That Day the Sun Hid

— Chrysanne Ho

My fields crumbled under the fury of a thousand storms, pastures splintering from a tempest’s rage — you, brother of my own divine lineage, tearing into the earth I so dearly loved. The High Plain of Heaven’s efforts towards discipline were desecrated by your childish antics, and so I, light of the people, had no choice but to hide away, and
wrap myself in the shadows of rock.
To silence you,
I sealed the world in an endless night.
The people, they mourned.
They prayed.
They clawed for the warmth I once gave. Their cries crowded the skies and
reached the ears of the gods in fractured whispers; I remained shrouded in
darkness and grief. This was retribution, I believed, however passive. I had left only the cool breeze to hold them, and
the moon to guide their way — I would not be summoned by my own rituals, nor
coaxed out by their longing.
With all life and order inevitably disrupted, the gods convened to lure me out of
solitude — a mirror, glinting jewels,
Uzume’s dance. Enticed by their
uproarious laughs as I was, I ultimately emerged from hiding. I rose and stretched, reluctance heavy in my heart, and
brought forth golden dawn once more, casting light upon my world and beloved people.
Both Heaven and Earth witnessed my return, but you?
You shall see nothing.