Orange.
Orange was the sole color of day. Orange was the sun engulfed by the mountains, dying for yet another night. Orange was the reflection of the sky in the calm waters of the grassland oasis’s pond. Orange were the leaves falling from the Ash tree, beside a lonely boy who rested, leaning in its bark reading a book. Just in the middle, a white willow.
The grasslands were alive with sound; sounds that only belonged to a few animals at most. The calls of the crows came from the east; each was a shriek of terror echoing through the family of trees which concealed the boy. The calls of the cicadas came from the south, filling the air with the gentleness of a fake summer. The calls of the frogs came from the north, warning the hiding nocturne that the night would be overseen by their kin. The calls of the boars came from the west, hinting tame but screaming the hymn of the Wild. And in the center, atop the willow, a single vulture masterminded its wretched destiny.
His companions gave him pleasure, the atmosphere gave him confidence, it would be this night, and surely he could not be wrong. The trees had no lied, the spirits had not deceived him, they would not, he had done everything they had asked; he had offered his peace of mind to them. The lonely boy looked up, noticed the willow, noticed the vulture, noticed its vile eye.
“The law of Inamoto Saki. Chapter one.” – the boy began. He handled the book with care, turning the third of the three hundred pages, and starting the first paragraph of the fourth. “Look not for the badger that hides from his shadow, but for the chance of the miracle of the rising summer.” – he looked back at the vulture. The vulture remained silent, looking straight at him, straight at his soul with its dead eye.
The white sphere could not see, but like the sphinx at the end of the bridge, it brought forward a puzzle claiming no hints. The whiteness of the eye, in itself, could tell the story of its owner with no regrets, with no fault. The boy had chosen the perfect day for his hunt, and it began with the lone vulture that sat atop the willow. The sound of the crows and the cicadas had already drowned.
The sun began to hide. The orange of the sky only became darker and darker with each passing minute. In one hour it would be dark, the moon would take her place among the stars and in the skies, replacing her forefather with her silvery might; yet the boy remained still. He sat, leaning on the bark of the Ash tree, turning page over page of his stolen wonder. The sound of the frogs and the boars had already drowned.
As it was foretold, the moon stood tall, holding her victory flag and claiming her spot. The boy turned yet another page; his eagerness contrasted all the symbols of the boring day. The orange in the sky, the pond, and the Ash tree had already died, replaced by a darker shade of red. Hints of blue were already starting to appear, first in the sky, then in the pond. The boy closed the book, and took a stand. He wiped his shirt, he wiped his pants, not a particle of dirt remained on him. All animals were gone, all replaced by bones. He looked up, he noticed the tree, he noticed the vulture, he noticed the eye, and in its reflection… he noticed himself.
[Contract Search. Second try. Looking for: Bird (1) or Feline (2).]
