"The universe is made of stories, not of atoms" ~Muriel Rukeyser
"Tell us, Mother, tell us!"
"It's too late now, my little ones. Both moons have risen and you should be sleeping."
She is teasing them of course.
"Please, Mother. Please. Please. Please."
She laughs and strokes their golden hair, which is streaked with their father's darkness, and marvels, as she has done so many times, at their strangeness and beauty.
"And what story would you like?" she asks, still teasing.
"Father's story," they shout, even the littlest. "Father's, Father's, Father's."
"And how can I tell you your father's story? It isn't done yet." Which is true and a wonder. She knows she cannot tease them for much longer - the younger ones are starting to forget that this is a game.
"Tell us the story so far," says the eldest, always so serious in his joy, so like his father. "From the beginning."
"But there are so many beginnings," she says, which is also true and also a wonder. "Which one? Do you want the story of the lost boy with the ancient storm in his heart, or of the mad, sad shape, or of the quiet old thing that waits in hope? Because all these things are beginnings, and all of these things are stories, and all of these things are true, although none of them ever occurred. So which is it to be?"
"The beginning on Earth. The beginning at Bretigny."
"Very well," she says. "Very well."