PLANET MAGAZINE

Illustration (c) 2008 by Romeo Esparrago.

Before putting the X-ray on the market for copious amounts of money, Xavier could not wait to try it out on himself. What secrets or inspirations lurked below the surface? He imagined that his soul was a stately jazz musician. Or, he thought, his soul could be that of a Labrador Retriever – smart, steady, and loyal. Or, was it the soul of a child full of endless possibilities?

The X-ray was actually an entire room rather than some flashy gadget. A person could walk into the quiet space, hit the activation button tucked inside the armrest of the centerpiece couch, and wait for his or her soul to be bared on the large movie screen in the south end of the room. Once broadcast onscreen, the person could then converse with his or her soul on any topic imaginable in comfort.

Knowing one’s soul more intimately provided incredible benefits, Xavier believed. If your soul was troubled, you could put it into therapy or give it drugs to set it on a better path. Also, if your soul noticed something lacking in you, it could help you look deep within your soul to become a better person. Either way, the discourse between people and their souls was bound to make the world a better place.

Xavier knew his soul was going to be pretty impressed with him. What wasn’t to like? Xavier had built his entire life on scientific creation. He had scores of patented inventions to his credit. He was one of the smartest people in his field. Accolades and grants had been showered upon Xavier ever since his time travel invention. And he had a family who adored him, a wife who enjoyed tending to the house, and two children who were showing impressive scientific aptitude (just like Xavier).

Xavier entered his X-ray, hit the activation button, and waited for a seemingly endless amount of time until his soul appeared onscreen. He was greeted by a man who seemed to be quite similar to Xavier – middle-aged, smartly attired, and confident. Xavier said “Hello”, and waited for his soul to answer.

“Why have you not accepted the Lord as your Savior?” Xavier’s soul demanded.

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Illustration (c) 2008 by Romeo Esparrago

Madmen know. They shout it in the streets and in the fields but go unnoticed. Those dying know. They whisper it with their last breath but no one understands. The dead know. They touch the living in warning, passingsilently over what were once their homes, yet go unheeded. And I know, though I no longer bother to tell anyone. I will tell you, though I do not do so in warning for it is already too late. I tell you more out of a desire to understand what has become of our world; what has become of me.

It began years ago, in the silence of man’s ignorance. Warroks, they are known as. They were once men, fools who dabbled in what they did not understand. They were the first to see that essence of our existence, that whisper of magic which lives within our world and all things upon it. When understanding came, they began to leech it from the earth, living on it as man lives on bread, ravaging it until it became as rare as the life it once sustained. It is the reason for our existence, and our end.

I have run from them since I was a boy. I remember a late morning not long ago, standing in a forest. They had been closing on me lately, though I still could not understand what they wanted of me. Weeping branches hung above, lifeless forms reaching down with their cold touch. Cadavers of wood littered the rise of ground, limbs frozen by death in a last futile gasp for light. A smell of putrefying wood wrinkled my nose; one can become used to the decay when constantly faced with it. Amid a swirling mist that gave life to the decomposed, I barely noticed it anymore.

A forest stream ran through the birthing bog, gurgling with pity for the death of the land. I knelt before it and, throwing back my hood, careful not to wet the ends of my cloak, I splashed my face, enjoying the coolness and sharpness of life for I was alive. I stared at my reflection then, its form broken in the foraging water. Amon Rush is my name, though I no longer recognise the man that goes with it; black eyes set within a pale face, hair and beard rusty red as the mulching leaves at my feet. A thinner form that has lost its youth, though I am no more than twenty five.

For as long as I remember I have run from them and their hunger, wandered through the dying lands in search of peace, for hope is too much to ask for. I had wandered into a valley in the Arfael region that day, somewhere in the Northlands. I had hoped I might find a place to rest for the night, for forest land offers neither food nor shelter anymore.

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Illustration (c) 2008 by Romeo Esparrago

Our long hard trip has left us worn but wise
We learn that matters that look large close by
Can fade to naught when one sees from afar

From Earth, the dying sun filled half the sky
Fourteen light years away scarce does its shine
Stand out from that of any pallid star

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