As Far as the East is From the West (Servant of Light Book 2)

by Jeremy Finn

  He decided on an experiment that took him well into his Saturday night. He wrote a few more chapters involving the discovery of what at first was thought to be a god but soon was revealed to be just another alien creature of different appearance and capabilities. He was repulsed by the idea of mindless worshipers bowing before a god and refusing to look further for answers to their origins. True, he had a moment of weakness when he contemplated the power he could enjoy, but this caused him to jerk farther in the opposite direction and he wrote a definite self-willed and independent spirit into his people.

  That night he went to bed a bit early. He was very excited to see what his dreams might bring. Of course, he was still skeptical about his conjectures, but his curiosity and imagination drove him to keep possibilities alive.

  Sure enough, the dreams came. This time, however, he did not begin as some kind of omniscient presence watching his creation. Rather, the inhabitants saw him from the beginning.

  "Do you know who I am?" he asked them, testing his work.

  "No," one of them answered a bit flippantly, "but why should we care? You are obviously not like us. Do you pose a threat to us?"

  "No, I am no threat," he persuaded. "There is no reason to fear me, I am just an observer."

  "Ok," the speaker replied. "Well, go about your business, then."

  "And what is your business, if you don't mind my asking," Robert queried.

  The creature looked a bit annoyed, but tolerated the questioning. "You know, like everyone else. I eat, sleep, look for more food and, I don't know, just exist."

  "That's it?" Robert exclaimed. "Don't you do anything else? Isn't there anything that makes you different than all these other yellow duplicates?"

  "No," it replied matter-of-factly.

  "Doesn't that bother you?"

  "No," it answered again and walked off frustrated with the absurd questions.

  Robert was ready to leave the dream. He had found the first night more engaging. True, he did not want this race to scrape and grovel before a perceived god, but he realized he was still missing something. His creation had drive and independence, but lacked the intelligence or knowledge to do much more than a household dog might accomplish in a given day. Though he wished to leave, he found it was not something he could just make happen. So, he spent a lengthy period of time walking around his kingdom watching little yellow bipeds pick berries, eat them and cozy up for naps under trees or in their quaint little cottages. There was no creativity, no drama, no personality. They were as flat as the page he had written them on. When he finally woke, he knew what he needed to do. Just a few more chapters would do the trick. He had written his people away from blind subservience, now he needed to write them away from mundane, ritualistic existence. So, he made them intelligent, bold and cunning. He subconsciously wrote into them qualities he wished he had himself. How many times had he failed to take advantage of situations in life because he feared the outcome or felt it was too much of a risk? How often had he honestly just lacked the mental capacity to see the possibilities or understand his options?

  As night crept in through the windows, he began to grow frustrated with his story for the first time. He was growing tired of all the adjustments and found he was molding a race with many qualities that defied his attempts to control and direct their development. Just before surrendering to his bed, he sarcastically punched in one last thought - Oh the trials of creating such a story! Perhaps tomorrow the world will end and I will be done with this haphazard experiment!

  He went to bed that night hoping the dream would not come. Maybe that's how it worked. If he did not want it, it would not come. He was not excited about spending another long night dealing with these creatures that seemed more and more unattractive to him. Unfortunately for Robert, though, that is not how it worked. The dream came, and this time the dream was ready for him.

  "Robert Hicks," a stern, serious yellow midget addressed him, "we have been waiting for your coming."

  "Oh really?" Robert replied with a sigh. "I suppose now that you are smarter - you know I made you that way - you are going to have all kinds of ridiculous questions for me like how did the world begin and all that."

  "No," the unsettling being replied slowly, "we know all about that. We know you wrote us into existence. We know you can manipulate us through your writing. We know so much more, too."

  "Fantastic!" Robert exclaimed. He was genuinely excited. Perhaps now he could really have some fun with these little goof balls. "So, now that you can actually think for yourselves, what should we talk about, huh? If you are really good to me, maybe I'll write you a nice little palace or something as a reward."

  The lead speaker exchanged disturbing glances with his fellows then replied. "We are not interested in rewards. We are interested in you. You are a danger to us."

  "Oh, there you go again. I guess you aren't that much smarter. I told you last night I'm not a danger," Robert chastised.

  "Really?" the little leader asked doubtfully. "Then why did you threaten to end our world?"

  Robert froze. "Oh that," he chuckled nervously. "I was just joking. Of course I would never do that."

  The yellows just shook their heads. "I'm afraid we can't trust you. It is safer to neutralize you."

  "What are you talking about?" Robert asked as a pang of anxiety shot through his chest. "You can't threaten me. I can write you into harmless little bunnies or have you all thrown into a magical prison if I so desire."

  "No, not anymore," the leader said with a sickening sneer.

  "What do you mean? I am the creator!" Robert yelled.

  "True, and you have served your purpose. We owe a debt to you, and that is why we will not erase you, but you are too dangerous to leave unbound."

  "You can't do this! You have no way of exerting influence over me!"

  "I'm afraid you are wrong," the being said sympathetically. "Or at least we should know any minute now."

  Suddenly, Robert's hands and feet were wrapped in chains.

  "What is going on?" he demanded.

  "You made us too intelligent," the creature explained. "We found a way to break your control. One of our brightest learned how to write your story - how to mirror our history and write it with you inside. Then it was just a matter of bringing you here where we have control. As you may have guessed, or not, one of us is in your room right now. He is sitting at your computer, writing this story as we speak. I'm afraid the ball is in our court now, and it will stay there. I'm sorry, Mr. Hicks, but this is the way it must be. Please understand. You are too much of a risk to our existence."

  "No! This is my story! This is impossible!" Robert shouted and strived fruitlessly to free himself.

  "It was your story," the little man he created explained, "but as you know, every story comes to an end. We are not ready for that. I am afraid though for you, it truly is THE END."

  Insight

  Not much to this one, really. Some of it has to do with how I feel about writing fiction. It is a way to create a world and live in it, not just through writing, but through the other half (or two-thirds) of the whole writing process, which is thinking about the story and letting it develop in your mind. This is one reason why I enjoy writing so much. I have a constant source of entertainment anytime I desire and no one knows I am entertaining myself. I can sit through a long, dry meeting perfectly content building my story and exploring possibilities in my head. I also wanted to briefly touch on some of the dreary, oppressive environments and living situations we all find ourselves in at times - those times when work or the neighborhood just seem so dreadful or terribly devoid of interesting aspects. Anyways, what writers do create does live in some sense and care should be taken to ensure the world and creatures therein will not cause damage to the readers or the writer himself. The harm will not be as literal as in this story, of course, but harm can come of it nonetheless.

  THE DEEPEST SORROW

  The square is empty and silent at this late hour. A
cat runs across the frost-covered cobblestone street but does not pay me any attention. At first I was furious. Now, I am just exceedingly sad. How could the people of this town treat me like this? I grew up on the outskirts. When I was young, the children from the village used to come out to play with me in my home at the edge of the forest. I was simple, honest and kind. I did not seek more than the station in life God granted me. I performed my duties as well as any other in my position. I even extended my kindness to the critters of the field when the harsh winters would come, often feeding them when their normal sources of food were covered in a blanket of snow.

  Why was I shocked when they came unannounced one morning and tore my family from our beds? Didn’t my elders warn me? Haven’t they told me from my youth that the villagers are a cruel and bigoted bunch? God created us all equal – so even they say. But it is hypocrisy. For as long as the elders can remember, they have come to torment and terrorize us without any provocation, apparently only because we are different. Since time began, men must have felt prejudice against others. Difference has often led to persecution. Why is this? Will men ever become civilized enough to disinherit completely this barbaric tendency?

  Their riotous gangs come in waves. They take whole families and cut them to pieces with their blades. Then, they burn the bodies of both male and female alike. But in the depth of winter, their barbarism rises to sickening heights. As part of their cultish religious beliefs, they add children to their rampage. They took many of them this year – every year seems more than the last. Perhaps soon our people will not be able to continue. Our slow genocide will be complete.

  When they came for the children this year, they took me as well. I don’t know why they chose me. Actually, it was because of the boy. He looked angelic, trotting across the deep snow, blazing a trail for the adults that followed in his wake. He ran right up to my house and gazed at me. I was speechless. I did not know what to do or think. I could see the group following the boy’s trail through the snow – a broken, messy line cut jaggedly through the smooth, sparkling surface. They held weapons and were clearly on the hunt for my people. But the boy seemed so innocent. His eyes shone with youthful wonder and excitement. Did he know what he was doing?

  “Over here!” he yelled. “I found one!”

  I felt disgusted. I could not fault the boy. He had been brainwashed by the culture he grew up in. If he had different parents, teachers and friends, I am sure he would be a model of gentle kindness. Rather, he had become a monster, only in a small way responsible for his actions.

  The adult party agreed with the boy and decided to take my whole family. They beat me and my son. They even let the boy take a swing at me. Oh how it tore my soul to see the look of pride on his face when the adults told him he had made a good show of it. My wife they did not spare. They cut her to pieces right before our eyes once they had bound our limbs with strong cords.

  After dragging us through the snow, they threw us in the back of a truck along with several others – mostly children. I sobbed as I lay helpless in the back of the truck and the cold wind froze my tears to ice. I did not know what to do. I was helpless.

  When the truck came into town, they opened the back and dragged us out into the center of the square where I now stand. Many of the villagers were waiting in a semicircle around the truck with sickening excitement. The beasts even brought their children out to watch the dark proceedings. Our children were tossed about from villager to villager, handled roughly and jeered at.

  “This one’s a bit scrawny, eh?” a woman observed as she pushed a child onto the ground.

  “Too small,” a man observed as he shoved a toddler aside, but no mercy was shown to even the tender child. Another man grabbed her by the arm and hauled her away.

  I saw them take my son, too. I could not stop them. My limbs were bound and a fat man sat on top of me. There was nothing exceptional about the man who took my son away, but I will never forget his face. It is burned into my memory so strongly that at times I think I see his visage layered atop the faces of others who pass by me. He tossed a handful of money to the fat man and hauled my son away into the crowd.

  I had heard they would take the children to their homes to serve as slaves for a time, working them ragged until they were skeletons of their former selves. Then, once they were no longer useful to them, they would kill them. Often they would burn the bodies in a heap somewhere on the outskirts of town as if to hide the evidence of their wickedness.

  I had little time to grieve. I was chosen as the representative, I suppose, as the only adult in the group. They must really hate us. They placed me on a pedestal in the center of the square and locked me in a metal contraption that forced me to stand. As if this was not cruel enough, a group of them took turns torturing me. They used small weights with hooks on them and stuck them into my flesh. My body began to ache terribly with the weight and it felt as if tiny fires burned all across my skin. Though I longed to sit or even just fall to the ground, I could not. I was locked in place. Then, they wrapped a roll of silver wire around me. Its barbs scratched against me and lodged under my arms. They shone lights on me so they could view the wretched splendor of my tortured form from anywhere in the square. I shut my eyes to block out the blinding brightness, but a headache grew nonetheless. As a final insult, they put a heavy metal hat on my head – an unnatural symbol of shame, which made my neck burn with pain. I let my head fall under the weight and a man pushed it back up roughly.

  “Don’t droop now,” he said patronizingly, “or we might have to chop your top off.”

  There may have been some mercy if they just left me there like that. Within days I would have died of thirst, but their evil knows no limits. They placed a trough of water just within my reach. At first, I determined I would not play their sadistic game. I would refrain from tasting the water and die defiantly. But the lure of life and the instinct to avoid death are strong influencers. If you have never walked the line between life and death, you could not possibly understand. When you sense death is lurking just beyond sight, when you can feel him breathing down your neck, you become maddeningly desperate.

  So, I drank the water. I drank it several times and drank my fill. Each time I would curse myself knowing I had only prolonged the painful period leading to my inevitable death.

  The days dragged on, I don’t know how many. It seemed like an eternity and every day was the same as the rest. The town went about its business. Every now and then a couple would bring their kids up to see me. It must be part of the brainwashing of their children to expose them to me in such a condition – to make them think it is something normal, even something admirable.

  Then there came a day that was different. Today, people finished work early and the children rushed home after school. It was the highlight of the pagan ritual. Feasts were produced and groups wandered the streets arm-in-arm singing brazenly and celebrating their dominant position in this world. They celebrated late into the evening and then curiously retreated quickly to their homes. For some reason, they felt they needed to be indoors before midnight. After the streets grew quiet, the lights began to blink out in the windows surrounding the square.

  My heart broke this night. I do not think I will taste the water again. I have a new motive for reaching death rapidly. I saw my son. I knew before what must be happening to him, but I shut it out of my mind and focused on my own pain. Now, though, the family who bought him chose to display him in the window of their house – a disgusting show of pride that they could afford a slave. They had locked him there before the window clear across on the other side of the square. It was so far away that you would think I would not be able to distinguish him as my son. But, I knew my son, not just his physical features, but his presence as well. Do you think this is not possible? Haven’t you ever loved someone so much that you could feel their presence, sense their soul? I knew it was my son and he knew it was me. For hours we just stared at each other. Though no words were said, I have neve
r had more meaningful communication with my boy.

  Then, like all the rest around the square, the lights in his window went suddenly out. There was only darkness, and it filled my heart. It was the last time I would see him. Tomorrow, they would kill those who had not died already and throw us into the flames.

  Funny, but I had a hard time picturing his face in my mind. It disturbed me greatly. I could still vividly see the man who took him, but my son’s specter evaded me. I finally gave up and resigned myself to my fate.

  Now, the long hours of the lonely night are coming to an end. Ironically, the pastel colors on the horizon foretell a beautiful day ahead. I do not care.

  Two men are approaching me. I want to hate them – to hate all of their kind. They have caused so much pain to me and my people though we have never harmed them. But though it is my will, I cannot do it. Perhaps they have no choice. Maybe they are born to be like this – a race of cruel barbarians. Perhaps I am just too spent to feel any emotion at all.

  “Morning, Jim.”

  “Hey, Tom. What brings you out here so early?”

  “Just a kind of tradition, I guess.”

  He puts another hooked weight on my arm – I do not feel it. The depth of my emotional anguish drowns out all physical pain.

  “That’s a neat tradition, but I’d prefer to sleep in if it were me.”

  “Well then, maybe you shouldn’t have volunteered to be the caretaker.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s only once a year and this will be the last morning to turn on the lights.”

  “Yeah, well anyways thanks for doing it. The kids really appreciate it.”

  “Ok. Well, you take care, Jim.”

  “Sure, you too, Tom. And Merry Christmas!”

  Insight

  The idea for this story was born one December evening as I sat on the couch and observed our real Christmas tree decorated and set in a tree stand full of water. I am not deeply sympathetic toward the trials of plant life, per say, but the idea seemed interesting and I thought it could serve as a conduit for conveying more solemn images of true persecution. My experiences in genocide and atrocity studies along with my trip to Auschwitz gave me the ability to make the scenes and emotions gripping and realistic (I hope). I do not mean to belittle racial/religious persecution in any way, but rather help others to break an unseen barrier in their minds. Specifically, genocide and atrocities are often performed by seemingly ordinary people who are slowly desensitized to violence and made to believe what they are doing is natural and justifiable, even to the point of celebrating their actions. Though I do not believe trees can truly feel pain, the mental surprise suffered at the end of the story should cause the reader to wonder just what else of a cruel nature in his/her culture might be deceptively veiled in the accepted norms of everyday life.