Monique van Maare
The Passage of 3I/Atlas
Winter solstice nears, Earth’s axis tilts towards darkness.
In the hills around Sapporo, Japan, clear skies are rapidly cooling the night air. Despite the biting chill, chairs and stools are hauled up to the hilltops, telescope tripods are installed and directed towards the same spot of sky. There! A long veil-like tail follows a bulbous head of light, piercing the dark, subduing any stars that dare appear in its vicinity. Gloved hands point up, others are cupped around steaming tea bowls.
Were you born in the fury of massive stars, torn and hurled by violent explosions?
Were there others like us, were you sensed before? Or was your journey mostly
emptiness and dust, the remnants of decay?
Irkoetsk, Russia—a few hours later. The hilltops here are dotted with dancing lights, the swirls of cigarette smoke drift among the gathered. Quiet chatter and the soft chink of kvass glasses filter through furry ear flaps. The occasional laughter, filled with wonder at this singular passing.
Scientists say the anomalies of your track point to intelligence. Have you come
bearing a message for us? And if so, is it friendly, innocent, incomplete? Like our
songs and greetings, etched on golden phonographs on the hulls of spacecraft,
bound for the unknown, like a pair of outstretched hands?
Once more the day has given way to a clear night. In the Midlands, UK, a group of hill-flockers lift their binoculars to the same point. Biscuits are passed around, and the quiet zooming of the camera lenses fills the air. Large quilted blankets are placed over knees, stiff from the long walk up. The lakes in the valley blink inkily back at the sky.
Where will you travel next? Will you swing by the seven beauties of the Pleiades?
What stories will you carry of us to other beings gathered at their own hilltops,
watching your form shoot across their sky? What do you make of us? Will you bear
witness, to our destruction, this slow annihilation of our home?
In the White Mountains of New Hampshire, winter has been unseasonably warm, and the pickup trucks’ slushy spatter covers boots, cargo pants and instruments. But they’re all here, looking up at this Bethlehem star. Beer bottle caps are twisted off, and there’s mulled wine, too. In that early morning, surrounded by the darkness, they at least have this, the shared awe at this tiny dot of light traveling onwards
as the Earth’s shadow slowly creeps onwards, across the longitudes.