin with Uil and her unique and ever-beautiful moths, or perhaps I should do so with Eol, the man with ashen hair whose breaths compose the winds. But none of that would be wise, the beauty of their whimsicality, of their stories, would be lost in the harbor of reality. And so we shall sail in a journey together to realms beyond, where the sun is not a thing, and the moonlight shines a dim, beautiful green; where seven islands the size of villages lay adrift in a sea of flowers, far too far apart from one another; where the foliage of the trees bear the life of spring and the colors of fall; where Uil and Eol and five others whose stories are still to be found dwell, in solitude, somewhere in the heart of each island.
The name of that place is yet to be known, and I pray it remains forever that way.
The day was boring in nowhere, as most days were. Boredom is a boulder in the soul, and solitude is said to be the mother of boredom. Uil sat on the seashore where the sand is black and tender, her feet buried in the flowers that composed the quiet tides. Moths, large and small, colorful and dull, flew about her. Some played in her auburn curls, others alighted on her horns. She drew a deep, exasperated breath, and let herself fall on the sand.
“I think I love you,” a voice, like a hiss, whispered in the passing winds. “No. I’m certain of it. I love you.”
Uil lay in silence for a moment. The moths flew above her, fluttering with questions. Then, it struck her. The boulder shattered. A smile bloomed on her lips. She stood up, closed her hands, and opened them. A thousand moths came out of her palms, all vibrant and fluffy and beautiful. She drew letters in the patterns of their wings and rearranged them in a sentence. Then, with a kiss, she sent them flying opposite to the breeze, so that they would find Eol, the father of all winds.
“But you’ve never seen me,” her message read.
The moths were slow, but that was the beauty of it all. They took days to reach Eol, but in those days the boredom faded and excitement and daydream settled in both of their hearts.
Uil was dancing in a grove of figs when she heard Eol’s reply, “I don’t need to see you to know how beautiful you are. I see it in the colors of your moths, in the patterns of their wings, in the grace of their flight, in the beauty of your imagination. It all speaks of a beautiful mind and a gorgeous soul, and that’s all that matters.” There was a deep silence, the usual heavy quietude that came after the end of his whispers. But then a gale stole a bouquet of flowers from the sea, placed it on her arms, and brought another message along, “Do you love me?”
Uil paced. Moths flitted in her heart. Her eyes drew to the seam of sea and sky. It was dark, green, and calming. She knew the answer. It had been a constant in her mind. But her mind was a safe place, one that couldn’t be breached. But perhaps, at last, it was time to unlock the gate guarding her thoughts.
She wrote the answer in her moths, but when she saw them lined up, something felt wrong. She drew a deep breath. Her eyes returned to the horizon and, before her thoughts could stop her, a thousand new moths bloomed out of her skin. Each one of them held a part of her clothes and fluttered as fast as they could, lifting her from the ground. A moment later, she was soaring the sky.
“Against the wind!” she shouted, and her laughter made all things sparkle.
It was on the fifth day that an island, small and with trees bent outward like an unfurled flower, adorned the horizon. The moths left her there, alone, with a thumping heart. She looked around. The winds were peculiarly quiet. They had been like that for the last three days. She went against them, and in the heart of the twisted forest, she found a man with curly hair and pearl-white eyes. He was waiting for her with a bouquet of flowers.
“You came,” he said and smiled. “I was right.”
“I did.” She stepped closer, the hooks of joy curving her lips. “Right in what way?”
“You were as beautiful as I imagined.” He nodded and walked toward her. “Was it a pleasant journey?”
She blushed. Two paces separated them. Then one. She grabbed the bouquet. “The most pleasant of them all.” Their eyes met. Silence settled. Her answer pressed against the locked gate. And then she let it free. “I love you too.”
l’s smile widened. His eyes sparkled and his heart became a whirlwind of emotions. His hands slid around her waist. She placed the bouquet aside and closed her eyes. Their lips met.
And for a moment the winds ceased blowing.
