Dead & Godless

by Donald J. Amodeo

  “Then one who dreams such dreams should not exist,” he stated flatly.

  “Then man should not exist!” Ransom shot back, “If there is no true meaning behind your lives, then you are no different from this haunted star child. The longing for a higher purpose is deeply rooted. To not seek it is the most unnatural thing in the world. If it is an illusion, a fabrication, then your existence is absurd, just as a hungry man is absurd in a reality without food.”

  He turned again to the accused.

  “Have you never seen these things before, never heard or felt them?”

  “Not in all my life,” responded the man. “They are but visions, a cruel curse of the fog. Surely, such things cannot be.”

  “They are more than visions,” Ransom proclaimed. “What neither you nor my client has bothered to consider is this: that an innate desire evidences the object of that desire.”

  It was a principle that Corwin was familiar with, one that had confounded several of the most famous atheist thinkers, leading men such as Sartre and Camus to declare that life was ultimately absurd. In the angel’s worldview, man’s desires corresponded to reality, but Corwin’s man was a creature conflicted, his spirit forever at odds with the cold, hard facts of the world.

  Ransom laid a hand on the troubled star child. He faced the Council and his steely eyes flared brighter than the sun.

  “This one need not die! Exile him to the forest. I will take care of the rest.”

  At the sight of the angel’s blazing eyes, the Speaker nearly tumbled from his perch. His sworn duty was to safeguard his people, but how could he distrust such a pure and powerful light?

  “And the fog will not spread?” he asked.

  “It will not,” promised Ransom. “I give you my word.”

  “Go then, and may your light guide you until the New Sun dawns.”

  “Until the New Sun dawns!” echoed the Council.

  Much to Corwin’s relief, they departed without returning down the treacherous cliff side. The slope of the land descended to where a vast, verdant forest sprawled across the interior of the island, an ocean of amber shardleaves that swayed and glittered as they caught the sun.

  “Is there truly a way to banish the fog?” the star child inquired.

  “Oh, there’s a way,” said Ransom, “though it may return from time to time.”

  Corwin was mulling over his attorney’s points as they passed through the tree line.

  “According to your reasoning, just as hunger evidences the existence of food, man’s desire for a higher purpose evidences the existence of god?”

  “Correct. And note that I say ‘evidences,’ not ‘proves.’ It is not my purpose here to prove the Father’s existence, only to prove that belief in him is rational.”

  “You assume that a higher purpose must have its root in the divine. Why should it? I don’t need some religion to tell me why my life has meaning. It was man who created god. If we long for a purpose to make sense of this life, we can create that as well.”

  “Can you?”

  All around them, the crystal forest bent the sun’s rays into a mesmerizing prism of light, rife with soft patches of gold and lilac and glints of shimmering pearl that danced like fairies upon the underbrush. Ransom plucked a jewelberry from a hanging vine and popped it into his mouth, an act which made the star child most curious.

  “That jewelberry!” he exclaimed. “Why do you do this thing?”

  “It’s called eating. It’s not a bad pastime, though I much prefer drinking, to be perfectly honest.”

  Fishing a brushed metal flask from his coat, Ransom washed the berry down with a swig of bourbon, hissed a happy exhale and returned his attention to Corwin.

  “Suppose that you decided upon the meaning of life, but someone else adopted a different meaning, one that contradicted your own. Which of you would be right? Which is the true meaning?”

  “Both,” Corwin replied. “One meaning can be true for one person and a different meaning true for another.”

  “Nonsense,” spat Ransom. “If both are true, then nothing is true. Truth cannot contradict truth.”

  “What if there were no contradictions? What if, unified by scientific reasoning, our race decided upon a common goal towards which to aspire?”

  “Even that improbable scenario would change nothing. Universal truths are always discovered, never decided upon.”

  As they were talking, the land rose on their left, a low roar furtively growing. The ivory-barked boles of the trees parted, giving sight to a wide and rambling river with many forks.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s any way across,” mentioned Corwin.

  “We could swim or carve canoes,” said Ransom. “Or build a giant catapult!”

  “Or we could follow the path,” the star child suggested.

  The path, which won out over the catapult in a two-to-one vote, soon became a ledge that ran behind a chain of waterfalls. Because it wasn’t frightfully high off the ground, Corwin felt at ease, far more so than on the previous ledge. The falls themselves were not a violent rush, but a smooth curtain of water spilling over the ridge. They misted the air with a white, spectral fog. As it swirled and strengthened, visions appeared in its folds.

  Corwin saw a sunny pasture. In the air was a bi-wing glider, its shadow racing over the grass while a bicycler peddled furiously to catch up.

  “In the realm of science, the nature of truth is most evident,” continued Ransom, resuming his former line of thought. “Man did not learn to fly by deciding the laws of aerodynamics, but by discovering them and harnessing that knowledge.”

  The fog rolled and a new scene materialized. Grapes ripened on rows of vines in golden Tuscan fields. A painter stood in the shade, his easel propped before him. With quick and precise dabs of his brush, the canvas came to life.

  “You see it also in the arts, for beauty is not as subjective as mortals think. The great painters and composers did not simply decide what beauty was. They discovered it in their lives and devoted themselves to capturing it.”

  Next came a place that Corwin instantly recognized. It was the frozen foods section of a local grocery store. Rows of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream stared them in the face. Corwin’s mortal self stepped gingerly into view like a thief in a jewelry shop, prying open a glass door to the hum of industrial freezers.

  “Chunky Monkey, good choice,” grunted Ransom with an approving nod. “But even your favorite flavor of ice cream is not purely a matter of choosing. You discovered that some ingredients were more pleasing to your taste buds than others.”

  “That’s not what I would call a universal truth,” objected Corwin.

  “True,” Ransom agreed. “Maybe I’m just getting hungry.”

  Again the vision dissolved. The white mist was thinning.

  “Let’s say I grant you that in order for there to be an objective meaning of life, it would have to be something we discover,” Corwin said as they put the river behind them. “You still haven’t proven that there is one.”

  “Nor do I intend to, but why ignore the evidence written within you?”

  “Because I can explain that evidence without the need of any of your metaphysical hocus pocus.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, but first . . .”

  The forest gave way to a small clearing. A circle of stones paved the sacred ground, remarkable for just how ordinary they were. Crystal had accounted for every surface on the island, but not here. These bricks were cut from limestone; dull, opaque and bleached by the sun. Corwin guessed that they must have been quarried from some remote region. Arches ringed the circle, and though the ravages of time had reduced most of them to rubble, two remained intact.

  Rising from her seat atop the base of a ruined arch, a female star child addressed them.

  “When I heard the Council say that you had been exiled to the forest, I knew you would come here.”

  “Word travels fast on this island,” muttered Corwin.

>   “That’s telepathy for you,” said Ransom.

  “Gaeda, you shouldn’t have come,” spoke their translucent companion.

  “I’m not afraid,” she told him, care and courage shining in her voice.

  Though the star children were faceless, or perhaps because they were faceless, their words held a depth of emotion that moved the heart as sure as the warmest smile or most hateful sneer.

  As the travelers stepped into the circle, something disturbed the air beneath the two arches—a scintillating glow, barely visible from afar. Cycling colors, the light gently coruscated like the surface of a pool.

  “Through the portal to my left is a world unlike the one you know,” spoke Ransom. “Once you step through, you will not be the same, nor will you ever be able to return. What awaits you there is a life of toil. However, such a life also has its rewards. You’ll find that which can fill your hollowness, strange new gemfruits and jewelberries and maybe more.”

  “But what shall I do when I find them?” asked the accused.

  Ransom planted a friendly slap on his back.

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “How can you know all this?” Gaeda inquired. “None can see beyond the gates.”

  “I walked this land when the sun was young and the seven gates were raised. They hold no secrets from me.”

  Firm in his resolve, the accused faced the mysterious doorway.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Then so am I,” said Gaeda.

  The two star children joined hands and strode towards the undulating light. Upon touching it, they became light themselves, melting into the portal. Glyphs that Corwin hadn’t before noticed lit up along the arch’s bricks and seared in runic circles on the floor.

  “You’re next,” Ransom intoned.

  “I’ll take what’s behind door number two.”

  8

  Shadows in the Storm

  A luminous network of fibers stretched through the blackness like a spider’s web, had that spider happened to be a master architect with a penchant for the psychedelic. They brightened from violet to pink before meeting at bulbous orange junction points, and countless pulses of light traveled their length, flashing in the junctions, changing course or forking along multiple routes with the manic speed of lightning channeled through a steel grid.

  “Neurons,” perceived Corwin. “It’s like we’re inside a brain.”

  “A mostly empty one,” said Ransom.

  There was a methodology to the strobing of the thought highways. Some paths, heavy with traffic, were almost constantly alight, feeding tributaries that branched off in a hundred directions. Other fibers siphoned the signals into huge, lambent clusters where the light cycled in complex loops but never escaped.

  “Did you know that the brain can be triggered to sense a presence, even when no one is there?” asked Corwin. “All you have to do is release the right chemical or apply an electromagnetic current to the right spot, and presto! One ‘religious experience’ coming right up!”

  “A man may hallucinate that he’s drowning, but that doesn’t make the ocean any less real,” replied Ransom. “And you seem to be implying that the human brain is wired for religious thought.”

  “It is! That’s why we have this innate desire for purpose in our lives, but it has more to do with evolution than angels.”

  Pulling a cigarette from his case, Ransom brought it to his nose like a bow to a violin, the unlit tobacco hinting at licorice and sun-dried raisins.

  “I’m listening.”

  “As humans evolved and grew capable of complex thought, we became self-aware, but with self-awareness came awareness of death, and thus anxiety and depression. Our spiritual inclinations are evolution’s answer to that problem.”

  “So according to evolution, religion is beneficial to mankind’s survival,” Ransom concluded.

  “It was, but we’ve evolved past that,” argued Corwin. “In the modern world, religious thought is like the brain’s appendix. Worse, it may just lead us to destroy ourselves!”

  “You’d think evolution would have seen that coming.”

  The fibers were fading, all except for a disconnected few, and these slowly bent and curled into odd but orderly shapes.

  “If your theory is right, you haven’t eliminated the absurdity of human life. You’ve confirmed it,” said Ransom. “You’re left with a creature that has evolved an innate desire for something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Even if there is no higher purpose, that doesn’t mean that we can’t grasp onto something that makes this life worth living!”

  “Think back to your existentialism class. What did Camus say was among the most pressing questions facing an atheist?”

  “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” quoted Corwin, his impeccable memory supplying the answer with ease.

  The angel nodded and blew a stream of smoke.

  “Any nonbeliever worth his salt should understand the gravity of those words. What’s your take?”

  “Well I could definitely go for a cup of dark roast about now.”

  “Excellent!” declared Ransom. “I know just the place.”

  As the gloom lifted, the fibers became streaks of neon, a dimly burning array of welcome signs and Budweiser logos. They belonged to a strip of cafés, pubs and eateries, all bustling with late night patrons. Breathing in the humid air, Corwin slipped off his coat and slung it over one arm. Wherever he was, this place felt instantly comfortable. Laid-back locals traipsed the streets with an easy gait. They were old and young, and as colorful as the city’s colonial architecture. Rarely did the buildings rise higher than two stories, and the upper floors were mostly apartments, their banisters decked with streamers and chains of golden Christmas lights.

  “Watch out, son,” barked an older gentleman who was just exiting a shop as Corwin brushed past.

  “Sorry,” he managed.

  His gaze trailed after the fellow and a second later it hit him.

  “Say, are we back in the real world?” he asked Ransom.

  “In your world, yes. But not in your time.”

  “But that guy just saw me! We must be more than shades here.”

  “A necessary risk,” said Ransom. “A shade can’t order a cup of coffee.”

  “Is this the past or the future?”

  “Last summer. Why are you asking?”

  But when Ransom glanced to his side, his crafty client was already gone. Corwin had spotted a young couple and wasted no time in accosting them.

  “Excuse me, could I borrow your phone?”

  His abrupt appearance and utter disregard for personal space compelled the man back on his heels.

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “I may not look like it, but I’m from the future.” Like a secret agent, Corwin donned a pair of sunglasses borrowed from a nearby display case. “I need to call my past self and warn him not to come to the aid of any wayward bums who happen to pass out on the subway tracks.”

  His plea moved the couple, but not in the way he intended, as the man locked hands with his date and promptly hurried off, shooting Corwin the sort of look that was usually reserved for washed-up comedians or the tragically insane.

  “It’s no use,” said Ransom, waltzing over with his hands tucked in his pockets. “You might not be a shade, but the fact remains that you’re still dead. There are measures in place to keep your kind from interfering in the world.”

  “So I’ve officially joined the ranks of the living dead!” Corwin’s voice rang with satirical triumph.

  “If you get the urge to sink your teeth into a juicy, delectable brain, do try to resist.”

  “Now that you mention it, I am feeling a mite peckish.”

  Ransom inclined his head toward the couple that had just recently made their escape.

  “Notice how they’ve already forgotten you?”

  It certainly seemed that way. Corwin spied them not far down the road, where both their pa
ce and their mood had relaxed. A banjo player strummed a tune at a local bar and the happy couple wandered in.

  “Your presence here is but a flicker in temporal space,” said Ransom. “No longer can your actions leave an impact, not on the world, nor on the fate of your soul.”

  “Not even if I went on a murderous rampage?”

  “If you tried to accomplish anything meaningful, you would undoubtedly find that something would go wrong and your efforts would come to naught.”

  “Story of my life,” mumbled Corwin.

  Leaving the busy lights and commotion of the main street, they turned down an alley and walked a little ways to where a hanging sign marked the side entrance to a café. An artsy script announced it as The Cosmic Cup, its sign emblazoned with the image of a sugar cube moon orbiting a celestial cappuccino mug.

  Bells chimed as Ransom swung open the door. The cozy interior of the café was sparsely lit, consisting of a coffee bar with several round tables dappling the lounge. A nighttime cityscape adorned the walls, painted skyscrapers climbing towards a dark ceiling studded with hundreds of phosphorescent stars. Amidst their pale green glow, glass globes, crescent moons, peace signs and dream catchers depended from imperceptible wires.

  “Not what I would have guessed for your type of place,” remarked Corwin as he surveyed the scene.

  Ransom’s formal attire stood out starkly from the skinny jeans and pop-reference t-shirts of the café’s hipster patrons. He strode up to the counter.

  “What can I get you?” chirped a girl with raven hair and a nose ring.

  “A large cup of dark roast. Oh, and one of those Lunar Lemon scones.”

  He glanced Corwin’s way.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Make that a double,” Ransom told the barista.

  They found a table and a short time later she appeared with their order, along with a porcelain tray loaded with creams and sweeteners. Corwin cradled his mug and inhaled, savoring the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. He took a sip.

  “Ah, now that’s heaven! I may not know the meaning of life, but I know a good cup of coffee, and that’s worth more than all the empty promises in all the divinely inspired scriptures in the world.”