Flightless Stars
Kore Yamazaki
Five dry cocoons rolled across my palm.
“What’s with these?”
Eugene, the well-built man seated next to me on the bench, folded the cloth bag that’d held the cocoons and laughed. He sounded proud of himself.
Helsinki in early October was a little chilly, but the trees in this seaside park hadn’t yet changed color, and the sunlight warmed things considerably.
“Silkworm cocoons,” he said.
“I can see that!” I glared at him, adjusting my glasses. “I’m asking why you have something like this.”
My shoulders were half as broad as Eugene’s, so no amount of glaring on my part would ever intimidate my friend.
Laughing, Eugene took a wallet from his backpack and counted his money. The man had never owned a credit card, so he always paid in cash. I’d have preferred he wire me the money—it was easier, and the fee was pretty cheap—but he was twice my age, and his lack of credit cards likely had something to do with his papers. That was a whole other mess.
“Don’t get so upset, Jonathan. Few months ago, I stayed at an inn with…can’t remember if he was Chinese or Japanese. Either way, an Asian guy gave ’em to me. Said these were rare cocoons, and if you spin ’em they’ll shine like silver.”
“Silver?”
He made a show of groaning and glaring at his wallet, looking from his backpack to the pile of receipts and the calculator. He could afford this amount, honestly.
“A different shine to ’em than your average silk.”
“If these were that valuable, why give ’em to you?”
I shoved a receipt toward him. He scowled. His already narrow eyes narrowed further and then softened in relief. I guess he had enough.
“Well, he said he had no use for ’em. Didn’t know how to reel ’em, and only had five. I thought they might be more up your alley, Jonathan.”
“Well, if you’re giving ’em away, I’ll take ’em.”
I glanced down at the empty cloth bag and carefully put the five cocoons back inside. I felt it would be wrong to treat them roughly, probably because they clearly still carried pupa.
Just as I’d finished putting the bag in my backpack, Eugene thrust a thick bundle of Euros into my hand. He then slipped a few bills into his wallet and returned the wallet to his backpack. Euros didn’t need to be exchanged, which was helpful for life on the road.
“Well, my livelihood does depend on this sort of thing, but I’ve never reeled a cocoon before.”
My livelihood? Yeah, that was the word for it.
I made a living selling special cloth to mages and alchemists. I’d occasionally finish the item myself and cast a spell on it, but it wasn’t a common practice. It was easy to attach spells to the cloth I made, so I bought the vast majority of it as a material for subsequent use.
These backpacks were a major product of mine. With magic energy woven into the fabric, they could hold ten to twelve times more than their size suggested. Lots of magic folk lived on the road and needed to haul around research materials, essays, cursed items, etc. I myself used them to carry products, sewing machines, knitting needles, assorted looms, multiple types of thread, yarn, cloth of all colors. Other than how hard it was to find the one thing I actually needed, the packs were quite well made, if I did say so myself.
Eugene gripped his jacket with both hands and grinned proudly.
“Your cloth really is perfect for casting spells. Look at this jacket you tailored for me; I’ve been wearing the thing ten years, and it ain’t frayed at all. I got stabbed the other day, and it straight up deflected the blade! You’re a good mage,” Eugene said.
“That’s all I can really do though.”
I ignored his alarming anecdote. Getting stabbed wasn’t uncommon for anyone who lived in the world’s back alleys.
“What are you talking about, kid? You ain’t even fifty yet. You can try your hand at anything you want.”
“It doesn’t suit me, you know. Living for decades looking this young.”
I glanced down at the cocoons in my hand.
I’d stopped aging around sixteen, or maybe eighteen.
No wrinkles or spots, no bony arms and legs. No need to worry about my eyesight or blood pressure. My father had had high blood pressure. My little brother and sister were just like him, so they might be getting real worried about it.
My brother married a girl from our hometown. When I heard he’d had a grandkid, I stopped making yearly visits home.
Four years after I set out on my journey, the master who’d spotted my talent and taught me all manner of things vanished without leaving so much as a letter of explanation. By now, I felt sure he was dead.
Through no desire of my own, I was always left behind.
I sensed someone looking at me, and a few seconds later Eugene patted me on the back. I could feel the heat of his palm through my jacket.
“It ain’t good to think too deep about these things. It’s just what fate has in store for us,” he said.
I didn’t answer, but this didn’t seem to bother Eugene.
If I lived as long as Eugene, maybe I’d come to see it that way.
I sighed. Eugene gave me another fatherly pat.
“Here, now, don’t look so gloomy. Let’s go down this hill, grab a bite at a stand somewhere. There’s a festival on today! We can grab some meatballs, maybe some salmon cream soup or fried muikku. Good eats drive the bad things away.”
This was a blatant attempt to cheer me up, but the corners of my mouth twitched anyway, and my stomach growled.
Even depressed, I still got hungry.
I didn’t know whether to smile or feel sad about that. Either way, Eugene and I went down that hill together.
With his tab paid up and my purse full, I could have easily gotten a room.
But for some reason I felt hesitant to sleep in a comfortable bed, so I took a sleeping bag and passed the night in the woods near town.
Moss was soft on my back and under my head.
The city noises were faint on the night air. The chilled breeze carried the sounds of the surf from the Gulf of Finland. My bespelled sleeping bag kept the cold out, warm as a sauna. Soon, I felt very sleepy.
If my nights were too peaceful, I felt as if I wouldn’t wake in the morning.
I opened my eyes and saw the stars twinkling.
Their hard light resembled the color of the cocoons I’d seen that afternoon.
I’d never reeled a cocoon; had barely seen one before. I couldn’t be sure just how unusual the cocoons in my bag really were.
Even after nearly fifty years on this earth, I still knew almost nothing.
That fact came as a relief somehow. I closed my eyes for good this time. Tomorrow I’d research how to reel silkworm cocoons.
Hurry.
For a moment, I thought I heard the stars speak.
The voice was faint but vibrant. There was something about it I couldn’t ignore.
I stood, searching for the voice’s source. It was closer than I’d imagined.
Like the stars above, a metallic gleam spilled around my feet…from my backpack.
I hastily bent down and scooped the light’s source from the bag’s side pocket.
It was the cocoons Eugene had given me.
Hurry, hurry.
Hurry, hurry.
As the voices whispered, the bluish light shimmered like smoke.
“What’s the rush?” I said, lacing my voice with magic so the cocoons could understand me.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry!
The cocoons began shrieking.
“Come on, work with me. Hurry to do what?”
Hurry, hurry.
Hurry, hurry.
Hurry and reel us.
I felt cold, smooth fingers brush against my face.
I jerked backward and fell on my ass. The cocoons seemed to calm down a little, as the shimmering slowed.
“You said to reel you? But…”
I didn’t deal in weaving, sewing, and trading cloth for nothing. I may not know the exact process required to reel silk from a cocoon, but I knew how to pull the thread.
You put the dried cocoons in boiling water to loosen the threads, leaving the pupa inside.
Don’t worry.
I could sense no sadness in the voice.
We know what will become of us.
Yes, yes, at last.
We must become that.
At last we’ve found a man who will turn us into thread.
The voices sang and laughed as the cocoons’ light flickered. Something about the voices reminded me of a child’s lullaby.
“Let me look into it.”
I glanced at the phone by my sleeping bag and saw the time.
Both sleep and dawn seemed far away…
The world had certainly become more convenient, I thought, skimming the search results.
I found the recipe to make silkworm thread much faster than expected, but the work would be nigh impossible in the dark. I talked the cocoons down and waited patiently for dawn. The sky to the east then began turning slightly red. It was time to prepare.
I took a portable gas stove and pot from my backpack, poured in a bottle of water, and lit the burner. There weren’t many cocoons, and the pot was small, so it would boil quickly.
Meanwhile, dawn seeped across the sky.
I won’t be thread.
One of the cocoons suddenly called out to me. I squinted, wondering which, and saw the largest one twitching.
I’ll lay eggs instead.
I hadn’t asked if they were alive. All the cocoons should have long since been dead, but since they were talking to me I thought it best to listen.