The Beginning of Things

Starstuff is where things begin

for you and me, and for the trees and the flowers as well, and also for the beasts, from the flies to the wolves to the elephants, because as light and dark were the building blocks of the elder stars, starstuff was the building blocks for all the things that grow, for in it is contained every element needed for every sort of life imaginable.

That is to say, the carbons and irons and calciums and such.

Starstuff came of course from the elder stars, the first-shapes of the cosmos, who were fashioned from the feathers of Alosida's fluttering lightdust with the glue of Elishodun's darkblood.

At first the elder stars were nothing more than clouds, weak and formless vourastyr, incapable of thinking neither deeply nor rationally, and instead they only thought about the prettiness of things, and were amused by the way their clouds swirled and whirled around.

But sometimes, and unexpectedly, the swirling made them grumpy, and they cried, and they wished someone was around to give them attention. Alosida could not do it, for most of her lightdust had flown to the far corners of the universe, and what remained of it was already tucked inside the vourastyr, beating against their cloud-edge and a great part of their confusion. Likewise Elishodun could bring them no comfort, for he still stood back and marveled at his creations, not knowing what he should do with them.

Inside the vourastyr the lightdust flew about, murmuring this way and that, pecking against the star-clouds' boundaries, and it seemed Elishodun was peering into the clear membrane of an egg, where lightdust fought and pipped for liberty. If only I could strike the vourastyr against something, thought he, I could break the clouds and set Alosida free. But you will remember, friend, that this is the beginning of things, and of course there were no stones, or bowls, or countertops, or anything else of shape in the universe, and certainly nothing so big that it could crack the shell of a mighty vourastyr.

Well, Elishodun thought, if I cannot free the lightdust, then I shall come up with some other use for these new shapes, perhaps a lamp or an oven. He could not, however, think of any specific design at the moment, and so he approached the vourastyr, intending to roll them into the corner of the cosmos for safekeeping.

Only the vourastyr whined and writhed through the void in these early days, and while we would feel sorry for them, remembering they are only wee ones left to fend for themselves, Elishodun had no such pity and was quite turned off.

He turned his back and walked away, missing the transformation that was to come.

After hanging away up high in the top corners of the universe for a great long while, the vourastyr began to wonder where they had come from, and where they were going, and in the profundity of their thoughts the clouds grew heavy, and their dusty bits fell into each other and fused, and sparked, and burned brightly. So it was then that they became dense, formidable stars—big burning balls of gas—no longer defenseless, and suddenly the strongest, most massive, volatile shapes that would ever exist in the universe.

Did I mention that they are also very dangerous? It is a wonder we trust them with our wishes.

But what of starstuff, and where exactly did it come from?

Well, the melodies of the dark and the light, ever confused, sang inside the plasma of the elder stars, and these befuddled emotions whirled, and sometimes the first-shapes found themselves very lonely and worrying about what the other shapes were thinking, and sometimes they were perfectly happy at the idea of never seeing another shape again in their lives.

Always they were agitated, thinking they were owed more than the world was giving them, and Alosida's lightdust burned inside their bellies, churning into fiery bits, and over millions and millions of years the fiery bits wove together to form that substance we call starstuff.

Now, starstuff is difficult to describe. Whereas lightdust is light and feathery, starstuff is heavy and rough. Perhaps it has the texture and color of glistening wet snow, but of course it is scorching hot and falls whenever it very well feels like it, not just when it is cold. Still some will call it snowshine or starsnow, and when hit with the right illumination its radiance will penetrate all matter caught in its gleam. The old castorfolk still talk of the Great Hatchstream Snowshine that struck centuries ago, and how the January kits swam early from the dens, some with eyes scarcely open, so that they could glimpse the dazzling snow sparking against the river and setting the dams aglow.

The beaver-people did not know at the time that they were witnessing the fall of starstuff from a far-away dying star, and the kits did not know that they frolicked in the building blocks of life, the angst of the elder stars that burns brightly in us all.

Back at the beginning of things, that same starstuff festered in the starbellies, causing a considerable discomfort to the elder stars, as if they had eaten a too-large meal that was not very agreeable in the end. But the elder stars' discomfort was our gain, for the longer the starstuff festered in their core, the greater became its potential for greatness.