The Sun & The Song

There was a day when the Sun realised she could play music with her sunbeams. She’d been dozing off a little that morning, dreaming about a suit she’d like to design that made the wearer look like they had fingers for legs, and being so distracted, hadn’t quite kept up with slowly trailing her own sunbeam fingers along Klah, branch by branch, field by field.

A routine-orientated bird waiting patiently on his morning hedge squawked to remind her she was behind on the job, and she started suddenly and lit up a whole pond all at once. “Twaaaaaaa” came a sound from the pond. This startled the Sun even more, and she threw out one of her sunbeam arms and lit up a whole oak tree top to bottom. “Tweeeeeee” rang a note from the oak. The Sun raised an eyebrow, then flung a sunbeam at a grassy knoll which for centuries had always been gently woken from its nightly slumber by the slow dawning of the light. The grassy knoll raised an eyebrow too, and then another at the “Twoooooooo” that chimed through the air. The Sun was on a roll now. She soon found a tune amongst the different types of things she could light up, and she quickly found her rhythm amongst her ancestors who called to her from the music.

Those who were there that day (although historians and scientists debate about whether it was really a day, or was it a night, or was it several days as the sun came and went erratically) admit that her song was very impressive and she was clearly a born natural musician. People and animals danced in the strobe.  A few grumpy members of the public stayed inside and wrote letters to the paper complaining about the noise. The Sun played on, the revellers danced on. For a moment it seemed that this could be the new way of things.

Then Les Moon—the second Moon of Klah, who had always wanted to become an avant-garde keyboardist but had given up on his dreams for fingerless reasons—suddenly wondered if he too could do this with his moonbeams, so he threw out a beam and knocked one of the sun’s beams off course. An awful dud note rang out across the land, and the music stopped.

“Ugh!” said the Sun, her thread lost.

“My apologies!” said Les. “Gosh it’s annoying not having fingers isn’t it?”

This reminded the Sun of her finger-leg suit and she went back to thinking about that while doing her regular task of slowly rousing the world, and the moment was lost and never quite returned. The revellers stopped dancing and returned to their regular tasks (though the letter writing people continued their letters). And so Klah lives on, with a Sun who could turn the world into a party, but hasn’t yet got round to it again.