|
Creation
Shafts of sunlight slanted through the trees, casting a pleasant pattern of shadow and light over the rich assemblage of undergrowth. Sounds of birds and squirrels, each busily pursuing its daily routine of foraging, floated gently through the air. An occasional crash in the brush gave testimony to the presence of large mammals.
Endora walked slowly through the forest, her large brown eyes moving rapidly. They were not the eyes of an experienced hunter or gatherer but rather the inquisitive eyes of one unfamiliar with her surroundings. For although a full-grown female, Endora had never seen a forest before. Its sounds and smells were entirely new to her. It was early afternoon and she had been created only several hours before. She was not, however, completely ignorant of the world in which she walked. She recognized -- she knew not how -- the plants, animals, birds and fish. She even had names for each type. They neither confused nor frightened her; instead, they filled him with wonder and an insatiable curiosity.
"Well, how do you find the forest?" A raspy voice asked.
Endora glanced to either side, searching for the source of the sound.
"Up here. In the tree."
Endora lifted her gaze to a large oak and saw, on the lowest branch, a raven.
"Ah, it is you, raven. What do you want with me?"
The raven puffed up its feathers and settled lower onto the branch, its legs disappearing under the mass of black feathers. "It is time we talked."
"About?"
"About what you wish to do."
Endora frowned. "I do not understand."
The raven emitted a short burst of sound somewhere between a chortle and a grunt. "You think you were created to wander aimlessly through the forest day after day?"
"Well, I hadn't given it much thought. Everything is so new and --"
"And it's all so interesting." The raven spit out its enigmatic sound once again. "You already know much. You were created with an intuition. You know the names of everything, you know how to talk, you know of the seasons and of day and night. But there are many things you do not know."
"I'm sure. Such as who created me."
"The bears. Who else? They're always sticking their noses where they shouldn't."
Endora shifted uneasily, not sure how to take the raven's remark. She did not respond, assuming, correctly, the raven had more to say.
"Purely by accident -- or at least I hope it was an accident. Not even the bears could be that stupid. They stumbled on some clay the gods use for creating and decided to see what they could do. Of course it would be clay with a spark in it." The raven paused as though contemplating the situation.
"A spark?" Endora asked when the raven did not continue.
"Yes. A spark. A divine spark. It means you have free will. You can choose what you wish to do. The rest of us have no choice. We are given but one path. For you there are many."
"It seems to me that if there is fault, it is that of the gods for leaving the clay."
The raven laughed outright. "Any fool should know not to mess with the stuff of gods. Any fool." The raven laughed again.
"You mentioned a choice I must make," she said once the raven had stopped.
"You will have many choices to make. But there is one that is paramount and must come first. Since you have the spark of creation in you, you are immortal. Or can be if you so choose. And that is what you must decide: Do you wish to live as an immortal, spinning out eternity in this idyllic forest or do you wish to become like us -- living and dying?"
Endora frowned. "That is the choice? Death or immortality?"
"Yes."
"Well, that is easy --"
"Not yet!" The raven interrupted her. "You must see more before you decide. When the sun sets, I will return. Then, and not before, you must give me your answer."
"But --"
The raven lifted into the air and vanished above the forest before the woman could finish her statement. Endora remained standing beneath the oak tree for some time, trying to unravel the meaning of the choice. On the surface there seemed to be no choice. Although she had never encountered death, she knew what it meant, just as she knew, for example, the raven was a raven. Still, there were gaps in her knowledge. And that is what bothered Endora -- the gaps. Perhaps it was not as straightforward as she thought. Still musing on the words of the raven, she continued through the forest. She had not gone more than a hundred yards when she heard a squeak. She pushed aside a bush and saw a mouse in the process of delivering a litter. One by one the miniatures of the mouse slid out. The mother's eyes rolled in agony and her sides heaved. Once the last had exited, the mouse staggered to her feet and began cleaning the new arrivals. The mouse glanced at Endora.
"Pretty, isn't it?" the mouse said. "This is the lot of woman. Go through the discomfort of carrying the young only to suffer the agony of giving birth. And if you live through that, you have to care for them until they are old enough to fend for themselves."
The mouse returned to cleaning the young.
"Is there nothing more to life for you?"
The mouse laughed bitterly. "Oh yes. I'll have my reward. Death!" With another laugh the mouse returned to its chore.
Endora was keenly aware she was a woman. She stared at the mouse for several moments and then shuddered and continued through the forest. Soon she came upon a meadow, with a carpet of rich, high grass and a brook meandering through it. Near the edge, in the shade of the forest, several deer grazed. Although she was no further than thirty feet from the animals, they took no notice of her. As Endora watched, a large cat sprinted out of the forest. The deer immediately sprang away in full flight. But the nearest was a fraction of a second too late. Endora clearly heard its cries of fear and agony, which reflected as terror in its large brown eyes. With its powerful jaws the cat snapped the deer's neck and the brown eyes glazed over in death.
"W-why did you do that?" Endora demanded, still shaken by the sudden scene of violence.
The cat, its claws still on the flank of the deer, turned toward the woman.
"I must eat. And to eat I must kill."
Endora frowned. "But why must you kill? Is there not abundant food -- berries, fruit, grass, leaves? Other creatures eat them. Why not you?"
The cat grinned wickedly, exposing its blood-covered fangs. "There is no thrill in eating fruit. The chase and the kill make it worth while."
"Then you enjoy killing?" Endora asked, staring past the cat. She could still see the terror in the eyes of the dying doe.
"Of course."
"And would you kill me?" Although she felt no fear, she could empathize with that of the deer.
"I would gladly kill you if only I could."
Endora blinked in confusion. "And why couldn't you? You are certainly bigger, stronger and quicker than I."
"Ah, but you are immortal. And I cannot kill that which cannot die."
"And if I were mortal?"
"Then it would be different. I could and would try. But it might not be as easy as it looks. You are clever. You could quickly learn to use weapons that are as deadly as my claws and fangs. It would be an interesting encounter." The cat laughed and turned its attention to its prey. Endora watched for a few minutes. But sickened by the sight and stench of blood, she went on her way. Death, she decided, was every bit as horrible as she had imagined.
And so Endora continued through the forest, asking all she met what they thought of her choice. A rabbit begged her to remain immortal. For if she chose mortality, she would be subject to the same laws as they and would soon become a predator. There were already too many predators in the forest. And he feared she would be the most efficient of them all. A serpent cautioned her that she would be cursed as he -- condemned to killing in order to ward off death. The serpent had no illusions about killing. He found it a dreary, ugly business. Endora even found a bear and asked about the absurdity of her creation. The bear stammered out its apology and ran into the forest.
By the time the sun was nearing the horizon, Endora was firm in her decision. It would be foolhardy to choose mortality. She scanned the trees and the sky for some sign of the raven. As she searched, a form stepped into view from the shadows of a large sycamore tree. It was unlike any animal she had seen. It did, in fact, resemble her. Her intuition told her it was a man.
Endora halted and blinked at the man in surprise. "Were you created today as well?"
"I have not yet been created," the man replied wistfully.
Endora frowned. "I don't understand."
"I still live in the land of shades from whence you came. I've been granted a few moments to ask a boon of you."
"Of me?"
"Yes. You have a decision to make and --"
"I've already made my decision."
"And it is?"
"Immortality."
The man wailed piteously.
"What's wrong? What difference does my decision make to you?"
"If you choose immortality, me and the billions of others will never have a chance to walk through the forest -- to see the sun and feel the rain. But if you choose mortality, each of us will have our turn."
Endora snorted. "A chance to kill and feel pain and fear and to ultimately die. You have a warped set of desires."
The man looked at Endora beseechingly. "Yes, there will be all that. But there will be the good as well. We will feel joy, laugh, create and appreciate beauty. Please do not deny us!"
"You have not seen what I have seen." Endora shook her head slowly. "It is horrible."
"We are the only ones with the divine spark -- you, me and those who wait. We are the only ones who can rise above the horrors you have seen."
"And only we could create greater, unspeakable horrors."
"That is true. But we must have the chance to evolve, to create a good, which has never been contemplated. Give us that chance!" There was a desperation in the man's voice that pierced Endora to the core. The same desperation was written on his face as he slowly faded away. When he was finally gone, the raven arrived.
"Well?" he asked as he landed on a branch just above her head. "Have you made up your mind?"
"Yes," she replied firmly. "I have seen the agony of birth and ultimate agony of death. Every creature I have talked to has given me reasons for shunning this burden called mortal life."
"And so?" the raven asked evenly.
"I choose mortality."
The raven looked at her in stunned silence. "So be it," he replied finally.
"These are the last words that you will hear from me or any other beast.
Only an immortal can communicate with us." With that he emitted a hoarse croak and flew away.
Endora stared at the gathering darkness. She jumped as she heard a noise to her left. She looked toward the source. The man stepped out of the bushes. He was smiling and carrying a spear. Endora shrank back in fear.
Don Stockard's background includes growing up on a homestead and working as a commercial clam digger, a miner and a geophysicist.
He spent ten years in school studying math and science at Carnegie Tech, Dartmouth and Caltech. He has also spent quite a
bit of time bike touring in Europe, mountain climbing and sailing. Over the last four years he has accumulated over one
hundred eighty credits, a hundred forty of which are short stories. Some recent publications are: Raskolnikovâ's Cellar
"Dark Horse" Fall, 2001 Once Upon a World "Karmic Trap" Fall 2001 Armchair Aesthete "Frozen Monk" inter/Spring, 2001.
In addition Softspin Press published a collection of his short stories in 1994.
Email
Return to Table of Contents
|