Michael Sullivan: Hollow World

“Is Vin here?” Ellis asked.

“No, Vin has moved back home. I don’t suspect I’ll need Vin watching over me anymore.”

Ellis felt depressed. He didn’t know why. The feeling wasn’t anything solid, nothing he could get a grasp on. He just didn’t understand it. Everything had concluded for the best, he supposed. But looking out at the beautiful view, standing beside Pax in that wonderful home, he had an overwhelming sense of…guilt. Survivor’s guilt perhaps. Everyone he had known was dead and gone—Warren too. Even though he hadn’t meant to, and even though Warren had to be stopped, he could not get past the fact that he had killed his best friend. And for that, he was being called a hero.

Pax took his hand and squeezed. “Give it time,” Pax assured him.

Ellis nodded.

Pax looked over the balcony. “They’re playing again.”

“ Mezos versus the Meerkats ,” Alva said.

“Who’s winning?”

“ Mezos are up by one .”

“Ah.” Pax smiled. “That’s good. I hope they win this time.”

A wonderful, multicolored bird fluttered up and landed on the railing, where it sat, watching both of them with a cocked head. Fall was coming to Detroit, but on the balcony in Hollow World it looked like spring.

“ Pax ,” Alva said.

“Yes?”

“ This might not be important to you right now, but you did insist that I tell you .”

“Tell me what?”

“ Quad seven grass—it’s about to start .”

A smile grew across Pax’s lips. “Thanks, Alva.”

Pax released Ellis’s hand and took out the portal device.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re going to the grass, to my favorite place in the world—Quad seven.”

“What’s in Quad seven?”

With a single touch, Pax called up the portal, proving the location was preset.

“Pax? What’s in Quad seven?”

Pax continued to smile. “Follow me.”

The two walked through the portal into an open field of lush, knee-high grass and beautiful purple flowers. Soaring high above, and to either side, were dramatic cliffs—sheer faces of chiseled granite thrusting up out of a tranquil meadow. Slender white lines of waterfalls plummeted to a valley floor that was ringed in tall pines. The place was oddly familiar. He had looked at this scene nearly every day, but this was the first time he’d ever seen it in color.

Ansel Adams was a great photographer, but the photo that had hung in Ellis’s garage for years didn’t begin to do the scene justice. Standing in the meadow, he felt small and grand at the same time. To experience something of such majesty took his breath away more than the fibrosis ever had. But that wasn’t all. Overhead, the vast sky was a cauldron of clouds. Giant thunderheads rolled and billowed, dark and voluminous. The birch trees, whose trunks were stark white lines against the charcoal, green, and purple clouds, swayed in a strong gusting wind.

A flash of lightning arced, and Ellis realized there was something ancient about thunderstorms, some primordial connection to the human spirit. Awe-inspiring by sheer size and power, this had always been at least one face of God.

Thunder cracked, and Ellis felt the bass pass through him, felt it shudder the earth. The effect was amazing, and he couldn’t help being thrilled, couldn’t help smiling.

“A lot of people think trees are sentient,” Pax said, watching the birches sway. “I, on the other hand, know they are. And they’re incredible. I love being here with them at times like this. Watching them in the wind, feeling what they feel. It’s like they’re dancing. Showing us what to do—what we should be doing.”

“Dancing?”

“Try it.” Pax took hold of his hands and began to sway.

Ellis felt foolish. Pax clearly didn’t.

Arms outstretched, face raised to the sky, Pax began to twirl as the first raindrops hit them. “You see, Ellis Rogers, I don’t just hear thoughts of people. I feel everything—all of it. Every living cell out here. Every blade of grass, every leaf, every flower, ladybug, deer, rabbit, and mouse. I know the joy of every parched root rejoicing with nature’s gift.” Pax pulled off the bowler hat and shouted to the sky, “I just love rain days!”

Hollow World is a story I never meant to write. At any given time I have seven or eight novels sitting in a queue waiting their turn, and Hollow World wasn’t one of them. It started out because of an anthology called The End—Visions of Apocalypse edited by N. E. White. Nila runs writing contests on sffworld and wanted to put out an anthology to showcase some new writers. She asked me and a few other established authors to act as anchors in the hopes of a wider readership. I wrote a short story called “Greener Grass”. It told the tale of an embittered, angry man who goes forward in time to find an utopia, but since the world he finds is so different than the values he believes in (God and country) to him it’s the worst possible future. I won’t spoil what happens to him (in case you want to read the short story) but when I had finished it, I realized it really didn’t fit the concept of The End Anthology . I went on to write another short story for that anthology, “Burning Alexandria” and now I had this short story left over.

I showed “Greener Grass” to my wife and a few writer friends, and they all loved it. They wanted more…and I had more to say. Many of the concepts from Hollow World were thoughts that had been floating in my head for decades and just didn’t have the right place to come out. As I worked on other projects, ideas for Hollow World kept coming to me. I’d jot them down in my notebook and try to keep focused on the book I was writing at the time.

The next book on my queue was Rhune. This is the first novel in a three-book series: The First Empire, a new fantasy series based in the distant past of the world or Elan (setting for my Riyria Revelations and Riyria Chronicles). My thought was that those books should sell well, as they have an established readership who has already expressed an interest in that plot line. Writing Rhune was the smart thing to do. But I’m pretty much known for not doing what is smart when it comes to my writing career.

Hollow World was a huge risk. It was in a different genre, and one whose readership had been dwindling over the years. A quick look at the publishing landscape made it clear that the only science fiction books that were selling well were those of an established franchise like Star Wars or Halo , space opera, and military science fiction. This book was none of those. Not to mention it touched on subjects that people argue over constantly: liberal versus conservative, gay rights, religion, and God. There are plenty of ideologies in this book that people will feel strongly about, and I’m sure many people will hate the book, and possibly me, for some of the things expressed within its covers. But none of that could diminish my desire to write this story.

While we are on the subject of ideologies, I’m sure several people will infer what they believe are my opinions on any number of topics. They’re probably almost certainly wrong. As a writer, I spend a great deal of time imagining myself in others people shoes and I’ve been known to argue one side of an argument over a few beers, and once I’ve convinced my drinking buddy to agree with my position, I turn around and argue the opposite side and bring him right back to where they started. It’s an annoying habit, but it can be fun.

In my book Rise of Empire Royce Melborn is arguing with Hadrian Blackwater about the notion of absolutes. They are discussing how an object (in this case a dagger) appears differently when viewed from different perspectives. Hadrian concludes that neither perception is correct, but Royce has a different take: that both are right. He goes on to say, “One truth doesn’t refute another. Truth doesn’t lie in the object, but in how we see it.” In other words, two people can have completely different opinions and yet they can both be “right.” The problem, as I see it, is that most believe that if they are “right” then the other opinion must be “wrong.” I believe in dualities.