Dell's Journey

Chapter 47: The Aftermath

"Dell," called the Doubtmadon gently, "Dell! You are

badly mistaken. I - I am sorry. I see now that you were

not ready for so lofty a –"

"Enough!" Dell screamed. The watchers nearly jumped.

A new and powerful idea was coming into Dell's mind.

A curious smile spread across his lips. "Shall I give you

an Indian burn on your arm?"

"Please, calm yourself," said the Doubtmadon smoothly.

Dell was undaunted. "Answer! Shall I give you an

Indian burn?"

The crowd of attendants, who had been gradually moving

from their places on the perimeter, filed into the center

so that they looked like party-goers at some trendy

nightclub, at least, they looked equally as miserable. The

sound of their voices began to rise as one by one, little

enclaves began to debate. The scene became quite exciting.

One could hear pieces of their conversations: "so barbaric,

and Indian burn...", "No! So honest, so daring! Any

threatened animal would do the same...", "he's acting like a

beast...", "Well what's wrong with a beast..." and so on.

"Dell, you are acting like a child."

"No," he responded, "I will not be quieted that

easily. But I will give you an Indian burn. Hold out your

arm!"

It hardly seemed now that the onlookers were concerned

with Dell or the monster, such was the fervor of their

debates. Dell began moving toward the Doubtmadon,

stretching out his arms in front of him as he walked and

making pincer-like gestures with his fingers. He looked

like a ridiculous lobster or like someone pretending to be

a robot. He had an enormous grin on his face.

"Stop it Dell! Stop! Don't come any closer! I will

you to stop."

Dell laughed so hard that he considered rolling on the

floor. But he composed himself after a moment and said,

"Well of course you do (he! he!), of course! But I

don't will to stop! I want to bother you (he! he!). Would

you like to change your answer? Shall I use my pincers on

your arm and give you an Indian burn, sir?"

The Doubtmadon slumped in his seat and looked as

devastated as one could imagine a creature looking. The

crowded floor was astir with noise and hearty conversation,

shouts and laughs, a flurry of activity going on with utter

disregard for the drama unfolding between the human and the

former Gradient. Only Monster had any concern for them

anymore, and watched their exchange first with shock, and

then with pity. For the Doubtmadon barely raised his head,

and then allowed it to fall again, his chin to his chest,

and then, in a voice hardly audible over the commotion of

the room, said,

"Yes."

Dell stopped and his laughter ceased.

"What?" he asked severely.

"Yes. Use your pincers on me."

"What do you mean?"

The Doubtmadon looked as though he was under

tremendous strain, as though speaking was an exhausting

task.

"You asked me...whether your creative act of will should

be to make a device that destroys the universe. You are

asking me that now, I know, only you are using the words

'pincer' and 'Indian burn' instead. I know what you are

asking me. Shall there be no limits upon our creative

will? Shall our creative will destroy the world?"

Dell stared as if in a stupor.

"Yes," he said. "Destroy it."

In that fateful moment, it was as though all of Dell's

five senses were squelched for a hundredth of a second.

His eyes blanked out, his body went numb, and the chatter

of the attendants was instantly muted. And then he saw,

whether in some mystical dream or in reality he didn't

know, the Monster, his arms motioning wildly, his legs

rushing him toward the edge of the suspended disc. He was

fleeing the arena. He noticed that thousands of green

leaves were floating past him like a ticker-tape parade.

The fields in the sky were falling. Dell realized that he

himself was sprinting heedlessly after his friend. The

faces of the attendants were molded in various expressions

of terror. He watched them grow smaller and smaller as he

sailed into the abyss. He was acutely aware that Monster's

chosen escape route was not ideal, and that joining him had

made this the moment of their demise.

What an odd turn his existence had taken, he thought.

Debating eccentric masterminds in underground worlds,

meeting monsters, enjoying the choirs of crickets; this was

not typical of his experience. He saw a vision of Rian in

the passenger seat of his car, looking at him with an

indiscernible expression. He realized how ludicrous it was

to be composing poetry at such a time, and yet realized

that he had been doing so for quite a while, and turned his

full attention to it. Here is what he recited: 

Dell's Poem

Shall I die with cursing or with singing? For die I must. Because God hath sent His worm to devour The plant in whose shade I was once happy. Why have I come to this moment? I collapsed on the return trip (The victim of a freak heart arrhythmia) While strolling home lazily from that Hushed and mild afternoon funeral for God Home toward the city of palaces and shacks (Evidence of neither His blessing nor His curse)

As I lay on the filthy ground in my dress-clothes, (Not caring because of the vastly more important issue of my impending death) I discover the definitive question, In light of the totalitarianism of meaninglessness:

Shall I die with cursing or with singing?