Eden, Dawn

by Archer Swift

  ***

  Without a wink of sleep, not even a snooze or a catnap to speak of, I was on the ground first again, as I was most mornings. This time, however, I committed a cardinal sin. I left the camp well before sunrise; yes, while it was still dark. Alone. I had never seen Eden’s sunrise—we always kept concealed in our thick treetop cover until the sun stood tall and proud in Eden’s sky.

  Before first light, I sauntered through the dark jungle almost daring them or some other wild creature to end my sorry little life. I was soul-tired, not just deprived of sleep … the worst kind of denial: hope-starved. Still, I was lucky to find a sublime spot along the susurrant river, about eighty strides outside the border of our camp, with a clear line of sight to the horizon, and sat down to watch the most beautiful panorama I had ever witnessed.

  I had seen the sun rise on Earth a few times as a youngster, but I had to observe it through the high-powered sunshield that covered our city Haven—one of the only two land-based cities left on the planet. The perpetual smog cloud over Earth, in its last few years, was punctured by an intensity of sunlight that would scorch the naked eye. (Besides the swelling oceans, another reason the Japanese rebuilt their entire country underwater.) With our once-protective ozone layer ruined; it was no longer able to deflect the raw power of an inflamed sun.

  In contrast, the magnificent, magical … majestic spectacle that splayed out before me brought immediate heat to my blood-shot eyes. The murmuring river seemed to entreat the sun from its slumber, wooing it into the dawn sky with whispered promises of new mercies and fresh beginnings. Even the jungle appeared to pause in this glorious instant; an unspoken ceasefire called, in which every carnivore sheathed its instinct to kill, allowing every herbivore to shelve its impulse to hide. Both stood still and marvelled. In this mystical moment, as the first rays kissed the new day, and unspeakable darkness gave way to indescribable light; in this heavenly hush, as the sunlight danced and shimmered on the river’s surface, reflecting a breathtaking scope of colour that bounced off the jungle flora; all of Eden held its breath.

  It was all too much for me. Too much for one who had spent a decade staving off the last hours of darkness, hiding in my perch in the tree; waiting for the sun to sluggishly pull itself up high above the horizon before I’d dare venture into the day. Overwhelmed, ten years of pent-up emotion broke.

  Yes, for the first time since my father died, tears flowed down my cheeks. At first, I wasn’t even sure what was happening. When a virgin, salty teardrop burst into my mouth, the taste was so weirdly wonderful, I couldn’t help but gasp.

  When I realised I was weeping, I exploded into laughter; a profound, satisfying laugh from somewhere deep, deep inside. I couldn’t remember laughing this freely before, ever. My laughter caused more tears to erupt, and the flow of more tears sparked more laughter. Goose bumps rippled across my arms, and pins and needles sizzled up and down my spine. It was quite possibly the best moment of my life.

  It only took about ten minutes for the dawn to chase away the dark, the pitch-blackness giving way to a deep red which became a warm magenta that gradually melted into an inspiring, inexpressible electric violet. Wow! Just holy wow! I didn’t have words to limn the range of shades in between.

  What’s more, the illuminating sunlight brought the jungle to life in a way that seemed to defang and declaw its terrifying menace and raw ferocity. To cap the moment, a Rainbowfly adorned with more colours than I could count—except yellow and orange, which were conspicuously absent in Zika’s colour range—alighted on my outstretched hand that spontaneously rose to meet it. Harmless and very much like the butterflies I read about on Earth, only larger, it gifted me its presence for about thirty seconds, delicate antennas twitching, flimsy wings fluttering, before it took to flight again.

  The entire milieu was otherworldly; a sensory overload which elicited more happy-tears from my once defunct tear glands. The lines from my Dad’s song became real in a way that it could never have before.

  When you bundle through a squall

  Keep your head on high

  Don’t be scared of the dark

  For when the storm ends

  You’ll find a golden sky

  The sweet sound of a lark

  …

  Walk on then, keep hope in your heart

  For you’ll ne’er be alone

  No, you will ne’er walk alone

  A golden sky. Not quite golden, but spectacularly royal all the same.

  Why haven’t I seen this before?

  I knew the answer. Only a crazy person would dare the dark hours. Only a mad man would meddle with odds so insanely stacked against him. However, the rewards were beyond words. The beauty, the magic, the absolute wonder of those ten minutes had given me the one thing I had lost. Besides the gift of tears, and the present of laughter, I had a renewed sense of hope. Dawn hope! There was soulful beauty on this cruel, savage world after all. I was alive, and there was hope.

  There is always hope.

  In the marvellous clarity of dawn’s bounty, I let any feelings for Gellica go, to flutter away like the Rainbowfly had earlier. Judd and Gellica would be good for each other. Anyway, I was so young, too young to begin to understand the complexities and intricacies of love. I knew my role in life and was happy with my lot. A new resolve took hold of me, and I felt at peace. Overwhelming peace.

  In a jumbled instant, a rapturous muddle of past memories, I felt transported back in time.

  A warm fireplace. A modest but comfy couch.

  Three of us, together.

  A delicious smell wafting in from the kitchen. A roast.

  His strong hands hold me. Dad. Her soft hands tickle my back. Mum.

  Happy. Unbridled happiness.

  Peace, irresistible peace.

  When was it? How old was I? Four, five?

  Gone. The memory disappeared as quickly as it had come despite my desperate attempts to hold on to it. I then tried to retrieve the image. Nothing … just the prevailing sense of soul-soothing peace. Eyes closed; I soaked it in. Hoping the picture would return, not overly disappointed when it didn’t. Satisfied with a blessed connection to another time. My first happy Earth-memory, brief but tangible. I almost felt her soft hands. Nearly saw her face.

  Surely, more such memories will come.

  Deeply refreshed, revitalized, invigorated; I headed back to camp to wash-up amid the early-morning jungle racket led by the Dawn Bugs at their trilling best. I was grateful that I was the first one awake and that no one saw me walk in from outside the camp. Explaining my reckless actions was the last thing I wanted to do.

  I didn’t say a word during washing time, but I couldn’t cloak the deeply contented feeling in my heart. In vain, I tried to hide the broad smile splashed across my face. That everyone in my clan cut me a quizzical look that asked, “What’s crawled into your ear and chewed on the grey matter?” meant I knew I was doing a miserable job at looking miserable.

  The day after the Gathering of the Clans was the worst day of the year … even worse than the coldest day in winter, or the most sultry day in summer. After the excitement and elation in the build up to our annual celebration, and the jubilation and euphoria of the day itself, we all came crashing down on the day after. Celebration blues. The new day to a new year meant one thing: another three hundred and fifty days of stress, and struggle, and strain. Survival 101. Again.

  The judgment I received should have made me the most depressed of the lot. No one plucked up the courage to ask why I had an asininely large grin plastered on my face. Perhaps they thought I had finally lost my mind. To be honest, by the end of yesterday, so did I.

  Still hanging low in the morning sky, the sun lazily peered down on us, its warm rays of light chasing the last cool shadows away. A waning tendril of smoke snaked into the air from the main fire before vanishing in an ever-so-slight breeze. It was a stunning morning, and I was feeling chipper.

  “Assemble!” was the first word I heard
that morning as Ruzzell summoned us to Base Stump. He too looked downcast. The exhilaration of his appointment, flaunted brazenly on our return, also gave way to the reality of our predicament.

  “Right,” he mumbled, “we ate so well yesterday, and brought so many nuts and berries home with us, I say we take the day off … we’ll pick up our work routines tomorrow.”

  Everyone nodded. This was his first decision everyone seemed agreeable to.

  “I’ll go hunt,” I said. “I don’t want a day off.” I wondered whether Ruzzell would continue to deny me access to my bow. It was still in Shawz’s possession, even as Ruzzell kept hold of his.

  “Fine,” he replied wearily. “Who wants to join our resident villain?”

  “Yeah, I’ll go,” said Dixan; his eyes alight, answering the bow dilemma.

  “Great,” Ruzzell’s tone was impassive as he stifled a yawn. “Have fun … you have a bow between you. The rest of you … whatever … do what you want.” Ruzzell dismissed us with a wave of his hand, the gloom on his face matching the mood in the camp.