As though the window held the secret for his happiness, Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt would always find their son sitting in it late at night. He would never go to sleep until he was absolutely exhausted, preferring instead to look at the stars through his telescope.
“He’ll be an astronomer,” Mr. Schmidt later boasted at work. “My son, learning the stars as one learns a map.”
But Niklas Schmidt, when pressed, did not agree. He said that he didn’t know why he felt such a need to learn and track the stars. He said that he felt a great draw to them, a need, and that it was more important than sleeping. It felt familiar and kind up there, old and wise and young and new at the same time.
In time he stopped with his telescope altogether. He knew all of the stars that he could see. He knew their paths, and how they would change from season to season—as best as science could tell him. Niklas just liked to watch them.
“Go to bed!” his mother began to tell him crossly, getting up late at night to check on him. He would always be sitting on his window seat, his eyes reflecting starlight.
“Something’s up there,” he would protest. “I have to stay awake. Something needs me, mother.”
“Don’t talk like that. Only mad people talk like that, Niklas.”
Niklas would mutter something about not minding being crazy, and he would go to bed without any more retorts. But as he laid there, he would think of the stars—he would watch them from the bed, until he was simply too exhausted to keep his eyes open.
One night was particularly bad. Niklas’ grades, normally solid and perfect in every way, had dipped by a few points. His mother forced him to work on his homework and had sewn shut his curtains until things improved. Then, when she and Mr. Schmidt went to bed, she marched Niklas into bed and locked his door—her patience with his eccentric behavior long at an end.
Lying there, Niklas found sleep impossible. All he could imagine was the glittering orbs behind his shut curtains. Their kindness and their burning intensity filling his mind with all sorts of theories and knowledge. He would write a book, he decided that night. A book about the stars.
Are you there? I can hear you.
Niklas bolted upright; the voice filled his mind as though it were being whispered into his ear.
“Oh no,” he murmured, “I really am going mad.”
You’re what? Mad? Why? …there’s a tunnel… I can’t… are you still there?
It was the voice of a boy his own age, scared and frightened, and something in Niklas’ mind snapped into place. He threw the covers off of himself and raced to the window, diving under them and placing his face against the glass.
Out of the sky, something bright began to descend. It was no larger than a railroad spike, but it glowed so brightly that it was hard to miss. And, for some reason, Niklas knew that it was the source of the voice.
It fell from the sky and disappeared behind trees just outside of the town, in the small patch of forest that Niklas often played in.
“I can hear you,” he said, running to his chest of drawers for proper clothing. “I’ll be there, all right? Just hang on.”
Okay. I’ll be waiting then.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
