Young Writers Society

The God spoke to the butterfly from his golden bridge on the World Edge,

calling down to it through the sky. The butterfly heard His voice as it swam in

the light of the sunset over the ocean, and soared abruptly upwards, up, up, out

of the gentle, silvery splashing of the sea, up into the clouds.

I’m here, it called out to Him in the purple-gold brilliance. I’m here.

They watched together, the butterfly and the God, as the light slowly

slipped down behind His palace at the very end of the world, high up in the

slowly darkening clouds. Last slivers of light peeked up over the horizon,

throwing themselves like darting, golden birds against the surreal, domed beauty of

Heaven. The God looked at the butterfly and smiled as the moon sneaked up in a

shrouded pale gleam.

I didn’t know colors like that existed, the butterfly told Him.

From far below, the sea swished and swirled against itself, singing

expressly to Him and the butterfly, a whispering symphony conducted by the

moon. The Aeorinthyne Sea, the sea of all the world, it was, and the only thing

it cared to sing for was the God. Tonight though, because the God had asked, it

sang for the butterfly instead, the little fluorescent bit of sky that billowed its

wings gently in time to the music.

Do you like it? the waves swish-swirled up to their butterfly. We really

hope you like it.

The butterfly did. He flew down from the golden bridge and skimmed just

over the waves’ tossing heads, throwing little bits of its light down to them so

that they would have something to play with when they were done making music.

Thank you, they called up to the little, happy butterfly as it zipped up to

the misty ethereality of the clouds. Thank you, they called up to the God, because

after all there wouldn’t even be a butterfly without Him.

There were moon shadows on the golden bridge at the World Edge when

the butterfly got back, and the God was looking down into the pitching, rocking

waves, thinking.

What is it? the butterfly asked, making a little loop in the air, still thrilled

because of the very special music that was just for it. The waves echoed it, and

so did the moon, echoing, echoing amongst the subtle, surreal, domed beauty of

Heaven and the World Edge. Is something wrong?

He was still looking down into the waves of the Aeorinthyne Sea as they

chimed up to him, What is it? What is it?

“I’ve made a world of Sea,” He said to the butterfly. “And though the Sea

is a beautiful thing to have made, it needs more.”

The butterfly wondered what it could be, letting his wings billow slightly

in the fresh breeze that the night sent to them.

More butterflies? it asked finally, in all seriousness, watching intently the

little periwinkle shapes his wings made on the golden bridge in the moonlight.

“What good are more butterflies when the World has you?” the God asked

it, leaning on the railing and smiling a bit, even though the butterfly couldn’t see

what was funny. It looked intently at the God, along with the waves, the moon

and the night and it pondered.

More fish? the Sea whispered breathlessly up at Him. Maybe?

“No.” The God leaned on the bridge railing at the edge of the World and

stared down, down into the darkness of the waves.

Angels? asked the moon, because the God had already told them of His

plans. The moon had since been waiting with fierce impatience to see the

anticipated angels.

“Not yet. It’s too soon for angels.”

Animals other than fish? the Sea asked, dredging for a suggestion worthy

of His approval, because although he was a kind God, they all wanted to please

Him. The God heard it and a moment later laughed, and the waves whispered

excitedly amongst themselves.

“My good waves,” he called down to them, leaning over the rail. “How

am I to make animals that walk on water?”

The waves found that they didn’t know, though they could tell that He

already had an answer. It seemed like a very simple question, but they pondered

amongst themselves and they remained puzzled. The butterfly couldn’t think of the

answer either, so it just hovered in the breeze at His shoulder and waited for

Him to answer the question for them all.

The God opened the rippling curtain at the end of the bridge and went

down through it into Heaven. He took the great jeweled spear that leaned upright

against His throne and came back out again to the World Edge with one step, for

the steps of the God are long and the butterfly trailed faithfully behind him the

whole way.

Land? the moon asked finally, staring at the polished wood and the silver

hand-grip, where the engraving was nearly worn away.

The God smiled at it and suddenly He wasn’t on the bridge anymore, He

was in, on and amongst cloud, with the little transparent purple butterfly right

there beside Him. He thrust down through the clouds into the Sea with His spear

and the wind flew up and around the shaft bringing waves with it, throwing the

God’s hair out around His shoulders and sending the butterfly in a little loop

from its force. The Sea gazed in awe as the shining, wet tip of the spear went

up, up, and all of the little droplets fell down, down into the Sea. The wind

blew them far across the Aeorinthyne, the Sea of the World, and as they fell, the

little droplets became land, masses of green glory in a swishing, swirling bed of

blue just as the sun rose again and marked the arrival of the second day of the

butterfly’s life and the lives of all the rest of them.

Man and vegetation followed the little crystalline droplets into the

Aeorinthyne, man evolved and marked out continents and eventually forgot about

the God. They made war against each other, holy wars and wars for land and

food and space, and never once did they look up, up, and actually see the golden

bridge in the sky, and the God that held council with His angels at the very edge

of the world.

Man made chemical wars after that, made weaponry that could kill

instantly and burn entire cities to cinder. Famine and Sickness ran wild in the

streets of the cities, and the Death followed in their wake, tormenting man in

glee. The God saw it all but did not intervene, for though he was a loving God,

the Death had a right to the world, too.

The Sea that He had created was explored, marked, charted, polluted and

fished. Man made music, loud and dissonant in the blaring of horns and the

shouting, screaming, clanking, whistling, ringing of everyday life, until none cared

to hear the Sea’s songs anymore, even at night, while the moon conducted its

symphonies for the pleasure of the angels.

The God saw all of it, millions of years later, and He saw that some of it

was good, as He stood alone in the shadow of His hall in gold-domed, invisible

Heaven. He sank down, tired, into His throne, and took a deep breath, listening

for the Sea’s song. And even though most men forgot about Him, never knew the

butterfly and never once heard the Sea sing, the animals and the tides still knew,

and He still watched over the World’s people from His bridge, and kept them all

safe.

It came at night, a forgotten butterfly dancing along on the edge of the

dawn and the light, its iridescent purple wings fluttering like shards of transparent

glass amongst the crystal, thin-veined leaves. Turquoise light shone through the

stained glass wings, over-lapping to dark blue, casting itself into spangled patterns

on the darkening trees. The sun went down slowly, giving the butterfly jewels of

light with which to adorn its wings, as the butterfly flew up, up out of the

darkening glade and into the clouds above.

I’m here, it called up, into the sky at the very edge of the world. I’m

coming.

So it was. And so it had been, since the beginning of time.