Painting a Path Across the Stars
There is a certain level of unadulterated delight that comes with being wholly engrossed in the act of creation. In Aisha’s case, creating began not with the act of putting brush to canvas, but in the art of preparation. Unboxing the pigments held in their little pots - shimmering argent, luminous augur, deepest ichor and brightest ivory. Delicately washing brushes with their spidersilk bristles beneath water from a long forgotten spring. Allowing her fingers to lightly brush over the paint pot lids, intuiting what would be needed not only by sight but by the feelings that each colour could bring to life. If she had had all the time in the world, she could have spent an eternity there in a world of endless possibilities.
But time, as with all things, had long become a finite and precious resource.
The wayfarer had been woken early in the morning by a gruff voice on the vox, a guttural demand from the universe channeled into the smoky grunts of a starship’s captain. He had identified himself as Captain Erwin Nymera of the ship Cassandra’s Wisdom, an independent entrepreneur plying his trade in the newly charted reaches of the Alphari Sector. It was none of Aisha’s business whether that made him a legitimate businessman or an illicit dealer- only that he and his crew were adrift in the vastness of space, and he had credit to spare.
“So,” the message went on after an initial tirade, “I heard you work well… and more importantly, cheap. We got stuck on the wrong end of a black hole, and now I think we’re off on the far end of Alphari. The part near Regulus, y’know?”
Regulus, Aisha mused, was the new name for the planet. The name for a language of hard sounds and harder edges, bringing it in line with a hundred thousand others according to Standard Dialect. She remembered when its name had been a series of soft whispers, dancing on the tip of her tongue. Eyaskala, it had been. Flowing softly from between her lips. Spoken by millions, worshipped and revered by billions. Back in the oldest days.
“Anyways,” continued the captain’s voice without any regard for the person on the other end, “It’s dim on our end. Too dim to get to the nearest waystation. We don’t need a fancy pathing - whatever gets us to the closest Central outpost’ll do. And if you can turn it ‘round by 0400 I’ll throw in a bonus, because we might actually be on time to make this delivery.”
The recording ended with a half-silence, the call and response of a conversation in the background cut off for time. For a long moment, Aisha wanted to shirk the responsibility laid at her feet, a mockery of an offering. But who was she, to turn down the plea of the lost and weary? Even if the lost had not drifted so much as pushed, and the weary were wearisome in turn.
With little fanfare, Aisha took her paints, brushes, and a white-rimmed pair of glasses in her arms, making her way to the open window. She put on her lenses in a swift and familiar motion, beginning to cycle through a thousand shades of night. Ochre, obsidian, each slightly and subtly darker than the other until she managed to find what she wanted - almost total black, tinged with hints of wisteria and lilac. Once, she had been able to pick out the pathways without external aid, able to spot the shimmering stepping stones of the universe with the bare naked eye. But here, planetside, the world was crowded with ever-present illumination, polluting and drowning out the sky.
Much as it would have been easy to slip into ruminations on the past, it would do no good to dive down that rabbit hole. So instead Aisha began to focus, squinting her eyes and looking through the inky darkness. Past the familiar reaches of the Milky Way, the curves of the star streams, past the planets and planetoids, heading further into the universe. As she peered further into space the wayfarer couldn’t help but notice the hundreds of thousands of stars flaring orange and red, breathing their last. It would only take a few minutes - no, not longer than a minute, to dab a dying star with shades of white or green, to resurrect it with new life. But there wasn’t enough time, enough paint, enough justification, and Aisha had her work to do. Past the valleys of dying stars, the endless black holes, the crabs and archers and flowing dragons, Aisha gazed deeply into the vast infinities of the sky until she found what she was looking for.
What had once been Eyaskala and was now Regulus, throbbing with the palest blue, surrounded by lost ships and starsailors. She couldn’t quite tell from planetside which of these was harboring Captain Erwin, only that he must have been one of the many who had found themselves adrift in the vastness. Regulus was the brightest star in the area, everything else dying or long since passed, but this was not an impossible task. It was just a matter of painting the path bright.
From her woven basket of paints she reached for the moonlit silver, the pot nearly empty save for the slightest sheen of it coating the bottom of the pot. With a quiet sigh Aisha looked to the other paints, taking out a palette and a few palette knives. True silver, pure silver, was difficult to procure, but if the Captain wanted a rush job then a mixed blend would suffice. One part cobalt blue, the color of the ocean far away from man’s touch. One part sable black, lighter than the night sky but darker than a raven’s wings. Finally, just a hint of angel’s white, though this was starting to run low as well. The silver it created was fool’s silver, false silver, but it would last long enough to light the captain’s way.
First was the trail. The thinnest line Aisha could paint along the length of the sky so as not to burden the universe, leading towards the cluster of spaceships. It widened when reaching more stars - a smattering of blue, a cluster of white, and every so often a fading red dwarf that Aisha could only offer a silent prayer. Each functioned as a waypoint, another node in the vastness of space that could be seen by those with true sight. Lightyear by lightyear, galaxy by galaxy, until the silvery trail snaked its way through the vastness of space and made its way to a Central station. If the Captain was a true Captain it would guide him well. And if not… Part of Aisha thought that he would then deserve to remain drifting, but that was the part of her she had learned no longer belonged planetside. A goddess of a million moons again. So instead she took an untouched canvas, pristine in its blankness, and began to paint on the surface the path she had traced among the stars. A poor facsimile, but it would serve as a fine map.
As she painted the last dot, the last star, Aisha could feel what wonder and excitement had built up in her beginning to fade. Already, the urge to create was waning. Ebbing. What wonders she could conjure up, if she hadn’t needed to worry about the necessities of mortality. Of food, rent, bills. The thoughts were rising up, gnawing at the wayfarer, until she turned to look at what she had made. An imperfect thing. A serviceable, clumsy starmap, rushed out and panicked, with wobbly lines and blotchy stars. Even so, it was enough. Enough, at least, to try and look forward to the next job.