SUN

The Words of the Sun

Sarena Ulibarri

 

The sun spoke to me today, and I can tell no one. I am telling you, dear Zinnia, my beloved sister, because you know me well enough to know I am not prone to flights of fancy, that I am not the type to speak with birds or see portends in the clouds or prophecies in my dreams. And yet, the sun spoke to me. As our army marched toward Ryland this morning, dawn broke over the mountain peak and I lifted my face to its warmth, reveling in the chance to burn away the chill of the night. One sunbeam seemed to shine directly on me like a tunnel of light. I looked into it and saw the face of an old man, frowning sternly back at me. He spoke, but it was not in any language I have heard before. When I turned to see if anyone else had heard, the vision and voice disappeared, and everyone strode steadily as though nothing had happened.

Now I know what questions you will want to ask me: Have I been sleeping enough? Am I well-nourished? Have I been checking my drinks for contaminates? And the answer to all of those, of course, is no. I am a soldier, marching toward the destruction of the enemy who seeks to destroy all worship of the sun god. I sleep fitfully on the cold, hard ground, surrounded by the snoring, farting bodies of the rest of my platoon. I eat and drink whatever is given to me with little regard for taste or substance, choking it down as fast as I can. So perhaps that’s all this vision was: a tendril of dream sneaking into my waking hours, a bit of delusion brought on by moldy bread or sour juice. I would be grateful to realize that’s all it was, for I was not meant to be prophet or priest.

 

 

We draw closer to our enemy’s borders. I hear whispers among the ranks that the Rylanders hold dark, violent rituals meant to defile the sun god, that they commit terrible crimes against their own children and animals. I wonder how much of it has been exaggerated in the retelling, but I bite my tongue. To speak any doubt would be treason and blasphemy. It may still be treason to write the words here. But by the time you receive these letters, Zinnia, the war will be over. I hope. I have to believe.

Today was the Festival of the Sun God. It was a cloudy and miserable day for us, and we did not see the sun once. Though we sang the festival songs while we marched, they took on a somber tone, unaccompanied by instruments or the voices of children and the roar of bonfires. Though we march in the sun god’s service, we feel disconnected from him, so far from our sun-blessed homes.

I hope the sun god was with you today, and that the whole town was wild with celebration. I found comfort in recollections of climbing on the statue together when we were children, and sharing the fiery spice-bread until we had to run for the water tank, and dancing around the bonfires at sunset, our arms flailing in ecstasy, hair slapping across our sweaty faces.

I almost wish no one had reminded us that the festival was today. These memories of marching under a cold sunless sky and reciting songs like rote lessons do not belong in the same category as those memories of festivals spent dancing with the people I love. Though every step takes me farther away from you, I try to tell myself that each step actually brings us closer to our goal, and therefore closer to our trip back home.

 

 

The sun spoke to me again today. This time, I am sure. It was no dream or hallucination: the clouds parted and the face looked down on me as real and solid as any of my fellow soldiers, the voice steady and clear. Except I still could not understand the words. When the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, I repeated the sounds under my breath, trying to memorize the shape of them, match them to any kind of meaning. I could fathom none. Until…

Oh, Zinnia, this must truly be blasphemy for me to relate what I am about to, but it is true, as true as anything I have ever known. We reached the borders of our enemy’s lands today, and set up camp to prepare for tomorrow’s siege. I imagine it must look quite threatening from down in the village of Ryland, all of our orange and red banners lined up on the hill that overlooks their valley.

Near dusk, a small band of emissaries climbed the hill, riding on gray horses. I thought at first that they carried torches, but they were small glass orbs that shined with light. Part of their heresy, some of the soldiers whispered, bits of the sun captured for their personal use. A few of our officers went out to meet with them and the rest of us crowded as close as we were allowed, straining to hear what was said. And, Zinnia, I swear, when the enemy spoke, it was in the very same language that the sun had spoken to me. The words were not all the same, but I recognized a few, and the sounds of the words…I’m certain they were the same tongue. One of the officers spoke back to them, haltingly, with all the sharp edges shaved off, and then the emissaries rode their gray horses back down into the valley.

We march in service of the sun god, to preserve his traditions, to destroy those who would seek to destroy his worshipers. But what does it mean that the language of the sun god is the same as the language of our enemies?

 

 

The siege was delayed. We awoke in the night to a perimeter of fire that pushed us farther back up the hill. Zinnia, you might be ashamed of me for saying this, but I was glad. Or maybe, you more than anyone would understand, since you were always the one pulling me away from fights, since you begged me not to join this foolish crusade in the first place.

I couldn’t sleep, and my stomach was sick every time I recalled the sharp consonants and swallowed vowels of the Rylanders who had come to speak with us. I kept hoping that morning would bring some kind of sign, another vision from the sun god that would assure me we were on the right and righteous path as we had been told we were. But then the fire came, and I was already awake when the guards sounded the alarm, tossing fitfully in my camp, and Zinnia, I’m sorry, but I did something I never thought I was capable of: I deserted. In the chaos of the retreat, I grabbed my pack and slipped off between the trees, following a rocky goat trail down into the valley.

Perhaps this choice means these letters will never reach you, and if so, I regret that almost as much as I regret breaking my promise that I would return home unharmed. Yet I must continue to write, as I have found myself in a place where my spoken words have no meaning to those around me. Well, the words of our language, anyway.

At the edge of Ryland, I was accosted by an enemy platoon, and I fell to my knees and repeated the words the sun had spoken to me. The soldiers lowered their weapons instantly, and looked uncertainly toward their sergeant, who was a hard-faced woman perhaps ten years older than you. She stepped toward me, and asked me something in their language. I shook my head to indicate I didn’t understand, and repeated the words of the sun again, straining to be precise with the syllables, clear as I could be, though my voice shook with stress and I did not know if I pronounced them all correctly. The sergeant frowned, but no one raised weapons against me. Two of the soldiers grabbed my arms, pulling me to my feet, and marched me into the village.

I realized as I followed them that Ryland was not a village at all, but a city, dense and complex, with ancient stone buildings and modern marketplaces, and those glowing orbs I had seen the emissaries carrying were everywhere, lighting the streets like it was daytime, though it was still before dawn. And yet the symbol of the sun god was stamped everywhere. It looked a little different than ours, but it was indisputably the same deity.

They led me through an orb-lit plaza, and into a building larger than anything I’d ever seen back home, with great marble columns and statues flanking the entrance. Inside, I was tossed into a small cell with steel doors and windows. And here I wait to see whether I will be killed by those who have captured me, or by those I betrayed.

 

 

Everything is different now, Zinnia. These letters will reach you after all, I have been guaranteed. And perhaps I will return to you as well, though there are still many risks between now and then. But if all goes according to plan, then I will return home, not as a deserter or a prisoner, but as a hero. As the one who stopped an unnecessary war. I will ride into town on a white horse with a crown of sunflowers, ready to lead everyone into a time of peace and prosperity, an era free of the petty prejudices that have driven us apart and obscured the truth.

As I languished in the cell, sure of my own imminent destruction, a woman came to visit me. She was a priestess, with gold robes that were embroidered with the sun god’s face—that very face I had seen twice, which had spoken to me and only me. She knelt before me, and asked me to repeat the words I had spoken to the soldiers. She spoke our language, but not well, her accent thick, vocabulary limited, and grammar confused. But still, we struggled through a conversation, and I told her of our army’s goal to protect the worship of the sun god. She explained that the claims of blasphemy and oppression were a pretense, that the army really intended to gain access to a mine rich in a mineral that could store the sun’s power—the source of the orbs I saw all over Ryland, which could do much more than simply light a nighttime city. I believed her. We were the ones marching into their territory, after all, and nothing I had heard about Ryland matched what I had seen of it. The reports that they wanted to destroy us for worshiping the sun god seemed much more distant and far-fetched than a simple conflict over scarce resources.

We are the enemy, Zinnia, you must understand. We were led astray by lies, and we have deviated so far from the sun god’s path that he cannot even speak to us. But there is time to change. To negotiate for this mineral without bloodshed. To communicate although we cannot understand everything the others say. To make right all that has gone so very wrong. The siege has not yet begun, and with my help, it never will.

I will see you soon. Meet me in the village square with a crown of sunflowers to celebrate our victory, and I will bring you the sun god’s light.