One fine summer afternoon the stars came out.
A cool breeze was floating through all the villages, down from the mountains. A purple haze had settled over the horizon, and there was a moon slung low in the sky, hovering just above the treetops.
The people came out to look at the stars. They stood in clumps of two and three, on hilltops and village squares. Children climbed the trees and laughed, making bird noises until their parents told them to be quiet.
She had been cooking when the light had started to change. With a sigh she put out the fire beneath the pot, wiped off her hands and ventured outside, where a crowd of sky watchers was already gathered.
The poets had written of this day long ago, but nobody had really believed. It was a story from the old tales, from the time before time, and these days nobody paid much attention to such things. Until now.
She thought of her brother. It had been a long time since she had let herself think of him. She realized that she still saw his face in her mind’s eye the way he had been then. Surely he must look different by now. But perhaps not.
She went back inside, turning away from the flaming stars arrayed against the eerie darkness of the afternoon sky. Briskly, efficiently, she packed a sandwich, a pear and a small flask of wine – something to keep her belly fed, and something to keep her belly warm. She grabbed a shawl – the green one, the one she used only for traveling – from its place behind the door, and set out on her journey.