The First Story

by C Bradley Owens

  “New is not always good.” The Growl in the Night was pacing now; his great claws scraped at the ground; deep fissures appeared where he traversed. A low rumble emanated from his chest.

  The Chittering Underground agreed, but a glint caught her leftmost eye. She turned toward the glint, a tiny prick of light between the dark forms of the trees. She listed sideways, and the glint grew bright for just a brief moment before dipping behind another tree. The Chittering Underground shuffled forward.

  “Where are you going?” The Growl in the Night howled, and the trees shuddered. The glint caught his eye. “What is…?” He stepped forward, matching pace with the great spider.

  The two walked side-by-side toward the edge of the Woods, the end of the treeline that had not existed before this moment, and they stepped out of the Woods into an empty pasture. The grass fluttered in the gentle breeze, the wildflowers released their perfume to the world, and the sun began its slow rise over the horizon.

  “What is happening?” The Growl in the Night sat back on his haunches, the strengthening light painting his ebon coat with glimmering diamonds.

  “I think…” the Chittering Underground began, but words were completely insufficient. She had heard descriptions from other stories, never her own, but she expected never to encounter…whatever this was. “Is it…sunrise?”

  The Growl in the Night could not respond, and the Chittering Underground no longer wanted to speak. The great cat and the great spider gazed at the horizon; each felt emotions they had never believed possible; each thought of things they had never dared; each experienced the illumination of a new day. And in the distance, toward the end of the empty pasture, a gray building blinked into existence, just this side of the horizon.

  Chapter 46

  Below the Horizon

  She awoke with a start. The dream had been so vivid, so real, so delicious that she hadn’t wanted to wake up, but all dreams end eventually. She lifted the plush comforter off of her legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool but warm enough on her bare feet. She shuffled to the window.

  “Open.” Her first word of the day appeared scratched and worn from the night’s lengthy influence, but the window obeyed. The blackness of the rectangle on the wall faded to gray, then became lighter and lighter. She stared out the newly transparent rectangle onto the city of Creativity.

  The metal towers of the city jutted up and threatened to pierce the azure ceiling while the cement world underneath bustled with people moving to and fro in a frantic dance of daily life. The gleam of the metal, the whiteness of the cement, the frenzy of the citizens made her head hurt.

  “Dim,” she said much less scratchily, and the window became a cool gray. “No,” she said, shaking her head slightly as if recovering something she had long since put away. “A forest scene.” The window glimmered, and a forest appeared in the rectangle. She held out a timid hand, and something, some distant feeling, like a phantom pain, fluttered across her finger pads. The rough affirming bark, soft but solid, was a puzzle of sturdiness, of transience, of the past.

  “How would I know what a tree feels like?” An awkward, unconvincing sound similar to a giggle escaped her lips. She thought of sap, sticky, thick, and luxurious. “There have never been trees in Creativity.” Her voice sounded insincere, but she needed to start her day.

  Outside, the recycled air brushed her freshly combed hair. Errant strands tickled her eyelashes. She quickly gathered as much as she could and wrapped it with a ribbon, but she paused. Instead, she took half and moved her hand to the side of her head. She held the bundle of hair in that position as the wind continued to whip the rest, and people hurried by without so much as a glance in her direction.

  “That’s silly,” she whispered. “I only have one ribbon.” She gathered all of her hair and tied the ribbon high, near the crown of her head. Citizens continued to stream in front of her. A woman, hunched and entirely dressed in black, stood across the street, near a dark alley. She saw the woman through the cracks in the wall of humanity. Then the woman was gone.

  Her daily walk, which she had embarked upon a million times before, was different today. She walked without purpose, rambling toward some indistinct thing, like a ghost in the mist or in the forest. The forest. The image came again, complete with scents, sweet, earthy, clean…familiar. The woman, bent and in black, stood at the corner in the shadow of a building for a moment before she was gone again.

  She reached her destination, a fountain in the center of the city, and she sat at the pool’s edge to watch to the procession of citizenry, but a thought kept ticking the sides of her perception. She turned her head, expecting to see green, seeing only the cool gray of the city. The woman appeared, hunched, looming so near yet so far in shadow as to be a dream.

  Her dream. It had been of a forest. A magnificent, ancient forest, thick with trees and air so fresh, so abundant, so alive. The dream had shown her a living world, so different from the concrete and metal around her. The city was suddenly so stifling, so closed, so dead. She stood, amid the mist from the fountain, and stared intently past the people, past the buildings, past the…forest. The forest was there; underneath everything else, deep within the city, buried under tons of unnatural materials, entombed in dead things, the forest waited.

  “Ye figured it out yet?” The hunched woman spoke from directly behind her. The girl turned and stared into the craggy, aged face. She stared into the impossibly wise milk gray eyes, and words suddenly came into her thoughts. They were nonsense words, meaning nothing to her, not even a glimmer of comprehension attached to them.

  “Baba Vedma,” she whispered.

  “‘Tis about time,” Baba Vedma responded and took the girl by the arm. “Although they assigned me a new name. Betsy. Can ye believe that? Betsy? They reduced the story of Baba Vedma, one of the oldest stories in all of Creativity, to an old hunch-backed woman named Betsy.”

  “Baba Vedma?” the girl asked.

  “Yes, dear. I’m Baba Vedma. That be my name. My true name. What be your name?”

  “Sally,” the girl said emphatically, although the word felt wrong.

  “No, your real name. Your true name. What be your name?” Baba Vedma squeezed the girl’s arm, offering encouragement, support, and a little pain.

  “I’m just…Sally,” the girl said.

  “Ye sure of that?” Baba Vedma asked but expected no answer. The girl’s shaky utterance was more than enough evidence. “Ye will get there.”

  The girl tried to look within. She turned her thoughts to her name. Sally. Her name was Sally. This woman, she knew her. Her name was…Betsy. She knew her as Betsy. There was no such person as Baba Vedma. There was only Beta—no not that. Bema—no. Her name is…Bet…ma…bama…mama… The sounds became cacophonous, echoing through her every thought. She pushed them aside and just focused on the clear day, the recycled breeze that felt so wonderfully…unnatural. She shook her head violently from side to side and pulled her arm away from the hunched woman.

  “Where are you taking me?” the girl asked.

  “Just come with me.” Baba Vedma tried to take her arm again, but the girl jumped back. “Trust me.”

  The girl looked at Bet—the woman, “I know you.”

  “Of course, ye know me. I be Baba Vedma, one of the elder Aspects, just as you be.”

  “Aspects?”

  “Come with me, and ye’ll get your answers.” Baba Vedma held out an open hand.

  “Your name is…”

  “My name be Baba Vedma.”

  “Your name is Bat—”

  “Baba Vedma.”

  “Your name is Baba Vedma.” She said the name and, for the first time, believed it. A shroud dropped from the girl’s thoughts. The world became darker, insidious.

  “That be correct, and what be your name?”

  The question flared through the girl’s mind like a lightning bolt striking the ocean. The question spread, pulsed with import, throbbed with ne
cessity, and was answered in a sudden instant. “I am the Sister of Monsters!”

  “Yes, that is who you be.” Baba Vedma smiled. “And we need to get to work.”

  Chapter 47

  “Matt, you’re awake,” Mrs. Hensley said as she came into the room, apparently renewed, refreshed in some small but significant way. But underneath, the weariness was still there. “You were sleeping, so I pulled the curtains and went for a walk.” And Matt understood that having a reason to leave the room was such a welcome change that Mrs. Hensley’s meek energy had been renewed just from not being present for a moment.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Matt’s voice was soft and rhythmic as if he were still reciting.

  “You’re exhausted. You should go home and get some rest.” Mrs. Hensley pulled at the curtains.

  “No,” Matt said softly but forcefully. “Let the light in. There is too much of the dark in here. We need more balance.”

  Mrs. Hensley frowned. “Matt,” she said in a very motherly voice. “You need to get rest. You’re not doing yourself or…” She paused as if the words were too sharp, too hurtful.

  “He can hear me,” Matt said, saving her from the mistake she was about to make. “I know he can. You might not understand our stories, but they are helping him. They are.”

  “I just…” Ms, Hensley slumped into her own chair by the window. “I just think we need some normalcy right now. Some practicality.”

  “That is absolutely not what we need.” Matt’s voice was stronger than he knew it could be. “That is completely wrong.”

  The tick, tick, tick filled the space, the quiet, between John’s mother and his best friend. The noise, the rhythm, grew thick and substantial. Then the breathing came to be. The soft, weary breathing of a worried mother merged with the powerful breaths of the determined young man, but they were no match for the mechanically enhanced breathing of the patient struggling for his life.

  Matt didn’t wait for permission. He began on the upbeat of the machines keeping John breathing and used the artificial hissing sound to emphasize the end of his word, “Travis, in Sales, went into work that day expecting nothing more than to make a sale, or even two. There was no way for him to know that the new reality was already breaking down.”

  Chapter 48

  Travis, in Sales

  The secret to a good sale is to find common ground with the customer, Travis, in Sales, repeated to himself as he watched the young couple stroll through the door.

  “Okay, Trav, time to go to work,” he uttered under his breath as he rose and straightened his tie and pulled at the sides of his sports coat, creating a level shoulder line. He walked past the sales board, which showed the top sellers in the place. Rachel was still in the lead, but one more sale, and Trav would take over, just in time for the results. He had an excellent chance of winning the trip to Hawaii, and he needed it. The wife had been on him to take her on a vacation, but the finances…oh, the finances. Who would have thought that leaving his job as loan manager for the bank to become a salesperson at a car dealership would not have been the best financial decision?

  “See anything you like?” he asked as the couple eyed a gray minivan.

  “We need a car with more room,” the man said as he patted his wife’s stomach. The woman put her hands over his and smiled.

  “Wonderful,” Travis, in Sales, said. “And how far along are you?”

  The woman frowned suddenly. Her pretty features slumped, blurred, and became unreadable. The man turned pensive and quiet.

  “No matter.” Travis, in Sales, felt himself losing the sale. “You need a minivan, and Ol’ Trav is here to sell you one.”

  “Ol’ Trav?” the man asked, suddenly smiling again.

  “I’m Travis. I’m in sales. Everyone calls me Trav though.”

  “Trav.” The woman smiled sweetly. Her blonde hair nearly white, bathed in the sunlight from the wall of windows behind her.

  “Well, let Ol’ Trav show you some of the features of this baby, Mr…?”

  The man again became thoughtful but said, “Thomas, call me Thomas.”

  “Thomas,” Travis repeated and held out his hand. “I’m Travis, in Sales.

  “Yes, I’m aware of your name. You’ve said it often enough.” Thomas shook Travis, in Sales’ hand and then thrust his own hand into his pocket. When he pulled his hand out, he held a Super Bounce ball. He held it out to Travis. “Here, have a ball.”

  Travis, in Sales, took the ball and smiled. “A Super Bounce. I haven’t seen one of these in years. They used to be my favorite toy as a child.”

  “I know,” Thomas said and then furrowed his brow.

  “Okay.” Travis, in Sales, ignored the comment and opened the driver’s side door. “This baby has all-wheel drive, power steering, excellent gas mileage…” He continued to list the features of the vehicle as the couple turned to each other.

  “Are you really pregnant?” Thomas asked.

  “I have no idea.” The woman pushed against her stomach. “Is your name really Thomas?”

  The man thought for a moment and shrugged. “What’s your name?”

  “I want to say Wilma, but at the same time, I don’t want to say Wilma.”

  “That’s the way I feel about Thomas.”

  “There’s a keyless entry system, additional latches specifically designed for car seats…” Travis, in Sales, said as he moved around the car, opening every door.

  “How did we get here?” Wilma, who was not entirely Wilma, asked.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas, who was not entirely Thomas, answered as he pulled another ball from his pocket. “And why do I have all of these bouncy balls in my pocket?”

  “I have nothing in my pockets, but I have a strong desire to watch Travis, in Sales freeze to death.”

  “That’s harsh, even for a car salesperson. Why freeze and not, say, drown?”

  Wilma shrugged but remained quiet as Travis, in Sales finished reciting the features. “So, what do you think?”

  Wilma and Thomas glanced at each other. “We’ll let you know.” They said together and quickly left. Travis, in Sales, watched them leave, utter confusion etched across his face. He screwed up his mouth and sighed before returning to his desk.

  “Well, Ol’ Trav,” he uttered to himself. “You win some; you lose some.” He began to do some paperwork as he daydreamed about Hawaii.

  Chapter 49

  The Warehouse

  Baba Vedma pulled the heavy metal door open, and the Sister of Monsters walked through. The Warehouse was alive with mechanical noise. Driverless forklifts dashed to and fro, delivering crates to one section while taking crates from another. The Sister of Monsters could see all the way down the middle aisle; rows and rows of crates stacked upon sturdy metal shelves ran the length of the enormous building, and the loading dock at the back was just as busy. Automated cranes and trucks worked in unison to restock the shelves on one side while the same equipment worked to take the stock away from the next dock.

  “What is this place?” the Sister of Monsters asked, still catching glimpses of green underneath the pallid structures all around her.

  “This be the Warehouse at the City’s Border.” Baba Vedma stepped inside and allowed the door to slam shut with a loud crack. “Near as I can tell, this approximates the place in our world where be the Inn at the Edge of the Woods stood.”

  “So, everything is gone?” The Sister of Monsters watched the robotic dance in front of her and shuddered at the sheer lack of biology in the movements. “Our entire world has been replaced with…this?” She flipped her hand toward the Warehouse in a motion of disgust and dismissal.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Baba Vedma walked down the wide center aisle, careful to avoid the direct paths of the forklifts. She motioned for the Sister of Monsters to follow and turned between two shelves. The side aisle ran the width of the building and stopped at a massive cement wall with a sturdy-looking wooden door seemingly stuck in the ceme
nt as an afterthought.

  “That door…” the Sister of Monsters gasped.

  “That be right,” Baba Vedma declared and placed her hand on the large metal box with a keyhole affixed to the wooden planks that formed the door. The wood was impossibly aged but still vibrantly earth-toned. So stark was the meager color of the wood grain against the gray world around them that it hurt to look directly at it, like the sun suddenly appearing strong and vibrant in the sky after a long gray winter.

  “Ye be ready?” Baba Vedma pushed, and a sliver of intense light poured through the slowly expanding fissure between door and wall.

  “Wait.” The Sister of Monsters’ plea came too late. Baba Vedma flung the door open with a violent shove. The light bathed the Sister of Monsters in memory. The forest, the Aspects, the Duality, and the Inn all came rushing to her like an uncontrollable flood. The illumination threatened to drown her in realization. She stumbled, but Baba Vedma caught her and helped her inside. They closed the door behind them.

  The Inn at the Edge of the Woods was just as warm and cozy as it had ever been. The doilies and floral paintings were no more. The animal heads and skins and various claws and antlers adorned all the correct walls. The tables were the massive rough-hewn planks set atop sufficiently thick posts. It was just as the Sister of Monsters remembered, before the whole ordeal of…

  “The First Story!” The Sister of Monsters exclaimed, and every head turned her way: Elements, Ideas, and a few Symbols slumped in chairs, haggard and beaten. Their eyes turned to her, pleading, watery, and tired.

  “That be right.” Baba Vedma led her to the nearest table, and the Sister of Monsters plopped down in the nearest chair, exhausted yet exhilarated at the same time. “We had just discovered that the Origamist has been working to undo Creativity or to remake it. We weren’t really sure at that point. If I be forced, me best guess was that it was to remake, given our present environment.”