The Keeper
Having taken my bow from therealljidol , I had planned on taking a week or two off from writing for it. But this week's topic reminded me of an idea I had been toying with mentally for a long time, a concept I felt could make an interesting story, but so very difficult to explain. So, I decided to take a crack at it.
- - - - -
You never forget your first time.
Even if it's your only time. And for me, it was.
It was a day that my friends and family couldn't help but remember. What would have been just another fun, sunny day of jumping out of perfectly functional airplanes suddenly went horribly wrong. The fact that I had packed my own chute, and thus it was my own fault it was a knotted mess flapping useless above me, was of no comfort as I headed towards the earth like a human hailstone.
I'm not sure if I saw it before I felt it. I suspect my mind filled in its invisible-rainbow shimmer later. The sensation was so overwhelming as I passed through -- nothing? This is almost impossible to describe, or to truly understand, unless you've experienced it. To say it was "nothing" is misleading, but it may be the best singular word, except for the equally misleading term "eternity."
Remember when you were a kid and had an Etch-a-sketch? At some point you may have realized that if you doodled enough on the surface, you could erase off all that gritty stuff you "draw" in and revealed the inner workings of the toy. But as much as you moved that little stylus back and forth, you never could get that last little bit cleared off. There would always be little spots you never could quite erase.
Now imagine the universe like that, or at least that part of it trapped within the Earth's atmosphere. Over the ages living and solid things move through the air, take up space. Birds fly, trees grow, animals move around. Over time, there's not a square inch of empty space they haven't at some point occupied. But they haven't touched it all. Little spaces here and there go through time unbothered. And time -- centuries, maybe millions of years -- somehow lends an energy to those places, either like reservoirs, or they just seem that way in comparison to the "spent" space around them.
Not that mankind has noticed. With tall buildings, aircraft and such we have obliterated pretty much every space that's left. Most people likely didn't realize what they were spoiling when they hit one of those spots. Maybe the aircraft fuselage dissipated the energy, maybe they mistook the euphoria for something else.
But back to me.
That energy washed over me as I fell through that space, and somehow, in that instant I knew. I knew what I had touched, felt that sense of eons of time and waiting potential, knew from a primitive part of my brain what exactly that was.
I'm certain that energy somehow fortified my body so that I only broke a few bones when I hit the ground, and how they -- and my spine -- managed to heal so quickly and miraculously over the next months. That burst of ancient whatever might have been what flared into my parachute, making a small pocket that slowed me down slightly. My friends credit my survival solely to that latter bit of luck.
In the coming months, as my body rehabbed, my mind seemed to gain a second sight. I realized I could now see those rare, ancient spaces, even sense where they were. It was so fascinating to see them, yet at the same time sad to see so few. A disturbing thought crept into my mind. What happens when they are all gone? When the toy screen is finally all wiped away, are the workings of the universe exposed and useless, with no canvas left to write on? A dread started to set in that I couldn't quite explain to anyone.
For a couple of years after I had physically healed, I did a lot of traveling. I searched for more of these pieces of virgin sky, and found a sliver here, a patch there, but still so few.
I also discovered there were others looking for them as well.
Most didn't discover one in quite as dramatic a function as I had. Some drift through on functional parachutes or hang-gliders, or in some other fashion somehow find themselves where literally nothing had been before.
One of these people, an old woman, watched me as I looked up at a spot above an old city park. She asked me to join her at a nearby coffee shop; I sensed from her tone that I shouldn't refuse.
"So," she asked after we sat down with our lattes, "are you a taker or a keeper?"
"Excuse me?" I answered, not really sure what she meant.
"I know what you were looking at, what one of those feels like," she said. "You know it too." Her pause allowed for a denial I couldn't give. "So in a way we were all 'takers' once. But now we watch for them, those of us who are keepers. But some don't stop, it's like a drug for them, and they don't care about what they destroy -- they've got to take every last one for themselves." She barely kept the anger out of her voice.
"I never wanted to touch it," I answered, hoping she'd believe me. I started to wonder to what lengths she would protect that patch of sky, what she could be carrying in her purse. "I just wanted to know there were others like it out there."
"There are," she replied evenly. "And there are people like me watching them."
In the coming months I found several more pieces of the phenomena, and at each, not far away, I would find someone watching. It wasn't a formal network or secret society, but they -- we -- had the same mission. I eventually decided to stop stressing the various keepers by my presence and went back home, to my own life. I tried explaining it to Barb in the days before the wedding -- no secrets, she said -- but she couldn't understand, so we never discussed it again. Years passed.
I often thought about my "discovery" but found over time that I had seen hardly any of those spots, and it had been a few years since my last sighting. I couldn't help but think that maybe the takers were winning, or maybe going so long without a hit of that ancient energy left me less able to see them.
I also wondered if the sight was somehow genetic. Once in a while I'd notice my little boy Alex staring up at the sky at, apparently, nothing. Then toddler attention span would kick in and he'd look away to notice something more tangible. Questioning him, even as his vocabulary improved, got me little more than an "I-dunno" shrug. Whatever he looked at in those moments, I couldn't really see.
Eventually, I found myself as one of those lucky souls to actually, in our crappy economy, find a job in Michigan. Not that cold winters are my thing, but the work paid well, and I found a beautiful old home near the Lake. It had a tall, tower-like structure on one side. I presumed this was used as a lighthouse in older times.
Not long after moving in, my 12-year-old son came to me, saying he had found a way into the tower room and that he had to show me something.
Up there, in a bare room, dancing in the dust and illuminated by a skylight, was what looked like a perfect cube suspended in midair, an uncarved block of ancient space. Whoever had built this place, either by design or accident, had perfectly enclosed this piece without disturbing it. The old stone, and perhaps other elements in the walls like lead, protected it from those who would seek its energy. So much energy.
"Can you hear it?" Alex asked, fascination in his voice.
I couldn't, but then I could, so quiet and yet so strong. The song of the universe, of time and space...
"No, Dad, DON'T!" the boy screamed. I didn't realize I had started reaching for it. With an effort I pulled my hand back. "You can never touch it," Alex chided. Somehow, he not only saw it, but he knew. We quietly climbed down from the room.
I knew then that my son is a Keeper. He would take on that duty for the rest of his days. I also knew I could never enter that room again.
- - - - -
This is my Home Game entry for LJ Idol Week 25, Topic: "Uncarved Block." This will not be considered for voting, but 25 other entries are (through Monday evening). Here is the poll, with entries linked next to usernames.
- - - - -
You never forget your first time.
Even if it's your only time. And for me, it was.
It was a day that my friends and family couldn't help but remember. What would have been just another fun, sunny day of jumping out of perfectly functional airplanes suddenly went horribly wrong. The fact that I had packed my own chute, and thus it was my own fault it was a knotted mess flapping useless above me, was of no comfort as I headed towards the earth like a human hailstone.
I'm not sure if I saw it before I felt it. I suspect my mind filled in its invisible-rainbow shimmer later. The sensation was so overwhelming as I passed through -- nothing? This is almost impossible to describe, or to truly understand, unless you've experienced it. To say it was "nothing" is misleading, but it may be the best singular word, except for the equally misleading term "eternity."
Remember when you were a kid and had an Etch-a-sketch? At some point you may have realized that if you doodled enough on the surface, you could erase off all that gritty stuff you "draw" in and revealed the inner workings of the toy. But as much as you moved that little stylus back and forth, you never could get that last little bit cleared off. There would always be little spots you never could quite erase.
Now imagine the universe like that, or at least that part of it trapped within the Earth's atmosphere. Over the ages living and solid things move through the air, take up space. Birds fly, trees grow, animals move around. Over time, there's not a square inch of empty space they haven't at some point occupied. But they haven't touched it all. Little spaces here and there go through time unbothered. And time -- centuries, maybe millions of years -- somehow lends an energy to those places, either like reservoirs, or they just seem that way in comparison to the "spent" space around them.
Not that mankind has noticed. With tall buildings, aircraft and such we have obliterated pretty much every space that's left. Most people likely didn't realize what they were spoiling when they hit one of those spots. Maybe the aircraft fuselage dissipated the energy, maybe they mistook the euphoria for something else.
But back to me.
That energy washed over me as I fell through that space, and somehow, in that instant I knew. I knew what I had touched, felt that sense of eons of time and waiting potential, knew from a primitive part of my brain what exactly that was.
I'm certain that energy somehow fortified my body so that I only broke a few bones when I hit the ground, and how they -- and my spine -- managed to heal so quickly and miraculously over the next months. That burst of ancient whatever might have been what flared into my parachute, making a small pocket that slowed me down slightly. My friends credit my survival solely to that latter bit of luck.
In the coming months, as my body rehabbed, my mind seemed to gain a second sight. I realized I could now see those rare, ancient spaces, even sense where they were. It was so fascinating to see them, yet at the same time sad to see so few. A disturbing thought crept into my mind. What happens when they are all gone? When the toy screen is finally all wiped away, are the workings of the universe exposed and useless, with no canvas left to write on? A dread started to set in that I couldn't quite explain to anyone.
For a couple of years after I had physically healed, I did a lot of traveling. I searched for more of these pieces of virgin sky, and found a sliver here, a patch there, but still so few.
I also discovered there were others looking for them as well.
Most didn't discover one in quite as dramatic a function as I had. Some drift through on functional parachutes or hang-gliders, or in some other fashion somehow find themselves where literally nothing had been before.
One of these people, an old woman, watched me as I looked up at a spot above an old city park. She asked me to join her at a nearby coffee shop; I sensed from her tone that I shouldn't refuse.
"So," she asked after we sat down with our lattes, "are you a taker or a keeper?"
"Excuse me?" I answered, not really sure what she meant.
"I know what you were looking at, what one of those feels like," she said. "You know it too." Her pause allowed for a denial I couldn't give. "So in a way we were all 'takers' once. But now we watch for them, those of us who are keepers. But some don't stop, it's like a drug for them, and they don't care about what they destroy -- they've got to take every last one for themselves." She barely kept the anger out of her voice.
"I never wanted to touch it," I answered, hoping she'd believe me. I started to wonder to what lengths she would protect that patch of sky, what she could be carrying in her purse. "I just wanted to know there were others like it out there."
"There are," she replied evenly. "And there are people like me watching them."
In the coming months I found several more pieces of the phenomena, and at each, not far away, I would find someone watching. It wasn't a formal network or secret society, but they -- we -- had the same mission. I eventually decided to stop stressing the various keepers by my presence and went back home, to my own life. I tried explaining it to Barb in the days before the wedding -- no secrets, she said -- but she couldn't understand, so we never discussed it again. Years passed.
I often thought about my "discovery" but found over time that I had seen hardly any of those spots, and it had been a few years since my last sighting. I couldn't help but think that maybe the takers were winning, or maybe going so long without a hit of that ancient energy left me less able to see them.
I also wondered if the sight was somehow genetic. Once in a while I'd notice my little boy Alex staring up at the sky at, apparently, nothing. Then toddler attention span would kick in and he'd look away to notice something more tangible. Questioning him, even as his vocabulary improved, got me little more than an "I-dunno" shrug. Whatever he looked at in those moments, I couldn't really see.
Eventually, I found myself as one of those lucky souls to actually, in our crappy economy, find a job in Michigan. Not that cold winters are my thing, but the work paid well, and I found a beautiful old home near the Lake. It had a tall, tower-like structure on one side. I presumed this was used as a lighthouse in older times.
Not long after moving in, my 12-year-old son came to me, saying he had found a way into the tower room and that he had to show me something.
Up there, in a bare room, dancing in the dust and illuminated by a skylight, was what looked like a perfect cube suspended in midair, an uncarved block of ancient space. Whoever had built this place, either by design or accident, had perfectly enclosed this piece without disturbing it. The old stone, and perhaps other elements in the walls like lead, protected it from those who would seek its energy. So much energy.
"Can you hear it?" Alex asked, fascination in his voice.
I couldn't, but then I could, so quiet and yet so strong. The song of the universe, of time and space...
"No, Dad, DON'T!" the boy screamed. I didn't realize I had started reaching for it. With an effort I pulled my hand back. "You can never touch it," Alex chided. Somehow, he not only saw it, but he knew. We quietly climbed down from the room.
I knew then that my son is a Keeper. He would take on that duty for the rest of his days. I also knew I could never enter that room again.
- - - - -
This is my Home Game entry for LJ Idol Week 25, Topic: "Uncarved Block." This will not be considered for voting, but 25 other entries are (through Monday evening). Here is the poll, with entries linked next to usernames.