by Dan O'Brien
“Do you truly?” she queried, her playfulness had returned to her. “Is not your admission of such a thing a confession to the contrary? When a man says he is very strong, is that not because he has an unconscious need to express a fault in the strength he believes himself capable?”
The Lonely narrowed his gaze. “Then you would have me believe that I do have a set of beliefs.”
“Could you argue otherwise in accordance with events that have transpired?” she countered. “You disagreed with what the Frozen Man believed, and then believed again. Furthermore, you learned something here from me. Does that not mean that you felt something previously, whether you chose to believe so or not?”
The Lonely shook his head.
He did not have the words to express his disagreement. Once again, he was presented with the simple truth of his journey. “I have yet to find my purpose.”
Ilori’s face darkened and she cast out her hand quickly.
“Then search!”
Thrice the
Crossroads
“Not yet,” screamed the Lonely as he materialized once more.
The Crossroads looked at the outstretched figure of the Lonely quizzically. “I take it that you did not find what you were seeking. In any case, that part of your journey is complete,” stated the Crossroads.
The Lonely looked to the South, noting that the fog had returned. “I thought that I had found something, but it was taken as quickly as it had come. It feels as though that the brief comprehension is at a great distance, a fleeting thought from this moment,” spoke the Lonely, his voice low.
“I fear that sometimes in life you will have those brief moments of clarity only to have them replaced by another thought. Which are often not nearly as profound or important,” reasoned the Crossroads.
The Lonely turned as if to speak, but stopped upon seeing the Crossroads. Where he had been a wintry traveler previously, he was now the very picture of a monk. Dull reddish robes enveloped his frame, concealing his body. Although he bore a hood, he chose not to wear it. The hawk-like gray wisps of his eyes watched the Lonely like a stalking raptor.
“Change, I am afraid, is an ever-flowing constant like the passage of time. If you were to return here every hour for a thousand years, then I would appear different to you each time. I am tied to this place just as the totems, and as even you, inevitably are.”
The Lonely did not slump his shoulders as he might have before. Instead, he shook his head. “I will not even begin to try and understand the complexities of your existence, for I am not yet capable of understanding my own.”
“Time makes us appear as it wishes. We choose to believe what we choose to believe.”
The Lonely shook his head.
“You appear this way because life has taken this course. Just as you would have looked differently had the slightest detail been altered, a moment changed in time.”
“That may be true, but would it matter whether I appeared differently at this moment? Would a change in my appearance prevent you from continuing your journey?”
The Lonely could not answer.
The Crossroads stepped away.
“People choose to look at life in a particular way, either seeing the positive or negative in it. Meanwhile, they forget that they have abandoned any sense of objectivity in so choosing. Each of us is granted thought, but each of us has the ability to reason upon our own.”
“That does not negate the truth of something,” responded the Lonely.
“Ah, but honesty is not synonymous with truth. We may sometimes be less than honest to ourselves in the pursuit of truth, or quite the opposite. The journey toward a want or comprehension of one’s purpose is done such that you must truly believe in what it is that you search for and have thus abandoned the ability to consider the possibility that what you seek, does not exist.”
“No one being can be objective. We all must make a stand.”
“That is very true, but truth is inevitably perception. When we seek truth, we sometimes ignore whether that truth is something worth finding. Would the understanding of something truly grant you the comprehension of a life best lived or a path worth taking?”
“Is this preparation for the West? A taste of what is to come?” mocked the Lonely.
The Crossroads laughed.
The pitch was deep and rich.
“No, I am afraid not. That little tangent of discussion was simply a frivolous rant that had crawled into my mind. It is not often that I get to speak at such length, for I am only the guide.”
“I did not mean….”
The Crossroads waved the apology of the Lonely away with a flick of his hand. “Think nothing of it. Do not allow me to impede your journey.”
With a sweep of his hand a darkened portal shimmered, convulsing upon itself as it struggled to life. Wind poured from it and for a moment the Lonely feared it would pull him forward without hesitation.
“This will take you to the West, to the home of the Wicker Man. May your way be peaceful.”
The Lonely nodded and once more plunged into darkness.
The Western
Caverns and the Mountains
Beyond
The Lonely had become accustomed to the transition.
There was an ephemeral flash and then he felt as if he were water being drawn through a thin reed. But the feeling itself was fleeting, for he soon materialized. The fleeting sensation was very much like that of life, reflected the Lonely as his eyes were greeted by the new realm. He gasped as he looked out upon the cascading mountains that towered before him.
Streams and rivers crossed paths as they climbed into the range. Dark forests watched him through wary eyes. A mist caressed the peaks in the distance.
The Lonely could not yet see where it was that the peaks lay for rocky crags ultimately obscured the mountain’s true height.
A path at his feet carved through the emerald carpets of the earth that snaked into the mountains. Cold winds grabbed him as if challenging him to move forward.
The sun was nowhere to seen in the sky. There were only gray clouds overshadowing the land; before the Lonely was only one path.
At the end of the path, the darkened mouth of a monstrous cavern peered lazily at him, beckoning him to enter like a siren calling a wayward sailor.
In the North, space dominated the landscape, nothing else could be seen. In the South, the palace of the Burning Man had been a beacon of light amidst the cruel and barren desert.
Here, the Lonely was presented with one path, one solution.
The Lonely had little to debate.
He stepped forward, placing one foot in front of the other. As he looked at the ground beneath him he felt a great sadness, as if the land were speaking to him as his feet touched the earth.
The cavern was constructed in such a way that if the Lonely were twice as tall and ten times as wide, he could still easily pass through it. The darkness was that of half-light. There were no lamps or luminance of any kind; yet, a quality about the air made it seem as if something was guiding his way.
As the Lonely approached the cavern entrance, a frigid draft assailed him from all sides.
It was not as cold as it had been in the North.
Dampness permeated the air.
In the distance, the hollow sound of water dripping rebounded with each splash upon the cavern’s rocky floors. He could not discern the origin of the sound, but he knew that it came from somewhere in the fissure.
He walked slowly.
The methodical plod of his progression was as if he were being tugged forward without his knowledge. Whatever force it was that sought to guide the Lonely was beyond his comprehension.
Creatures: there were things all about him. Some felt close, but he could not see them in the black hole that was the cavern.
One foot in front of the other, strained breath after strained breath, he moved forward. Despite his misgivings, he walked the path without knowing what was ahead, though
he knew only more darkness.
Suddenly, there was a bright effervescent column of cascading light that pierced the darkness and bore into him like the haunting howl of a lone wolf.
The light dimmed and subsided.
His body felt cold, but it was not from the temperature of the cavern or the wind that blew across him. Rather, it was the coupling of dampness and the perspiration that covered him.
There was no perception of time.
The distance walked, and the memory of the path, were not in synch with one another. The fatigue that enveloped him was such that it transcended rational thought. He had not walked far enough to warrant such overwhelming exhaustion.
Farther in the distance, a light grew from a dim pinpoint to that of a comforting sphere of light that pulled him forward. It called to him beyond the pillar and the darkness.
He could feel invisible voices beckoning him onward.
Was it an exit?
He brushed his face, his hand falling away slowly.
The Lonely now wore a thick, coarse beard.
The light took shape as he reached the end of the tunnel. Light shone across his body and the smooth arch of the cavern seemed artificial compared to the entrance.
Looking down at himself, he saw that he had become painfully thin. He lifted his shirt and saw that his tan skin was drawn taut, exposing the skeletal art of his ribcage. His hands protruded with veins as if they wished to break free from his skin.
“How long was I in the dark?” he whispered as he ran his hands over his arms, feeling that the musculature there was not from a practiced strength, but instead the gaunt architecture of starvation.
“Many wander forever in the dark, ne’er again to see the true light of the day,” echoed a voice from beyond the exit of the cavern.
Walking free of the cavern, the Lonely was greeted by dark evergreens that lined a dirt path. More shadow lay beyond them. And although light shone overhead, it was not that of the sun, but broken tendrils of radiance obscured by an opaque lens; not dark enough for night, not light enough for day.
“Who said that?” called out the Lonely.
An effeminate figure stepped from the forest line. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Green eyes watched the Lonely carefully. There was darkness in the deep emerald of her eyes, like that of dragon’s fire.
“I watch the Cavern,” she spoke.
Her lips were delicate, and her face spoke of a serious demeanor. She wore a dark dress, not revealing like Ilori, but instead a practical dress that was thick enough for the weather and hardy enough to withstand overland travel.
“And does the Cavern’s keeper have a name?” continued the Lonely, for his fear dissipated before he continued. He could not understand why he felt relaxed, but he felt reassured by the honesty in her eyes.
“I am called Eilidh. I watch for those who pass through the darkness of the Cavern. You must be the Lonely,” she answered.
The Lonely had grown accustomed to the different creatures and totems of the realms knowing who he was. “I am. Are you the Wicker Man?”
She scoffed. “Do I look like a man?”
The Lonely smirked and shook his head. “The Wicker Man need not be a man in form, only in term. This I have learned even if I have not learned anything else.”
Eilidh smirked.
The white rows of her teeth were hidden beneath her symmetrical lips.
“You have already met Ilori, the Burning Man?” she asked and then continuing before the Lonely could respond. “Of course you have, and as well the Frozen Man. Third upon your journey is the Wicker Man.”
The Lonely nodded.
There was no need to discuss how she could have known.
She knew and it was simply that.
“Where is the Wicker Man?”
She cracked a smile, though seriousness chased it away as quickly as it had come. “He waits for you in the Clearing.”
Confessions of the Wicker Man
The forest meandered into the mountains, carving a path this way and that until it dropped lower into a valley. The view from the Clearing was that of misty and distant peaks.
To the left of the clearing was a single building. Smoke rose from the chimney, exemplifying the growing chill in the air. Its dark exterior was marked with unusual stained glass and ornate paintings that depicted things factual and mystical alike.
The sky overhead had grown increasingly cloudy and even now, the menacing hue threatened rain. A cold chill passed across the Lonely before Eilidh turned back to him.
“He waits inside the monastery, I will retrieve him,” she spoke, disappearing into the building with no sound indicating her departure.
Thunder echoed in the distance and striated clouds ignited with lightning. The realm of the Wicker Man was as different as the North had been from the South.
He heard the door of the monastery open and then close.
The Lonely stood staring away from the home and instead out upon the peaks.
“So, I am graced with the presence of the Lonely,” called the grandfatherly voice of the Wicker Man.
The Lonely turned to face him expecting nothing, for he had already seen enough to know that expectations were best thrown to the wind. “And I an audience with the Wicker Man,” replied the Lonely with a bow.
The Wicker Man was not as extravagant as Ilori had been nor as simple as the Frozen Man. His gray hair was pulled back from his face, tied into a braid. A thick mane of grizzled beard carved his strong jaw line. At his waist, a stained brown rope tied off his faded, russet-colored robes, giving him the appearance of a vagabond.
“I fear that the answers you seek will not be found here in the West,” spoke the Wicker Man, his hazel eyes looking out upon the mountains.
The Lonely smiled knowingly as he turned toward the mountains. “It has been my experience that answers are found whether you were searching for them or not. It is often the question we seek, not the answer.”
The Wicker Man chuckled.
“It would appear that you are a learned man. Though there are still some questions, and answers, which evade you, are there not?”
The Lonely nodded.
“Who am I?”
“I imagine by this time the pretentious nature of circular logic has worn thin. The analysis of the ambiguity of definition and the ineffectiveness of a name has become tiresome to you.”
“Indeed they have,” answered the Lonely.
“I am certain the Frozen Man argued the necessity of logic, declaring the infallibility of thinking and observing without an emotional bias in order to find the meaning of things.”
The Lonely nodded.
“And conversely, the Burning Man argued the obscurity of definition, the reality of emotional content and the inspection of all things created and man-made to find out their deeper significance. To perhaps approach life and the realities of what that encompasses from a humanistic position, to see how they apply to the individual, not as a broad statistical judgment taken without relevance to how stratified life truly is.”
“That would be an accurate summary of my conversations with each of your predecessors,” acquiesced the Lonely.
“The discussions of life, death, and purpose have all been addressed. So, the question becomes, from me to you: what have you learned thus far? Is it that individual perception defines a life in the most simple, finite terms?”
The Lonely sighed.
“I believe that I was made to find significance in the order of the cosmos. I think that life and death are pieces of a much larger puzzle to which I have not yet found all the pieces. And I believe that I have not yet even begun to understand my place here.”
The Wicker Man nodded, his hands hidden in the folds of his robes. “I believe that you have come to understand much more than you would have yourself believed, as confusing as that may be.”
The Lonely shrugged his shoulders, his eyes watching the terrain of the mountain.
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“Why are you called the Lonely?”
“That is my name.”
“Is that not who you are?”
The Lonely looked at the Wicker Man intently.
“I am much more than that term….”
The Wicker Man raised a finger, a smile creeping across his aged features. “So, now we begin to see that there is more to this title than you know. The Lonely is just your name, not who you are.”