A Thoughtful Visit To A Beautiful Star

    The School of New Wisdom, or Eschola Nov’Sagette, sits in a valley between the forested foothills of the Great Western Mountains and the fecund orchards of Chrysomontia Province where Bran’s Aunt Elisha and her children used to live. Built a bit less than a century ago, it consists of a steep roofed rectangle with a tower at each corner, and a typical Nettaran multi-roofed atrium in the center. Of reddish stone with white architraves and spandrels, its builders sprinkled the edifice with decorative black iron curlicues like pepper on a potato. The center back and corners of the building connect to gymnasia and outbuildings via open walkways, enclosed in winter by transparent panels set into wrought iron supports to keep out the bitter winter wind. A grey stone wall surrounds the entire complex.

   Two weeks after Michael’s arrival, the snow melted, and the ground dried. Boys played football and strikes-all outdoors in the sunny air. Rare halcyon days of late autumn lay upon the land. He and his tutor, Siu Fermer, sat in a sunny window while he learned to speak better, count, and read a little. Increasing fluency brought flurries of questions. “What do they mean when they talk about ‘Earth’?  About the Bringers? The Ancestors?What’s a Thinking?  Do you have a wife? A mama and papa? Why is Bran’s hair yellow and mine brown?” 

    Siu Fermer had long grey hair and walked with a stoop, but his faded green eyes missed little. He replied selectively to the spate of questions. “Well, yes, yes, of course I once had parents, everyone must, you know, and of course they’re gone now, dead these many years. No, I never had the privilege of marrying, although, in my youth, I...”  He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “As for the history of our people, that is an overlong and uncertain story. Clearly an alien, but humanoid race with space travel brought a few hundred illiterates, our ancestors, here a thousand years ago from a planet called ‘Earth’ and so it goes. 

    “They taught us to cultivate plants from Earth, including the delectable coffee, which native plants are safe to eat, how to use the hot springs to keep warm. We learned the writing of our language, how to build stone houses and generate electricity, among many practical scientific skills. Then they climbed aboard their golden ships and abandoned us. That happened about 775 years ago. And here we are, we few millions of Nettarans, a dying race.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “Why? Why leave us here? Yes, but not entirely alone. Indeed.  Every hundred years, a secret from the Bringers is opened by one among the domini. That’s how we found the floating stone, learned to put electrical current to it, and there you are, we have cars, lifts, all those things that need antigravity to make them go.”  

    He pulled out his watch. “Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.”

    Michael tugged at Fermer’s sleeve as he stood up. “The Thinking. The Fall Thinking. They talk about going to town for it, but what is it? Please, Siu Fermer, tell me before you go.”

    The tutor chuckled. “You persist, don’t you?” Michael nodded. “Very well. During a Thinking, the domini, the Honorable Minds, go into the Focus, sit down, and join hands. Lesser Minds join hands to link the domini with people outside the Focus. Those people join hands with others, until all the men, women and children for miles around link up. The drums beat. The consciousness of the Honorables flows out into everyone and they become One Mind for a little while. People communicate. Decisions are made, sufferers helped, rules laid down or undone. 

  “Everywhere in civilized Nettara we have four Thinkings a year. Winter and Summer are the most important festivals, especially Winter. People go to cities like Pericopia and Chrysomontia for those. For Autumn and Spring, we go to the nearest town, even if it’s small like Belstella. 

    “That’s enough for now, Michael. I must be off.  For the rest of this month you and I will meet as usual, but after that you will join other boys your age in the First Elementary class.”

    Michael didn't like dealing with boys his own age; the interaction felt strange and he tried to avoid it. Little boys didn’t explain themselves the way Bran did, and he also thought they misunderstood him. Straining to interpret their behavior and reactions made him nervous. “No. No, I don't want to,” he sniffed, a tear forming on his lashes at the very idea of being in a room with ten of them.

    “You must. You learn quickly. I’ll still be here if you truly need me. Don’t cry.” The tutor strode off, long gown flapping around him.

    After dinner that evening, Michael asked Bran, “Can we go to the Autumn Thinking next week in Belstella? Can we, Bran?” and got a gruff reply.

    “No!  No! We can’t. Why’d you ask anyhow?”

    “Siu Fermer told me about it. I like the way it sounds. Why are you angry with me?”

    “Oh,” Bran sighed and sat down. “For Mind's sake. It isn’t you, Mica. It’s just that we can’t go unless our parents come and take us.”

    “Won’t your papa come?” He knew Bran had never met his mama.

    “No. I don’t want him to. I hate him, understand?”

    “Hate your papa...” Michael mused. “But why?”

    “Must you know? Does one have to explain everything to you?”

    “Yes, I think so.”

    Bran got up and started pacing, gesturing, angry. “Very well.  Know what kind of work my father does? He waits on rich people. He’s a goddamn butler.”

    “What’s a butler? Something bad?”

    “The worst, the worst—a servant. Don’t you understand?  Then he sends me to this place with all the rich boys. Everybody but me is rich.”

    “And me. I’m not rich.”

    “Oh yeah, Mica; I wonder who’s paying for this suite we live in. It’s not Dominic Leveq, I’ll tell you that.” There was a sarcastic edge to his voice.

    Michael said softly, “I don’t know.” Then, “But can’t you ask him to take us to the Thinking? Please, Bran, do.”

    “No. Never. Now I have to study so put a stopper in it, will you?”

     Michael left the room with a reproachful look back. Bran felt the usual guilt at denying his roommate anything. It pricked his conscience. The poor little boy (so his private thoughts went) had suffered too much, and shame on me for refusing to take him to the Thinking, thereby adding a new disappointment to previous injuries. No matter how hard he tried to shrug it off, he felt worse with every breath he took. 

     He had resisted everything and everyone in his life until Michael, the irresistible, came into it. Abandoning his indifferent pose, when boys teased him and said “Look, Brannie has a baby. How’s your baby today, Brannie?”, instead of retorting or punching the guy, he smiled and said, Fine".  The teasing ran its course, and their relationship became one more unremarkable fondness of an older boy for a younger.  

    Under increasing pressure from his conscience, during a free period next day he crept, nay slunk, to the student excom booths. He felt himself teetering on the brink of a daring action, good but dangerous, and braced himself to address the floating square of light and ask for the house where his father worked.

    As usual, Dom answered. “H-hello, papa,” Bran began timidly. “How are you?”

    “Bran? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

    “Nothing, nothing. Papa, I’m sorry for what happened the last time you were here; sorry I shouted and cursed and said awful things to you.”

     Caught off guard by this statement, Dom hardly knew how to reply. His son never apologized to him for anything. “Well,” he said after a bit, “well, I appreciate that very much Bran.” Ever the cynic, he anticipated a demand for money, but held his tongue, trying to encourage this change in their relationship.

    “Papa, I have a new roommate...”

    “You do? Really? In that tiny room?”

    “We have a tower suite. But don’t worry; you won’t have to pay extra. He’s just a little boy and I help take care of him.”

    “Oh, er, well, that’s good.” Dumbfounded, he went on, “So, who is he? What’s his name?”

    “Michael. Michael Rossignol. Papa, would you please, please come and take us to the Autumn Thinking if you can get free?”

    “Let me try to understand all this. You have a new roommate whom you like, who wants to go to the Autumn Thinking, but has no one to take him.”

    “Right. Please? He really, truly longs to go, Papa”.

    Despite the peculiarity of it all, Dom seized the opportunity. “Very well then. I’ll be there at ninth hour on Martis next, if that’s a good time for the two of you.” Questions could wait.  

    “Oh, yes, yes, wait ‘till I tell Mica!  He'll be so happy!  Thank you very much, Papa.”

    Bran gave promise of growing tall and muscular like his father, but his blonde hair and blue eyes came from his mother, the daughter of a wealthy family, who bore a child to a dark-haired, brown-eyed footman. Dom, now a Head Houseman, thought of her briefly as he clicked off the excom. He loved his son, despite the complications of raising a motherless child. Still, if only he could have married her, instead of being summarily discharged from his job.

    He turned to the excom and made another call.

    Late that evening, after the night crew came on, he drove his old brown car to Belstella, landing on the roof of his favorite tavern, The Scarlet Flapper. No sooner did he get a foaming beer from the bar, than his companion arrived and took a table. “Good-evening Phillias,” Dom greeted him, “how are things at school?” 

    “Not bad, not bad at all,” replied Phillias Robarder, “and you? How’s the houseman trade these days?”

    “Now, Phill, just because you hated being a junior footman doesn’t mean I find service that bad. If I didn’t like it I’d do something else. I could, you know. What I don’t understand is how you can deal with five hundred boys day after day. Bran gives me more than enough trouble, which brings me to the reason I called you this afternoon?”

    “Oh? Indeed?”

    “Yes, indeed! What’s going on with Bran and this new roommate of his? They’ve asked me to take them to Fall Thinking next week.  Bran’s never wanted to go to a Thinking before. The Rossignol boy’s probably behind it. By the way, is he one of the RTC Rossignols?”

    “One of those, yes, but I've obtained a legal order to keep them away from him. If you’d seen his condition when he first came to school—bleeding, bruised, emaciated—you’d have been shocked. I was. He’s made amazing progress in little more than three weeks.  A psychologically strong person, I believe. And a Mind to boot.”

    “Hmmm... I’ve heard those two up in the white house with the gold roof—what are their names?”

    “Auralie and Albo. Rich as new cake but odd folk, a least in recent years.”

    “Thanks. I heard they had a child but I thought it died. Nobody ever saw it in public. People don’t go to the house; haven’t for years and years. As you say, odd folk.  How did he manage to get to school?”

    “Possibly some mental manipulation, but I really don’t know. A servant drove him here and dumped him. Nothing from his parents except a bank draft from his mother big enough to keep the boy here for life. Will they try to take him back? I have no idea. They won’t succeed, I assure you.”

    “Why put him in with Bran? Was that wise?  No, I guess it was, wasn’t it?” Dom smiled. “When Bran called me he actually apologized for his behavior last time I was here. He didn’t ask for money, either. Almost knocked me over. Michael can’t be as odd as his parents.  He’s already been a good influence on my son.”

    “Like we were on each other back in Chrysomontia, eh?”

    “Indeed. You taught me to enjoy learning. I taught you to defend yourself against bullies.”

    “Those ruffians in our neighborhood...remember when you stuffed one in the garbage burner?  How he begged you not to turn it on?”

    “Ha ha...a satisfying memory, even after twenty years. Now, shall we get a plate of cheese fritters? Don’t know about you, but I could use a little something to eat.”

    “Sure. Could you bring me a beer while you’re at it? A Light And Clear? Thanks.”

    Phill watched Dom heading for the bar. Nice brown and yellow outfit on a nice body. Too bad he lacked interest in men. Fem demitas, perhaps?  They never talked about such intimate subjects, however, or the woman who had borne Bran. Their Bond started as an intellectual one, and had continued in that vein. After two platters of fritters and three draughts of beer, Phillias said, “I don’t need to ask, do I? You will take them to the Thinking?  Those boys are good for each other, Dom. This could be a lifelong Bond.” 

    “Yes, yes, of course I’m going to take them.”  He downed the last of his beer. “I’m pleased beyond belief they asked me to. I’ve worried over Bran a lot recently. Any chance to deal with him without friction is good.  I hope the little Rossignol and I like each other.” 

    “I cannot imagine it happening otherwise,” Phillias stood and buttoned his coat. “But I am curious. Shall we meet here again after the Thinking?”

    “We shall. Good-night Phill.”

    “Good-night to you, dear Dom.”

    Martis next dawned cloudy, with a thin wrap of snow fallen in the night. “Put on your cloak,” Bran ordered Michael. “It’s cold, and the Thinking is outdoors. Your boots and mittens, too. What? You can only find one?  Mica, Mica, well then, just keep the other hand in your pocket.”

    Michael knelt to look under his bed. “Oh, here it is.” He stuffed the mittens in his pocket. “Is it almost time?”

    “Eighth hour plus ninety minutes. Let’s head down to the door. Isn’t this exciting, Mica? Our first Thinking”

    “And my first time with a papa,” Michael murmured. “A real papa.”

     The old brown car stood on the parking bracket. Dom waited near the front door of the school wearing an ankle-length cloak with a fringed hood, brown boots, and mittens with fringed backs. “Papa, you look so handsome,” Bran declared. “What a smart cloak!”

    “Thank you, son." Dom reddened. “And this young fellow must be Michael.” Michael offered the palms-up greeting of child to adult. Dom returned the greeting palms-down. “I am most delighted to meet you, Michael.  I understand you’ve never been to a Thinking before” 

    “No. Never. I never met a papa before, either.”

    “Well, now you have, and what do you think?”

    “I like papas.”

    “And they you, Michael. May I call you Mica, as Bran does?” Michael nodded. “So,” Dom continued, “shall we walk down the path to Belstella with the others?  It isn’t far. We’re warmly dressed.  After the Thinking we’ll have something to eat and look around a little. A good plan, eh?”

    “Yes, yes! Come on Mica, let’s run with the other boys!” Bran urged. But Michael took Dom’s hand instead, and held it all the way to Belstella.

     The Focus at Belstella, a round tower faced with white stone, had  been built around 225 years ago, near the beginning of the Age of Mind. Like all Focus towers, it had a windowless Upper Hall, a crystalline, retractable roof, and stairs winding down to twelve equidistant doorways. The Honorable Minds met in the Upper Hall. Between each pair of doorways a buttress with stone benches on either side jutted out into the main square. Ordinary citizens, wrapping blankets over cloaks to shut out the wind, joined hands and minds with the domini, queuing down the stairs and out the doors to fill the plaza with concentric circles of linked bodies.

    Today’s early arrivals sat proudly on the hard, cold benches, but rented folding chairs felt warmer to the human backside. When the supply gave out, people brought their own stools or spread blankets on the pavement. Vendors sold snacks wrapped in brown paper, and hot drinks in stone mugs. They all waited.

    Dom rented three chairs, and found a place for them near one of the stone benches. Bran and Michael ran around for a while, burning off energy, and then dug in their pockets for coins to buy a snack. “I’m out of the clinking stuff,” Bran concluded. 

    “Me, too.” Michael was always penniless.

    “We’ll just have to wait until lunch.”

    “Can’t we ask Papa?”

    Bran grinned at the tacit expropriation of his parent. “No. Let’s not. He might not feel he can say ‘no’, even if he doesn’t have enough money.”

    Michael had, as always, eaten a substantial breakfast. He agreed with a nod. His stomach growled. Bran laughed and tousled his hair.

    At an hour before noon, the crowd heard the faint beat of drums in the distance. It grew louder, until the parade of Honorable Minds, led by the Magister in his black gown and gold sash, entered the square. Behind the Magister marched the highest-ranking domini, in black gowns with silver sashes, then a group in white with red sashes, followed by the lowest echelon in green and white. At the rear of the procession, drummers marked time for the entry into the Focus, then veered off to the side and fell silent. No one in the crowd made a sound.

    Minutes later a trumpet blew. People joined hands. Most closed their eyes. A sigh arose like a prayer, and a visible trembling traveled along the twelve queues from doorway to town. Those few remaining apart in case of emergency saw heads tilt back, bodies relax, breathing deepen.

    Here and there someone muttered incoherently. Michael hummed, rocking in his chair. Others twitched, stood, even broke the queue and left the square, unable to tolerate the energy surging from body to body, mind to mind.

    An hour later, the trumpet signaled an end to the Thinking.  Human social behavior resumed with a buzz of voices. People in the square got up, shook themselves, wiped sweaty faces and adjusted clothing. Stretching, yawning, scratching, blowing noses—it took them a while to re-enter the world.

    Michael smiled at Dom and Bran, who hugged him and exclaimed, “I’ve never seen you smile before, Mica!”

    “I never did before. It feels good.”

    “You must have liked the Thinking,” Dom commented, folding their chairs.

    “The Minds said things to me, Papa.”

    “To you directly? Are you sure?” Surprised, Dom tried to explain.  “I mean, that’s unusual. Most of the time they only speak directly to people who ask a question, have a problem, or are being judged. Did you think or speak to them first?”

    “No. One of the Minds thought to me. He said, ‘Michael Rossignol, one day you will be with us’. That’s all. He gave me a good feeling, but I don’t know the name of it...”

    Cold with anxiety, Bran wondered if Honorable Minds could have ordinary friends. Michael, prescient, turned to him and said, “You and I will always be friends, Bran. Always. No matter what happens. Don’t forget that.”

    Dom watched this exchange, a little puzzled, until it struck him: he and Bran possessed normal, low psychic ability, but Michael drew the attention of the Honorables by his mere presence. What in Bran elicited that reassurance from him?  Did the boy use empathy to grasp his friend’s insecurity, or did he read thoughts undetected? Did it matter? Michael unexpectedly turned to look at him. He shook his head in mild rebuke and asked, “So, my fine fellows, who’s hungry for lunch? Let’s try The Scarlet Flapper, shall we? If we hurry, we can get a table before the crowd arrives.”

    After a lunch of bread, meat, cheese and beer they went out into the streets of Belstella. Under clearing skies a cold wind whipped through the narrow passageways, rocking the occasional car struggling to land on a rooftop bracket. Yet the footpaths were crowded with streams of rowdy boys, bright flocks of girls chaperoned by mamas and governesses, clusters of wide-hipped midamas with ruffled skirts peeping from beneath their cloaks and nurses walking behind carrying babies in slings, fluttering groups of demis with painted faces, short skirts and pantalets, nubile young women escorted by orbiting swarms of suitors, “Unlikes", heterosexual men in long gowns, and elegant homosexual “Likes” sporting bejeweled hats.

    Bran watched the girls. One with black hair and green eyes turned to look at him and smiled, passing so quickly he couldn’t think of what to say to her. That knot of worry he always got when he saw pretty girls congealed in his stomach like a lump of grease. If anxiety really warned people of trouble on the way, then he dreaded what would happen when the thing between his legs gave him man-type trouble.

    Michael still held Dom’s hand, turning his head this way and that, taking everything in, full of questions. The temperature dropped steadily. A wicked wind blew hard, bellying out cloaks and poking itself through mittens. “Bran, aren’t those some of your classmates I see over there near the theatre?” Dom asked.

    “Uh-huh. Going to see the new virtuals show. You know, where billions of tiny bits make shapes and pictures.”

    Dom delved into his trouser pocket. “Why don’t you join them?” He dropped coins in Bran’s hand. “Have a little special fun, eh?”

    “Oh, Papa thanks! That’s great! Can Mica come, too?”

    “Michael and I will sit in that café over there and have a bit of a chat. Come find us when the show is over. Run along now.”

    Michael smiled to himself. Bran would have a good time and he, Michael, could talk to Dom alone. In the café they ordered coffee with milk to offset the glass of beer Michael had with lunch. After the server set the cups before them, Dom leaned chin on palm and began, “So, Michael, what is it you want from me? You held my hand all day. Why? You want a father, is that it?”

    “I held your hand to keep from getting lost and so they couldn’t try to get me back. I would like very much for you to be my papa.”  

    “Why? Why do you need me to be your father?”

    “To love me and protect me, so they can’t ever hurt me again,” Michael answered, looking away, embarrassed, as if he had been indiscreet.

    Dom tried to formulate a tactful reply declining any such responsibilities, but when he opened his mouth he said, “Mica, I promise I’ll try my best to do those things for you.” Even as he spoke he doubted his own sanity. Michael’s guileless reply had extracted that promise from him without intervening thought. He couldn’t retract it now. “By ‘they’ you mean your parents? I hear they treated you badly. What did they do to you? Want to tell me?”

    Michael looked down into his cup. “I was really little, maybe one or two years old. My nurseman had me on his lap. His name was Bol. When they took me away he cried.” One tear, followed by many more, overflowed his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

    “Come on, wipe your eyes. You’re safe here with us. Nobody’s going to take you away and if you got lost we'd find you.” Dom gave him a handkerchief and waited until he had controlled himself. “Now, you were telling me about sitting on your nurse’s lap. What happened then? Who took you away from him?”

    “Albo. He and my mama and a servant came in, talking loud, and saying things I didn’t understand. Albo took me away from Bol and put me in a room by myself. I cried a lot. Nobody came until it got light again and the servant brought me some bread and water to eat. The room was cold. 

They put a mattress on the floor without any blankets and gave me a bucket to pee and poop in. I stayed in that room a long time. Nobody would touch me or talk to me. They put a cover on the window to keep me from seeing out, but a storm knocked if off, and they never put it back. I saw the sky and some snow and a brick wall. A creature...a flapper, I think, came and sat on the windowsill and rolled its eye at me...”

    “Poor boy,” murmured Dom. 

    “Albo hit me. He never told me why. He hated me. I could feel it. The mattress got dirty. The bucket smelled awful. I never saw my mama again. Or Bol.” 

    “How did you escape and get to school?”

    “I...learned to see into people’s minds without them knowing it. I found an official who made kids go to school, and sent thoughts to him.  Later—I don’t know how much—Albo came and beat me and cursed. He was all fierce and mad and angry. He put me in the car and brought me near the school, but I knew he planned to kill me and bury me there under the bushes. He had trouble with the wind making the car sway. I jumped out and ran as fast as I could to the school.” He looked up into sympathetic eyes very near his own. “Please, you won’t let them get me, will you?” 

    “No. I’d fight anybody who tried to hurt you, and Michael, Dean Robarder watches over you too. So do all the grown-ups at school.  You must believe it. Now, let’s see, are you hungry again? Could you possibly eat something sweet?”

    “Buns?”

    “Yes, buns. Of course.” Dom signaled the server. “Two burnt sugar buns and two fizzy waters,” he ordered. “Now, Mica, what else would you like to talk about?”

    “Why do you and Bran have holes in your ears, but I don’t?” 

    “We all have holes into our ears...”

    ”No, I mean with earrings in them, like yours.” He reached up and touched the gold loops in Dom’s ears. “Why am I different?”

    “Oh... ha...I see what you mean. Sorry to have misunderstood. We have holes in our ears to give us a place to hang earrings. My mama pierced mine.”

    “Oh. I thought people were born that way.”

    “No, no. Listen, Mica. If Dean Robarder will let you come to my sister Elisha’s with us for Winter Thinking, she’ll make holes in your ears.”

    “How?”

    “With a needle...”

    “It’ll hurt?” 

    “No. Well, a little. Not very much.”

    “Then I’ll save my pocket money to buy earrings,” Michael declared. “Bran says I spend every penny I get on nothing.”

    “Hanging on to your money is a good idea. Did you know that people exchange presents at the Winter Thinking? You might want to give some. You'll probably get some, too.”

    “Oh...aha...” Michael giggled. “I might? Really and truly? Why do people do that? Give presents, I mean.”

    “The Bringers told us to celebrate the equinoxes and solstices, and give each other gifts on the shortest day of the year, just before the sun starts moving north again. Our Thinkings come at the two solstices and the equinoxes.” He gave his best explanation of solstices and equinoxes. “You’ll learn all that in school soon.You know we have two moons. Tonight the little one, Ceritis, will be in front of the big one, Frachitis, just when they’re both as high in the sky as they can go. On Earth they only had one moon.”

    “Do they still?”

    Dom never considered, if Earth still existed, how many moons it might have now. “Probably, but you know, Michael, ever since we started traveling in space we’ve been trying to figure out where Earth is. We haven’t found it yet. Maybe we never will. Space is practically infinite.”

    Michael considered that information silently, and then changed the subject. “Why did Albo beat me? Why? Was I bad?”  

    “No, no, no. You were never bad. How could you be? You were only a baby who needed a nurse. Evil people have babies, too, and some parents are just plain bad. They’re supposed to love and take care of their children but they don’t.” Albo sounded insane, functional but dehumanized..

    Michael got up and stood close to Dom. “Papa,” he whispered, “Papa, could I sit on your lap, just once? Please?”

    Dom patted his knee. “Of course you can. Hop on.”

    He climbed up and sat a few seconds before sliding off again. “There,” he whispered to himself.  “There. I have a papa. I sat on his lap.” He looked up at Dom and declared, “I’m happy today.”

    They swam home in moonlight on the path where silver and gold shadows from lazy, first-rising Frachitis and quick, slugabed Ceritis stretched out behind them to the west, overlapping and merging as the planets crept toward each other. The wind dropped. The cold, damp air let snow cling to the trees rimming the dark edges of the path, the corners of blocky deciduous natives, and the branches of earthling evergreens. 

    The group headed back to Nov’Sagette moved slowly, more fatigued from holiday than from any workday. Dom carried Michael a good part of the way, saying, “If I don’t it’ll take all night to get home. The kid’s asleep on his feet.” When they arrived at the porter’s station he kissed them good-bye, promised to see them soon, and lifted off for Pericopia.

    It lacked two hours of midnight. “Tonight we can go up to the parapet to watch the lunar conjunction. There won’t be another one until Spring Thinking. Tomorrow’s a holiday, so we can stay up as late we want, too.” Michael had fallen on his bed without undressing. “Go on and sleep," Bran added, "I’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

    Narrow stairs wound up through the dark to the parapet surrounding the towers and gables of the roof. At half before midnight, groups of boys and teachers crept upward. Frachitis lingered at the zenith as Ceritis inched closer. Teachers sat on chairs they’d brought. Boys leaned back against the slanting shingles.

    Murmurs of “Ahhh, beautiful!” rose among the flaring stars. The white orb of Ceritis touched the golden face of Frachitis, and moved to the center of it. When the moons were at their zenith, they seemed to hover while Frachitis held Ceritis in his arms, as if reluctant to let her go. Finally Ceritis slipped toward the edge of Frachitis. Frachitis moved a bit down from the zenith. The display ended. Despite the cold, no one moved for a little while. Michael whispered, “Moons, moons, I like moons...” Bran laughed and hugged him.