All by my lonesome, I roved in the infinite known as the Loneliness, hoping to find something in a timeless land of nothing. There is nothing for me here, except isolation. Well, there is someone for me here, and they have welcomed me from the beginning. Yes, these caustic voices have returned, and at first, I disrelished their presence, but they have been good to me. It is a wonderful thing to not have the proverbial axe of guilt in your gut. For once, I feel like I'm living, even though I'm not. I am drained; I am done with this endless venture of suffering. There must be an end to it. There is no remorse in me left, no point to grieve or weep. So, forgive me, Creator, but I don't believe in the sophistries of an afterlife or even a god anymore, thanks to my moment of clarity from these voices.
There is no remorse in me left, no point to grieve or weep. It's pointless. That valley of sinners is nothing but a testament to my decadent life as a self-proclaimed artist. So to hell with Cymhurron, and to hell with the Khiviok valley. The Loneliness, although dark and decrepit, embraces and loves every sinner. I feel accepted here. I roamed in the darkness of a stark world, guided only by the murmurs leading me somewhere unbeknownst. From the moment I fell, I heard a distant, melodious hymn of a woman far away. It was melancholic, and if I were to assume, that would be where the voices are guiding me. Whoever she is, whatever she has done to be here with me, she's the answer to all my life's ordeals. I have to find her; I have to cosset her. I don't have friendship, my mule, or any recollection of past memories. I need something to cling onto, something palpable.
Finding this woman and soothing her is the only thing that will keep my dwindling mind at bay. Why I don't even have the hair on my head or the skin on my bones anymore. But all is still right. The Loneliness said they would give them back to me. Sometime. One might say that I have deigned into madness, but they don't really know who I am or where I have gone. Every judgment, all those times the Chancery sent people here, they didn't know what they were doing. The Loneliness is an enlightening experience. In my prolonged time of sequestration, I have learned who I am. Though my body wastes, and my mind withers, it was in pursuit of positing something that has changed me forever.
In my solace and personal time with the Loneliness, I have learned that there is nothing as trivial as the human experience. So I continued to trudge through the ashen soil of this crazed world, like the many deserts and hills dotted with greenery I have trekked to get to the point of where I am now. This is my destiny—to be with the maiden of this tenebrous world. With the guidance of the voices, I made excellent time. I did not bleed with a perspiring fear, but a determination to become one with the mistress of the Loneliness. They have drawn me into this mad game of finding the rabbit, and I will find the rabbit. There is nothing to impede me from doing so except my languid legs. I cannot stop, I cannot take a moment to let them consume me. This is a time-sensitive matter.
Her cry rang all throughout the cavern of the Loneliness, and pang with a distinct, but discreet sadness. With next to no depth perception, I spun in circles, trying to locate the plaintive sound of the woman. I picked up my pace to a sprint, thinking she was somewhere near. No, she wasn't. I don't have a clue of where she could be. I closed my eyes for a moment to think of where she might be. I opened my eyes, and there was a door to what I cognised to be the left of me. Bemused by the door that had no place in time and history, I walked over to it. Naturally wondrous, I put my hand to the knob and twisted it. Door agape, I stepped into the innominate world, confused by the high dunes of what appeared to be a once vibrant and varied landscape. I stood atop the highest dune, and ahead of me, was a discoloured seaside town torn by wind and fire, only there was no sea. The siren of the lonely matron harshened as I drifted further toward the settlement. This is where I had to go next.
There wasn't much to see. This frontier town, whatever it used to be, had only three streets, all of which had only eight evenly spaced buildings made of weathered wood and brick. Not a sign of human life in sight, I continued to walk down the principal street, to find another person in this foredoomed world. Nothing good lasts. Held back by my sublunary need for water, I sought refuge in a dilapidated saloon. I rummaged through the bar, hoping there would be something to drink, but it was all gone. I ran up the dusty stairs and checked each guest room to see if there was something salvageable. Door after door opened, still nothing, only a sullied day that hadn't gone to fruition. Dust, cobwebs, and empty bottles. That's all I've found. There really is nothing left in the world. I won't feel sorry for what I did, the voices have taught me not to be. I cannot omit them from my mind.
And so I left the saloon, frustrated at how my plan was forestalled by the Creator and the elements of the world. Ceveros is a lie. I will no longer be at the mercy of some god, because he does not exist. Faith does not exist. These people—these evangelical fools believed their entire lives that there was a higher power than themselves. But no, there isn't. The Creator did not leave you, and he won't ever be back. There is no such thing as a rapture, just the natural order of the things. It is all in my mind. I cannot subsist as a spirit because it is worse than when I was alive. At the edge of town, near the necropolis, I entered and paid my respects to those who died early on. But, at the end of the graveyard, dare my old eyes deceive me, I saw a youthful man in a flat cap digging a mass grave for those recently deceased.
Slowly, he threw the bodies into the immense grave, with what forbearance his languished body gave him. Every now and then, he let out a rasped cough, followed by strains of blood, but that did not stop him. Now in the centre of the extensive row of headstones and mausoleums, tentatively, I approached the diseased gravedigger who was knee deep into his work. As I came to the ends of the graveyard, to where he and the mass grave were, I noticed that the sickly man had stopped his work and bored eyes deep into me. He dropped his shovel and held his hand over his holster and said, "You'd best turn heel, I'm real sick. I don't want no bloodshed now; so run along before I get you too."
"What's your name?" I asked, ignoring his plea for me to leave.
" Gestiano," he answered succinctly. "Balonne Gestiano, former deputy of Bleaken. Do you hear me, sir? Have you got sand in your ears, sir? Because if I remember correctly, I thought I told you to leave me and my shovel to fulfill our duties.
"What're you sick with, Deputy?"
"Dementum," he said in a hoarse voice. "Manic dementum, just like the rest of these folk. All dead. 'Cept me. I'm a survivor. Anyway, what the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere, stranger? Are you sick too? Where's your skin and hair gone?"
He eased his hand off the holster, confused why I, the only person he'd probably seen in days, was missing skin and hair and wondered why they always came here. "Well, you've taken up enough of my time, so you'd best steer clear. Before I get you sick, too."
I shook my head. "No. I'm not sick, just wrong in the head."
"Have you got any water, Deputy? I'm real parched," I inquired desperately. "I haven't seen another person in so long, and would just like water, have you got some for me?"
Balonne Gestiano, former deputy of the province of Bleaken, sighed and begrudgingly motioned for me to come forward and take a sip from his canteen. Down the water went down my coarse and dried throat, soothing it. Just as my mouth finally felt relaxed again, he yanked the canteen away from me and told me to scatter. "Hold on now, what if I helped you dig these graves?" I proposed. "In return, you can provide me with answers and send me off on my way when this work's done. Sound fair?"
He let out another shuddering cough. "I don't get it. Why do you want anything to do with me, a sick bastard who's been deduced to be nothing but a gravedigger? I'm a nobody."
Deep down, I wanted to answer his questions, but I was not capable of doing so. I wanted to tell him that I was the precipitant of this ordeal. But, out of cowardice, and mostly a vanishing knowledge of what had happened over the past fifty years, I remained silent for those questions. I looked at the grisly mountain of corpses and thought he was way out of his depth. He needed my help, whether he realised it or not."Truth is, Deputy, I've seen and done it all. I'm too far gone. I've been to hell and back. Now, I see those diseased folk piled up there, and I'm sorry for your loss, but I just want to help. And in return for my work, maybe you could provide me with some answers. Sound good?"
Balonne scratched his head. "I suppose you could give me a hand. Well, get yourself a shovel and start digging. I don't want to hear any bitching if you turn belly up, okay?"
"Okay."
"Great. Start with Mr. Durst Heckens, the tailor," he ordered. I nodded and accepted my tedious chore from the Deputy. Dead and swathed with flies, Mr. Durst Heckens, smelled acrid and green with many parasites, laid on the bottom of the pile. Like loose boulders, the rest of the corpses fell down as I grabbed Mr. Heckens and dragged him to the hollow. Daylight lingering only by a hair of time, me and Deputy Balonne did not exchange many exciting pleasantries other than where he wanted me to hurl the bodies. Just as I was about to keel over from enervation, the Deputy told me I was done. I ravened down the water he gave to me, not holding back my desperation. Chores over, we sauntered on over to the police station and sat on the porch and watched as the orange sky dusked into night.
"Say, you never told me what your name was," said Balonne.
"Ospeus Sarstotzki," I told him.
He let out a heavy cough, followed by even more blood and then wiped it on his sleeve. "Interesting name you have, sir. Clue me in here, you don't look like you're from around here, are you lost?"
"I've been here and there."
"... Doesn't tell me much," he said, scratching his head again. "Well, what did you want to ask me?" I looked around at the sundered landscape and thought about what to ask the last man on this earth. "Deputy, if you can still remember, what happened to Khiviok? Why is it rendered to nothing but desert?
He leaned in. "Well, you see, this is the wrath of the Creator. One day, he looked down on us and decided he'd release the critters from Amnyr. They're a nasty lot—the Fregeliths, maybe even worse than the Skragels. Anyhow, I'm no religious fool but even I reckon this is the end of the world. It must've been because of the shit that went down in Palnathe. Used to be a damn fine city, then it crumbled like the rest."
"Really?"
"Yeah. There was this whole big fray out there," he continued. "Soldiers from all over were caught in a nasty ambuscade. Don't think any of them survived or even the Autarch, for that matter. I'm one of the last, soon to die from dementum. You're really lucky, mister. Surprised you haven't caught my…" Suddenly, he leaned over and wretched. From his blistered throat came even more blood, and he staggered to the ground in a pool of his own blood. I jumped up to help him, but again, I was utterly helpless. No, there was something that I could do, I looked at his holster and went for his revolver. The weapon slid out with ease and I felt the power of holding a firearm in my hands. Face and hair covered in blood, Balonne Gestiano wriggled around in his own lifeblood, and gave me his final approval.
I pulled back the hammer and released the trigger. The painful, agonising death for him was over. I picked up the body and dug my last grave. If this was a dream or my torment, this was a horrible way to live spiritually. I cannot do it anymore. Grave now dug, I placed the Deputy's weathered hat in with him and said my goodbyes to him and Bleaken. For the short time that I knew him, he seemed like a good man. Probably the kindest face I ever met. Subjugated with guilt, I turned around and there was a door. I trod over to the door and put my hand onto the knob. Relieved, I stepped back into the darkness and felt the jubilant atmosphere of the Loneliness. Ahead of me, was the mistress of this comforting world. I stared into her golden eyes and felt myself mindlessly drifting toward her.
This is the beginning of the end. And I cannot look back.