Sometimes I read that moonlight is cold. I’ve never felt that way—how could reflections of the sun chill? I feel at home under the comforting rays, providing light and the slightest kiss of heat in the night—the actual coolness comes from the dark, not the light.
When I take my skiff out at night, ostensibly to catch the squid that rise to the surface in the warm waters, I sit with my bare feet in the ocean, surrounded by the splashes of green and blue bioluminescent waves. I stare up at the night sky, the hint of galaxies, the shine of stars, and our most precious moon beaming down to me while the wind caresses my face through my forlorn attempt at a beard.
The peace can be easily shattered by thinking about who gazes up at me from below, but I have safeguards in place that keep the panic at bay. They can’t (or maybe won’t) sink my boat, especially since I’ve loaded it with several barrels of crude oil. They can’t drag me down to learn their secrets again, as I have chained myself to the boat. Dismemberment is the only way without a key to the lock I have installed.
They won’t dismember me—they want to keep me whole, in a sense of the word. They love you and me in their own way, but they lack boundaries, so it is up to us to enforce them. You see, they don’t need to drag us down to teach us—they are perfectly capable of approaching their students.
The swell of the ocean, detected by my feet in the water and the slow rise of my skiff signals this very truth. I do not look away from the moon, do not need to, for I know what my teacher looks like. I do not desire to look at their body again, though their beauty grows in my mind. A forbidden relationship anyways, between a teacher and student.
My teacher slides into my boat from the side, and I feel them sidle up to me from behind, feel their cool breath on the back of my head, their smooth, tantalizingly silky flesh pressing and wriggling on my spine. The moon begins to move, and I know that it is time to close my eyes and listen to my teacher.
If you were to be on the other side of my skiff, facing away from me and my teacher, you would only hear the waves smoothly lapping the boat, the soft summer breeze tousling the windsock in flaps of cloth. You would feel the boat lift, then sink until it seemed the ocean would come pouring over the sides. You might feel something exploring, perhaps soft breath on your neck, and you would not dare to open your eyes.
The Scholar would then speak to you, should you care to listen.
I listen to them every night. They tell me of where they came from, the love for us that brought them here, and their current musings on humanity. They speak too of the other creatures they love—the fish, the whales, the crustaceans, the sponges and corals, and they give the gift of understanding what it is to be a different creature.
Tonight, I am a brain coral, growing with my siblings as the water around me grows warmer and warmer until I vomit out the creatures that sustain me and I slowly die of starvation, the vibrant colors of my kin bleaching in front of me as they too fall victim to the pressing heat of the ocean around us.
It doesn’t feel fair.
The Scholar returns me to my body, and I open my eyes to stare up at the moon, which weeps salty tears that drop on my face, intermingling with my own. The scholar asks me a question, the same one they ask every night—“PLEASE, WILL YOU HELP ME SAVE ALL OF YOU?”
The unspoken part of the question is this—will you give yourself wholly to us? Will you let us save those who saved us from solitude in the cosmos?
I never answer, for I know if I spoke I would say yes, and hand the Scholar the key I keep on a chain around my neck, and they would cradle me as they slowly pulled me beneath the waves, until the stars faded from view and all that remains is the moon, shining above and beaming an unconditional love down on me.
I don’t know what would happen next. I did say yes once, when I was younger, but I reneged and the moon winked out above me. I swam to the surface with burning lungs and a deep fear, and a deeper sense of grief in my heart.
The Scholar loves us, but I do not know if I am the correct vessel for them to show all of us this fundamental truth.
Perhaps someone else will take a skiff out in the dark night, and wait to see the moon appear above them. Perhaps I will leave my chains loose—I tell myself for comfort, but down deep I know better.
The Scholar loves us—all of us—and who am I to stop them from sharing it with all of you? So I am writing this, and sharing it.
Now that you know of them, they likewise know of and can find you. Perhaps some of you, even just one singular brave soul, can find the courage to do what this coward cannot—accept an unconditional love that will change you, inside and out.