Eschaton (A Story)
Untenable darkness left its wake on the impudent sky. Leaving behind my thoughts of dawn, I strolled aimlessly through the path barely visible by moonlight. I felt the wind guide my steps, as if whispering by the chorus of soft rhythmic breath. I descended the dusty trail, my feet slipshod over the dirt. That is where the Owl stopped me short in my tracks. His eyes a bright and piercing yellow, he perched upon the tree before my slight figure and watched me closely.
“No further shall you tread,” he spoke unto me, and I felt the tremor of fear as he did.
“Hail,” said I, much at a loss. “What is it that I seek which upsets you so?”
“Only those with the wisdom of the blind star may come this way,” the Owl intoned.
“I wish to follow this path, ignorant though I may be, little though I may know.”
“Upon what basis do you place the worth of your will?”
“It is truth I am after, and through it alone I will prevail.”
“This path is darkened by the misery of many lost souls,” said the Owl, “And you too may become lost, and never again will you return, so long as you depart from the path. The moon will not guide you, her darkness absolute. No eyesight will aid you. Surely, you will fail.”
“I would go on.”
“Walk, then, and see yourself forward. Your destiny in turn. But once you have passed here, you may never return. And the silence of the night will forever be changed… a theater of living dream…”
Shortly after the conclusion of the Mayan calendar in 2012, the energetic matrices which guided the flow of force through earth’s atmosphere became increasingly erratic. While this was an Earth in the process of metaphorically flattening itself, the news media conveniently omitted any speculation into the cause of dramatic worldwide weather anomalies and catastrophes. Climate change, previously known as global warming, had been a hot button issue for America’s competing political parties; democrats blamed humanity’s irresponsible carbon emissions, and republicans denied that anything strange was happening at all. Both sides of the spectrum were wrong, but the news didn’t feel like covering that story even after science managed to catch up with it.
After December 21st, 2012, skeptics gleefully pranced upon the opportunity to point out that nothing had been obliterated, least of all humanity. Those who had been secretly hoping for the apocalypse moved on with jaded disappointment. And life continued, with a few sensitive observers nothing that – gradually, slowly, but surely, things seemed to be changing. It was not enough to claim an Apocalypse, perhaps not even enough at that time to justify pointing it out. But the mechanics of reality were in the process of change, dimensions enfolding inward upon themselves.
Consciousness began to interface in new ways as cybernetic portals absorbed human cognition into webs of interconnected datapools. Also around this time, a legion of spiders marched out of wetware garrisons, quickly outnumbering the human population of net users as they integrated parcels of Google into their Boolean code silk.
The commanders of these botlike arachnid armies represented a new breed of miner – the miner that sought the gold of human thought. And as they panned their silt and plucked precious ore, they became increasingly more hungry for a new breed of animal – and it was called Zeitgeist, elusive as the Higgs Boson – and those with the wealth and power of the arachnid legion would know this entity – Zeitgeist, and they would shape it to their own will, and in time all those who interfaced with the cybernetic interweb would be wrapped up into the silk of the spider, invisible traps spun from Facebook to Twitter with a Google bridge – those egregores beloved by a new breed of cybernetic sapian, one whose heels trailed gauzy filaments across all the Earth.
A clutch of eggs split open, but slowly, cracking in hairline smiles – by the time cosmic yolk began to drip ominously from the fragile white shells, there was little left to say. Each of the eggs housed the seed origin of a concurrent dimension, and the pathways between the seeds were tortuous and labyrinthine. Sentient creatures occupied different stratum of the new dimensional drift, but as the finches of the Archipelagos never met a Leopard of the Savannah, nor noticed their absence, the people had not realized that they were divided amongst themselves, each according to his role in the imminent epochal narrative – a story in the formative stage of unfolding upon the universe, where many secret things would soon be known once again to the minds of man.
Deep knowing is an insight that clutched with a gnarled claw inside the root of the gut. It is the kind of hunch that can only be dimly forgotten. It is the kind of certainty rarely possible in the postmodern haze of an incessantly ticking clock and the unremitting torrent of yellow/red rivers of light unbroken beneath the concrete frown of the freeway overpass.
Here the Old Crone stands, the chill of breeze does not phase her. She is only faintly translucent, and her deep navy shroud blends into the night. She is stooped over the chain link fence that bars bodies from plummeting into the metal current below. Yet her weathered face passes through the coils of chain while her withered hands tremor only slightly upon the grip of a black ivory cane. Although jet black, the cane is solid – a subtle contrast to the windswept cowl melting into moonlight.
A shaggy mutt wrapped his lanky body close to the Croon. The mutt’s right eye, although scarred and fastened shut, seemed to gaze beyond the smog of the dirty city sky into a flickering star beyond sight.
“A tough time to be incarnate,” noted the dog gruffly. He turned his attention to an itch on the tawdry brown fur of his flank and gnawed aggressively, the jagged remainder of his left ear twitching.
“I do not envy the living,” rasps the Crone, but taps her cane, grinning toothlessly into her thoughts – “nonwithstandin, potentiality of the fork nigh on tempted Hades to gamble his immortality…such bein the glory”
“Yet he did not. Hades would not last three newborn days within human skin,” The Dog scoffs.
“Aye, and yet many Immortals chose to gamble an incarnate for the cycle’s Games. An more souls seekin admission to Gaia then she can host. Still countless hover at the Great Lumina. Spectators some. Others hopin for spirits to pass on, keepin their space in line as t’were.”
“I don’t get the cause of such fuss. Every Great Year the sphere of mortals fosters high hopes of ascension from the nexus of Ouroboros into the fourth phase of incarnation. Humanity is not capable of collective transmutation. Even the Source in all undifferentiated glory must grow tired of this cosmic experiment. Soon, it will reset…” The Dog is gruff now, tired – “everything, over again…”
“Yer such a wry old mutt. Th’ spheres only know why I keep you around”
“And you are too old to hear the truth, Crone.”
The two strange companions grow silent – a soft comfort borne upon the breeze whips past, carrying their words away.
Shared relief sighs through ancient bones of Dog and Crone. A stillness of presence settles in, a serenity only known in timelessness, the transliminal twilight of Being. Beneath them, the rumbling ocean of Chronos breaks waves upon the shore of Man.
Isis meanwhile grew increasingly irritated – once in a land of glittering dust and great stone, her veils venerated, few remembered her save for the old stonecutters – and even in their tales, they had largely forgotten the resonance of her form, nor of her husband Osiris, but rather they passed the legend among themselves with the fraternal sobriety of an old man’s club.
As she was not corporal, and with the pineal gland of humankind largely calcified, she had no means of communicating with people except for tenet. Tenet took place upon a strange virtual screen alit with flickering dots that simulated objects with mass. Such a thing never existed as such prior in human history. Upon this screen were the words of many sentient humans that existed in separate but linked nodes, not unlike the biosphere of the phenomenal world. Although Tenet was limited in dimensions compared to the realm of mortals, it extended unbounded into the imaginary plane of the mindscape, and more interesting, it connected the mindscapes of many communicating humans across vast distances.
To her capabilities, slipping through time streams and electrically projecting sentience across any span of space at will, there was nothing exceptional about the qualities of tenet.
On the other hand, she had presided over the churning of humanity for countless millennium now and recognized the opportunities this strange human contrivance represented. And so it was that she picked a place where the mortal men spoke and she asked them about her own name. she did not to use technology to act upon this container of threaded conversation. She willed herself within the framework of hyper dimensional thoughtstream and her question manifested itself anonymously on what Man called “the board”.
The subject of her Thread merely read “Isis” and within the heading there was no content at all. It did not take long before the resonant replies of interfacing humans flickered in electric response.
“huh, you mean like Archer ISIS?”
The second “bulletin post” features a yellow face, a mocking tongue protruding from its mouth and a fist clenching every finger but the middle one on both hands which wiggles at her in scornful glee. It reads: “terrorist shill”
What is this, pray tell?
Isis projects her awareness which darts off with a curt flourish of streaming neon through the nodal infomatrix, informing the context of such baffling responses.
As it happens, Archer is an animated television comedy featuring secret agents of the organization ISIS.
It appears the second human refers to the emergence of a recent violent group – “terrorists” as they are called – from the Middle East. This group calls itself “Isis”.
A strange time.
She withdraws from the nodal tenet, resting upon the crest of the moon’s waning gibbous and studying the Earth with renewed scrutiny. It does not offend her, that she has been left dusty and worn as The Great Pyramid’s capstone, lost in forlorn libraries and the annals of this timeline’s epoch. For such a glorious narrative approaches manifestation, trumpeting the harmony of an uncanny melody that travels the vacuum of space in eerie loops, hopping in arcs between wormholes…..
To Be Continued…