Suppose you're on a ship. This ship is travelling towards the horizon, hoping that it's the edge of the world, and that it drops off. It also hopes against hope that it lands on the ocean of some other world, and do the same on that world. And so on. The ship needs no destination. It's sole purpose is to seek out horizons and drop off edges.
Now suppose there's something very large blocking the way. A giant, gorgeous whale, for that's what it must be. It belches out large, beautiful groans which take your world weary ear by surprise. You have seen many worlds, you have dropped off many edges, jagged and otherwise. You have passed by countless races and waved at a few, but seldom stayed for a drink or a conversation. There is no time. And all of a sudden, this beautiful creature calls to you. And makes you stay a while and wonder.
You realize, too, that it is bang in the middle of your ship's trajectory. You can obviously change your route, but you have received word that the world you had planned to visit is right underneath this particular route, and changing your road now would mean not getting there at all, or for at least a few million years. There's no compulsion to change your route. If you slam into this magnificent thing, (you call it a thing because something inside your world weary self will not let you call it anything reminding you of human beings), you will kill it. And no one would blame you. No one would feel good about it, but no one would particularly care. How many anthills have been crushed to pave giant roads? You'd thought you'd become cold to the world, and now this happens.
The cabin boy, the only other person on the ship, your only other friend whom you don't much care for, calls upon you to tell you that the Captain has telephoned. He wants you to stick to your course. You quietly tell the cabin boy to inform the Captain that not only will you not do that, but, if you are forced to, you will kill the cabin boy, and thus have him risk turning you insane. For he's the only company you have. And you'll do it too. You're certain.
The Captain, after a long while of deliberation, gives in, setting your mind at ease. Would you really have killed the boy? You don't want to go there. Not yet. You change course, turning the ship around to a route along which the whale would not lie. The cries die down. You're at peace again.
And after a few hours, you're awakened by the cabin boy. He looks frantic, desperate. He tells you that there's a giant, beautiful beast in the way. He remembers, in his panic, to mention 'beautiful'. You've never seen him this way. You wonder to yourself as you grab your telescope, how could your calculations have been wrong? And then, when you see it through the lens, you realize it must have been a conspiracy of some sort. Someone had wanted that beast killed. Someone had transmitted that noise from the route opposite to the one you took, knowing you'd turn and drive straight into this other beast. Who was it? Some other consciousness who wanted it dead. It seems too ludicrous to be true. Who would benefit from this?
But it's too late. There is very little to be done. You watch helplessly as the ship continues on its fated path. The cabin boy puts a hand on your shoulder. You let him rest it there. You need human touch now, human proximity, above everything. You realize something you had run away from all your life.
Now suppose there's something very large blocking the way. A giant, gorgeous whale, for that's what it must be. It belches out large, beautiful groans which take your world weary ear by surprise. You have seen many worlds, you have dropped off many edges, jagged and otherwise. You have passed by countless races and waved at a few, but seldom stayed for a drink or a conversation. There is no time. And all of a sudden, this beautiful creature calls to you. And makes you stay a while and wonder.
You realize, too, that it is bang in the middle of your ship's trajectory. You can obviously change your route, but you have received word that the world you had planned to visit is right underneath this particular route, and changing your road now would mean not getting there at all, or for at least a few million years. There's no compulsion to change your route. If you slam into this magnificent thing, (you call it a thing because something inside your world weary self will not let you call it anything reminding you of human beings), you will kill it. And no one would blame you. No one would feel good about it, but no one would particularly care. How many anthills have been crushed to pave giant roads? You'd thought you'd become cold to the world, and now this happens.
The cabin boy, the only other person on the ship, your only other friend whom you don't much care for, calls upon you to tell you that the Captain has telephoned. He wants you to stick to your course. You quietly tell the cabin boy to inform the Captain that not only will you not do that, but, if you are forced to, you will kill the cabin boy, and thus have him risk turning you insane. For he's the only company you have. And you'll do it too. You're certain.
The Captain, after a long while of deliberation, gives in, setting your mind at ease. Would you really have killed the boy? You don't want to go there. Not yet. You change course, turning the ship around to a route along which the whale would not lie. The cries die down. You're at peace again.
And after a few hours, you're awakened by the cabin boy. He looks frantic, desperate. He tells you that there's a giant, beautiful beast in the way. He remembers, in his panic, to mention 'beautiful'. You've never seen him this way. You wonder to yourself as you grab your telescope, how could your calculations have been wrong? And then, when you see it through the lens, you realize it must have been a conspiracy of some sort. Someone had wanted that beast killed. Someone had transmitted that noise from the route opposite to the one you took, knowing you'd turn and drive straight into this other beast. Who was it? Some other consciousness who wanted it dead. It seems too ludicrous to be true. Who would benefit from this?
But it's too late. There is very little to be done. You watch helplessly as the ship continues on its fated path. The cabin boy puts a hand on your shoulder. You let him rest it there. You need human touch now, human proximity, above everything. You realize something you had run away from all your life.
This is fantastic. I'm- I'm sorry to mar your re-telling of the story with this comment.
ReplyDeleteBest,
Dix