A fall day. Thin brushed clouds add dimension to the thick
blue sky. And between the white lines a large grey pelican
drifts, wings carried with a warm zephyr. She floats with the
clouds, west, a slow journey across the indefinite blue
expanse. Mounted on her back, gripping her neck feathers,
sits a young boy: Ahn-jin. His black hair snaps in the wind,
the white sherwani trimmed in gold clings tight to his white
churidars. He keeps his eyes shut, to feel the sky, the wind,
the thin air above the mountains, to breathe the miasma
between earth and the heavens. His grandmother spoke often
of gods, that above the mountains they watched men
struggle and fight. And die. Ahn-jin wanted to find the gods,
to speak with them about his father. But he was unsure
where to look, so much openness to explore, limitless from
peak to peak. Along he brought a bowl of steamed rice, his
grandmother’s stories filled with offerings. For years Ahnjin and the pelican hovered above the land, searching;
always searching. He came to believe the gods were
invisible, no need for form between worlds; the reason he
closed his eyes the first time while in flight on the pelican:
thirteen the last age he saw. Made no difference, he knew no
truth existed in sight which his body could not feel. Over
long years the pelican flew through all the sky,
circumnavigating earth over and over, Ahn-jin never losing
hope to find the elusive deities. But they never found them.
And time stretched on until no one spoke of Ahn-jin, or the
pelican. Or the gods. Those who once knew him said, while
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