by Dan H Kind
Chapter 45
The Cosmic Dancer
Too many stars clustered in the Eden sky, as if the Earth had been transported to the middle of the galaxy where the twinkling heavens congregated. Stars never before glimpsed from the surface of the Earth. Red, green, and yellow dewdrops the size of dimes. Bluish-whitish sprinklings that resembled the Milky Way. Shifting, wavering nebulae bursting with never-before-seen colors.
The earthbound looked up into the star-heavy sky and marveled. The planet was lit with a fiery twilight that would give daylight a run for its money.
Then the stars began to swirl, around and around, as if the Earth had been knocked from its orbit and was spinning out of control through the cosmos to some unknown oblivion.
People gasped, oohed and ahhed, or screamed in terror.
And then something formed from the shifting stars.
A figure made of stars, a galaxy-sized being of light, a constellation of cosmic energy stenciled upon the dark canvas of space, as if some bored Creator god had played connect-the-dots with the heavens. Clusters of blue-white stars converged and formed into two twinkling eyes.
Shiva as Nataraja.
The Lord of the Dance had two sparkling legs, four glittering arms, and a serene, celestial face that bespoke endless existence. A ring of stars that burned red-hot with the fires of a billion suns encircled his form. His feet rested upon a pedestal of swiveling, churning galaxies.
Nataraja peered down at Earth, at Eden, at the insignificant insects that believed they were the equals of the gods, believed they were equals of him, the Cosmic Dancer that danced Creation into and out of existence. He had Danced his Dance billions of times, and he would do so billions more. In the end, it would be only he and Kali. Always, he and Kali.
Jeez, that irked him no end. Maybe this time around she'd just let him meditate after Time was no more and stop pestering him to get on with creating the new universe, which always seemed so much better at first, but always ended up being more of the same old crap.
In his sparkling hand Nataraja held a starlight-drawn, hourglass-shaped bongo upon which he began to beat. The sound shook the Earth like the AUMmmmm that begat Creation, and people across the planet screamed in terror and floundered as the ground bellowed and quaked beneath their feet.
Nataraja's arms and legs twirled and whirled in mesmerizing fashion, captivating with perfect movement and prolific form the billions of beings watching the celestial proceedings. The Dance of Destruction was the Dance to end all dances, and no human or mytho could ever hope to match the sublime beauty and grace of Shiva-as-Nataraja as he Danced it.
The Cosmic Dancer raised his upper right hand, and a sphere of fire burst into existence in his upturned palm. Those on Earth could feel the heat, and it was like an oven—hotter than the hottest summer day the American South had ever seen, hotter than the punishing fires of Tartarus.
This was it.
Apocalypse.
Armageddon.
The end of existence.
The end of Time.
The end of everything.
And there was nothing anybody could do to stop it.
As it seemed inevitable the universe would perish, Jack figured it was time for one last drink. So he crouched down and scooped a few swallows of Hoppy Heaven Ale from a puddle by his feet into the paper cup in his hand. He peered at the silty liquid, then took a long, savory gulp. Someone nudged him in the back, and he fell forward, spitting out brew. His forehead hit ground first, and he drifted off into the hazy World of Myth his mind had become.
The last thing he saw was Master Mirbodi grinning down at him.