Michael Sullivan - Hollow World

Despite what Warren thought, Ellis had read the Bible—or most of it, at least. He’d skimmed through parts where he felt God could have really used an editor. This probably made him the last living believer—God’s remaining faithful. Not that Ellis was all that faithful. He’d always felt it would be a toss-up which way he’d go after he died. He never felt he’d intentionally caused anyone suffering, but he hadn’t spent his life healing the sick of Calcutta or even volunteering at the local soup kitchen. Then there were the two killings. He hoped he’d get credit for saving millions of innocent lives, but who knew how the score was kept? Did the end justify the means? Would Jesus have condoned the killing of Hitler? Warren might have even been right. God routinely condoned mass murder. Or was Sol right? Was God something more, something that transcended the Bible? Was God not known—not knowable—because God didn’t exist yet, except in the form of a promise? Was heaven that point where humanity finally joined together as one? Would that act of uniting be the birth of God?

As a favor, Pax had gone to supply answers to the people of Hollow World. Pax knew Ellis didn’t want to face crowds yet, and there would be massive ones waiting. After the global evacuation, everyone knew about the bombs. Everyone would know the part he played. Not only was he unique, but now he would also be seen as the man that saved Hollow World. Ellis needed time alone to sort things out. He had a lot to sort.

He’d lost his son, his wife, his lifelong friend. He’d lost everyone he had known, and his entire way of life. In the New Testament, Jesus was quoted as saying: For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Nowhere did it say anything about losing the whole world. But since he had, did that mean he could get his soul back? He’d felt an emptiness since Isley died. What he had done must be a mortal sin, and if he couldn’t forgive himself, how could he expect God to.

So now what?

Ellis looked at a row of sparrows perched along the peak of the general store. Each silhouetted against the clear late-autumn sky. Wind blew the grass. There were no voices, no sounds of traffic. The world felt dead. At least his world was, and lingering in a make-believe graveyard wouldn’t help.

Ellis had been kept busy since his leap forward. The few moments he had a chance to think had been moments he’d stopped treading water. He sank, only to be saved each time by currents driving him forward. But the currents had played themselves out, and Ellis had hours of isolated silence to ponder, to evaluate, to drown.

He tried to consider the possibility of a future, but before he could he had to face one inescapable truth. He couldn’t be with Pax. He knew Pax loved him, and he…How could he return those feelings? As he had told Isley, that sort of love doesn’t exist except between a man and a woman. And how could he be around Pax—who knew his every thought and that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

Ellis watched the sparrows all take flight, flying south as one flock.

Ellis walked down the lonely lane between the wooden fences.

November in Detroit had to be the definition for dreary. Once, long ago, it had conjured visions of gray slush, cars splattered with the chalk of salt, naked trees, yellow grass, and unforgiving skies. That day the snow was delayed, there were no more cars or roads to salt, but the grass had still yellowed and the skies remained just as vindictive. A handful of grocery-bag-colored leaves clung stubbornly to trees, their families and friends lost, blowing across the fields. Ellis was cold and shivered.

Pax found him there, alone on the road.

“My hero,” Pax said.

“Don’t say that. I—” Ellis’s voice choked. He couldn’t see and closed his eyes, forcing the tears out. “Pax…I can’t…I can’t love you.”

Ellis felt a thumb on his cheek, wiping the tears. “But you do love me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Of course you do, Ellis Rogers. I can feel what you feel. You do love me—you just don’t know what love is.”

Hands cupped his face, lifting it gently. “All your life, you never learned, because no one showed you. Not your mother, who didn’t know how to express affection. Not your wife, who blamed you for the death of your son. Certainly not Warren. Not even your son, who didn’t trust that you would come around. None of you understood what love really is. It’s not lust, or dependence, or infatuation, or familiarity. Love isn’t a fondness or butterflies in your stomach.”

“Then what is it?” Ellis managed to ask.

“Love is the degree to which you are willing to sacrifice your own interests for those of another. It doesn’t matter what sex you are. It doesn’t matter who you are, or were. It only matters that you care more for someone else than you do for yourself. It’s when you eat minlatta with tarragon oil even when you hate pasta because someone with you enjoys it. It’s when you value being alone more than anything but agree to move in with someone because they need you. And believe this, Ellis Rogers, for I am quite certain that love is most certainly when you push away the one person in all the world you want to be with because you think your thoughts would cause them pain.”

Ellis couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

“Give it some time. You’ve had a rough month.”

Ellis nodded. “I died right after you left, after I told you I was going to stay on the farm, did you know that?”

Pax nodded. “I sort of died then too. I hope you aren’t planning on killing me again.”

Ellis struggled to look at Pax—at that sympathetic face with those perfect eyes, stormy eyes, loving eyes. Ellis’s nose was running, and he wished he had a tissue—a good old-fashioned Kleenex or even a paper towel. Pax handed him the decorative handkerchief from a coat pocket. He blew, wiped.

“Does Alva still have that pattern for hot chocolate?”

“ Welcome back! ” Ellis heard Alva exclaim the moment he and Pax returned. “ Will you be staying? Is the temperature in here too cold? Too hot? Can I brew you some tea, Pax? Some coffee, Ellis Rogers? ”

“We’re fine, Alva,” Pax replied.

“ Soup then? ”

“We don’t need anything. Really.”

“ Okay—I’ll make soup .”

They walked to the balcony. Ellis wished he still had a pair of the geomancer glasses. Someone was waving to him from across the park, and he couldn’t tell who it was. He consoled himself with the realization that even with the glasses, he wouldn’t know. He was back in Hollow World, and no one wore name tags.

And everyone knew him.

He’d already achieved pop-icon status before the story about the Cult of Ren had spread. When news circulated that Ellis had helped save the world, he finally had become the modern Charles Lindbergh as Pax had predicted, only with a good dash of Marilyn Monroe thrown in. Three different producers had asked him to consult on holo productions of the events. Five others asked to do his biography, in full interactive immersion, and another—a scholar with the University of Wegener—wanted him to consult on a series of historical holograms where users could explore twenty-first century America. They would build it; all he had to do was walk around and tell them what was inaccurate. Ellis was actually considering that last one.