A Constant Jonathan

By Michael Olmstead

   In the distant future, humanity has evolved the technology to listen to the whispers of the Universe itself. The Aware Universe revealed the knowledge to remake the human form, perfecting their bodies and minds, and inadvertently create their own gods.

   After falling to their knees in worship of their own creations

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Olmstead
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734854138

Book preview

A Constant Jonathan

By Michael Olmstead

A Constant Jonathan

Copyright © 2020

Michael Olmstead

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author/publisher.

Cover art by Crystal Olmstead and Summer Redden.

Printed in the United States by Kindle Direct Publishing

To my wife, Crystal, the love of my life. She is not only the best friend and companion I could ever imagine, but over the past year I have discovered she is also a talented editor, cover artist, web page designer, and promoter. Without the slightest hint of exaggeration, A Constant Jonathan would not exist without her.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1: Manab

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part 2: Caspa

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Part 3: Vessia

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Part 4: Empryeas

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Part 5: The Eye of Corealus

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Epilogue

The End

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Prologue

He awoke.

He emerged slowly from insensible darkness. Consciousness washed over him like peaceful waves, and as each swell rolled back, it left him gradually more aware. His eyes were dry and painful, as was his throat. He coughed, tasting dust in his mouth and something else… something metallic? He was lying on his back. Reaching up to clear his eyes, he noticed his hands and face were coated in a fine, dry powder. He wiped the dust from his eyes and was finally able to observe his surroundings.

The sky was burning. Long streaks of flame stretched across the heavens, filling the night sky. Explosions, blinding flashes, punctuated the darkness between the flaming trails. He instinctively threw up a hand to shield himself, but the fiery arcs descended off beyond the horizon. He realized the size, the length of the burning filaments, and that they were enormous and very far away. He thought he could not only hear, but also feel a distant rumbling in the ground.

He attempted to lift his head but found he was stuck. He was half buried in the ground, caked in dry dirt, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain. Rolling over with some effort, he freed himself and crawled up onto his knees. He looked down at himself, his clothes were burnt and shredded, half of his rags still adhered to the dark, clinging dirt. He stood up, staggering to his feet. The remnants of his clothing sloughed off, leaving him naked.

Surrounding him were the scorched, splintered remains of what used to be a ship, littering the charred earth in countless tiny fragments. He recognized some of the debris. The Arastidas. The Holy Shuttle. A god’s chariot, or at least the scattered wreckage of one.

But there was nothing else. Underneath the burning sky, the landscape, to the horizon in every direction was uninterrupted, featureless, cracked earth. It was devoid of any life, or any indications that life had ever touched such a desolate place. No trees, no buildings. Everything was empty and unbroken.

Beyond the plummeting flames, the sky was black and the sun… he realized the sun was out in the nighttime. It seemed remote and fragile, cold. He had never seen the stars so stark and vivid. At least not on a planet. Only in space.

He took a deep breath. It seared his lungs. He began to cough violently and almost fell over. He wiped his mouth. Blood.

With no other alternative, he began walking away from the debris field, without direction. The air was painfully cold and penetrating. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso, but it provided little warmth. He thought if he strained his eyes, he could see mountains or buildings in the vast distance, or something, anything at all interrupting the sterile landscape, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. No matter. Even if he had to walk the planet for centuries, he would find a way off that world. He would find a way back to his fleet.

The fleet. It suddenly occurred to him… the burning sky… it was the tumbling remnants of his shattered fleet. He knew it. He just knew it. The same way he knew the burnt debris field was what was left of The Arastidas. He had been in it when it crashed. But he couldn’t remember anything else. Not yet. He must have been dead for quite some time, but it was slowly coming back to him.

Gharia. The name of the planet was Gharia. It was the home world of his empire, the seat of his power. He scrutinized his surroundings. Gharia was the seat of his power. He gazed up at the searing sky and down at the charred, blasted earth. He realized he no longer had an empire and what was left of his once mighty fleet was falling, burning.

A memory began to drift back to him. He saw himself peering down from orbit. Dawn was just rising on the far side of the planet, lighting Gharia’s oceans and lakes, painting his beautiful green and blue world in gold.

He remembered the first fiery blast erupting on Gharia’s placid surface, rising slowly into the stratosphere like a gentle orange flower reaching up to embrace him. Then another burgeoning, searing bloom and then another and another. As he watched from above, the annihilating blossoms spread across all of Gharia. It was hypnotic when viewed from that height, the great fiery blasts spread across the surface of the world like something living, a radiant, hungry mold or fungus, bringing life instead of violently eradicating it. The shockwaves swelled, widening from the blast points until they joined with other shockwaves, creating intricate, mesmerizing patterns, scouring the landscape and people below with unimaginable violence. But from above it appeared almost peaceful. It looked beautiful. But it was the end of everything.

He kept walking. The ground, somehow colder than the air around him, stung his feet with each step. Glancing back, he saw a trail of bloody, frosted footprints, as the frigid earth attempted to cling to his warm skin. It occurred to him that there was probably nothing on the horizon. There would be nothing on the horizon… ever again. Swept clean. For some reason there was just enough atmosphere left for him to breathe. It hadn’t all burned away, not yet. He had to breathe slowly, cautiously, the air was so thin. There wasn’t enough oxygen to satiate his lungs. How much longer until the rest of the atmosphere fled Gharia?

Then he remembered. He remembered that as he watched, awestruck as his planet was rendered lifeless, experiencing a sense of peacefulness, of sad loss and inevitability… there had come sudden violence, an unwelcome chaos. Everything became loud and confused. There was an abrupt, lurching impact and he was thrown to the floor. Men were bellowing orders, screaming in pain and anger, in fear. Piercing alarms, angry klaxons. Deafening, startling decompressions.

He witnessed his ships, his entire fleet, burning, punctured. Vessels were sliced in half, the glowing fragments tumbling, twirling as though in slow motion, colliding with intact ships, and spreading entropy and destruction throughout the armada. He watched immense fiery arcs of plasma flung amidst his fleet like golden whips, cleaving through his ships and continuing through the gaping wounds to strike the next ship in formation. He saw his secondary command ship, The Bellato, obliterated in an explosion that unfolded in all directions, the searing debris scattering catastrophic damage throughout the fleet. At some point he had reflexively given orders for all ships to return fire, but he knew it was futile.

They came from behind. The enemy fleet. The Carran See. They had used a two-pronged attack. His entire fleet was caught between the burning planet and the enemy’s cannons. They gave no quarter. The Carran See… such hatred these people had for their own gods.

He recalled a sudden, crippling lurch and then darkness, weightlessness, and found himself floating above the command deck. Although he knew what had happened, one of his officers told him anyway. They had been hit. His mighty command ship had been opened up, gutted, spilling the burning, screaming bodies into the void to be silenced. There was no power. No life-support. No hope.

He struggled to recall what happened next. He knew his command ship took a catastrophic hit as he launched the Holy Shuttle, Arastidas, and that it had taken all his skill to pilot it through the debris field. Even with his abilities as a god, there was too much wreckage, going too fast, and in too many contrasting directions. He could dodge the larger chunks, still somewhat recognizable as the pieces of the ships they had once been, but the miniscule, bullet-like debris was impossible for him or the shuttle’s sensors to detect in time. It sounded like hard rain hitting the ship. The scream of multiple decompressions. Cracks in the windshield. He had a faint memory of his ship plummeting, blazing, shrieking through Gharia’s atmosphere.

He gazed up at the burning tears falling over Gharia’s dark sky and knew that he had been one of the fiery streaks. The memory was vague and disturbing… heat, bright thundering flames, blinding, and Arastidas shaking violently, twisting out of his control. He was glad he couldn’t remember the impact.

He knew the sky would cry flames for him, for Gharia, for many years to come as the remnants of his vast armada were gradually plucked from their slow orbit by gravity, and came falling, flaring, raining down on the sterilized planet. His fleet had been immense, mighty enough to challenge the order of Restant Space and almost win. Yes, the tears of fire would fall for centuries. Tears for Gharia… for him.

He began to cough. His body doubled over, wracked with convulsions. He stumbled and fell. He caught himself and hunched on all fours, staring at the ground. The blood he coughed up formed a strange pattern splattered on the hard, frozen earth. He thought he could see a message in it, perhaps tidings of hope, but then he realized he was lightheaded from oxygen deprivation.

Gabriel, he whispered.

Gabriel, his brother. His last thoughts were for him. But they were not kind thoughts. He wasn’t sure why.

Could he get up? Could he keep walking? He tried. He couldn't. Too weak. Where was there to walk? There was only more barren desolation, stretching all the way around the globe and back again. Cold. Airless. Dead.

The dust began to move around him. Wind? But there was no air. The blood pattern before his eyes began to twitch and bounce. He could feel something in his bones, in his chest… something familiar. His body, the ground, everything began to vibrate. Realization dawned on him. He pushed himself up off his hands, until he was sitting on his knees. He gazed up.

It was a ship. A vast, ominous ship. A Carran See flagship, looming above him. It had seen him. It was there for him. The ship was almost entirely black and covered with golden symbols, in script not unlike the writings on his own ships. Carran See holy words. Words of war and righteous vengeance. Retribution.

He peered up at the colossal, lethal ship of his enemies, blotting out the burning sky. The Carran See, who had conquered him and all the other gods. He was small and naked, one tiny speck, the only living thing on the immense, cauterized plain. He struggled to take a breath, but nothing came, there was no air left to be had. Three small fighters left the underbelly of the enormous ship and fell rapidly towards him. His world began to spin and then go dark. He knew he was falling forward, but he never felt himself hit the ground.

And then there was nothing.

Part 1: Manab

Chapter One

Jonathan awoke.

It took him several moments to recall where he was, who he was, while still entangled within the remnants of a dream. The dream, although vague and slipping ever further, left him feeling uneasy. But then he remembered it was Twelfth Day, his favorite day of the year. The sun was already bright and pouring through the rifts in the curtains. Dust motes cavorted in the morning rays. He threw off the covers and swung his feet onto the floor. It was cold and it surprised him, even though it was always cold. Jonathan prided himself on always being the first of all the children to wake and get ready for breakfast. He put on his robe and thick socks. Although the heaters rattled throughout the night, the morning air was still chilly. He tested it with his breath and was dismayed as it swirled in the sunbeams. He didn’t look forward to his shower. The water never quite got warm enough, leaving him shivering afterwards until he could get dry and dressed.

He walked down the hallway, past the closed doors where the other children still slept. Charten House was dark and quiet. Colonel told him it was made from melted rock, countless years ago. He plodded carefully, the hallway was long and prone to echoes. It was unbending and slightly rounded at the edges, still shrouded in the night’s gloom, but he could see down to the next wing. Scant light spilled from a window at the far end, scarcely affecting the darkened walls and closed doors, as though he were in a tunnel.

Tunnel. He paused, suddenly reminded of the dream he had just before awakening. He stood still, struggling to salvage the details and drag the hazy dream into the foreground of his awareness. He remembered… a voice. Something telling him to go through… what? A hole or tunnel. No, that wasn’t it. The voice kept saying to see. To see something. Over and over. He could almost hear it…

See through the Corealus Eye.

Jonathan jumped. The sound of his own voice in the empty hallway startled him. He continued walking, afraid his echoes would rouse the other children. But saying it out loud helped him remember. The dream unfurled in his mind. See through the Corealus Eye. The entire dream was just the repetition of those words. He couldn’t remember any images, but the voice, it was a voice he could never forget. It sounded deep, powerful. But it felt ancient. Jonathan wasn’t sure where he’d heard the word ‘ancient,’ but he was sure it fit. Now that he could remember his dream, the words played over and over in his head, like a song, but a song without music. He wondered what a Corealus Eye was and why it was so important. How could he look through someone else’s eyes? He could only look through his own eyes. Maybe he should ask Mam Gertra.

Repeatedly whispering the words from his dream, he made his way to the lavatory. Everyone in his wing shared the same bathroom, and he liked to be first so he could be finished before the other children came in. He hated waiting for his turn as they joked and squealed, irritating his ears in the close, damp quarters. He hated their laughter and how much they played instead of bathing. However, the true reason he disliked being in the bathroom with the other children was because he didn’t want them to see him naked. Whenever that happened, the other boys would always point and laugh.

One of the older boys, Callen, was the most brutal and relentless. He played vicious pranks on Jonathan and called him names like ‘slow,’ and ‘stupid.’ He was pretty sure Callen invented a game the other children enjoyed playing at his expense. They all took turns pretending to be Jonathan and would then chase each other around the yard, making grunting noises and mispronouncing words as though he was some sort of monster. Callen always initiated the game just before Jonathan came within earshot, to ensure the game was played in his presence. Callen thought Jonathan was too stupid to know what they were doing, but he did… and it hurt.

Passing by the sinks, he stopped and gazed at himself in the mirror. Most days, Jonathan liked that he had blue eyes and black hair, none of the other children had that combination. It made him unique. But other times he hated it for that same reason. There were other things that differentiated him from the other children as well. He was the oldest. He could even remember when each child first came to Charten House, and when they were all babies, even the older children, even Callen. He could remember them learning to walk, and as they grew, they looked up to him, valued his company. But inevitably, they got older and began treating him differently, pushing him away in either pity or derision. If not for the younger children, and Ol Joat, he would have a very lonely life.

He was also substantially taller than all the other children, towering over most of the older children. Except for Riva, she came up to his shoulder. She was the second oldest, after him, but he also remembered her as a baby, too. He assumed that because he was the oldest and tallest, he got his own room when all the others had to share. There were times when he got lonely, or afraid in the night, and wished he had a roommate also, but all he had to do was recall the anxiety he felt in the showers to reaffirm the high value of privacy.

Occasionally the infrequent visitors to Charten House mistook him for an adult, and would converse with him like an adult, asking him questions about the home or a specific child, perhaps mistaking him for a staff member or another visitor. Jonathan always tried his best to answer them in what he thought was a grown-up way, but after a short while, the adults would always get a strange look on their faces and stop talking to him, excusing themselves to wander off. Many times, the adults called him names too, like simple, when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Sometimes they used other words, but he couldn’t remember them.

Jonathan was never paraded in front of the visitors, or potential adoptive parents as Mam Gertra called them, like the other children. He was usually ushered elsewhere into Charten House’s voluminous interior to play alone or sent outside to play amongst the grags or work the garden with Ol Joat. The other children dressed up and enjoyed snacks and party favors as though it were a holiday, while the only time Jonathan saw the visitors was if he crept up on them as they were arriving or leaving, climbing up from the grags, dusty and unkempt.

Although it was lonely sometimes, and often unfair, he thought it was still pretty good to be the oldest. He might not share the community of the other children, but he was used to his separateness, and had found comfort in solitude. Jonathan hung up his robe and took off his pajamas and thick socks, laying them neatly on the bench, and got in the shower. The water was chilly. He rushed through his shower, not only because of the water temperature, but because the rumbling in his stomach and the thoughts of the hot breakfast awaiting him downstairs.

In the cafeteria, temporarily converted into an impromptu chapel, Jonathan’s stomach growled as he fidgeted, growing ever more impatient for the holiday breakfast wafting from the kitchen.

And on the Twelfth Day, the canons were stilled. The Ahnjen Hage was no more. The Cackling Father laughed no more, except in The Pit, burning for now and always.

Jonathan struggled to pay attention, but his mind kept wandering back to his dream. He peered around the dining hall, many of the other children were also squirming in their seats and whispering to each other behind shielded hands. He usually enjoyed Twelfth Day, the biggest Carran See holiday. The children always got extra desserts on the Twelfth, and the services were less boring.

He enjoyed the tales of the Carran See knights, the Sancalores, attacking the Ahnjen Hage, the home of the Cackling Father. But he didn’t like thinking of the Cackling Father, and sometimes had nightmares about him scampering and giggling through the dark tunnels of his haunted moon on artificial tentacles like a metallic insect. Jonathan knew the mighty Carran See must have been afraid of him too, because they bombarded the Hage for twelve days just to make sure he was dead.

The Hage was a cinder. The Occuliae now belonged to the Righteous, to the Carran See. The Aware Universe said it was good.

Lost in thought, Jonathan forgot to rise with the other children and was the last to say On Dobre, and falling behind unison, as usual, his echoing words lingered last in the following silence. On Dobre meant It was good, just in a different, older language. Mam Gertra eyed him dubiously from the corner as she stood, arms crossed behind the older children who were reciting from the Cordi Praeta, the Carran See Holy Book. They were all wearing white robes with golden sashes trailing from their shoulders, overlaid with Carran See symbols which spelled something, but he didn’t know what. Mam Gertra released him from her gaze and continued scrutinizing the other children, on alert for the slightest hint of impiety. Riva stepped forward and spoke next.

And on the Twelfth Day, the Holy Cannons turned from the Hage, out into the unhallowed space lanes, towards the Ahnjen Daemos, the corrupted gods. So began The Atomic Flood. So began The Deluge.

He loved fantasizing about the Deluge, the greatest war of all time, and imagined himself as a Sancalore from long ago, hunting down the wicked Ahnjen, the evil gods, children of the Cackling Father. The Ahnjen were immortal monsters and Jonathan knew that ‘immortal’ meant that they lived forever, never growing old.

He pictured himself in golden armor, striking down humanity’s cruel Ahnjen rulers, ending their immortal lives with the secrets whispered to the Carran See by the Ayuwh. Although he had little experience with fire, and even less with large bodies of water, he imagined tidal waves of flame, rolling over and crushing the Ahnjen Demons. He struggled to envision the scaly monsters, with long tongues and whipping tails, fleeing their fate, clawing and thrashing, swimming in the flames as they burned and finally drowned. He shuddered, deciding that perhaps that wasn’t his favorite part of the Carron See scriptures after all. Habitually, he stood with the other children for the benediction, thoughts still lost in the distant past.

After breakfast, Jonathan cleared his plates. He watched the other children heading off throughout the house in all directions to take care of their morning chores. Riva was in the kitchen, already preparing to cook lunch. She was almost like another Mam Gertra these days. She told the younger children what to do, and even the older ones, as well. She also bossed Jonathan now and then, and even though he was older than her, he didn’t mind. He liked Riva. He liked her differently than even his favorites of the other children. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he felt different, nervous and jittery around her lately, unlike when they were younger. Riva was seventeen years old. Jonathan wasn’t sure how old he was. She caught him staring at her. He smiled. Her expression changed. Jonathan thought she appeared angry and about to laugh all at once. Then she glanced away, pointedly turning her back on him as she resumed her duties. Jonathan left. It was time for him to get to work, too.

Jonathan would need his big coat. His job was to help Ol Joat in the garden, getting it ready for planting in the spring. Grown-up work. He liked Ol Joat. They worked all day in the dry, rock strewn garden, talking and laughing. The work was difficult, he toiled away dragging boulders or digging trenches as his hands and ears froze and sweat dripped down his sides as the weak sun gradually warmed his back. But he liked it, even if it was sometimes lonely without any of the other children.

When he went to retrieve his coat, he found it wasn’t on the hook by the back door where he always left it. He looked everywhere, inside of all the cabinets and under all the furniture. He asked the children he passed about it, but most of them said they hadn’t seen his coat. Some made ugly-mean noises, crossing their eyes and laughing at him. Finally, as a dreaded last resort, he went to Mam Gertra and asked her if she’d seen it.

That filthy thing? That filthy thing that’s been stinking up my entire house? Why yes, I know exactly where it is. It’s in the laundry room folded and quite transformed. Hardly recognizable. It is now fit for a civilized human being to adorn outside of a cave and no longer identifiable as the trappings of some savage half-beast rolling about on the fetid earth.

She talked like that. Jonathan had learned to pick out the one or two words that he could understand and put to use. In this case, the two words were laundry and room.

Thanks, Mam Gertra, he said.

You’re welcome, although it wasn’t for your sake that I had it washed. You seem quite oblivious to odor. It was for the sake of all us other pious devotees who are unfortunate enough to share the same habitation as your odiferous apparel. Now please, Master Jonathan, kind, innocent boy, if you will, please have your work coat laundered before the next three months have passed.

Mam Gertra was the oldest person Jonathan had ever seen. She was even older than Colonel. She was in charge of everyone and everything in Charten House. She never gave simple yes or no answers to even the most straightforward questions. No, she always gave long answers that were full of equally long words and she always said it in a singsong way. Like a song without music. That reminded him of his dream. Jonathan hardly ever understood what she was saying, but when she stared at him as she was now, with her mouth pursed and eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer, he always said the same thing.

Yes, Mam Gertra.

Very well, she said, have a glorious Twelfth Day and walk in the path and give thanks to That which Made All and Sees All and Whispers All.

Something she said reminded him of his dream again. He tried to gather his thoughts in time to stop her before she strode off.

Um… Mam Gertra… can I tell you about a dream I had last night?

If you must, young pupil. For I am but a humble servant bound to spend my fleeting years and boundless insight pouring wisdom and sustenance into young, burgeoning minds, even if it be for naught. Tell me your dream and I will trade it for wisdom.

"Umm… well, I can’t remember anything happening… it was just something that I heard over and over. By a big voice. Not a scary voice… well, maybe a little scary. But it was an OLD voice. It said to look through an eye. No wait, a Corey… um, Corinus Eye. Coriall…"

Corealus?

Yeah! That’s I- I, mean, yes, Mam Gertra.

A peculiar expression washed over her face. She appeared as though surprised, yet also suspicious, as though she thought Jonathan, might be attempting to trick her. Mam Gertra stared at him hard, lips compressed as her jaw slowly worked. It was unlike her to be so silent and it made Jonathan uneasy.

You’ve never been to Carveden Field, right boy? She finally asked.

No, Mam Gertra.

Ceanna?

No, Mam Gertra.

Where have you heard of the Corealus before?

Nowhere, Mam. Just… in my dream.

She put one hand on her hip and the other on her face, as though attempting to restrain her restless jaw. It was unusual for her to look at him so seriously. She usually didn’t seem to take him very seriously at all. It was also strange for Mam Gertra to use such short sentences. He regretted mentioning the dream. Jonathan felt like he was taking some sort of test and that every answer was very important. After all, it was only a dream…

Has the Colonel spoken to you before about The Corealus or Atteris? she asked.

No, Mam Gertra. Just my dream.

Her face lit up. Mam Gertra shuffled away from Jonathan to a nearby window, peering through it rapturously as the morning rays illuminated her face. She mumbled some words that he couldn’t quite make out and then covered her face with her hand, bowing her head almost imperceptibly, three times. Removing her hand, she gesticulated in the air, as though drawing something on the window, or perhaps the sky beyond.

With a start, she sprang into violent motion, casually discarding the tranquility of the previous moment, and pounced at Jonathan, seizing him by the arm.

We have to go see the Colonel.

Jonathan followed her through the cavernous hallways, which still held a few lingering shadows in the early morning light. There were pictures on the walls depicting Carran See battles, Sancalores in armor of black and shining gold, combating vile, misshapen Ahnjen amongst roiling flames. They also passed by the portraits of people, staring out at him in a vaguely unsettling manner, the stern countenances of men and women he didn’t know. He had never thought to ask. But he knew then wasn’t the time. Mam Gertra walked quickly. She walked quietly, not like her. Not like her at all…

She stomped through the bustling kitchen without a word to the industrious children and staff and out the back door. Unlike Mam Gertra, Jonathan glanced into the faces of the children, saw their sly, knowing grins. They assumed he was in trouble, and there would be plenty of jeering questions awaiting his return. Was he in trouble? It hadn’t occurred to him until that very moment. He strained his mind to recall the details of his conversation with Mam Gertra, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong. Was Corealus a bad word?

Mam Gertra marched briskly ahead while Jonathan lagged and stumbled, trying to keep up. The morning wind was cold and cut right through Jonathan’s clothes. They had forgotten their coats but Mam Gertra didn’t seem to notice. They kicked up the dry, red soil and it swirled around them, clinging to Jonathan’s legs and Mam Gertra’s skirts before the chill wind could whisk it away.

The sun had grown vivid, morning-bright, as it splashed across the landscape, illuminating the grags from the top down as though they were peaking their heads up from slumber. The grags, tall, slim rocks jutting out of the flat earth like pillars, some taller than two or three grown men stacked on top of each other, stretched out as far as Jonathan could see, juxtaposed in various angles. As far as he knew, they stretched on forever, like giant, countless fingers grasping up out of the barren soil. Ol Joat told him that nothing grew out of the Graglands but rocks and that’s why they had to work so hard in the garden, never missing a day, never letting up. Jonathan liked the way the morning sun, striking the grags, cast long, overlapping shadows on the flat ground, forming intricate patterns that sometimes made him dizzy if he stared at them too long without blinking. He also relished gazing at the designs created as the evening sun set behind the Graglands, but they were different, somber and redder.

One of the older boys told Jonathan that the grags used to be giants, lazy giants that never did their chores. They just stared at the horizon all day until they turned to stone, and by then it was too late, and they were stuck like that forever. What was that boy’s name? Jonathan couldn’t remember, but it seemed he had been gone a long time. He wondered what happened to him.

Sometimes Jonathan also stared at the horizon, attempting to remain absolutely motionless as long as he could. He didn’t want to turn entirely into stone, but he thought if his little finger or toe turned to stone that would be fun, and all the other children would be jealous of him. He would stare out across the grags into the distance, trying his best to not move at all, not to blink, but also paying attention to his fingers and toes. As soon as one of them turned to stone he planned to jump and run about before the rest of him could turn. So far Jonathan hadn’t been able to stay still long enough, but he intended to keep trying.

Jonathan wished he had time for staring at the grags without blinking, but Mam Gertra hadn’t slowed down a bit nor said a word. The Colonel’s house was isolated from the rest of Charten House, beyond the garden and down a small path. Mam Gertra called it The Hermitage. Jonathan just called it Colonel’s House.

Jonathan liked Colonel. Although he was very old and stern, he wasn’t frightening or cruel, and he never lost his temper with Jonathan. He was certainly a serious man, but he seemed to possess a patience that Mam Gertra lacked. Colonel very rarely came up to the main house and when he did, it was quick, usually just to get supplies, and he returned just as promptly, without speaking a word to anyone. He never ate with Jonathan and the other children, always at his house, alone. Most of the children had never spoken with him at all and even told each other scary stories about him roaming the Graglands at night and devouring unruly children down to their bones. Jonathan laughed to himself, knowing they were just being silly, Colonel wasn’t a Scaryman at all. But he never told them, letting them believe what they wanted, and although he ignored their questions or gave the vaguest of answers, he secretly enjoyed their awed expressions when he returned from Colonel’s House unscathed, as though he was a triumphant Sancalore.

Every now and then Mam Gertra told him Colonel wanted to see him, and he dropped what he was doing to walk over to Colonel’s House and have tea. Colonel would ask him a few questions, about his day or what he did on some holiday while he sat and listened intently as Jonathan told him his stories. Colonel always seemed to quietly observe, only speaking to prod Jonathan on, contributing very little to the conversations himself. But Jonathan liked the tea.

That day seemed different though. Mam Gertra never walked with him to Colonel’s. And she was acting so strangely, striding rapidly and scattering gravel and dust, arms swinging in exaggerated arcs, yet in utter silence, with her mouth downturned and jaw protruding. He usually looked forward to talking to Colonel, he was the only person, other than Ol Joat, who seemed to really care about what Jonathan had to say, but now he was getting that funny feeling in his chest. He began to feel nervous and perhaps a little nauseous, like when he had to see the doctor and was worried he might get a shot.

When they got to Colonel’s door, Mam Gertra walked straight up and knocked, three hard, dull thuds. Something within the house, or possibly the walls themselves, rattled from her sudden onslaught. He pictured Colonel flinching at the violent disruption, shattering the normally tomblike silence of his home. She paused, tapping her foot. She blew out through her nose and banged three more times.

Coloneeel! Colonel!!

The door opened just enough for Colonel to poke his head out. He had a head full of white hair, always pushed straight back from his wide brow. Mam Gertra tried to push open the door and rush past, but he wouldn’t budge. He looked at her quietly, his eyes assessing, shadowed under his heavy brow as though examining the workings of her mind. He looked at Jonathan the same way. Jonathan withered under such intense scrutiny. Finally, he looked back to Mam Gertra.

For the love of Sad Carna, woman, what causes you to bring such early morning hostilities to my door? Are we under attack?

Mam Gertra pointed to Jonathan. Her finger almost poked him in the eye.

It’s the boy! she said, He had a dream! A dream of the Great-

So, no attack, Colonel interrupted.

No, she said, but-

The boy had a dream.

She nodded.

That’s all well and good, he said. You are both welcome and safe here, but you cannot be allowed to cross my portal in such a state of unrest. Calm yourself. Focus. Say the Quantome Mantra and let go of your anxieties before they spread and infect us all.

Mam Gertra looked at Colonel. He was still holding the door half closed, his body blocking access. She huffed, then nodded, in reluctant acquiescence. She looked down, eyes closed, and blew out slowly, dramatically through her mouth. Jonathan heard her mumbling something quietly. Although he couldn’t quite pick it up, she seemed to be repeating the same words over and over. She once again drew something in the air, this time with both hands, and leaning back, appeared to throw something invisible into the sky. She seemed more relaxed.

That’s better, Colonel said, opening the door. He still wasn’t smiling, he never did, but didn’t seem as angry. That was the first time he had ever seen Colonel raise his voice and it did little to calm his anxieties. He looked at Jonathan.

You’re not at ease either, but I guess you’ll just have to do.

Jonathan shrugged. He knew that was as close as Colonel ever came to joking. He followed Mam Gertra into the house, slumping, nervous, and confused.

Colonel led the way through the small house. His tall frame and broad shoulders blocked out any possible view of the interior. Jonathan already knew from years past that Colonel’s house was sparsely decorated and devoid of dust or clutter. The cottage was dim with the morning light just peeking under thick, closed blinds and the few items of furniture were dark wood and leather, instilling on the entire house an atmosphere as somber as the man himself. They marched straight to Colonel’s study, dropping unnoticed into a single file line, unconsciously effected by the man’s effortless militarism.

Colonel’s study was Jonathan's favorite place. It was the only space in the hermitage that had any sort of decoration, but it made up for the rest of the house. He marveled at the room, his gaze never rested as almost every available space was packed with all sorts of brass-colored metal objects, foreign to Jonathan, but exuding age and great importance. Some were hung on the walls, others stood majestically on shelves. There were paintings, all vaguely of Carran See origin, of people who were dressed strangely, kneeling or looking up at other men or women descending from the sky. Others were fighting with elaborate swords and archaic guns, and some were of space battles above strange, hypnotically portrayed planets. Many of the pictures had shiny metal attached to the images themselves, and although taking away from the realism, it added an air of consecration.

In a glass shelf, several guns were on display, some obviously antique and ornamental, while others were battered and seemed to be held together by colored strips of cloth. An old sword and what appeared to be a lance hung on opposing walls. Although Jonathan had asked many times, Colonel never let him play with any of them.

Two flags were draped from the walls, up high, near the ceiling. One of them was colorful and bright, the other was old, tattered, and stained with something dark. In the corner on a coat rack, always in the same place, was a long coat or robe. It was composed of dark brown or green colored cloth underneath some sort of metallic designs woven onto the fabric itself. The shapes ran up and down the length of the robe. The metal was burnished, dingy, drearily reflecting the scant morning light spilling through the window. Sometimes Jonathan thought the robe was the oldest thing in there. Sometimes he thought it was the oldest thing anywhere. But Colonel wouldn’t let him touch it, or even take it off the coat rack to display it fully to Jonathan. He wouldn’t even talk about it.

On Colonel’s big, dark wooden desk sat Jonathan’s favorite thing in the house. Actually, it was his favorite thing in the world. Above a small circular stand, floating several centimeters in midair, perched a hologram of a battleship. It rotated slowly, perpetually, revealing every angle. Jonathan was always mesmerized by the blunt, powerful beauty of the ship. He loved to look at the five mighty engines, and the wing-like maneuvering thrusters, and the words Dark Omen written on the side. He liked to get his face very close and see the fine details of the bristling cannons, and although Colonel explained the function of the various panels and flaps many times, Jonathan could never remember, and always asked again. Colonel told him he was once stationed on Dark Omen. He loved the ship very much and said it had once been like a home and a mother to him. Jonathan didn’t understand how a battleship could be like a mother, but every time he asked Colonel what happened to Dark Omen, he just looked away and wouldn’t say.

Jonathan liked to pretend he could see in the ship’s windows and sometimes convinced himself he could even see tiny people looking back at him, waving, or walking about, doing the kind of chores he imagined people on battleships were required to perform. Oftentimes Colonel would return from making tea, to find Jonathan frozen, face almost touching the hologram, staring slack jawed.

In the study, Colonel sat behind his desk and Jonathan sat down facing him as usual. Mam Gertra rested against the back wall, arms crossed. Colonel reclined back in his chair, and Jonathan leaned forward, gazing at the hologram. Colonel clapped his hands, making him jump and breaking Jonathan’s reverie before he became once again fixated on the ship.

So! My young man, what’s all this commotion you seem to have caused so early in the morning? Couldn’t you have resisted such antics until after lunch?

Mam Gertra leapt out of her corner, abruptly animated. She gesticulated behind Jonathan, her knees bumping against the back of his chair. Her bony arms flashed just within his field of vison, and he craned his neck cautiously to look back at her.

He’s seen the Eye of Corealus! He told me so! In a dream! It spoke to him!

Colonel held up his hand, wordlessly demanding calm from her once more. He turned to Jonathan who was wholly unnerved and wide eyed.

Tell me about this dream, Jonathan, he said in a calm, soothing voice, did you have it this morning or—

Mam Gertra interrupted him, coming forward to the desk, almost knocking Jonathan over with her hip. She waved her arms at Colonel, as if she could push the information into his head.

"It’s time, Colonel! It’s upon us, don’t you see? The time has finally— "

GERTRA! Colonel rose, suddenly towering over her. All tranquility had left his demeanor.

You will leave me with my charge, he said, not yelling, but his voice was forceful and commanding.

Mam Gertra was taken aback. Her eyes went wide with surprise. She stammered, searching for something to say. Colonel maintained hard eye contact with her, silent and waiting. She stopped stammering and set her jaw, throwing a Hmph! over her shoulder as she spun and stomped out of the room, then out of the house, slamming the door and rattling the walls once more.

Colonel continued standing after watching her go, one eyebrow cocked and a rare scowl upon his face. Then he sat slowly back down, regarding Jonathan. Nothing that had happened so far improved Jonathan’s apprehension. Quite the opposite.

So, tell me about this dream then, Jonathan.

It was the Corealus, Colonel, by that time Jonathan had heard it so many times he could say it correctly. He also felt he knew what the adults wanted to hear, he just didn’t know why. It was just a dream.

What about it, Jonathan? Colonel asked, his voice calm and reassuring.

It was a voice. I didn’t see nothing. Not like Mam Gertra said. It was just a voice.

Go on.

It said to see though the Corealus Eye.

Colonel looked puzzled.

You’re sure the voice said it like that? ‘See through the Corealus Eye?’

Yes, sir.

Colonel gazed down at his desk. He did this for so long that Jonathan began to feel his eyes being drawn toward the hologram of Dark Omen. He began to move inadvertently closer to it. Colonel eventually raised his head and turned around in his swiveling chair and opened a drawer in a cabinet behind him and began digging through it. He pulled out a picture. He held the picture down, facing the desktop, and looked at Jonathan as though lost in thought, or possibly a state of indecision, both very uncharacteristic of him. He then set his jaw and in one swift movement held the picture up to Jonathan.

Do you know what this is, Jonathan?

It was another of Colonel’s paintings inlaid with glossy, multicolored metal. For a moment Jonathan couldn’t catch his breath. It was a great circular swath made of gold, but the gold was layered over another swirl of bright blue metal or stone, which in turn was on top of a similar spiral of shiny red material. The way the light reflected off the image, the different colors gave the impression they were moving, spiraling, but it also seemed the layers were shifting up and down, vying for dominance. When he first glanced at the picture, it seemed the gold spiral was covering the blue, which was over the red. Now it seemed the blue was on top, and then the red… no, the red was on top. The colors wouldn’t let his eyes be still. It was impossible to say which color was dominant.

But it all seemed to haul his attention, irresistibly to the circle in the center of the picture… which was completely, utterly black. The blackest Jonathan had ever seen. The quarrelsome, twisting layers made the black center even darker and more motionless by contrast, and seemed to give it a depth that extended beyond the back of the painting, as though tempting the eye to peer sideways down the hole. Jonathan did just that.

So, Colonel asked after a while, do you recognize it?

The image was drawing him in, tugging him inevitably into that hungry, shadowy center. It held him more in its sway than the hologram ever had. With great effort he looked away from it and met the Colonel’s gaze.

There was something familiar about the picture. It felt like… something he’d always known but just couldn’t quite bring to the forefront of his mind. It was like a word he desperately wanted to remember, as though one word could save his life, but his brain wouldn’t help him find it. He knew, he knew, and he wanted to say it so badly…

Jonathan gazed back down at the picture. It began to pull him in again but with less force. It seemed to know what he was thinking. It seemed to know his struggle. It seemed to be watching…

Colonel silently observed him peering into it, the consternation on Jonathan’s face, his mental struggle evident. It was obvious he was striving to force his deficient mind to work. Colonel waited.

Suddenly Jonathan’s face lit up. He looked at Colonel wide eyed, and it was some moments before he could find the faculty of speech. Then his face lit up with a beatific expression and he said it.

It’s the Corealus Eye.

Colonel’s eyes lit up in a way Jonathan had never seen before. Was he smiling? Then his smile fell, he cocked his head, and squinted suspiciously.

You’re sure you know it, Colonel asked, you’re not just guessing, are you?

No, Jonathan replied, glancing away into the room’s meagre distance, "it really was there, in my dream… I just didn’t remember before. I think… maybe it was the big voice… telling me to look."

But it was more than that. Jonathan felt like he had known it from somewhere before, a long time ago. Maybe from when he was a little kid? Or a different dream?

What is it, Colonel? What is the Corealus Eye?

Colonel studied him for a moment, then sighed and answered.

It is what’s known as a black hole, a star that became so massive it poked a hole in the very fabric of the universe. There are countless black holes of all different sizes, but the Eye of Corealus is special. At least to the Carran See, and all of humanity. It’s the only one that speaks to us.

Speaks? Like Ayuwh?

Colonel looked at him strangely.

Ayuwh? What does that mean? Oh, you mean A.U. The Aware Universe.

No, Jonathan said, growing confused, The Aware Universe is mean and told the Cackling Father how to create the Ahnjen. Ayuwh is a good guy and helps people feel better. Ayuwh whispered to the Carran See and told them how to kill the Ahnjen demons.

Colonel paused again, staring at Jonathan and moved his mouth as though he were chewing something. He shook his head.

You’re mistaken, he eventually continued, "The A.U. and the Aware Universe are the same thing and it isn’t good or bad, it simply… is. And by the way, young man, the term A.U. is highly disrespectful, bordering on blasphemous. It appears some of these orphans have been a bad influence on you."

Even though he knew Colonel was always right, Jonathan couldn’t reconcile what had been two separate entities in his mind for so long. His entire life he had considered Ayuwh to be a friend of his, and often spoke with Him in his mind while lying in bed at night, or if he was lonely or afraid. But the Aware Universe always seemed cold and distant, allied with the Cackling Father and the Ahnjen.

"But the Aware Universe did help the Cackling Father, right?"

Colonel kept pausing after Jonathan’s questions, as though he couldn’t think of the words to say to him.

"I’m not sure how to explain this to you, Jonathan, but the one you call the Cackling Father discovered the Aware Universe. And he also has many names, most of which are less insulting, such as Patreonus. The Father of Gods. Or simply The Old Man. Although his real name has been lost to time."

I’ve never heard him called any good names. Only the Cackling Father.

Colonel glanced back over his shoulder with an exasperated sigh, as though he could see through the walls to the dining hall where the children had just held Twelfth Day.

No, he said, I don’t suppose you would.

Colonel took a deep breath and pressed on.

The Old Man was what was once called a scientist, which is like an explorer, a searcher of truth. He studied the Corealus Eye, before it had a name, and built a conduit, a portal leading into it called the Heli Salura. It is too small to be traversed by man or machine… but information could leak out. And he soon realized that the information could be interpreted, sometimes by the human mind. No one knows how he did it, some think it was similar to Acharya drive technology, but no one has been able to replicate it for over ten thousand years. There is only the one portal from which the Universe whispers, the Heli Salura and it is attached to the Eye of Corealus.

Colonel had been looking at his hands as he spoke, his fingers swirling and forming tiny portals, his eyes far away. He seemed startled when he finally looked up to be confronted with Jonathan’s vacant, slack jawed stare. Colonel stared at him, eyes wide, expectant, waiting for him to speak. Jonathan felt pressured to not let him down, but try as he might, he couldn’t quite corral the confused, drifting thoughts in his mind.

So… he began hesitantly, speaking before the words had fully formed, My dream of the Corealus Eye… there was no Hell Esal…

Heli Salura.

Heli Salura. I didn’t use the Heli Salura, right?

No. You did not.

But… then was it really just a dream or was it the Corealus Eye? Was it the Ayu- the Aware Universe?

That’s what I was wondering.

Colonel was quiet once more, staring down at his folded hands on the large, old desk. His eyebrows danced and his expression changed as if he were having a conversation with someone only he could see. The silence lasted so long that Jonathan forgot what they had been discussing and felt his attention being drawn away once more by the hologram of the ship.

Colonel suddenly leapt from his chair and began to rummage around the room, opening drawers, gathering things and piling them on his desk.

We have to go. Now.

Jonathan looked at him, mouth open. Colonel stomped quickly from the room, returning only moments later with a traveling bag. Jonathan saw there were clothes in it. Colonel began putting all the items he had gathered into the bag. He turned, stepping away from the desk, and when he returned, he was holding the old robe. He laid it carefully across his desk and began to gather and half it. The way he tucked the robe’s sleeves wasn’t how Jonathan folded his coat, it looked as though each crease had a meaning, something Colonel had done many times. Jonathan thought he could see Colonel’s lips moving, chanting as he folded the cloth in between the bronzed adornments. Jonathan thought that maybe it needed special folding because of all the metal on it. When he finished, the robe was in a perfect square. He put it in the bag.

Colonel walked over to the gun case. He hesitated, looked at Jonathan, then opened the case. He took out a large pistol, practically a hand cannon. It was one of the older, more worn guns in the collection. It had ragged cloth wrapped around the grip as well as its massive barrel. He put the gun in his bag.

Using the thick strap, he slung the bag over his shoulder and across his back with practiced ease. He grabbed a thick gray cloak from the coat rack.

Come on.

He marched to the door, and as he passed, he reached back, pulling Jonathan from his chair and along with him.

Outside, the morning wind was just as biting as earlier. It seemed to Jonathan that he’d been in Colonel’s house for a long time, but the sun and the direction of the graglines told him it was still early morning. Colonel walked swiftly with long, purposeful strides. He was still pulling Jonathan along, who was struggling to keep up on the rocky uneven terrain. Whenever he began to stumble, Colonel effortlessly held him up without slackening his pace.

When we get to the house, I want you to pack some clothes and get your coat. Maybe a book or toy or something, Colonel said.

Colonel thought he still played with toys. Jonathan was about to tell him toys were for babies when Colonel stopped. They were already at the backdoor of Charten House. Colonel slung his pack around to his chest, opened it, and pulled out another, smaller bag with two straps. He handed it to Jonathan.

Here. Now go upstairs and pack the things I told you. We’re going on a trip.

Jonathan’s eyes popped wide and his mouth dropped open. He was on the verge of cheering or jumping up and down, but Colonel interrupted his celebration before it could begin by opening the door, turning Jonathan around, and nudging him through with a firm hand on his back.

Now go up there and pack, he said, and hurry. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be waiting for you in the garage.

Jonathan did as he was told. He hurried. He hurried to such an extent that he stumbled twice going up the stairs, almost falling. He raced down the hall, bounding into his room. He got several quizzical looks from the children going about their chores in the hallway. He heard them pause from their sweeping and dusting to ridicule him, their idiotic mimicry echoed in his wake as though chasing him, but he didn’t care. He would show them. He was going on a trip with Colonel, something he nor any of the other children had ever done before. When they found out, all the children would be jealous and never make fun of him again.

He