Long ago when almost everyone was a saint, Saint Alaska met a golden cloud. She’d been drinking at the stream near her home. The water was cool. Birds called overhead. It was the perfect day. 

She’d lain Little Island on the grass next to the stream as she drank. Now she sat him on her lap so his feet dangled in the stream. 

“Isn’t that nice, baby?” she murmured as his toes danced in the water. He gurgled and smiled. 

It’s not easy being a saint in prehistory; it’s not easy being a mother, but when it’s good, it’s very good, she thought. 

Back in the fall, she’d sent her cousin Saint Luzia a prayer on the wind. It should have reached Brazil in the winter, so she was hoping for a prayer back any day now. She knew the winds could be capricious; if it took much longer, she’d send another. 

Her son started smacking his lips so she put him to her breast. That was when she saw the golden cloud. 

At first it was just a speck in the sunlight. As it approached it might have been a terror bird. But soon she saw it for what it truly was, a heavy yellow mist coming to her of its own volition. 

“Saint Alaska,” said the cloud. 

“Yes?” she said, shielding her face; the cloud was shining in her eyes. 

“I’ve come to—” 

“I’m sorry, but could you please back up a little? Or dim yourself? You’re hurting my eyes.” 

“I—uh—I can’t do that.” The cloud didn’t know why he said that—of course he could back up—but he was surprised; people never spoke so freely with him. They were usually scared to death. 

“Well, I just can’t really see anything.” Now the baby was squeezing his eyes shut. 

“That’s the point. I’m supposed to be awe-inspiring.” 

“I’ll just close my eyes,” sighed the saint. 

The golden cloud sighed, too. “Okay.” He started again: “Saint Alaska, I’ve come to bring you a prayer from your cousin Saint Luzia.” 

She switched her son to her other breast. “Oh, thank you.” 

“She says—” 

“Alaska, the food is ready.” A woman had approached without the cloud noticing. 

“Thank you, Mama.” The saint detached her son and stood. To the cloud she said, “You’re welcome to come with us.” 

He hesitated. This was very out of the ordinary. In the end, he said, “I’ll wait here.” 

The cloud lost himself in thought for who knows how long—minutes or months or millennia. Had he done something wrong? He’d never been relegated before. He started to question his role, his meaning. What if he just drifted away one day? Never brought another prayer, never visited another saint? Would anyone even notice? Who even was he? What was he, really? 

The sound of shouts brought him back. People were running with children and baskets and animals in their arms. Saint Alaska’s face flashed by in the crowd. There must be another family moving in, thought the cloud. It would take him a long time to find her again. Maybe he would go back to Saint Luzia and tell her he hadn’t been able to bring her prayer. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d go his own way. 

The golden cloud turned and drifted up towards the sun. No saint ever saw him again.