Tamer Taungis had been dreaming in the long and eternal black. He was flying, always flying, past the old stars and planets of his galaxy. Sometimes, if he turned his head towards an empty patch, he could see images of his life. His wife was now an ethereal memory, his children had become incorporeal angels, and the tools of his shop were objects of legend. He had been an artisan in his town and made little things for people. In the deepest stretches of nothing he saw those things he made and imagined them legendary works of beauty. In the beginning of his journey a little voice would always pop up and remind him he was merely good, not great. In time that little voice became old and feeble and silenced itself altogether. Tamer did not remember imperfections anymore, only faint blurs of a world that was no longer there for him.
***
They called it the Elder Hill because it had been there since time immemorial and it felt like an uphill climb. Wain crossed it with adamant-spiked boots that dug into the rocky ground and made the going slow but sure. Wain was wrapped in a woolen drape he’d found in a garbage can and sprayed with water-proofing—a pretty good cape for the vicious winds that sliced through his knit cap and gouged at his scalp. Beneath his shirt was a small bag full of red marbles that chafed against his sternum. It had been good money to come out here, and all he had to do was carry the marbles to the top or die trying.
The wind was awful but it was always awful here. The greed of the place ate the light at the horizon, leaving a black gap between the bleeding sky and the interminable rockiness. The boots had been the best decision Wain had made so far, but no decision was without consequence. Wain’s feet began to slam into the ground with a weight they’d never known, heavier and heavier with each step. The wind bit deeper as his cape became like lead and Wain’s knees trembled. The ground here was littered with little bones and crushed skulls belonging to long dead specimens of wildlife that had learned the hard way not to climb up the Elder Hill.
The wind went out of him and Wain had to kneel gingerly. It was like trying to breath milk, and in the near distance he could see the bones of men crushed to meal between pools of water condensed from the pilfered air. The bag in his chest tore and the bright blue marbles smashed into the floor with a woman’s shriek. Wain felt a palpable umph as the heaviness left him. He cried quietly as the pain shocked up his bones, but he could stand now. The marbles had left a red stain on the ground and had somehow flattened the floor. The earth had become hard and smooth, a creamed-coffee marble. The adamant spikes could not bite it, and Wain began to slip when he tried to move forward.
He fell lightly and slid across the field. Try as he might, he could not stop himself. His fingers against the floor felt like they were touching a breeze, formless and escaping his grasp.
As he kept on sliding, he got lighter. As he got lighter, it became harder for him to control himself. Wain was so disoriented he didn’t even realize what had happened when he passed a small indent in the ground and flew off into the sky.
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