Brian Stableford - Asgard's Heart

Whether extinction came, requiring me to be somehow resurrected, or whether my acceptance of death was premature, I do not know. I was next aware of a small presence of mind. I do not know how else to describe it, because I am sure—however paradoxical it may sound—that it was not an awareness of anything save that I was aware. Perhaps it was that irreducible quantum of certainty which Descartes tried to reach, imaginatively, with his dictum: Cogito, ergo sum. There is a thought, therefore there is a thinker.

Strangely, though, I remained in doubt as to whether the thinker was me, or whether I was merely the thought in the head of some enigmatic god or giant. I was not sure whether I was still dreaming, or whether I was now being dreamed. But work of some kind was going on: work of reconstruction, perhaps of re-creation. Something was taking shape, and although I was part and parcel of that shaping, I could not honestly say that I was doing it. If there was any part of me actively involved, it was a subconscious part.

I am not sure how to describe what was being built, because it had that absurd property of entities in software space that what it looked like depended entirely on the eye of the beholder—it was itself pure essence. When I tried to see it, I had to decide what I would see, and I had no basis for making any such decision… no basis, at any rate, within my conscious mind.

It may mean nothing, therefore, to report what images did come into the burgeoning mind that might or might not have been mine. I will have to take the chance, and say what I can.

Perhaps it was a web spun to span the darkness by an invisible spider—across and across, then around and around, in a curving spiral. The anchor-points of the web were not arranged in a circle, but were instead the points of a tetrahedron, so that the web curved in all three dimensions, and then was slightly hollowed like a net, as though the centre were being dragged away at right angles to everything else— into the fourth dimension, I must suppose.

Perhaps I caught brief sensations that might have been echoes of the dancing feet of the spinner as it whirled around its web, but perhaps those tremors of vibration were part of the life of the web itself.

The web caught nothing, and though it might have shuddered in some kind of breeze, it was never stretched taut at any point.

Perhaps the web was spun between the branches of a great tree—though I had the impression that the tree grew up to bear the web, shaped by the necessity of bearing the web. As I began to perceive the tree there must have come into existence some kind of light by which to see it—my experience of the web had been entirely tactile—and the radiance quickly increased as the tree expanded its dimensions. A whole universe seemed to be expanding around me, hyperspherically. The tree was everywhere; it was the whole of creation, the very structure of existence. Its trunk grew in entwined circles, like a knot of infinite complexity, and its branches radiated into all the space which would otherwise have been undefined, bearing foliage and multitudinous blossoms of every colour in the spectrum, which poured out silver pollen in never-ending streams, and reached out their star-shaped styles to bathe in the deluge.

There was a thought, and the thought was: This is the magical universe, in the process of its Creation. This is all that is and ever shall be.

Then there was an awakening.

I do not say that it was I who awoke. I cannot be sure of that. It was, however, my hand that felt the moistness of the sand and the warmth of the sun, my head that felt the sickness and the dizziness of a painful return to consciousness, my limbs which ached with exhaustion.

There was a sitting up—and that is the truth of it, though there is little point in continuing this narration by means of such circumlocutions.

For the sake of convenience, then, I sat up.

I was saved. I had been rescued by something that had caught me at the very moment of destruction and preserved me—or remade me, perhaps more in its own image than I had been before.

I looked around, and found myself on a sandy beach. The ocean, whose waves still lapped the sand about my booted feet, was blue with the reflection of a bright and cloudless sky, in which a golden sun blazed directly ahead.

I got slowly to my feet, and examined my body. I was still clad in the red quilted armour, but my cloak was gone. My sword was still in its scabbard at my waist. I was bareheaded. The feeling of intoxication and unreality that had attended my first incarnation in software space was entirely gone now. I felt, however paradoxically, like the real Michael Rousseau.

I looked inland, to see what kind of shore I had been brought to. There were many trees, so closely grouped that they presented a considerable barrier. The space between their gnarled trunks was filled with their own thorny branches, and with the spiked leaves of flowerless plants that grew between them. The trees were strange in the extreme, because their trunks were moulded in the approximate form of human beings with arms vertically upraised, like wooden people rooted at the ankles. The branches of the trees were extensions of the fingers of these luckless imprisoned souls, growing madly into a tangled leafy crown. The faces etched into the upper part of every bole each had the appearance of a man or woman sleeping, with eyes closed and expressionless. They ranged in colour from ivory white to ebon black; some seemed polished, others very rough.

I was standing on the sand, with the waves lapping at my heels. The wall of vegetation was no more than three metres away. I could see no obvious way into the thicket, but I approached anyway. The spiky leaf-blades of the plants that made up the undergrowth were very supple, and they seemed to writhe away from me as I approached.

When I came closer still, the tree-people appeared to wake from insensibility; the eyes opened, and though the faces were fixed in wood, and should have been incapable of expression, they seemed to look at me with such pain and horror that I flinched. Only the eyeballs moved within the sockets—the mouths etched in the bark apparently could not open to display teeth or tongue, nor could they contrive the slightest of smiles. And yet I was in no doubt at all that here were souls in some perverse state of torment—souls which were alarmed by my approach. The foliage of the trees rattled as if the boughs were being shaken from within, and the sound had the semblance of a childish language, as though the trees were babbling in a hopeless attempt to tell me something.

I stepped back from the edge of the forest, and turned away from the staring eyes to walk along the beach, hurrying to a place where the faces still slept. I did not try to approach too closely again, and when I glanced back I saw that the faces I had left behind had closed their eyes again, and gave every appearance of having returned to their dream-filled slumber.

Many of the trees carried fruit—bright bulbous things coloured yellow or red—but they were high in the crowns, and none had fallen to the sand.

I did not know where I was going, but I strode out purposefully, never pausing. I do not know how long I walked. The sun did not move in the sky; it remained directly overhead.

There were outcrops of black rock about me now, some of which jutted four or five metres above the sand. Etched into the surfaces of these rocks were outlines representing various kinds of animals: horses, deer, some kind of cattle. I half-expected to see these beasts open their eyes as I passed, but they never did.

I had become very thirsty, and was glad to see among these rocks a pool of water, surrounded by wet mud in which I could see the tracks of many animals, though there were none in sight, and I could see no trail by means of which they might have come from the forest. I went to kneel by the pool and dipped the fingers of my left hand into the water, carrying a little of it to my lips—but it was brackish, too salty to be drinkable.