​Clandestine Waters

Magic isn’t present in power, nor control, magic exists in trust.

Deep in the heart of Azure city sits a lone guitar player. Resting on a stool sat atop an emerald stage, a chord escapes from his prismatic strings. And then another one. And then another one. The sound fills the air of the plaza as an aquamarine light envelops the crowd in front of him.

Azure city has seen it’s water supply dwindle over the past few weeks due to growing tensions happening across the state.

A dissonant chord is strung in a moment of distraction causing a street vendor to unravel and share his anger with the crowd. Words fly like daggers through the air as the crowd disperses in total silence. In this moment these daggers become their salvation.

Azure shards emerge from the ground. The audience pays them no mind as the hue surrounding the crowd shifts from aquamarine to a deep sea blue. Light glistens off the crystalline shards and the musician hears the faint sound of crying like a harmony underlying the harsh words of the street vendor. These shards are the city’s pain made manifest. Tears flow from the streets while men and women of every age drown in their thirst.

The musician, feeling the cries of the city, plays a jazzy chord progression. What emerges is the sound of shared pain. Of grief. And yet, also one of connected-ness, reflected in the layered harmonies that underlie the chords. A woman approaches and gently places her hand over the strings. A single tear drops down her face as she begins to paint the air with her hand. She weaves around the crowd placing her hand on the shoulders of each person she passes. The palpable tension in the crowd begins to ease as the shards coalesce and float over to a nearby canal. The water gently descends into the canal; smooth and soft. The musician watches as people unite and head towards the water. They don’t see it yet, but they know this water to be safe on an instinctual level. Their hue moves to a lighter shade of turquoise in presence of the water. The musician watches as neighbors take action to cup the liquid and provide it to the children who stand around, dehydrated and discouraged. The cleansing water makes their way around the crowd. The street vendor silently approaches the water and fills a bottle from the stream. He glows a deep blue as he hands his water bottle to the others. He’s no hero, but instead, a bridge.

The liquid in the canal begins to emit a light as the crowd’s shared vulnerability coalesces into a stream. The water won’t last for a long time, but for the next several hours, the people will feel a release and bond together in the shared glow.

The musician takes a seat by the stream and listens as the sound of communication begins to fill the air again. He knows he didn’t save them forever; what he did was provide them a space, which allowed them to tap into the trust that was already there. This space gave them just what they needed to save themselves, and, each other. The musician waits for a while, packs his things, and then silently leaves the city as the chord rings out from the emerald stage.