by Dan O'Brien
The Foolish Man ambled close, the darkened forms around him hissing and booing. “We call them the Four Gods. It is impolite to refer to them as totems. You paint them in disrespect and you may find yourself floating alone in the Lost Sea.”
“The Lost Sea?”
Hissing and booing, this time more pronounced.
The Foolish Man was nearly face to face with the Lonely.
His breath reeked, and his hair was ragged and oily.
There was a manic look about his face. “How can you not know of the Lost Sea? It is the great expanse that separates us from the Keeper. You are lucky to have happened upon us.”
“Luck had very little to do with it. I walked from the Crossroads to the stairs…”
The hissing and booing turned to one collective sigh of apprehension.
“You spoke to the Crossroads?” whispered the Foolish Man in awe.
Now, it was the Lonely’s turn to look upon the Foolish Man in disbelief.
“Have not all of you?”
The sigh turned to nervous murmurs.
“The Crossroads births us and the Keeper returns us to the void. We rise from the mud and depart upon the Lost Sea at the end of our days. To speak to the Crossroads would be madness. One cannot speak to a creator so simply, without piety.”
The Lonely shook his head and shouldered past the Foolish Man.
“How can I reach this Keeper?”
The nervous murmurs turned to a gasp of astonishment.
The Foolish Man drew his hands to his face in horror.
“One does not seek the Keeper.”
The Lonely crossed his arms and looked into the darkness.
“You said at the end of your days you depart across the Lost Sea. Is there a boat? Do you swim? How do you reach the other side?”
The Foolish Man was confused.
“You are not dead.”
“One could argue we are all dead and alive concurrently, but that is for another time. How do you get across?” queried the Lonely.
“Only the dead can use the boat across the Lost Sea,” spoke the Foolish Man.
The Lonely had grown impatient traveling from totem to totem, but at least that journey had a reason despite its twisting madness.
Here, there was only madness.
Gesturing with his hands, the Lonely urged the Foolish Man.
“Where is the boat?”
The Foolish Man looked at the Lonely again with confusion.
“You are not dead,” he repeated.
Darkened brush stirred around them.
“Let us agree that I am not dead. But a boat does exist, no?”
The Foolish Man nodded.
The masses had gone silent.
“But only the dead can cross the Lost Sea,” he answered hollowly.
The Lonely could feel the heat burning in his chest.
Need drove him forward.
He could feel the true end to his journey at his fingertips.
Answers were just ahead of him.
“Does the boat not appear if you are alive, or are you simply unable to comprehend the use of the boat by the living?”
The Foolish Man peered at the Lonely and his confusion faded into embitterment as he pushed past him. Deep into the brush he plunged and the Lonely was at his heels, leaving the white eyes of the masses behind him.
Thorny branches slapped hard against his face.
Heavy, wet roots seemed to tangle together as one massive entity that wove across the island onto which the Lonely had climbed.
He could hear the breathing and mumbling of the Foolish Man and barely discern his darting shadow. The air felt heavy and although the fog had lifted somewhat, it still hung ominously.
“Are we going toward the boat?” called the Lonely.
As they charged through the brush, the Lonely was struck by the realization that this was the first encounter with other beings besides the totems and the Crossroads.
The Foolish Man and the masses were fearful and ignorant; they acted as one.
They had immediately feared and distrusted him.
“I didn’t mean to be so brash earlier…”
His words were cut short as the brush ended abruptly and the Lonely had to dodge to one side to keep from colliding with the Foolish Man.
There on the dark sand of the shore was a one-man boat made of wood. Two paddles of shoddy construction lay just inside.
It appeared as if it would sink at any moment.
The Lonely staggered to his feet and ran a hand over the boat.
“Like I was saying, I did not mean to be so brash earlier, but other than the totems I had yet to see another being…”
The Foolish Man drew in his breath quickly, like a serpent’s hiss. “You must leave this place. You speak of talking to the Crossroads and now the Four Corners of this world. You do not belong among us. You are tainted, a non-person.”
The Lonely looked at the Foolish Man and saw what the Translucent Man had made so painfully apparent. He had not seen it before, but the Foolish Man was pale and frightened, as were many of the masses.
They feared him because he spoke differently, his appearance unlike theirs. They wished him to go because of whatever separated him from them.
The Foolish Man gestured to the boat.
“Take this boat and leave this place,” he commanded, hiding his hands in his robe.
The Lonely felt as if he wished to say more to the Foolish Man, perhaps enlighten him as to what he had learned from the totems. A part of him saw the truth: they did not wish to know. They feared the totems, to reveal anything else to them would only incur disbelief, or worse, violence.
Nodding, the Lonely gathered the paddles and sat in the boat, feeling the sway of the water beneath it. Using the paddles to push himself from the shore, he was soon floating. He could see the masses gathered on the beach, huddled together in the gloom.
He dipped the oars into the water and began to paddle rhythmically, each stroke taking him farther from the shore and deeper into heavy fog and darkness.
There were no markers and no sounds of the sea.
One could not be altogether certain it was as they envisioned.
And then, a distant light appeared as if it were an apparition.
It was at first minuscule and then grew more radiant by the moment, until it became an enveloping portal of light that consumed all vision.
The Lonely dug deep into the water and pulled himself toward the light and closer to the Keeper.
The Living
Tapestry and the Chameleon
As the light faded, he observed that he was no longer within the Lost Sea; rather, he was standing deep within the earth.
The Lonely peered into the darkness and saw a being staring back.
Its two eyes acknowledged the Lonely.
They both differed in shape and color, as if they had been cut from paper and pasted on his face. The skin was a mélange of tones and hues: deep ebony skin ran along high cheek bones and faded as it blended with its sloping forehead.
Had the Lonely been pressed to say what skin color the being possessed, he would have replied simply: every color.
Its clothes shifted and contorted.
One moment it was wearing a gray pantsuit and the next, flowered shorts with tan legs. The being seemed to change appearance with each breath the Lonely took. It did not change permanently as the Crossroads had, nor did it shimmer as the Translucent Man had.
Appearing as every person, it was every being possible.
It reached forward; but as its face quickly changed to that of a woman again, its features distorted and rearranged as if they were a piece of abstract art.
“Welcome,” it spoke, the pitch of its voice a conglomeration of masculine and feminine, deep and high. It seemed that each syllable was uttered in a different voice. “I am the Chameleon.”
“I am the Lonely.”
The mouth smiled, though it changed many times before the musc
les that operated the lips relaxed. “You have traveled very far. Farther than any being that sought answers has,” spoke the Chameleon. “I imagine that you are very tired from your journey.”
The Lonely looked around at the walls in an attempt to hide his shock. The interior of the cavern had a rounded, dome-like ceiling that extended far into the distance. The walls were aglow with an unseen translucence. Pictures cascaded and contorted farther than the Lonely could see. These were not paintings or murals, but instead visions of the world––a world the Lonely remembered.
“What is this?” he asked in awe.
The Chameleon smiled again, its mouth performing a mysterious dance. “This is the Living Tapestry, the catalogue and collection of the memories and histories of the human race.”
The Lonely stared, his mouth hung slightly agape.
“How can that be?”
The Chameleon stepped toward the wall, reaching out with one of its ever-changing hands. The fingers touched the wall gingerly, but the image did not shift. Broad strokes spread from its touch––distorting the color as if it had touched a screen.
“Human life is fragile, inconsistent in its growth. I watch them in the hope that they find their way.” The Chameleon lowered its head and then spoke softly. “Would you like to know a secret?”
The Lonely nodded and moved toward the Living Tapestry.
“Yes, please.”
The Chameleon turned––a shadow across its features.
“It tells the future as well.”
“The future,” whispered the Lonely.
The Chameleon stepped back from the wall and stood once again at the center of the room, its hands extended farther into the distance away from where the Lonely had entered.
“There is much to see.”
The wall showed serene skies and then dove deep into a hateful red sky that seemed ablaze in darkened smoke. It was a movie without sound, a moving mural that spoke of histories past and present.
The Lonely moved forward, looking from the wall to the Chameleon, more uncertain than he had as of yet been upon his journey.
“How can it tell the future?”
“I see all from here. The energies of life surge and expand, ebb and flow like a mighty tide of dreams. The history of your people is long since dead and may yet again begin anew. That is why you have come.”
The Lonely shook his head lethargically as the Chameleon pulled him into a walk by his arm.
“No, I have come because I seek answers to questions.”
The Chameleon nodded: red hair, white hair, black hair, short hair, long hair. “Those answers you seek are because the world does not turn out as it should. People do not exist as they should.”
“It has been so long since I have seen people.”
The Chameleon looked at the Lonely darkly.
“You have never seen people.”
The Lonely looked down at the Chameleon: blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, midnight eyes of evening. “I have seen people before. Of course I have,” he reassured himself with a nervous tone.
“You do not mean the sad wretches who live in the Room, do you? For they are no more people than it is true that you are made of solid gold.”
The Lonely shook his head.
He suddenly felt very drunk.
“That cannot be––I died. That is why I am here. I passed on and I ask questions about my former life. How could I not have seen people?”
The Chameleon looked at the Lonely: short, tall, skinny, rotund. “You believe that this is death. Is this what you dreamed heaven would look like?”
The Lonely staggered toward the wall, his outstretched hands feeling the warmth and coolness of the wall.
“No….”
“You have not yet seen people because you are here. What you see here is not what you might be or could be. You are here.”
“I do not understand. What is this place, this world?”
The Lonely pushed himself from the wall.
A bright orange and red sunset stared back at him.
He could smell wet barley and feel the cold night air as the moon rose.
“There is no name for this place, for you are not truly anywhere. No one has given this place a name for it does not have a name. Some have called it many strange things. Many things in life have names, but that does not truly explain what they are.”
The Lonely felt the world spin and tumble.
“Who am I? Where am I going?” whispered the Lonely and for a moment felt cohesiveness in his mind. “I have said those words before in desperation.”
The Chameleon nodded: man, woman, child. “When you first came here you spoke those very words. You sought those two truths and on a grand journey you walked. Have you found your answers?”
The Lonely shook his head.
“Only more questions….”
The Chameleon shook his head: angry, sad, joyous, lonely. “I fear that often when you question without understanding, you find only more questions. It is an unfortunate product of speech and thought.”
“Then what was the purpose of the journey?”
The Chameleon turned and looked upon the other side of the wall. People walked by, hands touched the invisible wall of life.
“Life, or death, is like a punch line without the joke.”
“Life is no joke,” replied the Lonely, feeling his strength return to him.
“Indeed, though what we seek in life are purpose and understanding––perhaps to believe that we have left something behind or done things of merit in our lives.”
The Lonely walked toward the Chameleon once again.
“Yes, that is what I seek.”
The Chameleon closed its eyes: darkness, light, shadow, sun. “That is the journey of all beings: to comprehend the purpose and merit of their lives. You seek what all seek. Your understandings are their understandings.”
The Lonely nodded slowly, a deep thirst had welled in him.
“Yes, I wish to understand.”
“It is not recognition of what you have done, but instead the understanding of the impact of your creations upon yourself. Some things in life have a single answer. How to live your life is no such endeavor, for the varied paths are many.”
The Lonely shook his head.
“That is not an answer.”
The Chameleon regarded the Lonely, his voice echoing: loud, soft, strong, weak. “And yours was not a question.”
“I have come all this way for riddles.”
“No, you sought the why when you did not know the what. You asked how something could be when you did not understand the who. You asked when yet you did not know where to look.”
“That means nothing, a mindless riddle that answers nothing,” spat the Lonely. “Where is the Keeper?”
The Chameleon lowered his head.
“Do you feel that you have been wronged?”
The Lonely stepped toward the darkness of the deeper hall.
“This was all planned. All of this was some nefarious scheme created to confuse me further.”
The Chameleon shook his head: patience, anger, doubt, certainty. “That is a great fault of your kind. You find dark deeds in the words of those who oppose you. From their disagreement, you perceive a hateful agenda that seeks to supplant you and all that you have aligned yourself with. You fail to recognize that each of you is the same. All born of great fault, all forced to walk a journey in the dark alone. You construe villains in those who would seek to shape the world based on what they believe is true or valid. Though they may do things that you think are wrong, they find no fault with them.”
“Some things are unforgivable, some actions cause pain regardless,” replied the Lonely, shaking his head defiantly.
“Indeed, a man may do a terrible thing, something that violates not only the laws of a society, but the laws of nature. But sometimes, something must be done wrong in order for us to understand what is right in this world.”
“No, a
great man would never purposely cause harm.”
The Chameleon shook his head: above, below, beside, beyond. “Great men bring wars. Great men bring famine and death as quickly as they bring prosperity and life. To be truly great, one acknowledges that his actions will bring about both sides of things.”