The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey

by Millerson, Brady

  The Valley of Death was far to John’s right, its polluted hills still receiving the dead that were falling upon it. Too small to contain the war-to-end-all-wars, the overflow from its veins had spread into the hilly desert in which he and Sofia were now standing.

  To his left, he could see what had become of the ruins. Structures no higher than those found on Labor were all that remained, the smoke of its torment rising to the heavens in continual funnels of blackened clouds.

  Directly across from their camp, the enemy of the people of this side of the wasteland was set in their formations. Equal in size, waiting their turn to enter the killing fields, the offspring of the murderous pit of the Valley, the opposing forces were a mirrored image of one another.

  But John knew the game now: every man and women on the planet was merely following orders. Nobody was acting with a certainty that they were shooting in self-defense. How could anyone know that those that they were trying to kill actually wanted to do him or her harm prior to the command to do so? Banks and his new government were starting over. They were wiping out every last remnant of humanity that they could not directly control with ease and simplicity.

  As the final deathblow was given to the opposing side, the few individuals that remained were limping, kneeling and crawling through the battlefield, ignored by the agents in charge. The command was given, echoing through the choking air, for the awaiting formations of soldiers and vehicles to make the charge.

  Both sides initiated with the cries of hatred. Like an avalanche of human madness, millions of men and women rushed upon each other, savagely firing their weapons before them, dropping the survivors of the previous engagement, or else swallowing them up in their rolling waves of destruction. With the front lines of both sides fallen, the masses behind trampled their corpses into the ground, burying them deep within the blood soaked soil.

  As John and Sofia, and the other peoples of the recently arrived airships, reached the end of the ramps, they were handed their weapons, a rifle and a sword. By threat of a slow, painful death, they were coerced into joining their assigned units, if they were not so inclined already to do so.

  The bullets of the battle below were buzzing around freely, ricocheting off the airships, burying into the sand with puffs of dust, slamming into the awaiting men and women, killing some, wounding others.

  John kept Sofia’s head low as they were led into an organized structure of soldiers. Stepping over the corpses and pieces of the dead, they took their positions among the rank and file. Several wheeled transporters, scattered throughout the airship landing zones, pulled up alongside them. John saw an opportunity waiting. Blending in with the masses, he pulled Sofia to the rear of their unit.

  “We’re going to try to make a break for one of those vehicles,” he said, looking around for a clear opening, hoping the agents in charge would be too busy to notice.

  Sofia’s eyes were awash with redness, swollen and glossy. Seemingly unable to give a verbal exchange, she just stared and nodded her head in the affirmative.

  “If we can make it,” John continued. “I’ll try to get us through the warzone. We might be able to find a place to hide in the mountainous region beyond the Red Sea.”

  A soldier to his side fell to his knees in the sand, holding his bleeding gut, screaming in pain. John tried to ignore him, but with the bullets flying by and the screams of agony from those being wounded by the stray projectiles increasing beyond comfort, he pulled Sofia closer to him, providing his body as her shield.

  His girl was no soldier. She was fearful, even now refusing to hold her rifle, covering her ears instead. She had thrown her sword down moments earlier when the agents were out of sight. She was refusing to partake in being a murderer.

  The battle below had reached its peak as the two sides had absorbed each other into one organic whole of annihilation. The smoke of the destroyed vehicles, like black pillars holding the sky in place, arose from the sands. As the explosions rocked the hills, John knew that within a few minutes time their turn would come to make the charge of death.

  Blocked from the view of any of the commanding agents by the offroad vehicle idling next to them, John directed Sofia to crouch down with him beside the passenger door. Reaching for the door handle, he slid a knife from his pocket, unfolding its blade. Just as he was about to make his move, a knock, like a fist pounding on a wooden table, resounded from behind him. From over his shoulder John could see Sofia lying down, her arms spread out and the back of her head pressed into the red sand. Her skin was pale, as it had been on the Island, but there no rise and fall to her chest this time. She just lay there, peaceful and still.

  “Sofia, are you alright?” he asked, leaving off with his plan and crawling over to her.

  As he placed his hand under her head, he noticed the small puncture wound in her temple. Trickling the red fluid of life into her ear and onto the soil beneath her, the dust receiving her blood began to take on a deep burgundy hue. John could only stare in disbelief.

  “No, this can’t be happening,” he whispered.

  His hands were trembling as he began taking her body gently into his arms. Brushing her hair from her face, tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “It’s alright, Sofia,” he said. “I’m going to get us out of here. I promise. Just give me a little more time, girl. Just a little more time.”

  As his fingers continued to stream through the strands of her hair, the yellow-whiteness of Sofia’s locks began to conform to the ruby red of the sand beneath them.

  “Don’t go, Sofia. Not here. Not now,” he cried.

  The roar of the battle sounds was thrown upon him with the likes of an audience cheering for her death. Brought back to the planet of war, to die in such a lonely world forsaken by any hint of beauty, Sophia’s lifeless shell was all that remained of everything John had the purpose of living for.

  “Let me take you home, girl,” he wept. “Let’s go home, now. I just want to go home.”

  Her eyes were still open, staring into nothingness. The sky blue beauty of her youth was draining out of her with the streams of her blood, turning them into the ashen gray color of an overcast morning. The warmth of her skin was fleeing, taking with it the blush-pinkness of her once rosy cheeks.

  With his hand supporting her head, he took one last look into the blackness of her pupils. She had no tears left. Her pain was gone. All he could see was a reflection of his own face. It was youthful and innocent.

  A passing courier on the sidewalk of Labor bumped into him, and John suddenly came to his senses, as if he had been asleep. From the edge of the sidewalk he could see the falling shoe of Mr. Sanders, tumbling to the rooftop below.

  “Let’s go see what that was, John.” Sofia said with a twinkle in her eye.

  It was a feeling of relief to see her so alive, to be by her side as he was sitting beside her upon the rooftop of Labor Apartment 1A, watching the rising of the Savior. Pointing her finger at the star that streaked through the morning sky, she had a smile that was nearly as bright. As the light of the rising Savior fell upon him, it spoke to him, telling him to take Sofia, to leave the world of Labor behind.

  “Let’s leave this place,” John said to her.

  Holding her hand out to him, he grasped it firmly, lifting Sofia up the edge of the steep hill from which they could overlook the valley of trees and rolling hills. The adventure of their lifetime awaited them.

  The setting Savior was closing the show of the day with a drapery of pinkish clouds set into an orange mood.

  “John,” she said. “I’ll follow you wherever you go. Always.”

  Her eyes were so sincere, so watery blue. They were like the ripples of the cold lake that were a bitter relief, as they kept away the pursuing creatures, howling within the fog-coated lands surrounding them. Sofia’s lips were trembling, but she fought to keep up with his demands as they waded across the shallow pool, for she loved him so.

  “If we find the answers you’re look
ing for, will we return to our home in the woods?” she asked.

  “Of course we will,” John said, as he thought of the compass sinking to the bottom of the lake. “I promise.”

  The sloshing of the water diminished behind him. Sofia was standing a ways off, her complexion downcast.

  “Where are you going, girl?” John asked.

  She looked at him in silence as the doors of the Security transporter closed her in, leaving him alone on the dusty streets of Basket Town.

  Through the darkened, back window she continued to stare. Her eyes were so gray, like storm clouds covering the softness of the heavens as they rumbled over the Red Sea.

  Sofia was so tranquil in his arms, her head dripping with the crimson waters.

  “What did you want to tell me?” he asked.

  “This is the day you will find all the answers that you have been seeking, my love,” she whispered, as the sheets of death drew over her.

  Sofia was lifelessly staring at the Savior as John looked upon his reflection in the blackness of her pupils. Why, he wondered in sorrow, had it taken so much toil for him to realize how much she sacrificed for their relationship, how much she truly meant to him? But he never gave as much in return, although his love for her was equally as strong.

  Leaning his forehead into Sofia’s, John’s tears rolled onto her cold cheeks, dripping into the deep red sea that warmly pooled in the sand beneath them. Closing his eyes he held her tightly. He could not let her go.

  “Sofia, my love. I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  The battle below was waning fast. The preparatory call for his unit’s turn to join in the fray was wailing in his ears. Caressing Sofia’s face, John realized that he had lost all awareness of the here and now.

  “She’s gone, boy,” came a familiar voice, monotone and cruel, from the shadow that fell upon him. “And here we are, together again.”

  John lifted up his swollen eyes to the man he hated more than any other human, living or dead. The Monster stood before him, as wicked as the devil himself.

  He had aged quite well. His gray hair was still thick upon his head, and his brow was now creased and wrinkled, a permanence of his evil demeanor. The rifle on his shoulder, the air of courage, the lack of respect for the hot lead randomly tearing through the breeze around him, all of it reeked of that haughty disposition John hated so much about the man.

  “You’re not going to bring her back,” the Monster mumbled, spitting in the sand. “Get up.”

  Closing his eyes, John could feel the burning redness of his face and the taste of Sofia’s salty, tear-diluted blood drying upon his lips.

  “Those men out there killed her, John,” he said, pointing at the massive formations on the other side of the warzone. “Our people have been fighting them for ages. And today we’re going to end it all. Get up. Avenge Sofia’s death.”

  John’s eyes opened, and his countenance changed. The feet of the men in his formation were standing among the dead. The moaning of the wounded followed the last crack of a weapon in the distance. Setting Sofia down softly upon the warm sand, John pulled the rifle out from under the back of her arm.

  “That’s right, boy,” his father said as he watched his son rising to his feet.

  John’s face was like flint, hard and set. His mind was burning, enflamed by the desire to destroy. With everything worth living for consumed in the pages of time, he walked into his formation, pushing his way to the front lines, followed closely behind by the grimacing face of the Monster.

  Pulling Sofia’s sword from the mound on which she dropped it, John dragged the tip of its blade through the crimson soil, leaving its trail as a wake upon which the Monster was being led. His feet crunched through the dried layers of blood with each progressing step. Like exiting the trees of the forest and entering into the open plains, John and his father stepped out of the formation of war-hungry masses and into the front of the battle line, staring across the corpse-filled field of death. The few remaining wounded were limping and crawling, ankle deep in the coagulated pool that filled the land. They could do nothing but await the commencement of the waves of their own demise.

  The Monster was at John’s side, but he was no longer accounted as one of the enemy. To his left stood millions of men and women, mostly hungering for the fight. To his right were millions more, anxious to get it on. Across the desert, their reflected image waited in the same preparatory anticipation. Were it not for the agonizing shrill of the dying, silence would be the law.

  Sofia was gone. She would never return to John again. There would be no more thoughts of happiness sneaking by, no more feelings of his past to guide him, with the one exception: Sofia’s death. The worlds were going to burn today. Men were going to die. And the burning wall of anger reached the apex of its purpose.

  The descending airships fell by the thousands to the surface of the planet, touching down behind the awaiting forces of both sides. Delivering the next wave to the warzone, the arriving transporters were the final piece of the machinery needed to bring about the commencement of the call to battle.

  In the final moment of silence, the wind fluttered through John’s hair, flapping the loose layers of his clothing.

  “Vengeance is mine,” John shouted.

  The roar of the masses resounded upon the surface of the planet as the essence of humanities treacherous ways rushed upon one another, sprinting through the open expanse between ruins and valley, between brother and brother, between flesh and blood. Within his left hand John held Sofia’s sword confidently gleaming behind him. With his right hand he raised her rifle at arms length, preparing to pull the trigger with purposeful rage. Soldiers dropped under foot around him, falling to the oncoming clouds of vapor-trailing lead. Squeezing his trigger, heads broke apart, limbs fell, bodies crumbled.

  With clouds of dust on their tails, the two armies collided. John thrust his blade into the side of a head, tearing it back out with a crimson bow decorating the air. A burning jolt grabbed his side, sending him into an agonizing spin. Pulling the trigger, he sprayed wildly around him. Thrusting, killing, shouting, killing, tearing, killing, it was the day of violence. It was the end of the era of men without a moral compass.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The land was flooded, but not by water. The broken sword supported John as he, like the thousands of other wandering survivors, limped and struggled in the battle’s aftermath. His clothes were tattered, appearing as shreds of flesh dangling from his blood-soaked body.

  The suction of the warm congelation sifting though the toes of his one bare foot was nauseatingly morose, and he began to vomit as it slid through the loose bones of the dead hidden beneath the collecting thickness. Exasperated and drained of all hydrated substance, he fell splashing to his knees, leaning upon the hilt of his weapon. The suffering screams of the air were too much to bear, and John placed a sticky hand upon his ear attempting to drown out the moans and cries of the dying.

  In the glassy red sea flooding about his thighs, the Monster’s face stared up from its surface, peering into John’s soul. Thrusting his arm towards the man’s face, he wanted nothing more, whether the old man was dead or alive, than to tear his eyes out of his skull. As his fist made contact with the ghastly figure, the splattering ripples that grew about his buried hand destroyed the image entirely. And he realized it was not his father he was seeing, but his own reflection.

  As he drew his dripping palm back out of the muck, he dropped his head to his chest. Covering his face, he began to cry, “Savior, my Savior. What have I become?”

  The roar of the oncoming wave of humanity was rolling in like a storm from before and behind. The bullets were, once again, beginning to fly. The bodies were already starting to fall.

  A beam of light from the heavens dropped upon a kneeling soldier, wounded in the battle from which John had also emerged. His hands were lifting to the sky, as if he were pleading for help from an unseen being. Beyond him, towards the ru
ins, another ray fell upon a distant fighter, then another, then another.

  Each stream of light from the Savior was destined for someone. Like roots from the heavens, the branching bars of illumination fell upon the battlefield’s crimson lake causing a disturbance in the calm liquid, but no living man or woman appeared to be present to receive them. As the two masses of warriors began to converge upon the center of the warzone, the clouds above John parted, and the glowing particles began to settle around him.

  The light of the Savior entering into his heart was warm and healing. As if it had taken hold of his soul, rending it from his body, it lifted him up, suspending him between heaven and red soil.

  The liberation with which he was feeling was nothing short of absolute serenity. His state of mind was pure. The burning madness of his corporeal time seemed to have been left behind in the transformation. Although he was able to continue to visualize the material world, oddly enough, there was nothing visible in his own person. He had not the hands to rub his eyes, or the feet below to dangle. He was nothing more than mind.

  The body that once draped over him, corrupted and evil, continued in its prostrate position below until the masses met in the violent collision, and it was trampled under foot in the war of the flesh.

  Rising higher into the air, the ruins stood erect to his one side in a concentrated gathering of concrete towers engulfed in flames and smoke. The Valley of Death, shimmering against the reflection of the parting skies, stood to the other side, complete in all its wretchedness. The rows of airships on the outskirts of the warzone had ceased with their transportational activities, as the greatest battle the planet had ever seen was about to come to its end. The lives of the fighters destroying one another, destroying themselves, destroying the worlds, were a lamentable display of the power of greed, and the love of authority.

  Reaching a height from which the entire warzone was visible with one glance, John shouted with jubilation as the Land of Blood began to collapse from within. The planet was swallowing itself up, as if to destroy its own murderous face.