This was a series originally written for my Long-Running TTRPG Campaign. The Datura are a genderless fox-people who live a communal life in the sands, each defined by their role in society. Youths are raised in creches, and told stories to help them learn more about their world. This is one such story meant to illustrate the purpose of the different roles, as well as the ritual of finding ones name.
III. The Brilliance of the Bloom
"Do you like pears?"
With their legs finding the strength to walk, the young Datura carried their feet across the desert, step by step, into their naming day.
The young datura’s mind was lost in thought, their nose pointed upwards, eyes closed. Their skin soaked in the sun, their feet briefly forgetting where they walked as they took in the quiet peace of this moment. That moment stretched out further and further and further until their ankle felt the sting of a soft bite.
The young datura yelped, their eyelids forced open only to close again against the now-harsh brightness of the sky. As they focused on reality, they realized they had wandered into a prickly pear patch, one that stretched far into the distance. The young Datura’s head barely broke the surface of the raised patches of dirt, and their ears flooded with the sound of leaves rustling against the wind.
“You alright there, sprout?” a gruff voice from nowhere echoed across the field.
The young datura’s head turned, their eyes scanning the empty patch. Unsure, they responded.
“I am fine - I think a Prickly Pear stung me with its thorn.”
“Mm.” The voice gave a low rumble. “I don’t mean to be short with you, friend, but I believe you have walked into the pear’s thorn. It is no matter - the dirt provides - but it seems odd to blame the pear.”
The young datura looked down. The voice didn’t seem to come from anywhere, but it was correct. The pear was here before they got here - they had walked into it, and the young datura could not deny it.
“You are right…” the young datura scanned the horizon again, fruitlessly. “...pear patch.”
“I should be so lucky, little one.” A furred hand suddenly shot up in the near distance from the field, each finger wiggling in a jovial, if immature, greeting. “I am the protector and guardian of this field, maintainer and provisioner of the pears. What brings you here, to share sun with this fine crop?”
The young datura took a few steps towards the hand, only to stop a few lengths short. Despite the hand moving above - out of? - the growth, from their shortened perspective it was clear to the young datura that their body was not to be found underneath it.
“I have come looking to answer a question, given to me by the Nursetrees at my creche. Where do the sun and moon go when they are not in the sky?”
“Ah, this is a good question. Do you care to hear the opinion of a mere Farmer?”
The young datura nodded. After a moment, they realized that they just nodded to a bush, but the bush began to react before the error could be corrected.
“Well, of all the Datura, no two are more alike than the Nursetree and the Sunbeam. Both spend their days toiling to the crop, making sure it receives the light that it needs to grow.”
In front of the Datura, a single branching stem of the prickly pear began to grow before their very eyes.
“And that is what we see every night, little one - growth. There is a reason the moon and sun do not share the sky, for the same reason that you do not share this field with yourself from last moon.”
On the plant, a bud formed at a curve in the plant matter nearest the young one’s nose.
“They are one in the same, little one - a bud, blossoming into a flower. The moon bursts from the earth in the east, growing throughout the sky. It returns to the earth, preparing for the all-bloom that will provide for all others. It must pull life from the dirt, like each of these flowers, before filling itself up and bursts out of the ground with profound radiance.”
The hand sunk into the bush, disappearing completely, the voice coming from nowhere as the prickly pear’s bud suddenly blossomed open, its petals a thin and uncommon shade of orange.
“That is what the moon and the sun provide for us - an acknowledgment of the pact we’ve made with the dirt. The promise of the seed. The brilliance of the bloom. And, like the Nursetree, we only know our job is done when our crop finds where it is most needed, even if it means it must wander.”
Seamlessly, the flower popped off the vine, the petals forming a small raft that caught the wind, floating in the air for a moment before drifting out of reach of the mystified young one.
“Did that make sense, child?”
Lost in thought again, the young Datura took a moment to respond.
“Y-yes, Sunbeam, I think so.” They looked high in the sky. “The sun is a flower.”
“And the moon is a promise, child. It is a promise.”
The young datura peeked into the bush, wondering if maybe they just had missed the farmer laying down in the dirt. They had not.
The voice continued. “I have a question for you now, little one. And please, answer honestly.”
Without warning, the entire field bloomed at once, flowers in foreign purples and reds and whites and blues, oranges, browns, yellows, suddenly bursting to life, disconnecting from their stems and flying into the air. The young one was awestruck, their eyes struggling to find purchase in the sudden airborne mass of raw color.
But after a moment, they saw a stillness in the chaos. Standing mere feet in front of them was an old Datura, facial tufts hanging low off their face, body wrapped in a utilitarian cloak. Their face wore a wide smile, and their right arm was extended towards the little one.
“Do you like pears?”
The young one’s eyes went wide.
“I do!”
Wherever they might go next, it is only closer to themselves.