‘This is a playground! Why aren’t you playing?’ – Older Sister.
The First Readers.
The morning brought no wind to lift the stultifying humidity of the summer night. If anything, the air grew thicker, denser. Yet the sky was clear of cloud and rain, its avian denizens taking keen flight in search of cooler airstreams, desperate to shed moisture from laden wing and feather. They would find no relief today, just as they found none the day before, or any other day since time began.
Shortly after, the first readers arrived at the clearing, their mounts snorting and bristling. It had been an arduous journey of days beyond reckoning, from the Ivory Fortress astride the peaks of Mount Moira by dragon, through the treacherous Gulf of Weeds by kraken, over the Desert of Tachy Sands by pegasus, and through the Jungle of Eternal Peril by unicorn.
The readers dismounted, their number fewer than when they had set out. No matter, more readers will be born, more will be groomed, and more will come. Men and women they shed broken weapon and armour as one, and sang their word-songs to the departed. The unicorns departed as equals, each galloping towards a different compass point, leaving as the pegasi, the kraken and the dragons had.
In single file and with great reverence, the first readers walked towards the centre of the clearing, towards the Tree that towered above all else in the Jungle. But such was the nature of its wards and charms, the Tree was only visible after one made it through to the clearing, in body and soul. Its giant roots spread out to reveal crystal-lit chambers within and beneath the Tree, chambers with shelves upon shelves upon shelves.
They have arrived. They have come to read.
*
The Second Readers.
The evening brought no chill to ease the stultifying heat of the summery day. If anything, the air grew warmer, drier. Yet the sky crackled unnaturally with light and fury, hurling bolt after bolt over the clearing, over the dark forest treetops. The fauna would find no relief today, just as they found none the day before, or any other day since the Sundering.
Shortly after, the second readers arrived at the clearing, their mounts snorting and bristling. It had been an arduous journey of months beyond reckoning, because Magic had forsaken the World. The dragons and kraken were no more. The pegasi and the unicorns ceased to be. The Tree was no more.
As the Mountain had shattered into ruin, as the Gulf had frozen in eternal winter, as the Sands had fused into eternal glass, the memories of the first readers became lost for generations. The World had changed and changed again, until the second readers awoke from amongst women and men. The day came that they set out on their wolf mounts, camels and horses. They rode in packs, decamped along the way to farm and feed, never taming the wilds, and rode on.
The readers now dismounted, their number much fewer than when they had set out. No matter, more readers will come. Women and men they shed broken weapon and armour as one, and sang their word-songs to the departed. Their mounts, freed from owner and duty, sprinted back to the forest, away from thunder and lightning.
In single file and with great reverence, the second readers walked towards the centre of the clearing, and into the Cave. They held up an oil lamp, but the passageway revealed a warm light beneath, then a giant chamber was before them, with shelves upon shelves upon shelves.
They have arrived. They have come to read.
*
The Third Readers.
The midsummer afternoon brings a passable breeze to dispel the stultifying stillness of the day. The air becomes pleasant, reminiscent of the Highlands of Genting. The sun deigns to soften its glow upon the scene.
The clearing has changed again, for the World is Resundered, once more. Technology is now upon the realm.
Shortly after, the third readers arrive at the Readground, whereupon they declare as one, ‘I want to read.’ Best companions three, they have journeyed by mindless electric carriage, and by ceramic-metal wyrm burrowing beneath the lands.
And one reader discourses in imitation, ‘We are late for our virtual conference!’ The second mimes, ‘Where are my keys? Where are my keys!’ And then the third remonstrates, ‘Remember it’s soy milk!’ and they scream their word-songs of woe and judgement.
A while later, in single file and with great reverence, the third readers walk past the Swings of Joy, past the Slides of Glee, towards the centre of the Readground, towards the Cast-Iron Bench. As one, they shed their satchels, sit down, and take out their books.
They have come to read. And they will read.
* * *
Dedicated to the Readers of all Time.
About the author
Ping Yi writes poetry and fiction, and is in public service. His work has appeared in London Grip, Litro, Dreich, Sideways, Meniscus and ONE ART, and is forthcoming in Orbis, The Prose Poem, Aimsir Press, Harbor Review and Consilience. He is from Singapore, and lived in Cambridge, UK, and Boston.
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