Not

Piren can make the stars fall from the sky. It has not happened in a long time, says my grandmother, not since the ancestors of our ancestors first sailed the Serpent Seas. So, says my father, Piren must be content with us, or at least content to watch our folly, else she would rain fire from the night and end it all. Day to day it seems like we live around Piren, sneaking on the corners of the planet on tip-toes, afraid that the sin of one person would incite her anger and make the world molten again. But sins do not matter to Piren, says my mother, because she is not a God. She is not even a she, says my sister, who may or may not know everything.

My neighbor tells me that Piren is the one who starts fires in busy places, killing hundreds for sheer entertainment. Whenever an announcement comes by about war in some small place over some small boundary, our Leader says that Piren has swept by on light feet and lit the gunpowder of our enemies, and that we had no choice but to retaliate at once. When the war is over the survivors are rounded up and forgiven on account of Piren. “Piren has started this war, and you are the lucky few who have walked through the fire and lived to tell the tale. Welcome to Toarvale,” he says. “As citizens here there are certain responsibilities expected of you in order to become one of the people…”

I suppose I have believed everyone. But if my restless mind serves me well, I realize that I have no choice but to believe everyone, because whose word do I have to take otherwise? But some days I do wonder who Piren is, because on each of our murals is a suggestion, a blank space, and on its own we are taught that Piren is there in that space, menacing the public. But when I look and place my hand over the stone in the temple, I see no Piren. I see nothing but people.

The stone is chilled today. I stand in silence and pass my hand over the painted figures I can reach, and avoid the space intended for Piren. Our ancestors have said in the books of time that passing one’s hand over the stones of our history will insure luck in the future, and I suppose that I pass my hand over them on account of my family, who I love as any son loves their roots. My mother is ill and has been, though my father says she is getting better, and that when she coughs red it means that the evil is being expelled from her, and because I believe him I keep touching the stone, and each day mother spits out more evil.

I let my hand fall from the stone and sway at my side, and it is at this point I realize a lone wanderer stands at the edge of my peripheral vision. Another citizen, I think as I turn, whose luck has turned since the touching of the stone. I think that they are waiting for the chance, so I smile and step back, and behold before me then a small girl with hair of yellow-white, a color which I have never seen on the head of a human. She is elegant, I think, and has quite an air of untouched royalty. I wonder if she is a queen of a distant region, visiting on a mission of peace, but as I look again I realize that she appears older now—my age at least. I think my eyes are playing tricks, but the longer I stare, I come to the conclusion that this is the same person. In my memories, I hear my sister telling me that Piren is a shape-shifter, not female or male, not a God. And I have never seen a single being such as this girl in the world, and my sister may or may not know everything, so I shuffle back in confusion and fear.

“Your mother will not get better,” she says softly, and she tucks her hands away in the oversized sleeves of her cloak.

My head rises on reflex and I am stunned…and I am hurt. Should she be just a girl, what an awful thing to proclaim. But I wonder if she is indeed a girl, so I ask, “Who are you? And why would you say such a thing?”

“I am who you all fear,” she answers calmly, keeping her ground. I am frightened; I can feel my knees about to buckle. At the same time I am confused still, because it does not seem as though she will make the stars fall, but if she should, it would be my fault. “And I say it because it is true.”

“Please do not make the stars fall,” I beg of her, coming to my knees in one slow, fluid motion. I drop my eyes to the tile. “I have not meant to offend you.”

“You have not offended me,” she tells me softly. “I have come here of my own volition. I thought to tell you of your mother, since you are here.”

“Why have you come here, then?” I ask her suddenly, and as it emerges I catch myself looking up, and I drag my eyes down again.

“To gaze upon the wall,” she sighs. I do not look up. “You will not look at me?”

“I am afraid to offend,” I reply, “for you are a being of much greater power than I.”

“Power is not always evil,” she informs me. “I do as I must.”

“You must start wars?” I inquire, and I will not look up. “Or fires?”

“I would advise you to look upon the wall,” she says, and I obey, and cast my eyes upon the wall. “What is the first thing you have heard of me?”

“That you make the stars fall,” I reply, and I slide my eyes across the wall.

“Do the stars fall?” she asks of the mural.

“Not here.”

“Where do the stars fall?”

“A long time ago in history, somewhere in the halls, deep in them,” I explain.

“Well said,” she agrees.

Since she does not speak further, I turn to her cautiously, as though turning my eyes upon a gruesome beast, and ask, “Do you make the stars fall? Are you a God?”

“I will leave these things to you,” she advises me. “Based on what I have said already, I think your conclusions will soon be made. For now, I am tired, and I must go.”

“What shall I do, Piren?” I cry just as she turns to leave.

“Gaze upon the wall,” she insists, and then she is gone. Desperate, thinking now of my mother, of what Piren told me, of what everyone has told me, I gaze upon the wall.

Piren has fled my side, and I see only people.