Shortlisted
Where the Stars Move Once More
Canadian International School of Hong Kong, Nina Mueller, Fiction: Group 4
I
t is interesting how easily Heaven and Earth intertwine in a world where time stands still.
The sun, plaything of the gods, is tossed every morning above the taut horizon to sketch its
path across the pale sky, before being pulled beyond the realm of the living when the day
is over. The desert is a parchment to this never-ending game. As the deities toss the sun up
and down from beyond the edge of this Earth, the sand reflects its yellow and white flames, which
paint ever longer lines across the vast sheet until, as night invades the landscape, the entire paper
is dyed a rich black, dotted here and there with bright imperfections. There is nothing else to
indicate aging, nothing but this continual flow of sunrise to sunset to prove that time even exists.
The only face I have seen in days is the one carved into my memory.
As I stare out across the glittering sand, I bear witness to the next stage of the game. As the
sun dips out of sight, and the desert is cast in shadow, a heavenly hand throws up the moon in its
place. As the cold blue rays wash across the plain, draping a glistening veil across the region, it
seems the gods cannot stand to see a world without light. Grains of sand mimic the constellations
above. The white grains glittering on the surface of the dark dunes are so like the stars in the
Heavens that it is no longer easy to distinguish between the two. When I hold my torch closer to
the star chart in my left hand, I have to think for a moment about whether to look up or down to
find the constellation I seek.
It takes me a moment to locate the seven constellations that make up the Black Tortoise; I
double-check the chart before remounting my horse and proceeding towards the Ox. I tuck the
scroll into the pocket of my deel and remember how lucky I was that the guards were drunk the
night I stole it; otherwise, they would have seen me sneak into the monastery, and I would be back
where I started.
Lost in these thoughts, I almost miss the series of yellow flames that surface as I reach the
crest of a sand dune. The torches littered across the area illuminate a series of tents, the stretched,
distorted shadows of which cast unnatural patches of darkness across the otherwise moonlit sand.
There are people around a large fire in the center of the encampment.
People.
I urge my horse
down the slope and dismount when I reach the fringe of the camp. A sentry wearing a deerskin
vest over a tattered deel approaches me, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar. The metal blade
reflects the moonlight so completely it looks as though the weapon were crafted directly from a
bright sliver of the Heavens.
“Please,” I say, realizing for the first time how parched my voice is. I haven’t spoken in days.
“May I have lodgings for the night? I have come a long way.”
The sentry raises his eyebrows. “Alone?” he asks, suspicious.
“Yes,” I answer. He gives me a strange look suddenly, like he wants to ask me something else,
but he tips his chin towards the center of the camp instead.
“You must ask our leader. He is wary of visitors, especially after the recent attacks from the
North.” He leads me towards the center of the camp. The firelight that erupts as we emerge from
behind a tent is blinding, and it takes a minute before I realize the sentry has brought a tall man
to meet me. His eyes scrutinize my old deel and emaciated horse before meeting my gaze.
“We don’t lodge convicts,” he says curtly.
