47 The Chromatic Sea
The solutes in Olo’s atmosphere began to settle, and the entire planet was rearranged. Flash orbited Olo high above the settling dust.  Below him, just above the highest layer of atmosphere, the whales and their mysterious riders glided on a different orbital path so that Flash saw them intermittently. 

It was too much of a coincidence to think that Flash was not only drawn to this particular planet, but at such a pivotal moment as this. 

Gravity did it’s work, pulling solids back to the surface. On Olo, it seemed the finer particles had more intense hues, for the last layers to fall formed a thick carpet of iridescent dust in every color of the spectrum. These minerals must have been attracted to like particles because they landed in distinct areas rather than mixing to a uniform shade. 

Flash took great pleasure in watching this immense painting come together as though by the hand of an artist. 

The whales did not propel themselves, but slowly slid in formation along the edge of space. 

The riders looked like they were sleeping, though for all Flash knew, they were dead, within feet of the air. He was tired, too, and so he went to sleep. 

Although he was only a bystander, he had a feeling that he was somehow to play a role in this. 

Flash woke to a dream of Earth. His grandfather was standing by the kitchen window, bathed in morning sunlight, sipping a cup of tea and clutching a paintbrush. “Good morning!” Grampa called, “Did you sleep well?”

“But I’m…” Flash faltered. Now which was it?  “I… I had the most intense dream. Or at least I thought…  What are you working on?” 

Grampa had turned back to his easel, and Flash crossed the room to see what was on the canvas. Patches of jewel tones filled the painting. As Flash watched, he splattered chrome yellow across a field of indigo. 

“I love you, Grampa,” Flash said.  Grampa didn’t respond, but continued painting while humming a tune. Once again, Flash was transfixed and felt connected to his grandfather as he never had before.

Flash’s field of vision narrowed so that the painting was all he could see. The room, his grandfather, and even the paintbrush disappeared from sight, and Flash watched the brushstrokes appear on their own. A shadow entered the right edge of the painting, and moved toward the left. Next a huge white brushstroke in the shape of a whale lumbered into view. The colors were rich and alive.

The white shape turned and swam toward Flash. He felt small yet unafraid. A great mouth opened and swallowed him up. 

From within the belly of the whale, Flash could hear the slow, steady heartbeat. The smell was briny with a hint of turpentine.  It was dark.  Warm and soft, like a bed. He lay on a rubbery surface that tightened and relaxed around him. These contractions gradually intensified, and then the song began. 

It started with a low tone, so low, in fact, that Flash couldn’t say for sure when it first became audible.  As the tones rose to a register he could hear, he felt as though he were inside the bellows of a great pipe organ, and could discern a myriad of notes and textures within the chord. 

Higher notes pierced the throbbing wall of sound, and then dropped out of Flash’s range. In the darkness, the music took on colors and danced like a chromatic sea around him.  The message was both alien and familiar at the same time. It was the same message that was painted in the dust of Olo… a message that fell way beyond words. Way beyond familiarity. It was as though a ladle was dipped into the collective unconscious, and Flash’s own essence was one of the ingredients.  Flash had never felt so comfortable or at home.