Navigator 1

1.

"Forgive me for putting this burden on you."

⁎

The stars shimmered and twinkled, myriads of tiny gems; still they had the sky to themselves, only later in the evening would their glow fade as the two moons rose over the mountain.

Mayï lay on his back on the roof of his home and looked up; the balmy wind rustled the leaves of the trees behind the house and blew busy noises up to him from the kitchen. Soft rustling and distant clattering: that was all that could be heard. No laughter, no teasing shouts followed by no less cheeky retorts. It had become quiet on the grounds of the school on the hill, the familiar din of the pack had fallen silent. But muffled as the sounds might be, at least they were there, he could at least hear something. Under the roof where he lay, inside his childhood home, there was silence. No snatches of conversation he could pick up as he walked past his father's study while he was talking to someone - rarely a visitor, often over the communications station - no soft voice asking him how he was getting on with his studies, or why not; in the latter case, the voice would still be soft, but would grow audibly sharper.

What he would give to be scolded again by that voice now, at this moment, he would gladly fold. But it would never encourage or rebuke him again; no one would suddenly appear in the doorway to the study and shoo him away if he had stood in the hallway listening curiously for too long.

They were gone, both of them, leaving behind this empty, silent house. Everywhere lay and stood their things, the things that had belonged to them, that they had touched: Books, pencils and paper, a cupboard full of tea cups and mugs, all of them unique - there was so much in the house that reminded him of his parents at every turn. A house full of ghosts.

Up here it was better, more bearable.

The night sky was clear, only on the horizon a few low clouds pushed along the mountain flank, as if they were too lazy to climb over. Mayï continued to look at the stars. He loved the sight of them, how they twinkled and shimmered, always in the same place and yet different every time: coldly radiant in winter, almost velvety in summer. Or shimmering in different colors, as now in autumn. Mayï knew a lot about the stars and the universe, he devoured everything he could get his hands on in terms of facts and reports; among his instructors were renowned astronomers and pilots. Nevertheless, everything he learned was mere theory, specialized knowledge, nothing more. He wanted to experience the stars