I spread my wings and fall from the edge of the glittering crystal railing. Air
rushes around me as I plummet down, and exquisite exhilaration floods my being
as I tilt up and begin to soar. Around me, the universe blazes with coloured
radiance, every spire and junction catching the light of the sun and throwing it
back in dazzling coronas.

Far off to my left and right, I see my brother and sister doing the same,
bathing in the last waves of warm light and crystalline beauty. We time our
movements perfectly, dipping and rolling in exact synchronisation to enact the
turning geometrical shapes of one of the lesser three-dimensional mandalas of
enlightenment. We twist and spin joyously above the clouds, then return content
to our respective perches.

My family had lived here in paradise for generations beyond memory. With the
wind in our feathers and the sun on our backs, we spent our lives in
contemplation of reality's perfection. My great-grandfather had determined the
six incandescent principles of primal harmony, and many of my relatives still
devote their years to quiet meditation on the consequences of his findings. They
hunch beneath crystal eaves, eyes half-shut, occasionally releasing faint sounds
of contentment as their minds pass over some new mystery of cosmic concord. We
call them the seers, for, though they live with their eyes closed, their
thoughts shape the direction of the whole community.

My wife moves up behind me, resting her beak gently on my shoulder. By the shape
of her breathing, I know that it is time to begin the evening song. We stay
still for five seconds -- the number that we both instinctively know to magnify
the triple auras of affection to their highest shape -- and then we both spread
our wings and ascend.

Our ancestors had long ago studied the paths that the light of sunset and
sunrise made through the crystal paradise. We had been schooled in the complex
formulae of refraction and reflection from our earliest youth, and we all knew
the sunset harmonies of the spires to express the shape and substance of one of
the great songs of life.

So we sing. As ruby and sapphire glows fade through the gleaming world around
us, we raise our voices in a complex harmony. Our song fills the city, replete
with the careful rustle of feathers and beating of wings. We send the winds of
our music over the crystal domes like a second sunset, each content in our
deepest hearts.

When at last darkness perfectly falls, we silently descend from our various high
choir perches around the city. My wife and I return to our home, where she
gathers our children together and begins to whisper the thirteen gentle
canticles of sleep into their ears. I remain awake, perched near the entrance,
watching the darkening sky.

Night spoke to us as day did not. She told us strange things, whispering of
places not made of crystal, of things tainted and things pure. She spoke of
great pools of water called seas, and vast piles of dirt called mountains. Our
sages had long ago determined that Night spoke in allegories, another emanation
of the balanced perfection of the world, and that we ought to seek a spiritual
meaning behind her enigmatic words.

Now, Night whispers in my ears again. She says that my crystal world is but a
single part of a much greater world, floating high above a vast land.

I consider this carefully before seeing her meaning. Indeed, I recognise, the
world of crystal and sunlight is but one part of the larger world. For are not
the realms of philosophy, contemplation, harmonics, and artistry entire worlds
in themselves? Are they not far vaster than the mere physical world? Indeed, the
world of crystal is detached from this great world of wisdom, in which there are
many lands of beauty and knowledge. I nod softly, thanking Night for her wisdom.

But Night continues to whisper. She tells me that my detached crystal world was
created and is now ruled by a separate set of beings, far larger and less wise
than my people. She tells me that they barely understand the delicate aeromatic
and aeonic arts that we master with each twitch of our fathers, and she hints
that much of their time is devoted to achieving the destruction of other lesser
creatures.

This is more troubling, and I search hard for Night's true meaning. Does she
mean that the physical world is home to inferior urges and burdens like hunger,
pain, and fatigue? But surely these things are part of the greater cosmic
harmony, a necessary part of the balance. Does she mean to imply a metaphorical
distinction between the wisdom of the seers and the lesser minds of the other
castes of the people? Perhaps we are the lesser beings, and the truly wise and
perfect are those of us who have already passed on.

I resolve to bring these things to the attention of my elder brother, whose
wisdom in the allegories of Night is greater than my own.

As I settle to sleep, I briefly open the eyes of my spirit and look into the
dreaming. Contentment fills my heart as I watch the dream forms of my people
soaring through the dark sky, curling and spinning in glowing patterns of peace
and happiness. The sight soothes the discontent that Night had roused in me, and
I descend quietly into the true sleep.

The next morning, after the song of the sunrise, I receive a call from the
administrator of my small section of the world, my great-uncle. The loud, clear
voice of his mate filters in through the morning air, its oscillating trills
specifying the family group which he wishs to summon.

My wife and I fly easily over to his high perch, tucked in near the summit of
one of the bluest spires. We bring our eldest son with us, though his plumage is
still slightly yellow with the down of infancy. In contrast, the administrator's
feathers are pitch black, covering his large body with the velvet ebony of
Night's vast sky.

By the careful whirring of his feathers and whispers of his beak, the
administrator informs us that we are to visit the home of the seers to hear what
new insights they have achieved into the spheres of celestial harmony. We
express our pleasure at this, and the five of us depart -- the administrator,
his piebald wife, myself, my wife, and our young son.

The home of the seers is some distance from the place where we make our nests,
so we are surprised to see one of their white-feathered number below us on an
onyx plaza. His alabaster plumage is bright against the smooth black stone. He
moves across the open space slowly, walking instead of flying.

Surprised by the curious sight, we circle once, twice, and then begin to
descend. Perhaps the seer is tracing some new-patterned mandala across the onyx,
seeking simplicity in solitude to compose some new great harmonic symphony. But
the scene lacks balance. There is no beauty to the sage's movements, no concord
to his shuffling passage. Something is amiss.

We land in a circle around the seer, instinctively forming a mandala of healing
and protection. His communications are frazzled and disorderly. One of his wings
appears to be broken, and he is dragging a leg that seems crushed into
uselessness. Blood mats his white feathers. We look on in growing horror as he
attempts to say things we never thought to hear from one of this gentle sect.
There are no words in our language for what he attempts to convey -- no beating
of the wings so furious, no call of the throat so harsh. The seers have been
slain. Destroyed. Something is coming. Danger? We barely know what that means.

Then a shadow falls over us. We turn to see a great thing looming above. It is
one of the moving parts of the city, like a less-static statue. We were aware of
their existence as we were aware of the spires, the bridges, the walkways, and
the plazas. The administrator notes its presence and turns his attention back to
the seer, but the wounded sage seems to be thrown into a greater panic by this
shift in the architecture. He begins to drag himself away.

Suddenly, a great shape descends. It is like a large stone on the end of a pole,
perfectly cylindrical and flat on both ends. I briefly admire its geometry,
hardly noticing its path as it swings down to crush the broken body of the seer
with a discordant "thud." It rises again, leaving a mangled mess where the last
of our wisest had just stood.

My wife is the first to react. She lets out a call of horror and mourning. In a
moment, we all join her, crying our grief into the empty sky.

Then the great cylinder on its pole descends again, and my child's calling is
cut short.

I shriek with rage, and the administrator whirls and throws himself at the
source of this unspeakable devastation. His black feathers flap wildly, and his
claws lash out as he learns violence for the first time. With three sharp blows
from the terrible instrument, however, he too lies destroyed. Another blow cuts
short my wife as she turns to flee.

The administrator's widowed wife and I begin to rise in flight, horrible,
unfamiliar fear filling our hearts with panic. I do not look back as I hear the
sound of the weapon striking her soft body.

The sun grows above me as I strain my wings toward it, only thinking of my
remaining children at home, too small to survive with both parents slain. I
hardly register the gentle whoosh of air as the great hammer swings toward me,
but its impact knocks me stunned to the ground. My mind instinctively looks for
beauty in the sharp sounds of my hollow bones snapping, but it can find only
horror. The scene of the carnage of my family evokes no mandalas in my mind, and
I can conjure no abstract philosophy to draw wisdom from this happening.

I lift my eyes to the crystal world around me, its colourful spires glittering
with the light of the noonday sun. Its perfect beauty and harmony of form
momentarily dulls the pain that is consuming my body. Then I hear that same
quick whoosh of air, my vision goes black, and, amid an instant explosion of
all-consuming sensation, I cease to be.