The Birth of a Star, How a Star Became a Black Hole, and The Graveyard of Heroes
By Hanna Norimatsu
- The Birth of a Star
Verse:
She followed the fireflies,
Left us a star-child, never to be seen again.
He made sure his eyes shined,
Took care of our last light,
And we thanked the stars
For our knight, his silver tongue
Will make us great again.
In the ages past in a place called Perlas where men and women have learned to live with the injustice of their crocodile kings, where hope has run as thin as the stomachs of its people, where the streets wailed its discontentment sunrise to sunrise, where even the eyes of children have lost their shine and the belief of a better tomorrow has gone dry, there came a boy who was of great exception. A boy blessed by the stars.
Maria swallowed a star on the fifth month of her pregnancy according to the local lore, but her husband Jose would tell a different tale. He’d cough twice and start with this: “Many years ago, on a full moon’s midnight, as we were walking in the rice fields, a star fell from the heavens and shattered in front of us. When I opened my eyes the star has gone. No shard was left—only a small crater revealed where it once was.” Then a single tear would fall off his left eye, always that one eye. On a bad day he’d say no more. On a good day he’d tell you that, when they got home, Maria was never the same again. She would talk about seeing lights and how the sky asked her every night for its missing starlight. In the next few months she would bring life to a healthy baby boy, the famous star of the northern islands, and then vanish into the forest following the fireflies.
Jose knew the moment he entered the room that the boy was his son, for even in this infant form, the boy was a reflection of the man. “He has my nose and eyes,” he remembered with great relief. He’d been worried after all the rumors started that the baby wasn’t his. Another realization came upon him, not more than a breath after the first. He also knew that his boy could, possibly, be the child of a true star too, for he had a pale glow about him that was a touch too radiant for any of their kind to have. Perhaps those old hags were right. Maybe his wife did swallow a star. Maybe it happened just as he shielded his eyes. That was the first thing Jose knew about his son, the second was that he would do all he could to make sure this warm little boy had the world. He was a father now and he would always be one, with or without his wife. He believed that this boy was far more important than the both of them combined. The third thing he found out about his boy was, perhaps, the most startling of all: More than his son being half his and half not his, more than his newfound lesser-love for Maria. As the baby yawned he showed them a mouthful of silver.
The baby was born with a silver tongue and a pale glow that reminded one of a faraway star. A single glance was enough to make one speculate about the powers this charming little boy contained, speculate that he was, perhaps, destined to do great things, to slay the gold-hoarding kings. On the nights preceding the star-child’s birth each wooden house whispered that perhaps his fate was to be the one to save their tired bones. A hero is born and their hearts filled with hope. Finally, a shining future was but a hand-span away. Many children cared not for nighttime gossip, but other children hid under the tablecloths listening to old aunts and uncles’ murmur about a special boy, and they wondered what was it like to be born already famous, to be born and to never have to beg for love. One girl in particular thought how hard it must be for a baby to have just arrived and already be expected to clean up the mess of their fathers. She blew on the embers of their only fire lamp and placed the last bottle of beer in a basket for her own father to return to the local shop keeper the moment the sun showed up.
His journey from boy to man came fast, not by the count of years but by the many wars that came soon after. He would learn to climb up the ladder, making diamonds out of coals. No situation was bad enough for him not to be able to turn things his way. His light shone brightest under animosity. He realized that fighting up front wasn’t how one won. In fact, that guaranteed death, so he took a million calculated risks, was the best gambler the night had ever seen.
At first, he was a simple pawn of war, but he’d quickly learned the best stances to take for self-preservation. Then he’d become the representative of the northern islands. There he’d found a seat in the higher circle where he graced the world with his wonderful laws. Iron-clad, no man could deny this star’s brilliant plans. He was beyond charismatic, hypnotic almost. Socram could talk his way into any heart he chose and it was an excess of honey to the thirsty throats of the masses. He fed their starved honors with a hundred stories tailed with another hundred promises, many of which he took measures to follow through.
His words were everything these old souls wanted to hear. He got everything right, down to the quiet breaths and those small, powerful pauses. He had the perfect smile and wave. His handshakes were firm and they hinted at his confidence in his abilities. He was the face the people were looking for. The people cheered for they were right. They, too, took a big gamble—they gambled what was left of them. The scraps of pride grew like tongues of fire on paper houses because, this time, they were right and they’d found their hero.
“He’s every single great thing,” the people cheered. But most glorious of all was the brain in his head. That got him past his small town and into the center of the land. The northern star walked to their biggest city to see what other knowledge was at hand. The whispers never stopped, they stuck to his skin and followed him wherever he went. They threw gasoline to strengthen the burn of the man whom they trusted to dethrone the reptiles up in their golden chairs and ivory houses. The people would tell you this as they fanned their faces in the heat of their own flames: “With a character like that it was only a matter of time before he became the new king of this land.”
That’s where, according to his preachers, the rest of the world started to see what they already knew. That was how bright this star could truly shine given the opportunity. “And believe us,” they’d say, “He took every single one.” His mind was a bright star that entranced anyone who listened, like moths to the fire. He could read a hundred books of law and memorize their contents easily, like they were nursery rhymes. He wrote literature the likes of which his people had never seen, in a foreign language most of them couldn’t understand. He was a brilliant strategist too, never had to raise his own hands in order to win any fight. He was a brave man through and through who fought to defend them against the men of the red sun, the blue-eyed ones and, even, their own betraying brethren. Truly with his prowess he was becoming the hero everyone expected him to be.
When the people’s prophecy was fulfilled, when he vanquished the old kings with his words and wisdom, not a hand to his sword, he became the lighthouse that all ships looked for, the guiding light the people have prayed for to dead saints buried deep in the ground. He was the one thing these many tired islands could be proud of they sang. Hail to the gods an angel has come.
- How a Star Became a Black Hole
Chorus:
Save us starlight,
Save us from our tired bones.
Save us starlight,
Save us from the closing dark.
Starlight you’re our only hope,
The tower we made to cope.
Starlight you’re our only hope,
But who will save us when you implode.
(2x)
The biggest mistake this boy ever made when he became a man was to believe what the people sang. That was the start of his unraveling. He thought he was sent by the gods, and the people aided him by pretending he could make no mistakes. They all forgot he was only human. They fanned his flames, and he shone so brilliantly that he lost sight of the world around him. He even forgot the outlines that made him man. The people saw no one but him, and he saw no one but himself. Soon after the boy believed he could be god among men, and he thought the lives of the world was his to give or take. He took all he could, to sacrifice for the greater good, and for his own misguided desires.
The tired bones he was supposed to save, he buried in the ground, nameless, forgotten. He left them for the fairies of the forest and the mermaids of the sea. The oceans laughed with the rotting corpses, the sea foam sang back and asked if this man-god was better than the crocodile kings.
The change was so sudden. The people didn’t know what to make of it. Wasn’t he our hero, our most beloved? They wondered, maybe this is just a joke; perhaps this is something only the likes of him could understand.
They gave him their blind trust, believing he could do no wrong, even when blood was painted on every street, on every window, on each door the locus knocked and everyone opened their doors to be devoured. He tasted power, a taste far more addictive than any drug ever created. All the people jumped into the biggest maw of all, willingly. He, in turn, exercised that power like a lion of the fields.
He was now at the top of the hierarchy, and the whole of Perlas bowed to him. No man told him he was wrong. He was what the elders told their children to strive to be: Intelligent, handsome, and strong. All these things, the formula for admiration, never predicted how a star became a black hole. Perhaps, when man labels another as perfect, it’s hard to take back. The remainder of their pride would be nothing but shattered glass and then they’d have nothing left. For, one must remember, in this land where people believe they have nothing but their hearts to be proud of, it’s hard to admit when the heart realizes it’s wrong.
The first to fight him where the men and women who never liked him, some who abhorred him even before he began to fall. Those who followed were the ones who never knew him and, thus, never loved him. They were the first to know that he was turning cruel and knew this was not the man they wanted to rule them. They saw the bodies on the floor and knew they had to fight, to the death, if it meant saving a father, mother, daughter, son, husband or wife. For others it was too late, they could only avenge the dead. Third to take aim were the ones who loved him but couldn’t hold on to what he’d become: They were the ones who felt betrayed the most, for they knew that he had taken their prides, locked it in his box of gold. The only way to take this pride back was to fight the star they’d loved the most. The last to fight were those who were afraid, but knew that if they didn’t fight now, then they’d never say a word or fight any other injustice in the world.
They all fought him with the force of a lover betrayed, for no wounded animal could be more vengeful. No greater wound could be given than the wound of a heart. Those who died were gone, but the wails they left behind echoed through time and would not cease until those who sorrowed no longer needed to pass their wounds.
There are some who never fought against him but for him: Those who could not dispel his faded image of heroism and gulped down blood for the sake of their beliefs. They knew he wasn’t completely bad, he was still a man they honored, perhaps a friend, a father, a husband, or what comes in between. They loved him so much that they bore his cross. They bore what the world hurled at them and stood up with pride, despite the pool of shame they were to drown in. They showed their faces and let a million hands slap them, received the spit of a thousand mouths with honor. In the end, they cried for mercy they did not show. They formed a barricade with their bodies, but forgot how they pierced through the flesh of those who opposed them. How they shattered the bones of the young and the old to offer to their man-god a sacrifice worth making. They forgot the many beloveds they had to quiet through the slice of a knife, a gunshot, a push off a bridge, a hundred watts and a hundred nail-less hands for the sake of their most beloved one.
They fought with all their shattered pieces for a man that to everyone else wasn’t worth saving. Monsters can be saved, right? Their hearts asked this every day, but never stopped long enough to listen to the answers to their question. This is, perhaps, true love, but perhaps true love shouldn’t be so selfish.
There are many who cowered in fear, who didn’t fight on either side. They trembled at the opposition but they also trembled for the king. They didn’t sleep for they knew a small indication of allegiance would drown them in hate from either camp, so they shut their mouths and became like sheep. They did not oppose, they did not fight, and they only cared for their lives and those of their kin. They fought only for what was valuable to them. The rest of the world just wasn’t valuable enough, and they’d say this: No one really fights for the motherland, no one can love land that much. But they fight for the people who live there, the people we love. If you put your head close enough to their chests you would be able to hear their hearts yell: “When you say you fight for a country, you mean the people in it. And we choose to hush for the people we love just as you yell and cry and fight for those you love.”
In each exchange, the heart won over the mind. Right or wrong didn’t matter quite as much when one’s beloved was at stake. Each and everyone listened to their hearts to fight, or hide, or run away. The heart, in times of great distress, overrules the brain. It was also the hearts of the many that would turn the tide for the fallen star.
In the end, he shot another hero down, a golden hero born to stop him—for he was now the crocodile king. That was when the people fought. He’d finally destroyed their love. Soon this dead hero’s wife would rally the people.
She would know close to nothing about running government, but her heart would tell her to fight. She’d hide her own skeletons in the villas her family owned. She’d wipe her slates clean, for she knew how much people could hate heroes gone rogue. She wore her husband’s golden cloaks to battle. She was afraid, but she’d never let them know. In these islands, a leader must never let the people know that she is afraid of them, for then whom could she control? Why would they follow her? She must be flawed, but be all the good kinds of flawed. She mustn’t act perfect like he she would depose. She must be toned down. She must be like all the wounded citizens. Whoever the people love has power, so they must love her. They have to love her, even when she’s wrong.
She cast away the northern star past lands he never thought he’d need to go, and told the people now that the monster’s gone they can now call this home. But even she doesn’t believe her words are true, for even her home is empty now that her children’s father has gone where all the bones go.
In exile he found a place of clear water like that of his home. There were pearls there, too, but they weren’t the same. Nothing was the same. No gold or silver could make it the same. He remembered all the riches he took. He could spend the rest of his life here, but his mother was always calling him home among the fireflies, where she stood in all his dreams.
In his dying days he’d ask an old friend to send back a message, one last request, hoping that someone out there still loved him: “I want to be buried at home,” he whispered, for all these beautiful places were simply beautiful but they were never warm. “I want to be buried at home.” His family sent the letter to the people of Perlas but no one answered his call.
III. The Graveyard of Heroes
Bridge:
Our star, our hero has long gone,
Kept by those who still love him
Covered in glass, preserving the shadows of light.
They say we should forgive
His young ignorance,
Forget the past
But how could we when our star
Turned our bones to dust.
He died on unfamiliar land. He wanted to be buried back home, but the bones of the people he hushed screeched in protest. The new queen said no. Keep what you stole. You’ll never see even the shadow of home, they growled and the earth rumbled. To many, that would’ve been the perfect ending. To some it would be a shame to leave a once-great man out in foreign ground, so they started collecting the fragments of this star.
All was quiet for a while…
One day, a more forgiving king would let his remains return. From there, the shadows he left would worm their way deep into the landover which he’d reigned. Those who still loved him would fight for him once more, those who remained his friends, those who saw the man within the monster, those who saw a father in the murderer, a husband in the man who turned the seas red with the blood of sacrificial lambs.
They would fight until the last breath for the man they still loved, the faded star, the black hole, even if it meant stepping, again, on the old bones that had quieted down. They’d forgotten the warning on the graves: “Best be careful lest the old bones sing of their wounds to the living.” Best be careful. The bones would indeed sing, their spirits bound, but those bones were people who were loved deeply, too, once.
Love then becomes the worse curse of all, always just a breath away from hate. Those the unjustly slain had left would also fight with their own tired bones to see that he who was once a star will never be called a hero again. They can’t bury the past there where the land is already full of bones. There’s no space left to hide.
Now he lies in the grave of heroes. He is truly exceptional. Even in death he stirs this world. He left a battle up where the sun shines, and went down to a place where many will never forgive him. He lies with those bones he said he’d protect but instead left for dead.
No man is completely bad. That is why there are still those who calls him a hero. Perhaps he once was a hero, but when he spilled the blood of the innocent for the land to drink, when he turned his back, killed, stole from those who trusted him and hailed him, he lost the right to be called a hero. You’re only meant to forgive if an apology is offered in sincerity, that’s what the elders say now.
Perhaps he was never a hero, for he was only there to prove a point, to insist that he was special to the land that, from his birth, asked him to do just that. Perhaps the people shouldn’t have given so much power to one man to begin with. They should have known that a single person couldn’t save them all on his own. They gave him no rules to follow and so he followed none. There were so many of them, but not one of them could tell the man they loved that he was wrong.
To some it was live and let live. But the dead cannot let live. They bring the old wounds back up for the world to see so they can be addressed properly, so the pain can heal at last. They only desire some form of apology now for the love lost that no gold or silver could ever bring back. They beg the world to forgive this black star, for they are now also tired bones.
Perhaps they are right, but it’s easier to forgive when you were never hurt. It is difficult to forgive when no one you love still cannot be found after decades. To others he is still a hero, and deserves a proper place of worship, more than those he caused to perish, more valuable than even the self. Perhaps old offenses wouldn’t have been brought up if only Socram’s family respected the people enough to not insist on a hero’s burial. Even the old star himself wanted only to be buried where his mother rests—and even that, he didn’t deserve.