Guarded by the pillars on top of the city wall, they walked. A little girl and her grandmother. Their braids in red and white, waving on their backs as they went. They stopped to look over the city from above. Behind their backs the ever lukewarm wind came blowing down to the water which lied in the extension of the city. Where the wind came from, should be highland, although no one was really sure. Those who ventured away from the city up and further up high into the everlasting mist, never returned. The mist came from hot cracks in the soil, peeking between the rocks, making that the people lived in an endless cloud. From high upon the city, you couldn’t even make out the other end. The constant warm vapour came out under the water too, making it always damping, spiralling upwards, obscuring the horizon.
Veronica was named after little purple flowers, which could be found along the water for those who were looking. It was one of the most loved colours for clothing, even though the contrast with the flaming red hair of a third of the population was rather interesting. As she looked up to her grandmother, Veronica said “Listen, it’s my favourite song!”
Equally present as the never-ending mist, singing filled the city during the hours of diffused light that was day. Emerging from a tower, high up the city, the singers let their voices carry far over the water by the winds. Acting as a sound house in stead of a light house, guiding the people at the water back home.
They shifted their eyes to the invisible horizon, far away on the water. Somewhere in the mist, rolling over the waves, Veronica’s parents were working in their boats. Her mother was a fisherwoman, working with their big nets. Her father collected seaweed in farms on the water.
She shared their love for the water, the freedom that could be felt in on the water. There was no doubt she would follow in her parent’s footsteps, although her grandmother was convinced her clear voice should join the choir. Everyone had an opinion, but that is supposed to be normal behaviour towards a child. Veronica was already wise enough to let it blow over her cheeks, alike the ever warm mist-filled wind.
She already knew her future, for she had seen it in many a dream. Through the mist she would sail. Far and further away. Until she would find lands beyond their cloud-filled world. Land shone upon by light so bright. In her boat she would go beyond the reassuring music, until she couldn’t hear the call anymore.
Turning away on the water still
Close your eyes to the mist
Your home is singing, singing you home
But she would not be going home. She would sail out of the clouds at the other end.
If you can’t see where you’re going. Close your eyes and listen, your subconscious is singing to you.