Vision
By Singe (singeaddams @ hotmail.com)
Sammie saw the daylight hours the same as everyone else did, he was sure of that. Uncle Frodo, after all, told him that there was no difference in his own daytime vision after the 'event' had happened to him. That was how they referred to his uncle's transformation that he had passed down to Sammie, the 'event,' as if it were a little something that had been hastily scheduled into an appointment book. Mon: Tea with Widow Rumble. Tues: War concerning the vanquishing of Evil and resulting in a monstrous 'event.' Friday of Following Year: Garden Social. The thought amused him.
Yes, the day was the same for him as it was for everyone else. Warm. Jolly. Safe. But when the day was done the stars and the moon became a silver blaze that lit Sammie's path in all directions. Even surrounded by the deepest dark he could see everything; the quiver of a bat's ear, the slow blink of an owl, the flight of a pale moth. Uncle Frodo would sometimes sigh and mention his regret of the 'difference' that made it possible for the two of them to be aware of these strange things. Sammie would nod compassionately but he didn't understand. Sammie had been born so and knew no other way. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Really, he saw only disadvantages in always needing candles and lanterns to get around. And watching his brothers and sisters run into furniture as they navigated darkened halls on their way to the bathroom at night made him giggle. "Oh, shut up, Sammie."
His entire family, except for himself and his uncle, was blind, really. They couldn't see the shimmer of the stars reflected on the glistening black leaves of the trees. They were unable to trace the invisible paths of the wild under the gloriously turbulent clouds of the moonlit sky. They passed unknowingly by the trails of the animals and, oh, the critters were so much more active and playful at night, smelling with twitching noses and peering with bright eyes as they ran about their nocturnal business of playing and mating and killing and dying. His family was missing so much. They couldn't see ANYTHING after the sun went down.
Most horrible of all, his family couldn't see each other. Not the way Sammie could see them. If he looked at them just exactly so, at night, they glowed with beauty and life, as if their souls were cloaks that they had casually thrown on. He had tried to capture the sight in vibrant drawings but they didn't turn out the way he wanted. Rainbow-like chicken scratch didn't convey the truth of the matter. So Sammie had to content himself with gazing. It was wonderful. They all had their own particular iridescence. Elanor and his Mum and Dad radiated a rich Sunset gold with the loveliest and rather melancholy shade of blue swirled in. The babies were a pure, shimmering white. Merry, Fro, Goldy, Ham and Pippin were glories of color, like blazing fireworks. Ruby and Prim were walking Sunrises, brilliant, new and fresh. And Daisy. Ah. Sammie's best friend was magnificent, all green and gold and silver and strong and just...everything that was good and pretty. Sammie could stare at her while she slept for hours. Or until someone caught him and said "Stop that, Samlad, you look like a ghoul."
He was sure he did look like a ghoul for the colors were at their brightest when he was hungry. And he did go hungry every once in a while. Some nights there were terribly violent storms or, in the bleakest depths of winter, there was no hunting to be had and the heat and the life and the beauty would become overwhelming. Uncle Frodo would retreat with him to the wine cellar and they'd read quietly together or talk in low, sad voices until Sammie could control his sobbing. His uncle's colors were beautiful, too. The richest, darkest blues and purples with a brilliant white lacing through it all like summer lightning. He had once asked his uncle what his own hues were and had received a smile and a teasing "Chartreuse." Sammie sincerely hoped not.
Uncle Frodo didn't really like to talk about it, his and Sammie's 'difference,' but Daisy did. She thought it was fascinating. She'd listen to all his stories about his midnight adventures under the cool windblown poplars. Sammie dramatized the taste and the heat and the lush smells of the hunt for her. And he'd take her hand and tell of the vivid colors and the shimmering purity and love and joy that he could see, actually see with his own two eyes, and she would gasp with wonder and envy.
So Sammie made her a promise.
He promised his favorite sister that his difference would be hers, too. He owed her that much. One day, he was sure, when he was old enough and strong enough, Uncle Frodo would tell him everything. Or maybe Sammie could read all about it in some gruesome elven tome; the hows and whys and wherefores of his 'difference' and, most importantly, whether or not he could pass it on. Daisy would love it, the sheer fun of it all.
And why stop at Daisy? All his family deserved better than to stumble around in the dark. Yes. It would be glorious. On his birthday, as soon as he knew how, perhaps while they slept, he would give them the finest gift he had to give. He would open their eyes.
~
Pretty Good Year