I dropped to my knees. There was no sound but my labored breath and the beating of my heart.
“That’s Aurora Borealis,” said Jim from far away behind me.
But I thought, That’s not the Northern Lights. That’s the hand of God amusing itself with a whimsical game of creation.
I stared in awe. I waited for one of the forms to take on a clear and unequivocal shape, to appear to me as an undeniable message. But the lights continued to dance, only suggesting things like an egg, a lion, a flying dragon, a curtain fluttering in front of an open window.
I patted down my arms and chest, wondering if I were still in one piece. Did I throw myself off the cliffs already? I don’t remember falling.
When I was finally able to peel my eyes off the sky, I set my gaze on the lake where the still water offered its interpretation of the images being cast upon its surface. The lake’s interpretation of Aurora Borealis was more solid in a way. While the sky presented the images as interwoven filaments, the lake reflected them as blots of color differentiated only by their intensity.
My eyes went from one to the other, from the lake to the sky—two simultaneous and vastly different images of the same majestic wonder. I reached out my hand, thinking, like a child, that I could grab the streaks of fluorescent filaments dripping from the sky. But they were far, far away, and I felt small, in a way that was oddly comforting.
The thing about seeing the Northern Lights, even if it’s only for fifteen minutes, is that the sky appears even more, vast, and more distant. You realize you are a small dot on an enormous canvas, one that isn’t finished but instead is constantly being painted. The painter is not a perfectionist; often, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the artist’s creation. Other times, the beauty is indescribable. The impression is so powerful you can’t help yourself, and you start drawing dozens of different metaphors from the experience.
You reach out, like I did, and try to touch it, but it is so far away. You realize you cannot participate. Even if you were close enough, you couldn’t produce the particles; you couldn’t even manipulate the ones the sun emits. You feel small and insignificant. And you laugh at everything you’ve blown out of proportion up until that moment.
For me, this effect was clear; it was obvious. And, judging from the faces of the other members of the team, how the despair and self-pity seemed to vanish, replaced by a sense of awe, I thought it was safe to assume I wasn’t the only one in our group to be affected in that way.
“You knew, didn’t you?” I asked Jim on the ride back. “You knew the Northern Lights would snap us out of our moping?”
Jim smiled wryly and shrugged. “You don’t normally get that good a view the first time. I guess we’re just lucky.” He winked at me.
And I knew he was right: we were lucky.
The following day, we were in much better spirits. We didn’t speak much, each of us in his own space in his own head. But I got the sense that we were all thinking the same thoughts and that we all knew it. There was silent complicity that bound us together.
While Seth, Stevie, and Dan prepared dinner. A few of us slipped away to the Polar Trinity to have a drink while Ken and Will hit the studio. Trevor said what was on all our minds, “Guys, what we had with Bonita was amazing: the friendship, the adventure, the creativity—”
“The sex,” Landon chimed in.
“The sex,” Trevor agreed. “I know things went south toward the end. But we can overcome that. A little time, some persistence, and honest and open communication.”
“When we get back to New York,” I said, “we’ll make it work.” It wasn’t just wishful thinking; I really believed we could do it.
“It will be a whole lot easier,” said Christian, “without ruthless spies getting in the way, and we can focus just on Bonita and our unorthodox relationship.”
Ben sighed. “Christian, there will always be ruthless spies getting in the way.” He stood. “But we will handle the situation better next time.” He raised his glass. “To The Savage Seven!”
We all stood and joined glasses. “To The Savage Seven.”
Trevor added, “And long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen.”
“Gentlemen.” We turned our attention to the far side of the room where Ken and Will had just stepped in. “Gentlemen,” said Ken, “I believe you will need to refill those glasses; we have some extraordinary news to celebrate.”
For me, the good news was that we were a team again, united in our goal. Sure we had slipped up; we had a set-back, but we were determined and optimistic that we could recover. For me, that was good news, great news even, and I was happy to have another toast and celebrate that news again.