The small room swirled with softly coloured songs. Gentle hums wound

dreamlike around the boys legs, weaved pastels among his arms. A slower,

louder song struck up, deep everlasting ebony softened with bands of white

glow. He could hear his grandmother's weary, aged rasp clearly, even over

the song, and yet so much quiter, like a faint remembered hum within his

mouth. How strange to hear with ones mouth, he mused.

"Black, for your heart of hearts, strength, loyalty, and courage. Yellow

for the feeling of feelings, happiness, sadness, gladness. White for the

truth of truths, self-scrificial, leading, righteous. And silence..."

Rather than dying away like the whisper it had birthed from, the music

shreiked and wailed as its colours dragged and ripped through the air, back

into the bejewelled womb from whence they were born. The old woman stood

patiently till the very last echo had disappated before she spoke again.

"..silence to help you hear the knowledge that mixes them." With this, she held out a

gnarled finger and stabbed the boy in his chest.

"Good luck, boy."

"I'll come back to you, Grandma."

And with the pain that comes of unknown lies, the grandmother turned away

from her daughter's son, tears welling her eyes, and whispered,

  "Never again, my boy."