In mid-January, two red slashes like scarves arrived in darkness, suspended in the air above the marshes outside the city. One man at a tolling station who often stood idly watching the procession of planes descending, dropping into the airport in an orderly declivity, one, and another, then another, said they appeared without any detonation or flares, as if someone had said “Now”. He looked for a helicopter throwing off the beams of searchlights, but the slashes ended abruptly in the dark sky. The ragged angles of their lines looked like they had been carved by rains and freezes over a long time. They rose up and up. He had to bend his head to look at them. They were red but of uneven arrays hard to separate into distinct badges of color. His eye could not track where maroon became scarlet, where crimson became rose. The red divided the darkness. The wind did not move them. They gave off no heat. Nothing burning had made them. The authorities said they were entire in and of themselves. Great crowds walked out of the city to see. Some claimed the scarves sang. They could hear the songs, why not others. Many said they were a judgment and prepared for a birth or bloodshed (this was expected). In that one week, exactly, that they shone, shrines were erected, pilgrimages begun, children christened with the names of the colors their mothers believed in upon entering their presence. When they vanished, a few screams rose up. Most did not stir. The air they had filled looked again like air, like darkness. Maybe they would return in another color, yellow or green. Maybe they would carry words. One voice said “There!” and was quieted. Another voice tried to lead a song. Finally, they waited, and no one spoke.
© Mike Wall
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