The Journey Read online

  The Journey

  Dan O’Brien

  The Journey is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Dan O’Brien

  Original Photo © White Pocket Reflection

  by John Fowler

  www.lumenetic.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1467971188

  ISBN-10: 1467971189

  For more information about the author visit:

  www.thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com

  The Passing of the Darkness

  The open arms of the darkness embraced the being, the one that had been called Th’bir. He went into the darkness not knowing what would become of what he had left behind.

  That darkness flirted with his mind, his being.

  From that darkness a new man arose––that man was called the Lonely.

  The world below and the world above were not so different to the eyes of the Lonely. He saw both through a crystal glass. The reflection he saw there was duplicitous, one of the man he was and of the being he had become.

  This realm was filled with both nothingness and everything.

  Those who walked there soon became infused with the shadows that danced in their hearts, but the Lonely walked the path––watching perdition as if it were a wonderful play.

  The Lonely called out into the darkness.

  “Who am I? Where am I going?”

  The darkness responded with silence, though that silence encompassed more truth than the Lonely could begin to comprehend. And as he walked along the path, he saw the inverted reality that he had yet to understand.

  The Keeper of the Fates

  The one called A’thed, the Keeper of the Fates, was not a man––nor was he a beast. He was neither life nor death, but instead a being born of nothingness to encompass everything.

  His task was none at all.

  The Keeper watched the Lonely pass through the gates, through the portal of inevitability to which all mortals walked forever. It was the beginning to an end and an end to a beginning. An infinite sphere that continued inward, bringing about and then dismissing creation.

  It was the forgotten cycle of life.

  A’thed looked out upon creation and nothingness, the oceans of the coasts and the mountains of the north collapsing upon one another and called out: “Who among you can walk down the path of nothingness to return to everything?”

  Silence was his answer, though he knew that many things came from nothingness and that none would come from everything. Thus was the eternal law that there was truly no discernible law.

  The Keeper stood at the edge of his pillar and watched below. The space appeared miniscule; yet, upon closer scrutiny, was enormous––running for infinite space in each direction.

  The crossroads of everything coincided with what had not yet come to pass. This is what drew them to their beginning and to their end.

  Questions are what drove them.

  Was it the beginning?

  Was it the end?

  These were the things that drove a being to continue, to search for a place. The Keeper knew the answers as well as the fallacies. He knew that an explanation was more than any one man could begin to comprehend. Yet, with the passing of each unexplainable moment, he knew that it needed to be told.

  It would be a restoration of the dead and the death of those living.

  The Journey and the Crossroads

  The Lonely found himself walking along the forest line––a forest that he had not seen. Rather, it had appeared alongside him.

  The night was dark overhead.

  A crystal-clear moon smiled upon him and he smiled back, though he knew not for what reason he walked that night.

  The terrain was unfamiliar.

  The land uneven and the forest disappearing as he walked; yet, the familiarity was overpowering. The Lonely had been here before, though he did not know when.

  His surroundings slowly dissolved, until he found himself at a crossroads with a path leading in each cardinal direction. And each direction had a signpost. A man stood near a sign there, upon which was crudely painted: choose wisely.

  The Lonely paused, watching as the roads changed from night to day with each moment. The man stood alone at the center of the signposts.

  “I am the Lonely.”

  “I am the Crossroads,” the man replied.

  They stood in silence, the Lonely weighing his options.

  “Which way is best?” he queried.

  “Which way do you wish to go?”

  “I have a choice then?”

  “Did you ever think otherwise?”

  The Crossroads was wise, his words cryptic.

  The Lonely began to move forward, traveling north.

  “Is that the way you wish to go?”

  The Crossroads possessed no emotion. Instead, he watched with the eye of one who cared for nothing, though knew much of what was left to be desired.

  “I do not know, but that is where I feel I must…”

  “Go in peace.” As the Crossroads stepped aside, they became enshrouded in a dark room whose doors represented the four pathways. “Choose where you wish to go.”

  “North,” whispered the Lonely as he pushed the door open, the cold air sudden upon his skin as he stepped onto the tundra. He turned back, but the room was no longer there.

  There were only the strange barren lands before him, the mountains high and the grounds cold, covered in a sheet of white. He walked forward onto the tundra, his path murky though direct––representing what would come next as a part of his beginnings.

  The Northern Chamber

  The cold winds assailed the Lonely; yet, he continued on despite the bitter touch of nature. As he was beginning to feel that he could travel no more, he came upon something he had not expected: the city of the North.

  The place known as the Northern Chamber, the house of those devoted to the ideals of the North. Upon entering this place, he felt the cold wash away and the storms stop.

  And as he turned back to see the trail by which he had come, he saw the veil of snow and wind through which he had ventured remained just outside of the city.

  It was suspended as if frozen in time.

  People passed by him as if he were not there at all. Their features were pale and cold, as though they were not human at all. The city possessed no sheen, no shine, just a cold, desolate existence in which each man walked as if it were an interminable death march.

  The Lonely approached the first building, which harbored an open door, and entered. A feeling of nothingness washed over him as the dim interior of the room absorbed him.

  He approached the counter.

  What resided behind it was a machine––a machine resembling a man. Cold, calculating eyes bore into the Lonely’s flesh from behind its chiseled, soulless features. Its movements were restricted and linear as it placed its arms on the counter and cocked its head to the Lonely.

  “You are waste,” the machine spoke.

  “What are you?” the Lonely queried, bewildered by the machine-man.

  “I am perfection, the pinnacle of man.”

  “You are a machine.”

  “Better to be logical as a machine than random and undisciplined as an animal,” returned the machine. Cocking its head back once again, it watched the Lonely with a cold gaze.

  The Lonely turned away and looked around the room. All of the patrons resembled the machines, their features identical––and all men.

  “Where are the women?”

  “Women possess the flaw of emotion, their ways unstabl
e and unpredictable. We have found no use for them here in the North. We care only of the perfection of oneself, the attainment of the goals of the individual.”

  The Lonely shook his head, confused by the blatant, cold mentality of the machine-thing. “Life cannot be lived as thus. You must seek the middle way. A life without emotion and bonding is one lived in complete darkness. Even logic can understand that.”

  “The unpredictability of emotion makes it unusable in the equation of success and profit. Emotion clouds judgment, which leads to disaster and chaos. The North does not allow such things. We thrive on consistency, usefulness.”

  “I have come seeking answers. The Crossroads said that answers could be found here in the North––a piece of the puzzle for which I search.”

  “The Frozen Man is the wisest among us. His logic is dizzying.”

  “Where can I find this Frozen Man?”

  “He is at the farthest reaches of the tundra. We were too flawed for his science.”

  The Frozen Man

  The Lonely marched into the darkness that was the tundra.

  The cold was all around him, though he felt nothing––neither warmth nor freezing cold. A man stood alone in the field, his features obscured.

  “Why have you come to the North?” called the figure.

  “I seek answers. I wish to know of the Truth.”

  “You are the Lonely. I am called the Frozen Man.”

  “Tell me of the North, Frozen Man.”

  The Frozen Man was a pale silhouette defined by coal black eyes and hair. He spoke without inflection, without emotion, without feeling. “The North is a cold place, a desolate place. There is nothing here but survival. There cannot be failure, for failure is the death of the mind.”

  “How can there be success without failure?”

  “There is no emotion here, no feeling. We of the North do not require emotions. Our success comes from science, not from emotions. Our accomplishments are different from all others. Ours are hollow, though we cannot see that.”

  “Why are you here in the cold?”

  “Cold permeates my being, my core. My body long ago ceased to possess the fire of passions, of emotions. A shell remains. This is the price I have paid to become the man I am. Though it was truly only half a life.”

  The cold winds blew over the Lonely and the Frozen Man, their still forms holding strong against the elements. If there was nothing here to begin with, then against what were they truly holding strong?

  “Why am I here?” called the Lonely.

  “This is not your place. This place is for those who truly feel nothing. Those who have left nothing behind.”

  “Then my answers cannot be found here?”

  “The questions for which you seek answers can only be provided by the one who holds the keys to your creation: the Keeper of the Fates. Though he is no farther from you than you are to me.”

  “I feel strange, as though I had just begun, or just ended. This place is so familiar, but so distant. Why do I feel as I do?”

  “This place is both a beginning and an end. Your presence here is a journey, one which molds you––shaping the person you will become.”

  “Who am I?” asked the Lonely.

  The winds shifted yet again, but neither entity moved.

  The world around them howled in silence, in the vast emptiness that was both nothingness and infinity.

  The Frozen Man’s features had shifted.

  His skin had grown paler, so much so that it was now azure.

  It was the color of the icy waters of frozen lands.

  “You are the Lonely,” the Frozen Man spoke.

  “What does it mean to be the Lonely?” iterated the monotone, unflinching figure of the Lonely.

  The Frozen Man’s face sluiced with icicles as if he were growing ever colder. “That is perspective. Your name here in the North would be of high status. To achieve a place where you require no solace or emotion would be a gift. True solitude would allow for incomparable logics and histories.”

  The Lonely wrung his hands and looked down at the tattered rags that he wore. “Why do I not have fine clothes?”

  “There is no need for such frivolities here. For in the North, it is your mind that is the greatest commodity. Why would any man place a material thing such as riches above intelligence? What can be gained by this?” returned the Frozen Man, his coal eyes watching the Lonely.

  The Lonely looked off into the distance and saw only more tundra. The landscape about him was nothing more than a never-changing white sheet splashed occasionally with peaks and valleys of a useless existence.

  “To base one’s life? To give meaning?” the Lonely returned quizzically.

  “Is intelligence not a grand reward, a worthy pursuit?”

  The Lonely shook his head, running his hands over his face. He felt for the first time that his skin was smooth, and warm.

  “Perhaps, but at the expense of longing and connection it may be too little of an effort for a life.”

  The Frozen Man faded and then reappeared behind the Lonely. This time, it stood twice the height of the smaller man. “We must all focus and commit to something. Can you think of something nobler? More important?”

  The Lonely looked upon the horrific image of the giant Frozen Man. “I do not know. How can I possibly? I do not remember who I am or how I came to be here.”

  Then, lowering his head, he mumbled. “Am I dead?”

  “What is death?” echoed the Frozen Man.

  The Lonely shook his head, defeated.

  “To not live? Cessation of functions?”

  The wind howled across them, but the Lonely could not feel the frigid touch of the gales––nor hear its mammoth cry. “To die is then to cease brain function? Is that what you believe?”

  The Lonely shrugged; the act as difficult for him as it had been for Atlas.

  “I do not know,” he answered.

  The Frozen Man nodded, crossing his mighty arms across his chest. “Then, by that definition, you are dead. Your body is no longer functioning in the realm from which you have come. Here you are anew.”

  “Am I not alive?” replied the Lonely, lifting his head to meet the empty gaze of the Frozen Man. Touching his skin and pressing his palms together, he gestured. “Am I not form again? Is this not a state of being?”

  “What is life?” mocked the Frozen Man.

  The Lonely kicked aimlessly at the snow beneath his feet. As he did so, he realized that he wore no boots, nor shoes.

  His feet were barren and his skin tan.

  “I have no shoes.”

  The Frozen Man did not seem surprised. “If you did not have a coat, why then would you possess foot coverings?”

  “Is this all a dream?” whispered the Lonely. “How can I know that I am not dreaming?”

  The Frozen Man had ceased to resemble a man any longer and appeared more as an ice creature. A gargantuan mound stood where the Frozen Man had previously and only the voice emanated from the mountain of ice.

  “To dream is a state in which there are concurrently literal and figurative meanings.”

  “This must be a dream,” repeated the Lonely.

  “A dream can be had when one is conscious or unconscious. To have a dream is to possess a wish or hope for the future to which all subsequent actions are directed. Are you asleep? Imagining this? Perhaps, but how could you tell? I would not know the answer to that question. Only you could know such a thing,” answered the Frozen Man, its voice like thunder rising from the depths.

  “I have never dreamed such a dream as this. As well, I had never wished to be bound to such a place; so, by your definition, this cannot be a dream,” began the Lonely slowly. “However, that is by your definition and if this were a dream, then it would be based on my definitions, my wants and beliefs.”

  The mound shuddered and the Lonely turned away.

  A white glow struck out that was soon accompanied by a piercing whine that rose and r
ose yet again, until the mound dissipated in a storm of ice crystals. Removing his hand from his eyes, the Lonely saw that the Frozen Man had returned: where before it had been a pale man, it was now only the metallic exoskeleton of a robot.