Pale Fragments

Baptism

He allows the waves to push him into the sand. They crash, and he feels them laugh at him for letting this happen. He can hardly breathe. He doesn't know if he will remove his head from the sand, his back constricts against his lungs, his fists clutch, squeeze clots of sand as though either his lifeline or his heart in his hand...

And then when the next wave comes crashing down on his back, he is pushed forwards and spins, throwing out his arm and slashing through the drops of the wave with the tattered and heavy sleeve of his temple robe. He falls again.

His temple robe.

He screams, knowing nobody can hear him, screaming past the point of sound, screaming. He rips off his clothes, though his arms shake from centuries of no real use, his will extends beyond his shriveled sticks of arms and the clothes rip slowly at first and then his back arches, hands glued to chest, and they rip, and he throws them as hard as he can into the waves, falling over and shooting off his pants and socks and underwear, frenzy, sobbing, then clawing weakly at his skin, kicking the sand and the waves that came up close to him.

He breathes deep and all is silent save the breathing of the waves and some howling far in the distance.

He stands and then falls to his knees, then his face, and then he kneels, straight back trembling, sinking unavoidably, and speaks with a voice that does not sound how it once did in his life:

"O God. My Eternal Father. Forgive all I have done to trespass thee. I prostrate myself before thee. I don't know what I have done, but if thou wilt just tell me, tell me—I will accept any punishment, I will hear all you have to say. Please, Lord, O God, thou—thy—thou who created all things, Jehovah, the Great I Am, Elohim, thou that dost all things for the benefit of Mankind, if we will humble ourselves to thee. I am here, Lord, I have come back to thee, I know I strayed—"

As he speaks he feels a warmth blooming with a white light behind him which fades as if a mist blown away by the wind, and then--

"Anders."

He jumps, not having expected an answer. He doesn't turn towards the voice immediately. He stares down at his clasped hands. The voice is familiar, though familiar like a cinnamon stick is to the old man remembering the cinnamon perfume of one once-loved long ago...

Anders doesn't know from where or when the familiarity comes. it seems from a hundred different places. He says, "It can't be...is it truly You? Did I finally..."

He turns, face crumbling like a mound of sand thought reformed.

"You," is all he says. Then, "No."

It's the Robot.

"I created this world," she said. "I have no name. You have done nothing to offend me. You are forgiven."

"You killed my brother..."

He falls to the sand, his body collapsing like a sponge, arms held strong too long and slipping into forgetfulness.

Then--

"Come on Anders, you can't avoid the pain forever. Wake up."

He stirs. She speaks, stepping forward, and the steps must've felt like lightning accentuating the rumbling of her unstoppable words pouring forth with the righteous rage of all that is natural and man-killing--

"I will advise you only this much, and only once. Listen, and you may see me again soon. Listen! Let them hit you as you walk, straight, into the towering waves. Crawl forward when they flatten you to the sand. Gamble with your life and choose a direction to swim when they spin you senseless in the blackest deep.

"No more standing on the beach with hands on hips and then in pockets, uncertainty making you sweat, looking over your shoulders and scratching your head as you hear the howling hounds in woods behind.

"Choose: There is only the Now, and you die on the beach or drown in the pursuit of something...you have never seen an opposing shore, I know, but perhaps you will die on that, someday; choose.

"Whatever you choose—the deep, or death by wild dogs—Do it with courage and a grin about your face, which has never lived on a man who has known he was alive more than he does now.

"This is all of the advice I will give you, Anders. Good luck."

He opens his eyes, awake all the time (and how could one escape those words?), and turns to look at her. I can only imagine what look he gave to the only being he had left in the world, the one who he felt was betraying him. The last one to do so.

"Wait," he says. "Angel. Robot. Why don't you take me with you, wherever it is you go? I know that you could."

She turns away from him and disappears into air like the wisping tail of a dream that is ashamed to be remembered in the daylight; or perhaps more like a city-beggar who leans into her alleyway at night after collecting only a fraction of the price for a loaf of bread.

The howls of the beasts sing louder behind him as the bubble of safety diminishes in finality. The wailing grows louder—those beasts put there by those he had given his life to.—As had all those he loved, those who were paralyzed by choice...

But what room for choice is there, really? The question is asked by Fear, without trust.

He must see that Fear before it can run from his awareness, for he walks straight into the sea.