Boy of the Moon

1

A boy once fell from the Moon. His eyes were silver and his hair was white. 

He liked the Earth so much that he stopped trying to go back; but, when the full moon came out once a month the boy could not forget the home he had lost. He missed the solitude of the Moon and the way the Earth looked below. The Earth was much more magnificent on the ground, and the boy never had enjoyed the company of a companion, but there was a familiarity to the grayness and white brilliancy of the moon dust that comforted him. He paled in comparison to the colors of the Earth but on the Moon he was home...

"Isn't this the story of the Little Prince?" asked Christopher-Elliot.

"Le Petit Prince? Non. This is different. If you think so, then where is the rose?" said Emile.

"I don't know. But this is just like the Little Prince without the rose and on the Moon."

Emile pretended that Christopher-Elliot was a daft little fly and swatted his complaints away appropriately. In the dim white light of the flashlight he continued to read his favorite story.

Four moons passed and the silver began disappearing from the boy's eyes. The colors crumbled like powder and floated on the wind. He had not slept since his fall. When the colors disappeared he could not look at the Sun so he hid in a barn in the morning and came out to watch the Moon at night. He hated the Sun for chasing his home away.

He saw a shooting star one day and instantly fell in love...

"Ew, is this a love story? I don't like those very much," said Christopher-Elliot.

"Shut up, stupid. This is different, I promise," replied Emile with a sigh, and turned the page.

The boy looked and looked night after night at the beautiful streak of light that only appeared when the Moon was nigh, like a wink specially for him. He could swear he had never noticed it before until that first night, on the Moon or on Earth. He could not long for his return to the Moon anymore because a new longing had taken its place. The beauty of the shooting star had brought back the liquid silver of his eyes and his heart inflated like a red balloon which popped when the light streaked away.

The little boy, lonely for so long, felt very much alone. After what seemed like a lifetime of watching, the boy found himself accustomed to the comings and goings of the light and began speaking to it. He did not know what to say as it were, so the first conversations went something like this:

"Hello."

Then silence. The boy was afraid that the light would be afraid because it was so delicate and bright that a few loud words in the night would ripple and blow it away, like the wispy seeds of a dandelion. So the boy whispered:

"Hello. Are you afraid?"

He looked up at the dark box of a sky littered with small glittering stars. The boy thought they suddenly paled in comparison to his love and as if at the mention of this fact, the light streaked across the sky in a swelling burst of white light. The boy's heart knocked twice on his chest to let him know that it felt something, and the boy laid a gentle hand over it to say he had felt something too.

Emile stopped reading to catch his breath. His voice had become hoarse from whispering, his throat felt pebbly. As he swallowed the pebbles away, his eyes wandered to his friend. Christopher-Elliot was wide-eyed, gazing at the page they were on in something of a dreamy curiosity. Without noticing, he had brought his own freckly hand to his chest, waiting. The pebbles in Emile's throat had already tumbled down into his stomach so he could continue reading. But he didn't. He looked and smiled a smug smile until Christopher-Elliot turned his way. He was clearly annoyed.

"Why have you stopped? What happens next?" he whispered.

"You told me you didn't like romance so I have stopped. I'm sleepy anyway," replied Emile and yawned. Perhaps a little over-dramatically, he collapsed on the bed and pretended to snore. Christopher-Elliot pinched his arm.

"Come on, stupid, you never snore! Stop pretending."

Emile continued to snore.

"You'll wake your parents! I'm not supposed to be here, you know," whispered Christopher-Elliot. He pinched Emile's cheek hard for good measure but Emile did not budge.

"If you don't wake up, I'll leave."

He did not really want to leave but his curiosity itched him all over and he could not read - yet. At least, not as Emile read. Christopher-Elliot read each syllable very carefully and slowly so that he didn't miss any of them which made him sound like a robot. When Emile read, Christopher-Elliot thought, when he read he made Christopher-Elliot feel nice things and also something sad. When Emile read it was as if Emile was the little boy and...

In his anger, Christopher-Elliot took one last glance at the book and dangled his legs over the bed. Emile's bed was just next to the window and he could see the Moon, full and luminescent through the fluttering white curtains. He willed to see a shooting star, to see that overshadowing light burst in front of his eyes and fill his heart. The grey shadows of night clouds entered the window frame instead and almost stifled the moonlight. Christopher-Elliot dreaded climbing out the window back home. Now that Emile had left him alone in wakefulness he had no choice but to face the darkness on his own, a being he was sure was out to get him. He scooted to the very edge of the bed.

Just before his toes grazed the floor he looked behind him to see Emile lying on his side, eyes already open and watching. Christopher-Elliot admired the similarities between the little boy from the Moon and Emile: their glowing white hair (although Emile's was more milky yellow than white), their tissue-paper skin and, most importantly, their liquid silver eyes. Looking right into the murky silver now, Christopher-Elliot imagined - strangely so - the shooting star swimming in Emile's eyes like a fish with a brilliant, fluttering tail.

"Why did you change your mind?" asked Emile, still watching him.

"About what?"

"About the story. First you didn't like it very much and then you did. Didn't you?"

"Yes. I liked it a lot."

"I was right and you were wrong, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yes. It was different. I liked it," whispered Christopher-Elliot, "Please read what happens next."

"I will read the story, but first..." Emile said, reaching his hand towards Christopher-Elliot. It took only one bruising pinch to the leg to have him fall back onto the bed in pain. Emile's eyes scrunched up because he was laughing and Christopher-Elliot's face was red because he was crying and laughing.

"What was that for!.."

"You pinched me twice. I had to take revenge."

Despite his blossoming bruise, Christopher-Elliot took hold of one of the corners of the bed-sheet and, like an angered baby raccoon, pounced on Emile who, until then, had been clutching his stomach in delight. The bed-sheet landed around him and he struggled, kicking and punching this way and that. Then, all was silent. Emile had disappeared under a cotton fluff of bed-sheets.

"Emile?" whispered Christopher-Elliot. There were only the sounds of wind and Christopher-Elliot heavily breathing, occasionally Emile's disembodied, muffled giggles. One by one, Christopher-Elliot peeled back each layer of bed-sheet and repeated Emile's name.

"Got you!" Emile yelled in a whisper, jumping out of his cocoon and enveloped Christopher-Elliot in the fabric with him. After a period of jokes and laughter, they realized that they had somehow returned to the positions they had been in before. The storybook open, illuminated by a flashlight that probably gave the boys away under the sheets. It glowed like a jellyfish nightlight on the bed.

"Attends, let's read," said Emile, smiling at Christopher-Elliot in a way that reminded Christopher-Elliot of the shooting star again. His heart knocked on his chest to tell him something, but his attention was pulled back to Emile's story.