Inconsequential Time

Logan’s Mind

Logan did not know when his consciousness left the darkness and entered the light of his Mind, the Dreamworlds. He was aware, but only half-aware, as one is in dreams. He saw things without question. In this way of being, observing and experiencing were one and the same.

And so when he saw the shadowy figure before him, he did not hesitate to identify the figure as Lieutenant Cole, not recalling that he was, in fact, dead. Not only this, but Logan could not identify whether Cole was standing, sitting, or walking, whether he was close to Logan or far away, but all this did not matter.

Logan called out to Lieutenant Cole. He did so without speaking a word, but Lieutenant Cole heard him.

“Logan,” said Cole.

Logan stepped forward towards Cole and reached out his hand, but the shadowy figure evaded his grasp. Once again Logan tried to call out to Lieutenant Cole, but found that he could not produce a single word.

“Logan,” said Cole. “You are hurt.”

Logan looked down at his own abdomen and saw that it was splayed open He could see his intestines, mangled and necrotic, swimming in a viscid pool of pus. All at once Logan felt unspeakable pain rack his body. He grit his teeth and began to convulse, every muscle in his body twisting in agony. Still he could not scream.

Then the shadow of Cole enveloped him and waves of gentle warmth washed over him, and they washed his pain away, little by little. Logan was on his knees, trying to grasp at the shadow around him, but still his fingers found nothing, nothing at all. Logan felt running down his face a single tear, burning hot, that reached the edge of his chin, hung there for a moment, then dropped. Cole reached out a shadowy hand and caught the tear.

“Show me why you are hurting, dear child,” said Cole.

Cole held the tear close to Logan’s face, and the tear became larger and larger, until it enveloped Logan and everything he could see. Then Logan was in Estrul again, and before him was Alfred, the man who had tried to kill him, and he was stabbing him in the stomach, again and again, showering his arms with the man’s blood with each stab. He could not stop himself. Then he dropped Alfred’s lifeless body and went onto the next man, stabbing him again and again, eviscerating his body, crushing his life in his crude hands. Then another. For they kept coming, and Logan could not stop them from coming, and Logan could not stop himself from destroying them. No, it was not that he could not hold himself back. It was that he did not wish to hold back. He did not wish to stop himself from destroying. Rather, he wished to destroy everything so that he would not have to see or hear or feel anything anymore. And so he did. He destroyed everything. He destroyed Estrul, and he destroyed himself. And there was a darkness.

Darkness and peace, for the longest time. In the beginning Logan was not aware of the darkness, let alone himself. Then slowly he became aware of the darkness as an entity distinct from himself, and then, naturally, he became aware of himself. And once he was aware of himself Logan opened his eyes, and the darkness was gone.

He was in a small wooden cottage, sparsely furnished with a few drab wall hangings. A table took up most of the space, on which there was a wilting centrepiece. In the corner, a hearth was breathing out the last of its warmth. Logan stood up. He was barefeet, and he enjoyed the coarse sensation of the wooden panels beneath him. He then stepped outside.

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Outside were the woods, but not Cyrill Forest. The trees did not hold silent terror. No, they basked in the warmth of the sun and in the underbrush some flowers had begun to blossom.

Yes, Logan thought. This was home.

He turned back around, but no, the cottage was no longer a cottage, for it was too far too big. And the walls that Logan could have sworn were wooden were now big slabs of stones stacked up high, culminating in a watchtower.

No, this was not the cottage. It was Greghorn Castle.

“No,” said Logan.

But he had already stepped back inside the Castle. The lights were dim and the halls were silent but before him there were a hundred men, all staring at him with wide eyes. And once again Logan found himself charging, letting out innumerable arcs of lightning as he stabbed and sliced. Each man looked the same as the one before, their faces frozen in that same, dreadful look of shock as Logan ripped and shredded their Bodies. Blood, intestines, and tears. Logan tore through it all, barely feeling, barely thinking. Then, another strike, the same as the innumerable strikes that came before, but something was wrong. His fauchard was impaling the small Body of a child. The Body of Jack Anselm. Horrified, Logan withdrew his fauchard. It left a clean hole in Jack’s chest.

Logan collapsed to his knees and cried out. He felt spears, swords, fists rain down all around him, but he felt nothing. He was looking at Jack’s lifeless Body, the blood that trickled down his waist, staining the flowers that were erupting out underneath him.

Logan’s heavy tears fell onto Jack’s Body and were swallowed up by the blood, but then the blood began to dry and Logan’s tears formed droplets all over his small chest. Then the tears stopped, for Logan was dry of tears.

And there was nothing. There was no Jack, there was no Lieutenant Cole. There was simply nothing left.

But then there was the voice. First it was soft, and Logan could not distinguish it from the amorphous noise of the darkness. But then, slowly, it gained strength and became louder, and Logan could make out the words.

“How long will you sleep,” said the voice. It was a female voice, somehow coarse and sensual at the same time. It was strangely familiar.

Logan did not reply, although he was not certain whether it was because he could not speak or because he did not wish to.

“The war is greater than you think it to be,” said the voice. “You cannot run from death. Wherever there are men, there will be war and death.”

Logan wished that he could return to the darkness, to hear nothing, to be nothing.

“Logan Floyd,” said the voice.

And then Logan recognised the voice. The Deer Lop he had met in Cyrill Forest, the one who had saved his life.

“Esmeralda,” said Logan.

Logan turned and was faced with a light. The light was Esmeralda.

“You must fight,” she said.

“I will not fight for this war,” said Logan. “I must end it.”

“This war will only end with the freedom of the people,” said Esmeralda.

“Freedom,” said Logan. “You speak of freedom, Hazel speaks of freedom. A grand and noble word! But it seems to me it is but a feeble excuse… for bloodbath!”

Suddenly Esmaralda’s voice turned cold. “You do not understand the weight of the word.”

“Of freedom?” said Logan. “Tell me. Freedom from what?”

“Very well,” said Esmaralda. “I will show you.”

At first Logan did not notice a change, but then he felt an uneasiness building in his very soul. The feeling grew and grew until it eventually felt as if he was suffocating under his own skin. He searched desperately for the source of this feeling but he could not find it.

“What is this,” said Logan.

“Your Mind without Connexion,” said Esmeralda.

Then Logan realised. He could not Sense anything beyond his own Body. He was deaf to the rhythm of the world. He was not part of the ebb and sway of all things. He was a prisoner to himself.

“Give it back to me,” said Logan.

“Then fight,” said Esmaralda.

And suddenly all that Logan could see were her eyes, her deep green eyes, which seemed to swallow and emit everything at the same time. And Logan understood for the first time that Connexion was Life and Life was Connexion, just as the Old Scriptures had claimed. And Logan understood that he must fight. He must fight for the people, and their Lives.

“Yes,” said Logan.