HIRAETH

The drop that splits into two:

which split into few, then many—

forms a river that flows and roils,

full of life and fury.

We do not multiply for the pilgrim that passes by,

kneels,

drinks his fill,

gives thanks and leaves.

No. We multiply to form the river alone:

blue and deep and absolute,

made of those who were,

and womb to those who will be.

- Holos 2:1 (Exaltation of the New Century Version)

EVIE

I had not raised my voice at anyone in a long time. You gave me space to rest and continued to bring me food that I ate in silence. Part of me wished you would leave me to starve. I did not have the strength to grasp death with my own two hands—not then, lying in a damp cell beneath the city, and not now, lying in a cave beyond the city. I hungered, so I ate.

A week later, on a morning bitingly cold as the ones before it, breakfast did not arrive. Perhaps you had finally given up on me and were suggesting that I leave and die out of sight. I felt oddly relieved, but the shame at having imposed on you for so long weighed heavy on my mind. But above all else, I began to worry. The usual sounds of wooden pots and pans that normally accompanied breakfast were missing. The air smelled of ice, not vegetables and meat. We might have run out of food entirely with you having two mouths to feed rather than one.

I poked my head out of my room into the hallway, hoping for signs of life. There were none. I picked up my cloak and drew it tight against me as I walked down the tunnel, looking into each cave. There were only a few—your quarters, a makeshift kitchen and a storeroom. The last was dim and musty, but even without a lamp I could tell there was enough food to last us a while. Confused, I walked back to your room and stepped inside, wondering if you were still asleep. Your thin blanket lay flat against the rug. It was then that I noticed the paintings scattered in a corner. You sat in the middle with a makeshift easel in your lap, brushes and paint next to you.

I saw trees—bark ripe with moss and soil, veined leaves dripping with morning dew—frozen still on the canvas but swaying in the wind. I saw a cub nestled in its mother’s fur, sheltered from the rain. I saw a painting of the ark and marvelled at its cold sheen, the canvas transmuted to burnished metal.

There were so many—each a pane reflecting a fraction of a life, that when combined could span countless lives whole. Each was so painstakingly detailed that to draw all of them must have taken centuries. And yet, they were all drawn in the same style—proof of your age.

“Oh—hello! These are the paintings I mentioned. I’m sure they’re nothing compared to what they have at the chapel,” you said, standing up.

“No. The chapel doesn’t have much to look at,” I lied, not in the mood to talk.

“Really? Even the stained-glass window? Most are enthralled by it. Uh—a work so expertly crafted, placed so as to catch the morning light—would fascinate almost anyone. That it is painted in my image has nothing to do with it…”

I sighed and answered. “I did find the window curious, but because it had been painted in my—to be precise, your—image well before I showed up. Whether it was a stained-glass window or a doodle on a napkin would have made no difference.”

“That must have been quite the mystery.”

“It was. Almost like my coming was foretold. Almost as though I were—”

Divinity, I wanted to say, but the word caught in my throat. Anything more would be a slip of the tongue. There was nothing divine about my abominable self. And even if I were, what difference would it make? Before me stood a true deity, shut away in a cave just like I was. Neither deity nor abomination deserved anywhere but here.

So I asked you. “Why stay here? They loved you enough to paint a window of you. So why did you leave?”

“Hm…” Your eyes drifted from one painting to another. “It’s been a while since then. I think it was the window that made me consider leaving. They had long since learned to stand on their own feet and no longer had reason to worship me. I never offered them much to begin with, other than at the very beginning—but you know how people are: so afraid of death. They latch on to anything beyond human—inhuman—not purely out of greed, but rather awe and respect. You and I both know that being inhuman is nothing to be proud of.

“And yet, to paint a window in my image… nothing but idolatry. I wanted them to look towards each other—not myths. The generosity of a single myth can sustain a village, yes, perhaps a town—but not a people. And as you so painfully learned, generosity can soon turn to duty—an obligation.”

“Then why help at all? You could have seeded the planet without ever once showing your face. There was no need for you to help us like you did, handing out tools and gifts.”

You turned to me and laughed. “I’m not that mean. Short-circuiting millions of years of evolution by dropping humans into the wild is a big gamble. If the initial seed had gone extinct, I wouldn’t have had any way of making more. I figured you’d need some help. And once I started, it became difficult to stop. It felt good to be relied on.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The wizened soldier begging on his knees came to mind. I wondered where he was now. There was no way his plot to bring a corpse to the gallows had convinced anyone. All he had done was buy me time, at the cost of possibly his own life.

I cursed him then—for seeing in me only someone to save. I could not bring myself to curse you for seeding an entire planet only to save them from the jaws of nature. Why?

You looked back at your easel. “But never mind that. You came here to look at my paintings, didn’t you?” You picked up a sheaf of paintings. “Look. Rivers, lakes, and mountains. Each beautiful in its own right, yet moulded by chance. I love this planet. It took me an eternity to find. This is home—not just for me, but for us. There is no meaning in being here alone. After all, a home—”

“—is something you share,” we said together.

Your face froze—before breaking into a smile that reached your eyes. “That’s right. I suppose we really are clones. Ah”—your face grew sombre—“I’m sorry. I should not have brought that up again.”

“...No, it’s fine.”

You held the sheaf out in front of you. “Say—why don’t you paint with me? I liked your paintings at the cottage. It’s a fun hobby.”

“I… I have no talent. I only did it to pass the time.”

“You’d definitely make a good artist. I’ll teach you. We have all the time in the world.”

*

“Gently. One smooth stroke is all you can afford.”

“Is feathering no good?”

“No, clear lines only. Picture the end before the beginning; your job is to connect the two.” Your stern face almost made me laugh.

“But I’m not sure where—oh.”

“You overshot.”

“I overshot.”

Birds chirped like bells twinkling in the distance where a crimson sun sat perched on the horizon. The past few days had been a brief respite from the snow, though we were still far from spring. We sat on a ridge, our legs dangling in the pleasant morning breeze with small canvasses in our laps.

“It’s fine. Just paint over it with what you used for the water. It’s standing in it, so nobody will notice—not that there’s anyone looking.”

“Right… Yes, that seems okay. Huh? Wait—”

The stork I had been painting spread its wings and flew, leaving a loud splash in its wake and two disembodied legs half-submersed in a river on my canvas.

“That… happens sometimes. I have a lot of unfinished paintings back in the cave just like yours. It would be funny if aliens saw them and thought we had a bunch of walking legs for wildlife.”

“How is that funny? Wait, that was my last canvas!”

“You could always draw it from memory.”

I furrowed my brows. “That’s difficult, but… I also want to draw it exactly how it was.”

“I was like that too at first. Now, I finish the drawing however I want when my subject flies away. Comes out looking a bit grotesque sometimes, but it’s a lot more fun than drawing them true to life.” Your eyes were already scanning the area for something more inclined to sit still.

Says the person with countless true to life paintings of her in the city. “But—they’re alive—they won’t stay the same forever. They won’t be around forever either. Isn’t that what makes them fun to draw in the first place? Don’t they deserve to be preserved, somehow?”

You shifted towards me and held out a painting from earlier today. It depicted in stunning detail the very same landscape that sat before us, but draped in grey ash. The trees had been stripped bare and exposed to the elements. The river had dried up, leaving only parched soil. In the distance, spires of steel and iron ruled the horizon. Through a narrow gap, pale sunlight struggled to breach the thick layer of ash that choked the air. Even that sliver of light was enough to illuminate that the buildings were actually on the verge of collapse, rusting and crumbling into dust—shadows of their former selves.

“What… What is this? It looks nothing like this place, yet…” Clearly, it is. Geographically, but not chronologically.

“What I see through my mind’s eye. And through this canvas, you can see it too. Nowhere on this planet will you find a sight like this, and yet here it is—preserved just like how I imagined it. Even hundreds—no, thousands of years from now, this painting will tell all that I need it to—nothing more, nothing less.

“But it’s not real. It’s fiction.”

“Yes, but it’s mine. Anyone who wants to look at a stork will go looking for a stork. When I look at your painting, I want to see your stork. Go on, draw it. Drape it in ash, pluck its feathers—dismember, chop and boil it if you like—the stork will never know.”

My gaze dropped to my unfinished canvas in embarrassment. It seemed I had made a grave misunderstanding of what it meant to draw. My ally, the canvas, now seemed alien—a mirror behind which lurked those who truly understood art, laughing at my foolishness.

You took my hand suddenly. You were not laughing; your eyes were still like ice. “Your drawings are beautiful. That you spend twelve hours a day drawing helps, I suppose. I want to see things the way you do. Let each painting be a lens you look through, each of a different tint. Of course, painting storks as stork-like as possible is one of those lenses—but there must be many others. Once you are done and hang up the brush for good, I will sift through them all, looking through each. Only then may I hold the kaleidoscope through which you see the world.”

“...I… I get it,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “So is that why you paint so much? To leave behind a kaleidoscope, for others to look through?”

“I like to exaggerate. But, yes.”

“Despite being immortal?”

You hesitated for a moment so short I dare say nobody but me would have noticed.

“Immortals can die just as easily as anyone else. Dismember me and I become a cripple. Chop my head off and I die. Burn me and I turn to ash.”

“Ah… right. I hope none of those happen to you—or to me. So what about this painting?” I looked back at her apocalyptic rendition of this landscape. “What is this lens supposed to mean?”

“That”—you smiled—“is for you to guess.”