LIFE SPRINGS ETERNAL

Never mistake the natural order of Her appointments. The Child of God bears a heavy cross, but none may lift it. She was not crowned for her pure soul—rather, a crown needed to exist, and so She made in her image the perfect candidate to wear it. We need only to bow our heads and pray. That is our place. Whether we choose to do so matters not—all is ordained by Her script.

- from “Above and Beyond” by Auric Ile of the Holy See

EVIE

I start with the day I first drew breath. A deafening, monstrous roar like nothing I have heard since filled my ears, unyielding, like a dying monster not of this world. I felt the floor below me shift and sigh; perhaps I was on a ship rolling in the tide. All I could see was pitch black. I felt terror before I even understood the concept of terror. I did not have the words to describe what was happening. I had no frame of reference, but part of me knew that this was not the place for me.

The ship eventually pitched, sank, and stopped. The roar died and was replaced by a shrill whine. The beast progressed through its final stages of death until finally all fell silent. Metal struck metal and for the first time in my life, I saw light. Blinding, pure light spilled through a crack in the darkness. It expanded, filling my vision completely, searing my retinas. I wanted the darkness back. Wind rushed past my face, carrying a ticklish flavour of mint. And as my pupils constricted, I saw the world for the first time.

A field of blue, rolling grass stretched far beyond. Frost-capped mountains loomed in the distance, piercing the clouds above. A full moon hung aloof in the sky. I was in a metallic chamber of sorts, and there were about a dozen or so of us strapped into strange seats. Moments later, the straps released, and many of us flopped onto the floor, not used to gravity. I stumbled and rose unsteadily to my feet. My body was as it looks now. The others; they were fully grown too.

Eventually, one of them, possibly overwhelmed by what was happening, shrieked in terror and scrambled out of the chamber on all fours like an animal. The rest of us immediately followed suit and ran out. Unfamiliar with the sensation of grass and the dirt beneath, many tripped and fell. As I lay there on the ground, I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ship. It was an abomination—no wood, no sails, nothing that resembled anything a ship should have—and there was no ocean to be seen, only grass. It was a gargantuan beast of metal; I can only describe it as such as I have not seen anything like it since. The chamber door slid down like a guillotine, slamming shut and cutting us off. It breathed purple flame from its wings towards the ground, but oddly the grass did not burn. We backed away in fear, unable to comprehend what we were seeing. And then, the beast did something I have never seen since: it rose into the air. Gently, like a sleeping babe being lifted from its cot by its mother. Vertically, in one smooth, graceful arc. At that moment, I could only describe this winged metal beast as beautiful. It must have been the work of God. This glimpse of Her awesome power terrified me. I never wanted to bear witness to its beauty ever again. Then, it leapt into the air and disappeared, and all fell silent, save for the sigh of the breeze. That was the last I ever saw of it.

What happened after that is a blur. We were alive, on a planet supporting life. We knew nothing, but had our instincts to guide us to hunt for food and build shelter. Our first steps on this planet were rough, uncertain of where or why we were, but what choice did we have? Only those with full bellies and beds to sleep in dare question their place. We took each day one after the other, focusing only on our next meal, avoiding that which lurked in the dark. I cannot put into words how existentially terrifying the thought of living meal to meal was. We were not apex predators. We were a link in the food chain.

Eventually, we found a cave well-concealed from the elements and big enough for us all. We made it our home base. We fashioned rudimentary tools to hunt with and skinned pelts to clothe ourselves with. Logically, there was no reason for us to stay together, but I suppose instinct guided us to live as a pack. A home breeds routine, and our cave was no exception—the shadows recessed and the world grew more familiar. However, there was something about me that was very wrong. If you—God, I mean, could make mistakes—I must be her biggest embarrassment. For I cannot stand the touch of a man.

We were not unlike animals, and we mated in the open as animals did. There was not much else to do for recreation. The cave was big enough for multiple pairs to go at it simultaneously. I recall laying on my sleeping mat, my eyes fixated on a man mounting a woman across from me like a dog. I felt nothing but revulsion at the sight. The prospect of being in her place horrified me. I could not bear to look at the flopping genitals of the men that would sometimes walk around naked. It was unbearable. And yet, to the others, it seemed like the most perfectly natural order of things. Men mated with women, and that was that.

I kept my head down and handled chores and errands, which they were happy to entrust to me—more time for their rutting. They did not touch me and I did not dare look at them. I played servant, trying to force down my bile as I wiped the ground clean each morning. I should stress that might alone was law. We were primitive and knew nothing else. I learned quickly that my body would never bulge with muscle like a man’s could, and that it was best for me to refrain from eye contact. There was no reasoning with such men, and to fight back would get me killed. They argued not with words but with brute violence. I had to clean blood and gore, too. It was revolting. I hated it. I hated that I was weak. The mere sight of them made me want to flee and never look back. But what did I know of the world outside our cave? Nothing. So I did what I could.

I awoke one day to some commotion outside the cave. It was then that I heard the sound of the beast—the winged, metal one. I was terrified. What now? Was it here to drop another pack of humans? Or to take us back? I wanted no part of it. But the rest were curious and braver than I was. They rushed out to greet the beast.

What exactly happened out there—I do not know. I heard the beast’s roar die down like it did before. Then, there was silence from both the beast and our herd. Sounds of metal against metal rang out, and what sounded like tools falling to the ground. Then, the voice of a woman cut through the air—sharp and clear as water wrought into glass. She spoke a tongue I had never heard before. A clamour rose from the herd; some rejoiced, while others asked questions. After what seemed like an unproductive conversation, the herd began to cheer. Shortly after, metal struck metal and the beast roared once more, slowly fading away into the distance.

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The herd shuffled back into the cave with their heads hung in silence. Why? They were rejoicing just moments ago, but the air had shifted. I looked up, and saw that they were all equipped with tools made of stone and iron, flaming sticks, and wooden wheels. I had never seen any of them before. I did not even think it possible to have fashioned these by hand. One of them—a male—approached me, and for a moment I panicked, for he held a sword! However, he did not touch me—instead, he kneeled before me. He presented the sword to me with both hands. I immediately knew that this was an instrument of death. It was designed to kill.

“You are… descended from the beast. Forgive us.” He was the strongest and most violent among us, and yet he hung his head in shame, knowing I had seen all.

He spoke in our crude tongue. The beast? That big, noisy, metal one? Or perhaps he meant the woman? They pronounced her title not with disgust or horror, but with reverence. Their eyes gleamed at me, awestruck.

“She is no beast,” someone else called out. “Her steed, yes, but not her.” Murmurs of approval spread throughout the room. They felt dissonance at the use of the word to describe someone so above and beyond their status. I had not even seen her, but I felt her holy presence from the way it had rubbed off on them.

“Then, we need a new word. A name for the woman on her steed who has showered us with her gifts. And her child, who sits before us.”

“God!”

It had a nice ring to it. Murmurs of approval turned to shouts and waving fists of approval.

“God has graced us! She, who gave us life and a place to live, has descended once more!”

The idea of God had captured the imagination of this disgusting herd of brutes. The idea that their lives had meaning, and that they had the favour of a divine presence was exactly the sort of validation such monsters craved. And yet, the sword presented to me held weight. I understood the gesture.

“Child of God. Forgive us, and accept this gift.”

I held out my hands and gripped the hilt. It weighed far more than I expected—the blade pivoted around the pommel and slammed against the floor. A few gasps rang out, but the blade was undamaged, firm and sharp. It truly was a fine weapon. I wrestled against it, finally managing to hold it upright. It teetered unsteadily in my hands, but for the first time in my life, I felt some semblance of strength. It was a lean, sharp blade. With practice, I would be able to swing it around. I could kill.

I did not understand why they thought me the child of God, but I knew better than to ask. That night, I silently mouthed words of thanks to the woman—no, God—who had shown up that day. Still, I was well aware of what humans were like. They had merely been muzzled by a higher power. A simple gift did nothing to sate my hatred for my race. They were still monsters deep down, created presumably by the hands of God. Who was at fault? Us? Or Her? What did that make me, then?

I could not accept that I was like them, of the same stock and breed. I was no brute, but I looked like them, sounded like them, walked and talked like them, and it infuriated me such that I wanted to claw my own eyes out. So I adopted the mantle they had given me: Child of God. This title removed me from them. I wanted space, and now I had reason to demand it; to create a divide between me and them. I had to learn to live independently before I could do any of that, however. This sword was merely a single step. Perhaps I could use it to slay rabbits or forage on my own. Eventually, I might be able to hunt larger prey. And with stone and iron, I could do a lot more. I finally had a light to chase.

Years passed. The others wizened and died, but my body remained exactly as it did the day I stepped off the beast. This baffling defect of mine commanded fear and respect. Child of God, they murmured as I walked past, their heads bowed. So did their children and their grandchildren though they did not understand why. My presence was unnatural; my body, an anomaly. Someone to be cast out and worshipped at the same time, above and beyond the rabble. They were content with merely staying out of my sight; I had no powers of the sort to punish or demand offerings with. I held no influence over the world beyond my improved swordsmanship that I wielded only for food. Once the space between us had been cemented by law and tradition, I decided to leave, knowing none would chase.

I became distinctly aware of my position, perched outside the food chain. Every animal that gasped and died in my hands would never feed another. It all seemed so greedy, so gluttonous of me. All I did was take and take from this planet’s bounty, never to return the favour. But so what? There was nobody around to admonish me. Nobody around to judge me nor forgive me. Even the brute that I was understood that sin unseen is still sin, but to go unnoticed for what must have been centuries was a bit absurd.

At some point, I picked up drawing as a hobby. I had no talent nor materials, but it was fun nonetheless. On a day as dull as the last, with the sun’s dying light as a backdrop, I held a rough piece of parchment up against the window. The winged, metal beast, pitch-black as I remembered it, blazed against the light, surrounded by a ghostly halo. Looking back, I realise how silly this was. Here I was—a tree without a forest, who after countless years of feasting on wild prey, had finally decided it was time to paint. But as I beheld the beast, I felt a drop of the guilt that pooled in my heart dry. The painting was a mark: proof that I had lived. I had painted every stroke with all the precision I could muster in a permutation I deemed most aesthetic. It was a simple collection of lines configured in a pattern nobody else would emulate. The parchment preserved a record of what I—and not anybody else—saw the beast to be on that fateful night. In creating it, I had laid part of my soul bare. That was more than a beast could do. A beast only knew to rip and tear, but I was different. I would keep this painting whole. A delusional thought; self-granted purpose, borne from boredom is no purpose at all—but it was enough for me to latch onto.

If I may recognise one, fascinating aspect of living beings, it is their ability to perceive differently from each other. I grew to wonder what the rabbits I ate daily would draw had they been blessed with fingers and patience. Every step of the process enthralled me—from choosing a subject to draw, to planning the way it should be drawn, down to the individual strokes. If anyone were to see the paintings that littered my cottage, they would no doubt understand every nook and cranny of my mind better than if I were to try and explain myself to them through words.

Over time, this desire festered and grew to encompass more than just paintings. Paintings were just one of many bridges to a heart, meant to be crossed, not stared at. Hearts were not made to beat alone, and mine was no different—my hate neutered by time.

Of course, nobody ever showed up. I did not mind. If the boredom ever drove me mad, my sane self would still be preserved in these drawings. Imagine: if my personality was erased completely, or even replaced by a different one. I could then tour my past mind through my paintings, each one an irreplaceable part of my old self. Together, they formed an ever-growing jigsaw, a blueprint of me.

The seasons turned without end. Before I knew it, I could see from my window the spires of human civilization towering over a land sucked dry, their shadows lengthening with each era that passed. In comparison, I must have seemed a beast. What sort of people were they, and what fancy new forms of art had they come up with? I looked in awe at what they had built with their bare hands. Perhaps a tour was in order.