Secret Places and Hidden Things

Chapter Twenty-Two

Elliot was lost.

He'd been lost for some time, riding the islands of moving land aimlessly as they took him from one old forest to another. He didn't feel like he was moving anymore. Somehow, he'd been caught in a net—stuck within some unchanging reality. Michael was there sometimes, but the transition between moments was frequent and disorienting, and he didn't know how to break out of it. Michael was playing catch up most of the time, even as Elliot saw him running ahead to meet the place he'd just been. The edges of his vision were watery and he felt tired and slow, like sleepwalking in and out of a fever dream.

Finally, his perceptions settled in, and he was able to rest at the edge of a river.

"Is this the end?" Elliot asked, when he saw Michael sitting beside him. He wasn't sure when he'd arrived.

"Almost, but also not really. There doesn't seem to be ends, just connections within the web—still points."

"And this is a still point?" Elliot felt the stillness, he didn't need to ask.

Michael nodded. "The still point. It's a big one."

Elliot took a slow, labored breath. He felt dizzy. "How did I find the still point? I wasn't trying to."

"You used the still point, you didn't find it," Michael said.

"I used it?"

"Yes, of course. You're always riding around to new places." Michael opened his arms wide to the forest in front of them.

"But how can I use it if I haven't found it?" Elliot asked.

"It is strange, isn't it." Michael looked over at Elliot and poked his massive shoulder. "Then again, you aren't exactly normal."

Elliot leaned back, taking in his surroundings. These trees were old. Older than he'd ever seen. They were more like buildings, their trunks rising straight and true to unseeable height. The bark was etched deeply by time, old black rivulets formed from the steady flow of rain. The sound of the water was everywhere, dripping, flowing, bubbling. The river wound its way through everything, breaking the land into islands. They seemed to float on it, bobbing slightly up and down. The water was so clear, and so deep. Even the small streams flowed with a slow power, charged by the unseen depths. There was a danger to this landscape—it did not seem still at all, even while it was.

"What could have caused all of this?"

"Existence is fundamentally broken," Michael said. He sat on the edge of a creek and hung his legs over the edge, splashing with his feet. "It's very cold."

"How do we fix it?" Elliot asked.

Michael looked out into the deeper part of the forest. In spite of the thick canopy, the trees were spread widely, and the furthest were obscured by atmospheric blue. Thin shafts of light struck the forest floor in places, creating little flurries of growth—ferns and wildflowers grasping at the thin light—and an under-glow that bathed the canopy in a soft radiance. "I'm not sure it can be fixed. Or, even if it could be fixed, I'm not sure we should. We've come to rely on it."

"What do you mean?"

"Reality was broken in two places," Michael said. "It broke within two people. At least, two that we know of. I think you were drawn into this because you were whole to begin with. You're the solid piece it's resting on. It's messed up your perspective quite a bit." Michael smiled blandly. "Sorry about that."

Elliot shook his head. His thinking had cleared a bit since sitting by the water, but he still felt unsteady. There was something wrong. Michael put a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not letting it happen, that's why it hurts."

"I don't hurt," Elliot said, then winced as he suddenly noticed how much he hurt. Michael's hand grew roots into his shoulder. Elliot looked over at him, and his eyes were wide and deep, the darkness within them endless and empty. His smile was sad, but encouraging.

"Do you trust me?" Michael asked.

Elliot looked into those eyes, and cowered, but he nodded his head.

"Then let it all go. It won't work without you."

Elliot tried, but he felt so tired. If he let go, he would fade away. His eyes felt so heavy. The woods dimmed around him. He watched himself fall asleep. It was peaceful beyond measure—a quiet, empty stillness. It was the sudden impression of having no body, no thoughts, and no emotions. A sweetness pervaded the nothing in a way he never could have imagined—like the solution to all problems, the relaxation of all tensions, the absence of any compulsion, and a steady, unwavering point of observation, looking out into the void without a limit to its perception.

Coming back was contraction, tension, movement. He didn't know how much life had hurt before, but now it was a million stinging needles in comparison. He groaned, rubbing his arms.

"I'm sorry," Michael said. He hugged Elliot's shoulders and laid his head on his arm.

"Is that what we are?" Elliot asked. "Why would we ever leave from there?"

"We aren't all like that," Michael said. "I think only you are."

Elliot looked over at Michael. "What are you?"

"I'm the nothing, not the point of observation. I'm part of what was broken."

Elliot's brows came together and he frowned, rubbing his hand over Michael's hair. "You feel real enough to me. How can you be nothing when I see you so clearly?"

"Maybe the better question is, how can I be nothing and still see you?" Michael said. "How can nothing be something?"

"Maybe we can find out and try to fix it," Eliot said.

"It doesn't need fixing." Michael leaned away, looking out at the woods again. "The fact that it's broken is good. It's how we exist the way we do. If we fixed it, we'd cease to exist."

Elliot laughed. "Then why call it broken at all?"

"Because it hurts." Michael pulled his feet out of the water. They had become very pale, blue veins standing out against the skin. "It's too cold to stay very long."

Suddenly, Elliot looked around. "Where's the fox? It's always with you."

Michael looked over at the fox, who was sitting beside Elliot. "That one's easy. There never was a fox."

"What am I looking at, then?" Elliot reached out and scratched the fox's head.

"Onem," Michael said. "Nothing."