Rage

Author's Note: Part of a larger novel. To be linked in the future.

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He runs his hand through the sand. Just as he prepares to lift it up, to see the grains drift away, to see them carried to the future by the cold stellar winds, the sea comes and washes it away, dragging them back into time. He ponders for a while and then decides to feel happy.

The winds keep blowing. The sands shift, the waves struggle. The night has arrived, it has taken a hundred years to do so, since he began to remember, and the day will not arrive for another thousand. The sky is lit from the embers of a gas giant, its surface a sea of fire, its pale light an ironic substitute for their dying star.

A presence felt. He turns and sees his relative. She is coming up to him and beckoning. Return. It is nightfall. Come and celebrate. He sees her but she does not see him. Not truly. I am coming, he answers. She is satisfied and returns. But not for the first time, he does not tell the truth. He lies because he has been lied to. He knew it and like a black hole driving through the heart of a star, it slowly consumed him. For standing on the surface of this planet, he has cried to the Being who promised to listened to him. But He did not.

And then, as he considers it one more time, as he prepares to give Him another chance, the sky is bathed in green and the clouds melt away. In slow motion, the horizon slowly vanishes, in slothful mocking of his wishes. He knows it is the end. He knows that it has all been planned. And he laughs in rage.

***

The ship arcs through the void. It has travelled a long time, without a destination, without a home to return to. The travellers slowly die, one by one. They die of sadness. Of hunger. Once when they were passing by a nova, a few ejected themselves from the ship to be buried in the fire. It is only he and the captain now. They do not talk.

After many years, the captain gets up, leaves the controls. He is going to sleep. He will not wake up.

The ship goes on.

He looks, and goes to sleep as well.

He dreams.

The sand runs through his fingers. He smiles and sits down. The waves rush inland, the water reaches and slips past his feet. Then it recedes, in respectful retreat. He lies down and looks at the moons circling above.

He closes his eyes and falls asleep. He dreams of a wanderer. She is lost, but willingly so. She does not intend to be found nor to find her destination. She is his mirror image. He is surprised. He could not believe that there would be someone so much like him. An endless wanderer.

Perhaps, he thought, this would be someone worth meeting. But then he hesitates, because he wouldn’t want anyone looking for him or intending to meet him. He wants to be by himself. And so, probably, does she.

***

The ship wakes him up. A soft, gentle prompt that pierces his weariness. A planet, it says, a planet where you can probably live. He gets up, and walks to the helm. Proceed to land? It asks. Yes, he inputs. The ship lurches softly forward, into approach position. A short while later, it touches the soft ground.

He goes out and surveys. A vast emptiness, by the standards of his previous dwelling. There is no wind nor sound. He doesn’t mind. He walks and walks, the three suns constantly lighting his path. Then he sees something.

Its roofs and walls were gone, leaving the pillars. On them he makes out the markings. For the Creator, it says. He examines it some more. Please save us, it pleads. He looks around. Evidently He did not. He laughs. He hasn’t laughed in a long while. He was perhaps a thousand thousand galaxies away from his own people, yet their fates were not dissimilar.

And then he swipes down the pillar. And then another, and another. He pounds the rubble into dust, the dust, into oblivion. He kneels over in exhaustion and digs his fingers into the ground. He stops to think, should he weep? Perhaps he should. He tries to. But has forgotten.

“Who are you?” a voice asks him.

He looks to see. There is nothing. Yet he answers.

“A wanderer.”

“Why have you come here?”

“I do not know.”

“And where are you going?”

“I do not know.”

“You are angry.”

So it seemed, he thought.
“Why are you angry?” the voice continues.

He does not know why.

“Let me tell you why. Because there is nothing.”

He wonders. Yes, he thought, that would seem rather obvious.

“Because He remains silent.”

Yes, that would be obvious too.

“You are angry because He does not answer.”

Perhaps, he thought.

“Let your rage become your purpose.”

“Why?” he finally answers.

The voice is silent  this time. But the sky grows dark. He looks up to see. A figure towers above him. He stares in awe. The figure reaches his arm out, plucks a moon from orbit and crushes it.

And then it is in front of him.

“He does not care, don’t you agree?” it says.

He remains silent as it opens his palm and lets the moondust fall to the ground.

It is his turn to ask a question.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The figure, although it does not seem to have a face, seems to smile.

“Wanderer,” he says, ignoring the question, “everyone needs a purpose.”

He disagrees, but does not object to its statement.

“For why do you wish to continue your existence?” it continues.

“Must my existence require a purpose?” he answers.

“You may not think you have a purpose, but your Creator knows.”

“My Creator?” he asks.

“You know who He is.”

He is quiet. Yes. Yes, he does. He knows Him very well.

“Don’t you?” it continues.

“What does it matter? I no longer care about my Creator or what purpose he has for me”

“Yes, exactly.” it says in delight. “But do you not see? The reason you do not care is because He does not care.”

“What should I do?”

“You pretend not to care. But you want answers. You want to know why.”

“There are no answers. He is silent.”

“Then make Him talk.”

How? He wondered. Scream to the galaxies above, under, all around him? Through the nothingness between them? Past the borders of the universe? Will his shrieks reach an ultra-mundane being?

It extends its arm and opens his palm once more. A glowing white core floats. It emanates something t

“Your purpose, wanderer.”

He reaches out and stops just before he touches it.

“What good will this do?” he asks.

It is puzzled. “Good? What is good?” it asks.

He looks at it and reaches out. The whiteness envelopes his fingers, then his hand. His body is covered. He feels nothing. But then in his mind, he knows. He knows something now that he knew that he did not had in his entire life.

Power to do anything he wanted.