Post by WeirdRaptor on Apr 16, 2020 14:54:56 GMT -6
Posted a longer short story to r/libraryofshadows. No idea where in my psyche this story came from, but it pretty much came to me fully-formed yesterday morning and I just didn’t have a chance to write it until a few hrs. ago.
Title from Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale.” Have wanted to use it for something for a while.
Darkling I Listen
He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected to happen when he died, but he certainly didn’t expect this.
He didn’t expect, for example, to be in a cavern, extending for as far as the eye could see, though for a few minutes he wryly wondered if cavern meant under the earth meant hell.
He didn’t expect to be waiting in line, as if he were waiting for the DMV. He laughed at the thought and said to himself that that really meant he was in hell.
And he certainly didn’t expect to end up at a courthouse where a lone, lonely bailiff asked his name, manner and age of death, and plea. (Plea? The Isle, the Pit, or the Meadow, of course.) He so didn’t expect those questions, in fact, that his mouth just hung open for a while, and then the bailiff announced that he was pleading Meadow.
He didn’t expect, also, the great men at the bench, who sat on gold thrones and nodded at the plea. He tried to respond, but the bailiff pointed at the one door in the distance. The trial was finished.
When he went through that door, he found himself on the roof of a tower, overlooking the meadow, and he saw people, near, far, female, male, old, young, gray, swaying in the wind like corn.
Behind him there had never been a door, only a brick wall, so he descended the steps that led from the tower to the meadow. He watched the people, watched all of them sway until one broke from the pack, walked forward, walked to a small, rippling brook that he had not seen before. The brook babbled from a rock face, on which had been engraved the word “Drink.”
He thought little of it. Close by stood a cottage, and when he entered he found, to his surprise, that it was his. At least, it was a simulacrum of his apartment when it had been when he was alive, right down to his cell phone (cracked screen) on the coffee table. He thought, No reception where I am, and laughed.
Early on he rarely left his apartment-like cottage — outside, the corn-people were just too depressing, and inside he had Internet, music, movies — but eventually he took to exploring his new country. He found other cottages (some of which were bigger than they appeared, some of which were smaller) and their residents.
At first, the residents didn’t take kindly to the new arrival, but soon they warmed up to him. One older fellow in particular explained about the corn-people, explained how they were waiting their turns drink the waters of the rippling brook, to drink and no more remember their lives, to drink and forget, to drink and be lost, to drink and be consumed in the Meadow.
No, the older fellow laughed, this is not hell. The Pit is far off to the east, far removed from the Cottages, beyond the Mountains, beyond the Forest. You do not want to venture to the Pit.
The Isle, meanwhile, is far to the west, far removed from the Cottages, beyond the Wall, beyond the Guards with their bayonets. You wish to venture to the Isle, but the Guards block it. There is no way around the Guards.
To the North is the Palace of the King who rules these lands. None (the older fellow laughed) has ventured there.
He listened to the older fellow’s words, figured that purgatory wasn’t too terrible a place for him, and wondered if he’d ever be allowed to leave.
For years he wondered, and wandered, and the years turned to decades, and the decades turned to centuries, and the centuries turned to millennia, and he stopped wandering but remained wondering. Then he saw the older fellow chuckle, and step outside, and sway, and wait his turn, and proceed to the brook, and drink, and forget.
That was the moment he decided to venture towards the Pit.
No Guards defended that way, after all, and with his exhaustion from thousands of years of just existing, he didn’t want to risk guards. He wouldn’t go down into the Pit — he was still sane enough to know that purgatorial torment did not compare to the infernal variety — but he would be out of the Meadow, and he would find his way to the Palace of the King, and he… Well, what would he do? Kill the King? What if the King couldn’t be killed? But, then, he couldn’t be killed… Maybe risk the Guards after all, then, because…?
No. He stuck with his original plan, and he packed food and supplies and set off, set off for (maybe literally?) only God knew where. He soon came to realize that the older fellow had never traveled this far in-person, or had lied about the landscape: Only the Meadow, and the Meadow only, stretched on until, finally, a wall appeared on the horizon.
He scaled it easily and arrived at the Pit.
Or was it the Pit? It certainly wasn’t a literal pit; on the contrary, it was a castle, its spires rising so high as to touch the cave’s ceiling.
He hadn’t reached the Pit at all, he realized; he’d reached the Palace — but, hey, that’s where he’d wanted to end up, anyway.
Yes, that was where he wanted to be. There, at the Palace of Death. Right. Childe Roland to the dark tower came.
As he crossed the threshold, the torches alit, as if to herald his arrival. He saw no guards as he entered the sanctuary and removed his dagger.
Yet he saw no King, he saw only the Throne, black and blinding. He inched up to it, then glanced at the object on the King’s seat.
When he saw it, he did not understand for some moments, and then he laughed, for it was a mirror, and so he saw the King of Death.
And he was surprised no longer, and he knew.
He knew, for example, about the Pit, about the Isle — namely, that there was no Pit, that there was no Isle. He knew, for example, about the Guards — namely, that there were no Guards, for there was no Isle to protect. And he knew about the Palace — namely, that he had gone nowhere, that he was standing in his Cottage, in his Meadow.
He knew, how he knew, about the Meadow only and only the Meadow, how the Meadow is all and all is the Meadow, world without end.
For a moment he laughed at the Triumph of Death. Then he grew wiser, and chuckled.
When he left his Cottage and stood with the others, swaying in the wind like corn, he thought of nothing. This was wise of him.
Soon it was his turn. He proceeded to the brook, plunged in his hands (how warm it felt, too, warm and soft, like milk), cupped the water.
And drank.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected to happen when he died, but he certainly didn’t expect this.
He didn’t expect, for example, to be in a cavern, extending for as far as the eye could see, though for a few minutes he wryly wondered if cavern meant under the earth meant hell.
He didn’t expect to be waiting in line, as if he were waiting for the DMV. He laughed at the thought and said to himself that that really meant he was in hell.
And he certainly didn’t expect to end up at a courthouse where a lone, lonely bailiff asked his name, manner and age of death, and plea. (Plea? The Isle, the Pit, or the Meadow, of course.) He so didn’t expect those questions, in fact, that his mouth just hung open for a while, and then the bailiff announced that he was pleading Meadow.
He didn’t expect, also, the great men at the bench, who sat on gold thrones and nodded at the plea. He tried to respond, but the bailiff pointed at the one door in the distance. The trial was finished.
When he went through that door, he found himself on the roof of a tower, overlooking the meadow, and he saw people, near, far, female, male, old, young, gray, swaying in the wind like corn.
Behind him there had never been a door, only a brick wall, so he descended the steps that led from the tower to the meadow. He watched the people, watched all of them sway until one broke from the pack, walked forward, walked to a small, rippling brook that he had not seen before. The brook babbled from a rock face, on which had been engraved the word “Drink.”
He thought little of it. Close by stood a cottage, and when he entered he found, to his surprise, that it was his. At least, it was a simulacrum of his apartment when it had been when he was alive, right down to his cell phone (cracked screen) on the coffee table. He thought, No reception where I am, and laughed.
Early on he rarely left his apartment-like cottage — outside, the corn-people were just too depressing, and inside he had Internet, music, movies — but eventually he took to exploring his new country. He found other cottages (some of which were bigger than they appeared, some of which were smaller) and their residents.
At first, the residents didn’t take kindly to the new arrival, but soon they warmed up to him. One older fellow in particular explained about the corn-people, explained how they were waiting their turns drink the waters of the rippling brook, to drink and no more remember their lives, to drink and forget, to drink and be lost, to drink and be consumed in the Meadow.
No, the older fellow laughed, this is not hell. The Pit is far off to the east, far removed from the Cottages, beyond the Mountains, beyond the Forest. You do not want to venture to the Pit.
The Isle, meanwhile, is far to the west, far removed from the Cottages, beyond the Wall, beyond the Guards with their bayonets. You wish to venture to the Isle, but the Guards block it. There is no way around the Guards.
To the North is the Palace of the King who rules these lands. None (the older fellow laughed) has ventured there.
He listened to the older fellow’s words, figured that purgatory wasn’t too terrible a place for him, and wondered if he’d ever be allowed to leave.
For years he wondered, and wandered, and the years turned to decades, and the decades turned to centuries, and the centuries turned to millennia, and he stopped wandering but remained wondering. Then he saw the older fellow chuckle, and step outside, and sway, and wait his turn, and proceed to the brook, and drink, and forget.
That was the moment he decided to venture towards the Pit.
No Guards defended that way, after all, and with his exhaustion from thousands of years of just existing, he didn’t want to risk guards. He wouldn’t go down into the Pit — he was still sane enough to know that purgatorial torment did not compare to the infernal variety — but he would be out of the Meadow, and he would find his way to the Palace of the King, and he… Well, what would he do? Kill the King? What if the King couldn’t be killed? But, then, he couldn’t be killed… Maybe risk the Guards after all, then, because…?
No. He stuck with his original plan, and he packed food and supplies and set off, set off for (maybe literally?) only God knew where. He soon came to realize that the older fellow had never traveled this far in-person, or had lied about the landscape: Only the Meadow, and the Meadow only, stretched on until, finally, a wall appeared on the horizon.
He scaled it easily and arrived at the Pit.
Or was it the Pit? It certainly wasn’t a literal pit; on the contrary, it was a castle, its spires rising so high as to touch the cave’s ceiling.
He hadn’t reached the Pit at all, he realized; he’d reached the Palace — but, hey, that’s where he’d wanted to end up, anyway.
Yes, that was where he wanted to be. There, at the Palace of Death. Right. Childe Roland to the dark tower came.
As he crossed the threshold, the torches alit, as if to herald his arrival. He saw no guards as he entered the sanctuary and removed his dagger.
Yet he saw no King, he saw only the Throne, black and blinding. He inched up to it, then glanced at the object on the King’s seat.
When he saw it, he did not understand for some moments, and then he laughed, for it was a mirror, and so he saw the King of Death.
And he was surprised no longer, and he knew.
He knew, for example, about the Pit, about the Isle — namely, that there was no Pit, that there was no Isle. He knew, for example, about the Guards — namely, that there were no Guards, for there was no Isle to protect. And he knew about the Palace — namely, that he had gone nowhere, that he was standing in his Cottage, in his Meadow.
He knew, how he knew, about the Meadow only and only the Meadow, how the Meadow is all and all is the Meadow, world without end.
For a moment he laughed at the Triumph of Death. Then he grew wiser, and chuckled.
When he left his Cottage and stood with the others, swaying in the wind like corn, he thought of nothing. This was wise of him.
Soon it was his turn. He proceeded to the brook, plunged in his hands (how warm it felt, too, warm and soft, like milk), cupped the water.
And drank.