The package sat crookedly on his kitchen table, an ever present reminder of a job yet to be done. He checked the clock – not quite midnight – and peered out the window at the skies for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The clouds were still thick, gentle mounds barely visible in the darkness, and he knew that above that white barrier a whole world awaited him. A world that never ceased to bring wonder and amazement, no matter how many times he made the journey. Tonight. Tonight he would make the delivery.
The clock ticked its solemn, steady way to midnight as he sipped slowly on his tea. Earl Grey, with just a touch of honey and cream. His routine was so practiced and precise that as the clock on the mantle began to chime the late hour, he swallowed the last drops of tea.
Standing, he gently placed the delicate tea cup by the sink and stretched, his back cracking in time with the clock. “Time to get going, then.” he said to no one in particular. Slipping the package carefully into his bag – gentle for he knew not what the contents were but should there be a single wrinkle, a single crack, he would never make the journey again – and plucked his bowler hat from the stand, placing it upon his head and running his fingers along the soft rim.
Opening the door, he took one last look around his cozy kitchen, a small smile tugging at his lips before stepping outside and pulling the door closed as the clock chimed its last note for midnight. As he always did.
He looked again at the cloudy sky as he strode across his yard, as quaint and cozy as the kitchen he had left behind. Carefully, for everything he did was with great care, he moved through the gate, a small thing of white wooden slats and a simple latch. Not tall enough to keep anything out, but no one cared to bother him anyway. Or visit.
He shrugged off that thought quickly, for it was a small price to pay for the wonder that was his life.
Walking quickly now, the Midnight Postman – a name he had adopted for himself, though no one else called him that – made his way across a slender road of hard-packed dirt, not bothering to look for oncoming vehicles. There would be none. There never was this far from civilization. Across the road he went, and up the small hill that he considered his own, personal hill for at its greatest height there was a brazier filled with a special sort of wood. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a match – a special sort of match – and lifted one foot to pull it along the sole of his running shoes – a special pair of shoes.
The match flared to life, burning a brilliant blue, and he dropped it into the brazier and waited. To any other, the wait might have seemed intolerable but the Midnight Postman was a patient man. In his line of work, he had to be. Long minutes passed before the brazier flared to life, first a brilliant blue like the match had been, then a soft, vibrant purple, before slowly fading to a soft white with purple and blue flickering at its tips. The smoke pouring from the brazier lifted upward, a steady stream that rose and rose until it touched the clouds above. He watched in silence as it strove to the heavens.
It was time.
Checking that he had a good grip on his bag – it simply wouldn’t do to drop that on the way – he took a deep breath and placed his right foot upon the billowing smoke. No matter how many times he made this journey, that first step always made his heart thud wildly in his chest.
The smoke held, his foot sinking only slightly into its swirling layers and a smile of triumph crossed his face as he lifted his left foot up and began the slow but steady walk up the smoke and into the clouds.
He took care not to look behind at the slowly vanishing world below. He had made that mistake only once, the vertigo it caused nearly breaking the magic of the smoke, and he had learned that lesson well., unlike his predecessor Now when he climbed the winding column of smoke, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the clouds above and his mind on his destination.
As he reached the cloud line he paused, taking in a deep breath of the clear, crisp air that surrounded him before plunging upward, into the cloud. For the briefest of moments, bitterly cold wisps clung to him, pulling at his arms and threatening to steal away his hat, and then he was through. He stood upon the clouds.
The Midnight Postman took another deep breath, filled with the wonder and delight he always felt when he got to this point in his journey. It was the reason he was so fastidious, for having tasted of this magic he would never willingly let it fall from him.
Stretching before him was a landscape that would never be duplicated on the land below. Soft, white clouds became rolling hills and plunging valleys, lit silver by the light of millions of stars and the larger than life crescent moon. Here and there the land below strove to break into the magic the lived above the clouds – tree covered mountain tops, and snow-shrouded peaks. Always, though, the clouds came in and jealously guarded their domain. This was not a place for earthly hubris, and the Midnight Postman was always careful to leave such pride behind. Humbled and contrite, he moved amidst the magic of the heavens, a tiny figure swallowed by the vast, silver beauty.
Flights of Fancy 