I hear a sound.

It is music, silver and bright like shards of glass scattered in the sun. It is swift like running water; it is ever going somewhere, rushing and flowing and racing; fell like a dragon, or proud like a stallion, or mighty like a raging torrent. It is both bright like glittering swords, and dark as summer thunderheads. It is going somewhere – the future is its destination, and it is calling me to join also.

In my consciousness the music explodes like stars going nova, and the sight is so radiant and beautiful that it makes my heart ache, while tears blot out my vision, in the presence of such beauty.

Oh – I cannot resist it, its voice is too beautiful and so fell; the siren that cries, Come to me.

This is the sound of the future, and who can resist the future? It means leaving the old behind, forsaking it for the new and the unknown.

Perhaps this is what the Call is like – that sweet and achingly beautiful voice that is so fatal, that the People cannot resist. It is radiant, it makes all things new and bright. Beyond the brightness is the unknown, and what does it conceal?

The music encompasses me.

I feel the cavernous reverberation beneath my feet, the lightning shards glittering, and the towering lofty constructs twining into a sold wall, and the soaring chords like explosions of light – higher, higher and faster, and brighter, we go.

I go.

—30 June 2008. The music still rings in my ears, majestic, puissant, irresistible.

Vega speaks–

About himself;

“To Nu Cai di Finney and Olkiree I was Radiance. To Shin-farys, Ifreyd and the Avoneriss and Branterris Corridors I was the Wanderer. To the city of Wara I was the Noonday Hitman. The Miproese named a bitter war after me. To the D’banzakell Empress and her abductors I was the Blind Pilot. To the Fo Territories, I was Vega, even though I had never once entered that sector. To Yshavi, Ju’irahinn and my mother-of-my-thought I am Ro Hyerdashei, and to Zhael I am Ro Hyerdashei and more beside. There are more names. Not all are true.”

Where he came from;

“In the year 14 of the Dumontian Age, I, Radiance Voyager, heard the Call. 386 days later – 341 days after I reunited with my beloved, and exactly 2,000 days after I departed Homeworld in search of her – I Answered the Call, and passed from the pentaverse. Now I am here.”

Fever vision

Once again the obsidian canyons raze the sky where nimbostratus clouds march and sardonyx dragons roil. The mothership Zh’racheth jo ideree flees as mountains crumble into dust, its aetheric engines tearing and screaming as the atmosphere thins into bloodless void. Napenthe fumes, ah, begone my sorrow! Again I hear the primal tongues of mathematica, as the immortal People sing their reveille to the rising of the sun, brilliant no longer, but vengeful and consumed with wrath…

Lo, the inexorable clarion of eternity is upon me: now it Calls, Calls me by my forbidden, unspeakable name. H’i, hi’aera, my heart! I must Answer.

(written 13 Oct 2004)

Wanderer in the Wasteland

The wasteland.

A city, once puissant and luminous, now sunk into decay and obscurity.

The guttering sun hovers on the horizon, a massive red eye, casting navy and violet shadows over a glowering sky. The stars circle overhead, like birds of prey, their cold light piercing the glow of the dying day.

Great obelisks rise up spiralling, massive intricate arcologies lofty and regal, and gargantuan constructs of alloys and woven polymers stand at attention. Once they rose toward the sky like a defiant gesture, but now they bow beneath the weight of time, eroded by the constant wave of the years. At their feet lie shedded chrysalides, but only of their own corroded bodies. No life will emerge, the only metamorphosis is in the face of decay. Buried in their own detritus, they lie forgotten.

Like glory, forgetfulness is everlasting.

Only the stars remain witness to the dying world.

And the Wanderer, who walks amidst the rust and verdigris, tall and erect despite time’s heavy hand. For like the stars, he is immortal. Like the stars, he remembers forever. Unlike them, he is not cold.

He remembers this crushed world, when it was still an empire of light. Long ago, in ages now forgotten, he was their downfall.

So he walks and remembers, this world that he destroyed.

I have seen the rise and fall of manifold empires, witnessed the creation and destruction of universes. How can I not feel sorrow? How can I not remember?

(written 18 May 2005)

Nightfishing in the Great Sky River

I stand on the threshold of the river of stars, and watch the celestial fishermen dip their nets to catch the aërytids and elusive sidhe that glide through the empyrean. Upon the riverbed the stars flash and glitter, pebbles amidst the sands of time, stretching into eternity. I look, I seek that hither shore, but even my eyes cannot pass the infinite horizon.

Ah, my beloved! I yearn for you, you who stand upon that other threshold, searching as I do, for something beyond my mortal vision. When shall I cross the great Sky River? When shall I behold your face? When will the Wanderer wander no more?

With apologies to David Lunde, whom I haven’t read at all. I just adore the title.