The Conductor / Jennifer Fields

Every night the old man climbs from his bed of clouds. The warm glow of the sunset rouses him. He scratches his long, silvery beard and gives his ancient bones a stretch.

Behind the dressing screen, he yawns once, laying his nightgown over the top. He emerges in a flowing robe the color of frosty diamonds, tied at the waist with a moonbeam. Though he is weary, there is a job to be done and his is a very important job; a very important job indeed.

He swats at pesky nymphs as he travels down a darkened hallway. His solitary candle illuminates the stone walls around him. His is a tiny castle, belonging only to him as it has and always will.

Through the caressing candlelight, the hallway curves to reveal a tightly spiraling staircase. The last fiery spurts of sunlight pierce a narrow window, clawing at the gray stone walls until their dying breath pulls them away. The old man pauses, looking up at the stairs ahead. His shoulders rise and fall on a sigh.

Lifting his candle high, he begins his climb. The steps curve and curve, forever it seems. Every so often, the old man stops to catch his raspy breath before continuing to climb, climb, climb.

Finally, he arrives at an expansive landing lined with many large cages rising to the high-beamed ceiling. The old man places his candle on a little round table made from the wayward tail of a comet and crosses to the far side of the cages. He places his aged hand on a lever and pulls. With a resounding clack, a single bar falls free, opening all the cages.

In the purple sky of dawn, the pens remain silent, dark. The old man retrieves a tiny flute from his left pocket. Standing still for a moment, he scans the open cages from left to right before placing the reed of the flute to his whiskery lips.

On a barking set of ominous notes, hundreds and hundreds of bats fly from the pens at the left. Their black shrieking cloud swells out against the royal sky like the onset of a plague. Line by line, the bats spread to the corners of the world, fading into the shadows.

The old man turns with flute poised and blows a few twittering notes. All the fireflies and moths of the Earth swarm from the center cages like rushing water over the falls, the clouds of their numbers morph and twist before thinning at the edges into oblivion.

Pivoting to his right, the old man plays three howling notes, low and long like the mournful cry of autumn passing into winter. From the last cages, owls emerge. Their collective wings blot out the remains of the day, leaving the sun no choice but to surrender to the night. Away they fly with hoots and coos, each on their own journey to the North, East, South and West; over deserts and seas, to forest and dale, they travel.

Pleased with the results, the old man plays a happy tune, lifting his knees and kicking his slender feet until the bells on his velvet slippers jangle. His notes fade as the animals of the night drift away. He breathes a contented sigh and replaces his flute for the candle on the little comet table.

The old man climbs higher yet. Up and up he goes, not stopping to rest, as time is short. With his candle lifted high, he follows the twisting staircase skyward.

Up and up and up some more, his little castle becomes a spearing tower of gray stone. With each step higher, icicles grow on the wisps of his beard and his robe twinkles with frigid crystals. The stairs continue coiling beyond man, beyond skyscraper, even beyond clouds. Here is where fairies roam and dragons fly free. Here is where space meets planet and time moves somehow slower.

The old man emerges into a night that is not yet born, his robe heavy with icy wonder. He steps onto his tiny stage. Turning his silver-framed face, he pulls a long baton from his right pocket and steps up to his podium.

The old man raises his baton. The nebulas of his cheeks pinch up in smart, rosy nubs as he smiles. The world waits, waits, waits and watches the old man’s steady fingers, his baton at the ready.

On a swipe of his hand, the symphony begins. The crickets keep time as the old man turns and lifts the moon with his hands, hoisting it into place.

The Wizard of the Night sweeps his hands across the sky, bringing the Milky Way to life with an ethereal radiance. Like a painter, the night is his canvas. The old man dots the sky with diamond stars; big and small, bright and soft, his baton awakens them.

Stars in place, the Wizard spins ‘round to the East where the Trumpeter Swans call to the beat. Swooping to the West, the tides rise and waves crash at his command. To the South he motions his baton to usher in the perfume of night blossoms. Turning to the North, the wolves of the frozen tundra howl to meet his music.

The old man closes his eyes to draw the enchantment of the grand symphony closer. Swirling his hands in rising circles, the night songs of the world blend into perfect unity until the magic of the night is created.

Song complete, his weathered hands drop in exhaustion. One last glance at a job well done, he tucks his baton away. On a sad, nostalgic sigh, the Conductor of the Night scoops up his candle and begins the long descent to his bed of clouds below. He will sleep, as he always does, until the following night when the sky needs to be painted and the Earth needs to hear his next symphony.

His is an important job, a very important job indeed.