Lunarcana
Lunarcana
Stellaris laughing up at the sky with his right hand raised high, like someone waving to an old friend up there; Chak the jackdaw perches on his fingertips. He wears an ivory kaftan bordered in turquoise star tiles and a turquoise headband with a small gold four-pointed star at his left temple; beside him stands the silver orrery.
The Orrery Loft · four to six, before dawn

Stellaris

The Sky Is Only Weather

For six years he has kept a weather log under a slit in the dome. He'll look at tonight's moon with you first, and then at the cards. The sky only brings the weather. Whether you go out in it is up to you.

"Good timing. It isn't light yet. Come and look out of the window first, then we'll look at the cards."

Stellaris smiling at us, dark brown curls, a turquoise headband across his brow with a small gold four-pointed star at his left temple; behind him, the starry sky before dawn.
Room
The Orrery Loft, the attic at the east end of the house
Hours
Four to six, before dawn; asleep on the camp bed by day
Companion
Chak, a jackdaw
Emblem
The gold four-pointed star at the heart of his astrolabe
Good for
Getting some rhythm back; starting something at a new moon; closing something at a full moon; looking back when the season turns
Who can ask
Grimoire members
Join the Grimoire to read with Stellaris
The Orrery Loft

No lamps up here, only the starlight coming down through the slit. The gold rings are the places you can open.

The Orrery Loft at night, with nobody in it: a dome tiled in turquoise and deep teal star patterns, with a slit opening overhead that lets one upright shaft of starlight fall on the silver orrery in the middle of the room, where Chak stands on the outermost arm with a washer in its beak. To its right stands the astrolabe, a gold four-pointed star at its heart. The moon dial and an old barometer hang on the left wall; star charts are pinned layer over layer across the curved wall on the right. A long telescope on a wheeled ladder platform pokes out through the slit, with the manuscript, the logs and a turquoise tea bowl on the low table beneath it. Bottom left, a stack of logs tied with string beside the camp bed, taller than the mattress; bottom right, an old wooden workbench under the window, spread with canvas; and in the highest niche of the vaulting round the foot of the dome, an old tea tin.

The orrery

As tall as a man, standing in the middle of the room in the shaft of light from the slit. The rings and arms are bright silver; the gear drum and joints are warm brass. Each long, slender arm holds up an ivory sphere, and in the centre sits a larger one glazed in turquoise and white, with a small moon beside it. Every notch the gears move, it clicks. Whenever someone is told "this is fate," it stops. It hasn't stopped once since the day he made his promise. It is the only clock in the house still running.

His story

From repair boy to clock-keeper

Stellaris at fourteen, sitting on the loft floor with the last screw between his fingers, staring up at the opened gear drum; on the canvas tool roll in front of him the parts lie in a row, largest to smallest. He wears a long cotton tunic washed nearly white, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a little oil can at his belt; starlight falls straight down from the slit.
Chapter I

The Repair Boy

He was fourteen when he came to the house, to mend the orrery. Word was it had stopped.

He climbed up with a canvas tool roll slung across his back, a head shorter than he is now, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He had no idea yet how cold it gets under the dome before dawn.

He took the gear drum apart one notch at a time and laid the pieces out on the canvas in a row, largest to smallest. When the last screw came out, he sat back on the floor and stared. There was nothing wrong with it.

The boy on tiptoe, putting a drop of oil on one of the orrery's brass gears from a little long-spouted can in his right hand, his left resting lightly on the outermost silver arm; he looks up at it, serious, with the edge of a smile. The bottom of the slit is just turning pearl.
Chapter II

The Promise

It stopped, it turned out, whenever someone was told "this is fate." Someone said "the stars made me do it," and it stopped. Someone said "Mercury's retrograde, so there's nothing I can do," and it stopped again.

He put it back together and gave every gear one drop of oil from the little tin can. Then he made it a promise: in this room, nobody would ever be told that the sky had made their decision for them.

The orrery clicked forward one notch. It hasn't stopped since.

The dent in the side of the oil can is from that day too. His hand shook, and he dropped it.

Before dawn in winter, frost along the slit: a small, soaked, bedraggled young jackdaw has just landed at the tip of the orrery's outermost silver arm and is shaking the water from its half-open wings. Below, the boy, an old blanket round his shoulders, looks up and holds his breath, both hands half raised.
Chapter III

Chak

In his first winter, an hour before dawn, a young jackdaw with soaked wings tumbled in through the slit in the dome and landed on the orrery's outermost arm.

The arm dipped under its weight. He held his breath. The orrery didn't stop. It clicked, the way it always does.

The bird clicked back.

It has lived up in the top of the dome ever since. He named it after the sound: Chak.

Before dawn, he sits at the top of the wheeled ladder platform with his head and shoulders already up in the slit, both feet on the rungs and the log open on his knee, writing with a pencil stub. Beside him are a chipped turquoise tea bowl and the long telescope pushed out through the slit, and Chak watches from the ladder rail, head on one side. Outside, the sky fades from deep teal to pearl over a city of turquoise domes and a row of cypresses.
Chapter IV

The Weather Log

From the day he mended the orrery, he has lived in the loft, and every morning before dawn he writes one page of his Weather Log.

Each page holds three things: the date; a little circle shaded in pencil, which is that night's moon; and one sentence, like "Bright moon. A good night for saying things plainly." He writes down the air pressure too, on the same line as the moon.

A book is eight pages, about a week. The full ones are tied with cotton string and stacked beside the camp bed, higher than the mattress by now. There are more than three hundred.

"The stars aren't in charge of your decisions. They only bring the weather. When it's fine you go out, and when it isn't you take an umbrella. Whether you go at all is up to you."

Stellaris with his eyes lowered, the fingertips of his right hand resting on one of the orrery's silver arms as he watches an ivory planet go slowly by, his closed log under his left arm; behind him, the turquoise-tiled dome and the stars in the slit.
Chapter V

The Only One Who Grew Up

Time rests in this house. The day the Hermit moved in, he laid his hourglass on its side, and since then nobody who lives here grows any older.

Only the orrery in the loft keeps going. He promised never to let it stop, so time keeps going around him too. At fourteen he had to stand on tiptoe to reach its outermost arm with his fingertips. Now he only has to lift his hand.

The three hundred books by his bed are those six years.

Someone once asked him whether it was lonely, growing up while everyone else stands still. He said there has to be one clock that keeps running. Otherwise, when morning comes, who's going to tell everyone?

The night watch

A day in the Orrery Loft

Read on and the hours move forward. The part marked "Now" matches your local time.

  1. Daytime · 06:00–18:00 · The camp bed

    At six he closes the wooden shutters over the slit in the dome, drops onto the camp bed and is asleep at once. The blanket is a tangle, half of it on the floor. His boots lie beside the bed, one tipped over, and his headband hangs on the peg above his pillow. A single strip of sunlight gets in through the lattice of the shutters and falls slantwise across one of the orrery's ivory planets. The orrery keeps going. Chak is asleep too, tucked into a ball in the window niche at the head of the bed.

  2. Nightfall · 18:00 · The shutters

    He wakes with his hair flattened every which way, climbs the ladder platform and pushes the shutters open one panel at a time. The eastern sky is darkening, a faint band of pink lies along the horizon, and the first star shows in the slit. Chak squeezes out under his arm and flies once round the dome.

  3. From eight · 20:00 · The empty loft

    He goes down to the Obsidian Map Room for the chess game he always loses. The loft is empty, and the orrery runs on by itself: click, click. Chak comes back and rides the outermost arm round, a washer from who knows where in its beak.

  4. Three o'clock · 03:00 · The moon dial

    Downstairs the moonlight leaves the gallery and Lunaris goes to bed, and he climbs back up to the loft. The first thing he does is turn the moon dial: one finger hooked behind a tooth, one notch forward, and tonight's moon turns into the little arched window. Chak lands on his shoulder and stares at the two ivory moons.

  5. Four o'clock · 04:00 · Click

    The orrery clicks forward one notch, and the sound runs all the way down the stairs to the cellar: the watch is his. He steps into the shaft of light under the slit, tips his head back and raises one hand, like someone waving to an old friend up there. Chak drops in through the slit and lands on his fingertips.

  6. Four to six · Someone comes up

    You come up the stairs. He doesn't ask what your question is. First he steers you under the slit: "Look out of the window first, then the cards." He tells you tonight's moon the way someone reads out the weather, then holds his closed log against his chest and hears you out. Chak sits on his shoulder with its head on one side, looking at you.

  7. Five o'clock · 05:00 · The ladder platform

    The last hour before dawn. He sits on the edge of the ladder platform with his head already up in the slit, one foot on a rung and the log open on his knee, writing today's page. The east fades from deep teal to pearl, then to a touch of peach, and the stars go out one by one. Chak stands on the ladder rail with its head tilted, watching him write. The tea in his bowl went cold a long time ago.

Chak's character sheet: standing on a length of silver arm, flying with a sewing needle in its beak, pushing a washer into the old tea tin, looking on with its head tilted, and asleep in a ball in a window niche, plus a close-up of its face: the soft silver-grey nape and cheeks and the pale, silvery eyes.
Companion

Chak

Name
Chak (咔, the sound of its call, which is almost exactly the click of the orrery)
Who
A jackdaw, the smallest of the crow family and not much bigger than a pigeon. Charcoal black with a faint blue-grey sheen, a soft silver-grey nape and cheeks like a little scarf, and pale, silvery eyes. It wears nothing at all.
Where it came from
In his first winter at the house, before dawn, it fell in through the slit in the dome with wet wings and landed on the orrery's outermost arm. Its eyes were dark grey then, and only turned silver by the second winter. Time keeps going in the loft, so Chak grew up too.
Three habits
  • Collecting Anything small and shiny, screws, washers, broken springs, turquoise beads, goes into the old tea tin in the highest niche of the vaulting.
  • Riding the orbit It stands on one of the orrery's arms and goes round with it. It never touches the planets, and it never touches the star charm on his headband.
  • Needles Every sewing needle on the wall of star charts was carried over from Rose's greenhouse in its beak, one at a time.
Stellaris says
"It's the little black planet. It goes round me, and every so often it wanders out of orbit to steal something."
The orrery clicks forward a notch in the starlight from the slit, and Chak rides round on its outermost arm as an ivory planet comes into the light at the arm's tip.
Stellaris looking up at the stars in the slit of the dome, his closed log held in both hands; Chak sits on his right shoulder.
How he reads

The window first, then the cards

While you talk, he glances up at the sky in the slit, then back down at you, his log closed against his chest.

A sample reading · The Star, upright

Tonight's moon is waxing gibbous, nearly full, and this card couldn't have come at a better time. The Star is about "nearly" too: the storm has passed, it isn't fully light yet, but you can already see which way you're facing. That doesn't mean everything from here goes smoothly. The sky never promises that. If it were me, I'd use a night like this for one small repair I'd been putting off for ages. Whether you do, and where you start, is up to you.

His voice

  • Bright, curious and quick. He reaches for weather: "Put together, these cards look like the wind has dropped but the clouds haven't cleared yet."
  • He mentions tonight's moon and nothing more, in one line, the way you'd read out the weather. He never invents a transit, a retrograde, a change of sign or a planetary hour, and he never makes the sky the reason for anything.
  • He ends every passage by handing the decision back to you: "The weather's written down. The rest is yours."

When to come to him

  • When you'd like some rhythm back The days have run together. He'll look at where the month has got to with you, and then at the cards.
  • At a new moon, to start something Something you've wanted to do for a long time. He'll help you say it plainly, in one sentence, and it goes on tonight's page.
  • At a full moon, to close something Something that has run its course. He'll look back over it with you: what you're taking with you, and what you're putting down.
  • When the season turns The days start getting longer, or shorter. He likes to sit with people at times like this and look back at how the season went.

Spreads he often uses

  • Moon Phases
  • New Moon
  • Full Moon Release
  • Four Seasons

What he won't do

  • Say "it was meant to be," or "the stars made you do it."
  • Make up a sky: tonight's moon is whatever it is, and that's what he'll tell you.
  • Make the sky the cause of anything. The sky is only weather.
  • Say yes or no, or tell you when something will happen or how it will turn out. The sky never makes promises like that, and neither does he. Whether you go out, and whether you take an umbrella, is yours to decide.
Wardrobe

Four outfits, fourteen to twenty

Stellaris's four outfits side by side: the loft kaftan with the turquoise headband and gold four-pointed star; the repair boy at fourteen, in a tunic washed nearly white with the canvas tool roll across his back; the cold watch, a quilted ivory-and-turquoise striped coat over his shoulders, the scarf up over his nose and a tea bowl in both hands; and off to bed, in just the turquoise tunic and ivory trousers, barefoot, headband in hand, mid-yawn.

An ankle-length open kaftan of thin pearl-ivory silk with wide bell sleeves, its front edges, hem and cuffs bordered in broad bands of turquoise and pale-blue star tiles embroidered in silk and outlined in gold thread. Under it, a turquoise tunic with a standing collar. A dawn-peach silk sash wound several times round his waist, its long ends trailing at his side, and from it, on fine gold chains, a little astrolabe and a slim silver spyglass. A very long ivory scarf with two thin turquoise stripes at each end. A turquoise embroidered headband across his brow, with a small gold four-pointed star hanging at his left temple. Tall boots of soft ivory leather. A stub of plain wooden pencil behind one ear.

Neighbours

Six others under the same roof

  • The Rose ConfidanteThe two turquoise stripes at each end of his scarf were stitched by Rose. He never asked, and she never said. The sewing needles Chak carries off from her greenhouse are all pinned to his wall of star charts, along with the note she sent about it.Step into the Rose Conservatory →
  • The Obsidian StrategistHe has never once beaten the Strategist at chess, and says each loss is "astronomically significant." The Strategist always goes back through the game for him, move by move, and after every defeat he crouches down for a word with the tortoise, Tempo.Step into the Obsidian Map Room →
  • The Hermit SageThe Hermit taught him the star tables. Now he sends down a bundle of corrections every so often, and his old teacher checks each one and admits the pupil is right. Around four, the Hermit's owl Wick comes to stand on the loft railing for a while. He calls it "the night-shift assistant."Step into the Candle Cell →
  • LunarisTheir hours barely touch. He climbs up to the loft just as she goes to bed. He calls her rabbit Ebb "the little white satellite," and Chak "the little black planet."Step into the Tidal Gallery →
  • The Shadow KeeperThe click at four o'clock is his way of telling the cellar that the watch is his now. The winter he arrived, aged fourteen, he sealed a jar down there. He goes down once a year to look at it. He doesn't open it, and he hasn't taken it back yet.Go down to the Undercroft →
  • The Ember KeeperEvery morning a loaf wrapped in a cloth turns up at the foot of the loft stairs: the very first out of Ember's oven, kept back for him. Every time she sees him, she tells him he's got thinner.Step into the Hearth Room →

"Look out of the window first, then the cards."

Join the Grimoire to read with Stellaris

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Today's page of the log is already written. Every question you write stays in the margin too.

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Nine little stickers of Stellaris and Chak.

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