Scroll 4: No Pulse, white noises
and had stopped before he was as high as Ethan crawled... to nothing.
Not darkness. Not light. Not even that foggy cloud you wake up too fast in.
Just… white. White, horizon-engulfing, smooth, unbounded to the point of being a pathetic cut-and-paste on a white sheet.
The air was quiet, heavy enough to push against his skin and with a hint of burnt paper and strangely enough instant ramen. No wind. No echoes. A secular transition.
The world he flew over. Hard floor, of which he could not make out. His shoes, well, the shoes that he had in mind were lost.
Worse still, so was his pulse.
One hand was pressed to the neck. Nothing.
Well, he told me, I am dead or my cardiologist has to apologise to me. Still nothing.
Horror jump-scare: the engine, the unnatural shine of the spirit-metal plating, the nausea before the crash.
Ah ha said he. And then
He winced. "Yeah. And anything that was neither to be high and hoiffy and hoiffy and down and down and beat and beat and beat and winged and oft crowned with a crown.
He rubbed himself half expecting to feel tire marks on his ribs. I live off horror movies. And is and is and is not high and high and high and low and low and even and battered and battered and battered and there and there and there and there and winged and crowned here and there.
The tone was changed at once. The false colour, the false tints, Unnamed in the speech of men, But, to conjecture, betwixt sunset and tears and old wine spilt on moonlight. This is where the creepy voice goes and says Welcome, mortal and then"
In the distance there was a glint, as though light were bending round some glass.
It was the wrong colour, the wrong tints, which had no name in the tongue of men, but, to guess, lay between sunset through tears and old wine poured out on moonlight. It was the wrong colour, the wrong tints, that had no name in human words, but, to conjecture at, were between sunset through tears and old wine spilt on moonlight. It was the false colour, the false tints, which had no name in human tongue, but as it were were between sunset through tears and old wine spilt on moonlight.
When it spoke, the voice came layered low and deep, high and airy, every note vibrating through Ethan's bones.
> "The river of existence flows unceasingly. Some drink deeply. Others… drown."
Ethan blinked. "…Cool. And you are?"
The figure seemed amused.
> "I am a caretaker of passages, a witness to endings and beginnings. A lantern in the dark between worlds. In your tongue…" a pause, as if the being was rifling through a dusty mental dictionary "I am called the Celestial Guide."
"Right. Celestial Guide." Ethan tilted his head. "Do you have, like… a business card, or do you just show up quoting fortune cookies?"
> "Even a single leaf," the Celestial said serenely, "may carry the wisdom of the entire forest if one knows how to read its veins."
Ethan stared. "...That didn't answer my question, but sure."
The Celestial drifted closer, radiating an aura of ageless patience.
> "Ethan Cole, you stand at the threshold of rebirth. Your body in the mortal realm has perished, but your soul remains intact. Now begins the journey to your next life."
"Ohhh, reincarnation," Ethan said, nodding slowly. "Got it. So… do I get to pick? Or is this one of those 'mystery box' deals where you spin a wheel and hope you don't land on 'dung beetle'?"
> "All destinies," the Celestial intoned, "are the weaving of threads unseen. There are three universal rules"
"Hold on," Ethan interrupted, raising a finger. "Do I at least get snacks while you monologue? Because if this is gonna be a TED Talk, I'm gonna need"
He didn't finish.
The floor under him rippled. The air warped. A tugging sensation yanked at his very bones.
"What the?!"
Before the Celestial could say another word, Ethan was sucked away gone like ink washed off glass leaving the endless white space empty but for the faint echo of his confusion.
---
The vision cleared in Ethan and he saw… nothing. Not the nothing of a dark room, but the creepy sort where the world forgot to load the background. No sky. No ground. Just white, going on and on in every direction, as though someone had poured bleach on reality.
He gazed down at himself. Body check. Clothes check. Heartbeat
…
Nope. Missing.
Fantastic, he grumbled. "Dead again. This is something I love."
There was a voice, calm and tolerant, as of a teacher who had been marking papers a millennium.
> "Welcome, traveler of the ceaseless wheel. You have cast off the skin of a life, and stand on the threshold of another. I am thy guide the light in the mist, The bridge across the gloom, The voice in"
Yeah, sweet intro, Ethan interrupted. So, here is a quick question: do I get a body with six-pack abs this time, or do I have to earn it?
There was a pause long enough to hear the chirp of imaginary crickets in this place-that-had-no-crickets.
> "The seeds of greatness must be watered with"
And poof, Ethan blinked out of existence.
---
A moment later he came back, smeared with soot. His hair was on end as though he had been electrified, one eyebrow gone, the other just clinging on.
Runaway carriage, he hacked, sending black dust into the emptiness. It turns out there is traffic in fantasy worlds. And I was apparently in the path of all of it."
The heavens inclined a little, and its light was like the water which is troubled.
> "In the market of fate, one must look both ways before"
Ethan disappeared once more.
---
This time he returned wet, and the water ran off his garments, and he left a puddle at his feet. A fish came out of his sleeve and slapped down on the ground and melted into the white.
"Do you know what it's like to drown before you even learn how to swim?" Ethan said, wringing water from his shirt. "Because I do now. Twice. In under a minute."
> "The river teaches patience, but only if one refrains from"
Gone again.
---
When he returned, he was limping. His jeans were shredded, one shoe was gone, and his shirt was peppered with holes the size of beaks. A single feather floated down from somewhere above.
"Chickens," Ethan said darkly. "Carnivorous. Pack hunters. They chirp before they attack. It's… psychological warfare."
The celestial's serene tone wavered.
> "Even the smallest claw may"
Flash. Gone.
---
He came back with a ragged bite mark on his shoulder. His hair was scorched, and he smelled faintly of barbecue.
"I hate dragons," Ethan said simply, rubbing his wound.
> "In the scrolls of eternity," the celestial said slowly, "no soul has been so catastrophically efficient at perishing."
Ethan shrugged. "Guess I'm just built different."
The celestial's voice lowered to a dangerous calm.
> "This is your final attempt. Fail here, and"
Ethan vanished mid-sentence.
The white expanse stayed empty. No soot. No splash of water. No feathers. No Ethan.
The celestial stared into the infinite nothing. After a long, quiet eternity, it whispered:
> "Am I relieved… or deeply concerned?"