"Hey! You! The stranger. Come here."
This man is calling you. Yes, you. Wherever you are, whoever you are, it is you he is addressing.
What do you want to do? Do you want to know what he wants to talk about? Or do you want to leave? Well, if you have continued to read, it is because you want to keep knowing. After all, you don't really have any other power here. You can neither act nor speak.
You are but a reader. And by definition, a reader reads. And it is through reading that it is possible for you to perceive this reality that is foreign to you.
The man walked around a table in the middle of the platform—strange, you would have sworn there was no table here, yet at the same time, you feel as though this piece of furniture has always been there—and sat in a black office chair.
Since when had that chair been there, or rather, for how long had you failed to see it?
You approach—which is impossible here, strictly speaking—the chair presented to you. A hard wooden chair, like the ones found in public schools. You distractedly think that such a seat would be as uncomfortable as a stone bench. Yes, after all, it is a stone bench that is in front of you; the comparison makes no sense…
Your mind struggles to reconcile, but in any case, it seems obvious to you that a bench like this would be incredibly uncomfortable. Why not have an office chair like the man who called you? A perfectly cushioned seat, with padded arms… A seat like the one in front of you…
Wait… Since when…
But then, what were you complaining about?
You look again at the man behind the table. He was barely hiding a mocking smile on his face, and the effect coupled with his ragged sockets gave the whole scene a most sinister air.
It seems the best solution to stay sane here is not to think too much about normal spatio-temporal bases.
Behind his table, the man addresses you, never losing his wide smile.
"It is rare that I receive a visitor, especially from another world, another era, and another dimensional plane. But what are you doing here? This place has nothing to offer fragile spirits."
You formulate no answer to this question, which is not surprising in itself. The man, however, did not seek to know more.
"It is impossible for you to answer, isn't it?" he said, scrutinizing you with interest through those sockets.
"So you cannot express yourself… Your presence is very weak and unstable; it has no grip here. It is incredible… Despite your helplessness, you are a brand-new anomaly."
The man had trouble not smiling, like a child before a particularly enticing Christmas present.
"You must be very lost." he said in a compassionate tone, gesturing to the environment surrounding you—the raging hurricane, the platform that seemed to exist without any real logic.
"I think I owe you at least an explanation… hoping that you can understand what is happening here."
The man tilted his head slightly to the side, as if he suspected this wasn't going to be easy, then took a long breath, exhaled, and began his explanation.
"Let us start with a simple question. What comes first: an object, or the idea of what that object is?"
Silence.
"Forgive me. I forgot that you cannot speak, which is not very practical." the man chuckled, realizing the problem.
"Anyway, I might as well answer you as best I can. The truth is that the idea of an object fundamentally comes before the object in question, at least for objects that are created or have been invented. No one creates without having a key concept in mind."
"However, there are things that were created instantaneously, at a point where even their concept did not exist. We can take the example of the universe, which was born in an instant according to our perception. In that case, the concept comes at the same moment as the object."
"You must be telling yourself that it makes no sense, since the object was there long before the idea was, but in fact, once an object exists, its conceptual representation comes with it. It is a fairly simple logical pattern: the idea of an object can sprout without it existing, but an object cannot exist without a conceptual representation."
"The essence of an object therefore resides in its concept. And here lie all the concepts that were, that are, and that will be in reality: the first dimension, "Benn"."
"And the first dimension was born at the dawn of the universe, when the very first energy was created. And everything that has been created, and that will be created after, contains some of this energy: the sembou."
The man extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his boubou: along his black hand were engraved symbols formed of strange runes that glowed with a blue light. All these symbols seemed to take root from a rune on the back of his hand, also glowing with a stronger blue: it represented four ovals superimposed two by two. Each oval contained a dot toward its bottom, and one had the bizarre impression they represented the iris of an eye.
By the man's action, the energy in the room seemed denser, more nervous, and heavier. The threads that continued to swirl seemed to vibrate, as if they were waiting for his orders impatiently.
"The sembou is the force that exists in everything, physically and metaphysically.", explained the man, his hollow sockets staring at you. "
"And since the advent of Atemit Sembe, certain chosen ones have acquired mastery over such power. Manipulating space and time, bending the earth to one's will, subduing flames, and fathoming shadows."
"It was the domain of gods in legends, and once upon a time, legends were only legends, and tales were only tales. But, through the sembou, everything has become real and possible—probably the worst thing the world has ever known."
The man's voice had suddenly taken on a dark and brittle tone, and his expression showed cold disgust. The flames in his sockets glowed sinisterly on his face. This mood barely lasted a moment, for he seemed to realize it and smiled, both amused and saddened.
"Sorry, that was foolish", he resumed.
"Without the sembou, we wouldn't be having this magnificent conversation in this special place, would we? It's the somewhat stupid principle of life: for every misfortune, there is some good. It just depends for whom, that's all…"
"Now that I think about it, I spoke to you about the 1st dimension, and that is indeed where we are. But this place is a precise point in the dimension of concepts: we are at its beginning, and also at its end. We are at the beginning and the end of everything that exists. The representation of every action and every possible difference, which continues to increase in a chaotic yet orderly whirlwind."
"I think this is the closest idea one can have of the most important of concepts: a whirlwind in perpetual motion, composed of threads that weave and unweave to infinity in an instantaneous and eternal time. We are in the lair of destiny: the Ndogal."
All around you, the hurricane of colored threads seemed to double in power and illuminate with more strength in reaction to the name. Looking at it makes your head spin, as much from the movement as from the magnitude of what you now know it represents. Perhaps, somewhere, your own existence resides in one of those colored cords destined to disappear one day.
"Each of these cords represents an alternate reality, another universe.", declared the man in the boubou.
"A multitude of stories, a myriad of accounts, of tragedies and comedies: in short, an infinity of lives evolving in the perpetual motion of destiny. Causality or predestination, it matters little now."
"Facing such a vision, the existential question of choices and their influences, and knowing whether or not everything is written in advance, carries little weight. Destiny is logical—logical in its unpredictable chaos. And to be able to contemplate it in this form, observe every iteration, read every line of what seems incomprehensible… Yes… it must feel like this to be a god…"
The man paused. His tone had taken on dreamy accents, yet you still manage to detect a trace of sadness in it. It was not boasting, and even less a projection: it was merely an observation. The man seemed to observe his status as a divine being more than anything else, nothing more. He remained silent for some time before returning to you with a gentle smile.
"So many stories, and there is only me to tell them. I, the storyteller, the blind griot. And it has been an eternity—or just a short moment—since I last had an audience to tell these stories to. And it just so happens, I have just been forced into a very bothersome promise. I am not complaining, however, for it allowed me to notice the convergence of worlds. The story of this reality will therefore define that of all things that exist."
"I fear, however, that the story I am going to tell you looks more like a sadistic tragedy than anything else. If it is not to your liking, I can understand; you will be free to leave at any time. But if you are willing to listen to me, and engrave this tale in your heart, you will at least allow its hero to be saved, in a somewhat peculiar way, by remembering."
"It is the tale of a man destined to conquer, blessed by victory, cursed by victory. The story of an ego that cannot be extinguished, in death, or even beyond. Someone who forgot himself, who lost himself in the myriads of voices that form an eternal war song."
"It is the fable of the invincible. He thinks he is alone. But somewhere, someone wishes for him to be remembered. Someone wishes for his story to be told, so that one day he himself may remember. And in memory of that friend, I will begin the story with him."
"For like all these stories that intertwine in the whirlwind of destiny, he was swept up, irresistibly, toward his tragic end. He fought, but can one truly fight one's destiny? Can one avoid the punishments, the wounds, that one inflicts upon oneself? You will probably find the answer to these questions at the end of this story. Or perhaps you will only find an abyss of despair… I hope you will remember him, and his name, for it is the first of a long mystery."
The griot caught his breath after his speech and gave you his amused smile once more.
"Let's go! Once I begin the narration, I will no longer be able to fashion the conversation as I am doing now. But, don't worry, we will probably have the chance to speak again."
"…"
"I love our conversations! But anyway, isn't there something bothering you?"
The griot leaned toward you to whisper in your ear, even though you have no ears.
"I will be the one narrating this story and all those that follow; that is a fact. But then, from the beginning, who is telling our story, yours and mine?Who is narrating all these things to you about me or about this place?"
The griot looked at you, and something in his smile seemed… more sinister. Once again, it is better for you that you do not understand everything, right now. The griot seems to be of the same opinion, as he laughs heartily.
"Let it go, even the presence of that person won't stop the course of destiny on his own, since he is subject to it himself. So let's concentrate here, and begin this story, shall we?"