Dead & Godless (6 page)

Ransom
laid a hand on the troubled star child. He faced the Council and his steely
eyes flared brighter than the sun.

“This
one need not die! Exile him to the forest. I will take care of the rest.”

At
the sight of the angel’s blazing eyes, the Speaker nearly tumbled from his perch.
His sworn duty was to safeguard his people, but how could he distrust such a
pure and powerful light?

“And
the fog will not spread?” he asked.

“It
will not,” promised Ransom. “I give you my word.”

“Go
then, and may your light guide you until the New Sun dawns.”

“Until
the New Sun dawns!” echoed the Council.

Much
to Corwin’s relief, they departed without returning down the treacherous cliff side.
The slope of the land descended to where a vast, verdant forest sprawled across
the interior of the island, an ocean of amber shardleaves that swayed and
glittered as they caught the sun.

“Is
there truly a way to banish the fog?” the star child inquired.

“Oh,
there’s a way,” said Ransom, “though it may return from time to time.”

Corwin
was mulling over his attorney’s points as they passed through the tree line.

“According
to your reasoning, just as hunger evidences the existence of food, man’s desire
for a higher purpose evidences the existence of god?”

“Correct.
And note that I say ‘evidences,’ not ‘proves.’ It is not my purpose here to
prove the Father’s existence, only to prove that belief in him is rational.”

“You
assume that a higher purpose must have its root in the divine. Why should it? I
don’t need some religion to tell me why my life has meaning. It was man who
created god. If we long for a purpose to make sense of this life, we can create
that as well.”

“Can
you?”

All
around them, the crystal forest bent the sun’s rays into a mesmerizing prism of
light, rife with soft patches of gold and lilac and glints of shimmering pearl
that danced like fairies upon the underbrush. Ransom plucked a jewelberry from
a hanging vine and popped it into his mouth, an act which made the star child
most curious.

“That
jewelberry!” he exclaimed. “Why do you do this thing?”

“It’s
called eating. It’s not a bad pastime, though I much prefer drinking, to be
perfectly honest.”

Fishing
a brushed metal flask from his coat, Ransom washed the berry down with a swig
of bourbon, hissed a happy exhale and returned his attention to Corwin.

“Suppose
that you decided upon the meaning of life, but someone else adopted a different
meaning, one that contradicted your own. Which of you would be right? Which is
the true meaning?”

“Both,”
Corwin replied. “One meaning can be true for one person and a different meaning
true for another.”

“Nonsense,”
spat Ransom. “If both are true, then nothing is true. Truth cannot contradict
truth.”

“What
if there were no contradictions? What if, unified by scientific reasoning, our
race decided upon a common goal towards which to aspire?”

“Even
that improbable scenario would change nothing. Universal truths are always
discovered, never decided upon.”

As
they were talking, the land rose on their left, a low roar furtively growing.
The ivory-barked boles of the trees parted, giving sight to a wide and rambling
river with many forks.

“It
doesn’t look like there’s any way across,” mentioned Corwin.

“We
could swim or carve canoes,” said Ransom. “Or build a giant catapult!”

“Or
we could follow the path,” the star child suggested.

The
path, which won out over the catapult in a two-to-one vote, soon became a ledge
that ran behind a chain of waterfalls. Because it wasn’t frightfully high off
the ground, Corwin felt at ease, far more so than on the previous ledge. The
falls themselves were not a violent rush, but a smooth curtain of water
spilling over the ridge. They misted the air with a white, spectral fog. As it
swirled and strengthened, visions appeared in its folds.

Corwin
saw a sunny pasture. In the air was a bi-wing glider, its shadow racing over
the grass while a bicycler peddled furiously to catch up.

“In
the realm of science, the nature of truth is most evident,” continued Ransom,
resuming his former line of thought. “Man did not learn to fly by deciding the
laws of aerodynamics, but by discovering them and harnessing that knowledge.”

The
fog rolled and a new scene materialized. Grapes ripened on rows of vines in
golden Tuscan fields. A painter stood in the shade, his easel propped before
him. With quick and precise dabs of his brush, the canvas came to life.

“You
see it also in the arts, for beauty is not as subjective as mortals think. The
great painters and composers did not simply decide what beauty was. They
discovered it in their lives and devoted themselves to capturing it.”

Next
came a place that Corwin instantly recognized. It was the frozen foods section
of a local grocery store. Rows of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream stared them in
the face. Corwin’s mortal self stepped gingerly into view like a thief in a
jewelry shop, prying open a glass door to the hum of industrial freezers.

“Chunky
Monkey, good choice,” grunted Ransom with an approving nod. “But even your
favorite flavor of ice cream is not purely a matter of choosing. You discovered
that some ingredients were more pleasing to your taste buds than others.”

“That’s
not what I would call a universal truth,” objected Corwin.

“True,”
Ransom agreed. “Maybe I’m just getting hungry.”

Again
the vision dissolved. The white mist was thinning.

“Let’s
say I grant you that in order for there to be an
objective
meaning of
life, it would have to be something we discover,” Corwin said as they put the
river behind them. “You still haven’t proven that there is one.”

“Nor
do I intend to, but why ignore the evidence written within you?”

“Because
I can explain that evidence without the need of any of your metaphysical hocus
pocus.”

“I’m
looking forward to it, but first . . .”

The
forest gave way to a small clearing. A circle of stones paved the sacred
ground, remarkable for just how ordinary they were. Crystal had accounted for
every surface on the island, but not here. These bricks were cut from
limestone; dull, opaque and bleached by the sun. Corwin guessed that they must
have been quarried from some remote region. Arches ringed the circle, and though
the ravages of time had reduced most of them to rubble, two remained intact.

Rising
from her seat atop the base of a ruined arch, a female star child addressed
them.

“When
I heard the Council say that you had been exiled to the forest, I knew you
would come here.”

“Word
travels fast on this island,” muttered Corwin.

“That’s
telepathy for you,” said Ransom.

“Gaeda,
you shouldn’t have come,” spoke their translucent companion.

“I’m
not afraid,” she told him, care and courage shining in her voice.

Though
the star children were faceless, or perhaps
because
they were faceless,
their words held a depth of emotion that moved the heart as sure as the warmest
smile or most hateful sneer.

As
the travelers stepped into the circle, something disturbed the air beneath the
two arches—a scintillating glow, barely visible from afar. Cycling colors, the
light gently coruscated like the surface of a pool.

“Through
the portal to my left is a world unlike the one you know,” spoke Ransom. “Once
you step through, you will not be the same, nor will you ever be able to
return. What awaits you there is a life of toil. However, such a life also has
its rewards. You’ll find that which can fill your hollowness, strange new
gemfruits and jewelberries and maybe more.”

“But
what shall I do when I find them?” asked the accused.

Ransom
planted a friendly slap on his back.

“You’ll
figure it out.”

“How
can you know all this?” Gaeda inquired. “None can see beyond the gates.”

“I
walked this land when the sun was young and the seven gates were raised. They
hold no secrets from me.”

Firm
in his resolve, the accused faced the mysterious doorway.

“I’m
ready.”

“Then
so am I,” said Gaeda.

The two
star children joined hands and strode towards the undulating light. Upon
touching it, they became light themselves, melting into the portal. Glyphs that
Corwin hadn’t before noticed lit up along the arch’s bricks and seared in runic
circles on the floor.

“You’re
next,” Ransom intoned.

“I’ll
take what’s behind door number two.”

Shadows in the Storm

A luminous
network of fibers stretched through the blackness like a spider’s web, had that
spider happened to be a master architect with a penchant for the psychedelic. They
brightened from violet to pink before meeting at bulbous orange junction
points, and countless pulses of light traveled their length, flashing in the
junctions, changing course or forking along multiple routes with the manic
speed of lightning channeled through a steel grid.

“Neurons,”
perceived Corwin. “It’s like we’re inside a brain.”

“A
mostly empty one,” said Ransom.

There
was a methodology to the strobing of the thought highways. Some paths, heavy
with traffic, were almost constantly alight, feeding tributaries that branched
off in a hundred directions. Other fibers siphoned the signals into huge,
lambent clusters where the light cycled in complex loops but never escaped.

“Did
you know that the brain can be triggered to sense a presence, even when no one
is there?” asked Corwin. “All you have to do is release the right chemical or
apply an electromagnetic current to the right spot, and presto! One ‘religious
experience’ coming right up!”

“A
man may hallucinate that he’s drowning, but that doesn’t make the ocean any
less real,” replied Ransom. “And you seem to be implying that the human brain
is wired for religious thought.”

“It
is! That’s why we have this innate desire for purpose in our lives, but it has
more to do with evolution than angels.”

Pulling
a cigarette from his case, Ransom brought it to his nose like a bow to a
violin, the unlit tobacco hinting at licorice and sun-dried raisins.

“I’m
listening.”

“As
humans evolved and grew capable of complex thought, we became self-aware, but
with self-awareness came awareness of death, and thus anxiety and depression.
Our spiritual inclinations are evolution’s answer to that problem.”

“So
according to evolution, religion is beneficial to mankind’s survival,” Ransom
concluded.

“It
was, but we’ve evolved past that,” argued Corwin. “In the modern world,
religious thought is like the brain’s appendix. Worse, it may just lead us to
destroy ourselves!”

“You’d
think evolution would have seen that coming.”

The
fibers were fading, all except for a disconnected few, and these slowly bent and
curled into odd but orderly shapes.

“If
your theory is right, you haven’t eliminated the absurdity of human life. You’ve
confirmed it,” said Ransom. “You’re left with a creature that has evolved an
innate desire for something that doesn’t exist.”

“Even
if there is no higher purpose, that doesn’t mean that we can’t grasp onto
something that makes this life worth living!”

“Think
back to your existentialism class. What did Camus say was among the most
pressing questions facing an atheist?”

“Should
I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” quoted Corwin, his impeccable memory
supplying the answer with ease.

The
angel nodded and blew a stream of smoke.

“Any
nonbeliever worth his salt should understand the gravity of those words. What’s
your take?”

“Well
I could definitely go for a cup of dark roast about now.”

“Excellent!”
declared Ransom. “I know just the place.”

As
the gloom lifted, the fibers became streaks of neon, a dimly burning array of
welcome signs and Budweiser logos. They belonged to a strip of cafés, pubs and
eateries, all bustling with late night patrons. Breathing in the humid air,
Corwin slipped off his coat and slung it over one arm. Wherever he was, this
place felt instantly comfortable. Laid-back locals traipsed the streets with an
easy gait. They were old and young, and as colorful as the city’s colonial
architecture. Rarely did the buildings rise higher than two stories, and the
upper floors were mostly apartments, their banisters decked with streamers and chains
of golden Christmas lights.

“Watch
out, son,” barked an older gentleman who was just exiting a shop as Corwin
brushed past.

“Sorry,”
he managed.

His
gaze trailed after the fellow and a second later it hit him.

“Say,
are we back in the real world?” he asked Ransom.

“In
your world, yes. But not in your time.”

“But
that guy just saw me! We must be more than shades here.”

“A
necessary risk,” said Ransom. “A shade can’t order a cup of coffee.”

“Is
this the past or the future?”

“Last
summer. Why are you asking?”

But
when Ransom glanced to his side, his crafty client was already gone. Corwin had
spotted a young couple and wasted no time in accosting them.

“Excuse
me, could I borrow your phone?”

His
abrupt appearance and utter disregard for personal space compelled the man back
on his heels.

“What’s
the emergency?”

“I
may not look like it, but I’m from the future.” Like a secret agent, Corwin donned
a pair of sunglasses borrowed from a nearby display case. “I need to call my
past self and warn him not to come to the aid of any wayward bums who happen to
pass out on the subway tracks.”

His
plea moved the couple, but not in the way he intended, as the man locked hands
with his date and promptly hurried off, shooting Corwin the sort of look that was
usually reserved for washed-up comedians or the tragically insane.

“It’s
no use,” said Ransom, waltzing over with his hands tucked in his pockets. “You
might not be a shade, but the fact remains that you’re still dead. There are
measures in place to keep your kind from interfering in the world.”

“So
I’ve officially joined the ranks of the living dead!” Corwin’s voice rang with
satirical triumph.

“If
you get the urge to sink your teeth into a juicy, delectable brain, do try to
resist.”

“Now
that you mention it, I am feeling a mite peckish.”

Ransom
inclined his head toward the couple that had just recently made their escape.

“Notice
how they’ve already forgotten you?”

It
certainly seemed that way. Corwin spied them not far down the road, where both their
pace and their mood had relaxed. A banjo player strummed a tune at a local bar
and the happy couple wandered in.

“Your
presence here is but a flicker in temporal space,” said Ransom. “No longer can
your actions leave an impact, not on the world, nor on the fate of your soul.”

“Not
even if I went on a murderous rampage?”

“If
you tried to accomplish anything meaningful, you would undoubtedly find that
something would go wrong and your efforts would come to naught.”

“Story
of my life,” mumbled Corwin.

Leaving
the busy lights and commotion of the main street, they turned down an alley and
walked a little ways to where a hanging sign marked the side entrance to a café.
An artsy script announced it as The Cosmic Cup, its sign emblazoned with the
image of a sugar cube moon orbiting a celestial cappuccino mug.

Bells
chimed as Ransom swung open the door. The cozy interior of the café was sparsely
lit, consisting of a coffee bar with several round tables dappling the lounge. A
nighttime cityscape adorned the walls, painted skyscrapers climbing towards a dark
ceiling studded with hundreds of phosphorescent stars.
Amidst
their pale green glow, glass globes, crescent moons, peace signs and dream
catchers depended from imperceptible wires.

“Not
what I would have guessed for your type of place,” remarked Corwin as he surveyed
the scene.

Ransom’s
formal attire stood out starkly from the skinny jeans and pop-reference
t-shirts of the café’s hipster patrons. He strode up to the counter.

“What
can I get you?” chirped a girl with raven hair and a nose ring.

“A large
cup of dark roast. Oh, and one of those Lunar Lemon scones.”

He
glanced Corwin’s way.

“Sounds
good to me.”

“Make
that a double,” Ransom told the barista.

They
found a table and a short time later she appeared with their order, along with
a porcelain tray loaded with creams and sweeteners. Corwin cradled his mug and
inhaled, savoring the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. He took a sip.

“Ah,
now that’s heaven! I may not know the meaning of life, but I know a good cup of
coffee, and that’s worth more than all the empty promises in all the divinely
inspired scriptures in the world.”

Crumbs
sprayed from his mouth as he ravenously attacked his scone.

“So,
are we moving on to my third hope?”

“Not
yet. From the way you humans talk about the meaning of life, you’d think that
all creation began and ended with yourselves.” Ransom raised his eyes to the
star-studded ceiling. “There’s a whole universe out there! Behind the question
‘Why am I here?’ lies the bigger question ‘Why is anything here?’”

“Aren’t
they ultimately the same question?” deduced Corwin.

“They’re
closely tied, and the best answer is one that holds true for both.”

“Or maybe
you’re just over-thinking things. Life is fleeting, so live each day to the
fullest! Isn’t that all the purpose that most people need?”

“To
live as though there is no tomorrow may mean love and charity to one person,
but rape and thievery to another.”

Ransom
opened his palm and one of the ceiling’s phosphorescent stars dropped into it.
Flicking his wrist, he hurled the ornament back. As Corwin looked upwards, the
glow-in-the-dark constellations shifted. Greenish-white stars beamed
brilliantly and receded into a fathomless abyss, the cold silence of space
stretching for untold light years above their heads.

“Consider
the Question of Origins, the dawn of space and time.”

Farther
and farther the vista pulled away. Billions of stars coalesced into galaxies,
clouds of galaxies into super clusters. Then Ransom clenched his hand and instantly
the vastness of the heavens compressed into a single shining spec of light.

“There
are two logical stances that one can take. Either
essence precedes existence
(which is to say, there is a preexistent meaning behind the universe) or
existence
precedes essence
(that is, the universe simply exists and humans make up a
meaning after the fact). Atheists by definition claim the latter.”

His
hand sprung open, unleashing the Big Bang. The universe exploded forth in a
dazzling burst of energy. Space rippled and shimmered, newborn stars gleaming in
the hearts of nebulae and quasars whirling with molten fury.

“The
problem you face is that a made-up meaning is just that: make-believe. Man
doesn’t yearn for an imaginary meaning. He yearns for a true one, for something
worth dying for.”

Corwin
didn’t dispute the sentiment. The Question of Origins spelled out the dilemma
faced by those who sought meaning in a godless universe with sobering clarity. There
was a time when he had thought it a simple matter to find purpose, but now he
was beginning to see why so many atheist thinkers before him had struggled so
arduously with the task.

“It’s
not that I don’t understand, but without proving that a
true
meaning
exists, your line of argument is just as likely to sway me towards nihilism as
it is towards Christianity. Maybe human life truly is absurd.”

“So
be it.”

Ransom
drained the last dregs from his mug and reached into his breast pocket. He
withdrew his flask and began unscrewing the cap.

“A
good philosophy is like a good bourbon: best when not watered down.”

“On
that note,” chimed Corwin, “I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I think I
need to use the restroom.”

“It’s
no surprise,” said Ransom. “That vessel doesn’t just look like your old one. It
can bleed, sweat, and leak other fluids as well.”

The
restroom was tucked away in the back corner of the café, a cell of square white
tiles that was kept cleaner than most. Corwin still found it odd, feeling
relieved as he looked himself over in the mirror while the sink’s sensor issued
a few seconds of water. He punched the drier and stuck his hands under the
roaring blast of hot air. For the first time since he’d met Ransom, Corwin was
alone.

Turning
to leave, he stopped. From floor to ceiling, the door was covered in black and
red graffiti. There were cultic symbols, vertical eyes and words harshly scrawled
in some indecipherable language, and he could have sworn that none of it had
been there when he came in. Compared to the rest of the pristine room, the door
felt jarringly out of place.

For
an anxious moment, his hand hovered over the knob. Then the lights flickered
and fizzled. Just as the room fell dark, he pushed his way out.

“What
the . . ?”

Corwin
wasn’t in the café anymore. A dingy, derelict alley stretched before him, brown
bricks tagged with gang signs and crinkled newspapers littering the ground. A
narrow strip of brooding clouds hung overhead, giving no clue as to the hour.
His eyes were drawn to a fire that blazed in a rusty iron barrel, where three
homeless old men in ragged jackets stood basking in the warmth.