Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Joran stood in front of two statues—a girl to the left and a boy to the right. Each carried a basin with a towel draped over an arm, servants ready to wash someone’s feet. Carved out of fine-grained hardwood and as tall as his waist, their colors provided a stark contrast to the white backdrop. The girl emanated a violet glow, while the boy blushed indigo, and their eyes radiated yellow. A thin wooden pole stretched across the one-pace gap between them, ending at their shoulders where they held it in place with a hand. A lamb carved from red cherry wood hung under the pole, recently slaughtered and now carried by these smiling children who likely hoped to serve their guests a fine meal.

  Reaching out, Joran touched the pole. It felt tingly, the way the air sizzled when a dragon shot a stream of flames nearby. As if reacting to the tingle, the lyre tucked under his arm vibrated, though it made no sound in this realm of silence.

  As he rubbed the pole’s smooth wood, drops of red fell from the lamb to the white floor. The rate of dripping increased until the lamb and the space beneath transformed into a curtain of red, undulating and shimmering, like a sea of sparkling blood churning in the sunlight.

  Keeping his finger on the pole, Joran studied the sight. This time four colors showed themselves. Maybe this was a gateway leading to four different ovula.

  He slid his sandal from his foot and pushed it through the red curtain. When he lifted his finger, the curtain slowly faded away, revealing nothing but white on the other side. His sandal was gone.

  Looking back the way he had come, Joran searched the vast whiteness for any sign of Tamiel. Nothing appeared, not even the orange or blue gateways he had passed through earlier.

  Joran touched the pole again, and the flow of red returned. Clutching the lyre close to his chest, he lowered himself to his knees, ducked his head, and scooted through the curtain. Warm liquid soaked his tunic, as if real blood poured down from the pole. The sensation was soothing, healing, satisfying, better than the hot sulfur springs in Enoch’s pool.

  Still on his knees, Joran felt his tunic—dry, no trace of blood. He looked back. The pole was gone. Only a field of yellowed grass lay all around, apparently endless. At the point where the pole should have been, a line of red fire burned atop the grass, though it didn’t consume the blades. The dimensions of the flames matched the gateway, the same height as the pole, the same width as the gap between the two statues, and barely any depth at all. Using an index finger, he touched the fire. Although it stung with prickly heat, it didn’t melt his skin.

  His sandal lay next to the fire, cool and unscorched. After putting it back on, he looked in the direction he had been crawling. The grass field ended abruptly at a line where the yellow met a wall of red. Above, without sun or moon, a dismal crimson sky stretched across the heavens, somehow providing normal light without a reddish tint.

  He stood and plucked the lyre’s A string until Selah’s image formed. She sat cross-legged, floating in place.

  “Selah,” he called. “We’re in a new ovulum.”

  She rose to her feet. “Which one?”

  “I crawled through a gateway that had four colors—red, yellow, violet, and indigo.”

  She set her hands on her hips and looked down at the grass. “It looks like yellow here and red far away. You might be able to walk from one ovulum right into the other.”

  “Could be.” Joran continued plucking the string. “I’ll explore and see what I can find.”

  Selah turned her gaze toward him. “Have you seen Tamiel?”

  “No, but I don’t think I would see him or hear him even if I wanted to. I’m just assuming he’s always around.”

  “Good idea.” As she looked at his playing hand, she extended her own hand toward it. “You’d better stop. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get anything done.”

  “I’ll bring you back if something important happens.” When he rested his hand, Selah slowly disappeared. Tucking the lyre under his arm, he shuffled toward the wall of red. What was there to do but march onward? Understanding this puzzling path apparently wasn’t a prerequisite for completing it.

  As his sandaled feet brushed the grass, violet and indigo plants waded to each side, as if hurrying to get out of the way. He paused and stooped next to one of the ten-inch-high stalks. Since it had only a pod-like bud on top and no blossom, it was impossible to identify. Maybe it wasn’t yet time for it to bloom.

  He studied the indigo pod—a thumb-sized oval with eyelets and a thin mouth. Two leaflets, one growing from each side of the main stalk, drew in and covered its face. The entire plant trembled, as if frightened.

  Three other plants edged closer but stayed out of reach, their eyelets wide.

  “Don’t be scared,” Joran said softly. “I won’t hurt you.” He reached to pet one, but it dodged his touch, shivering harder.

  Withdrawing his hand, Joran scanned the sea of purple. At least a hundred similar plants had gathered around, each one looking on with curiosity-filled eyes. They pushed through the dirt with two leg-like stalks, as if walking, and as they brushed past the yellow blades, the soil sealed behind them, leaving the grass undisturbed.

  “Who are you?” Joran called out.

  A few tilted their pods to the side, while others blinked, as if not understanding. One of the smallest plants caught his attention. With wider eyes than most, it stared at him as if mesmerized. Like a whispering wind, soft voices rose from among them and brushed against his face, cooling his skin. “Who are you?” they said, the sound like rustling leaves as they echoed his question.

  “I am Joran, son of Methuselah. I have come here searching for a way of escape from the ovula.”

  The plants began to lift their side stalks, and the voices grew into a bustling breeze that brushed back Joran’s hair. “Take us with you. Please. Take us with you.”

  As the plaintive call repeated again and again, Joran waved his hand. “Wait. Calm down. You haven’t told me who you are yet.”

  While most quieted, one of the taller ones, a plant with slightly yellowed stalks, edged closer and spoke in a breezy, feminine voice. Her words came out in frightened whispers, as if someone might crush her at any moment. “I have chosen the name Mendallah. We are spawns from the lower realms. We were growing, learning, hoping someday to uproot and walk among the sons of men, but when our keeper thought us too weak for his purpose, he threw us into a fire. Then we awoke here in this field of yellow, neither growing nor bearing fruit. We have been here for countless years, knowing there is more to our lives than wondering what our creator wishes to do with us. We have been waiting endless days for his will to be revealed, watching events in the outside world and learning the various languages in order to prepare for the day of our rescue.”

  Mendallah bowed her head-like pod. “If you, kind sir, will help us, we will be most thankful.”

  “But how?” Joran asked. “If I uproot you, you’ll die.”

  Mendallah’s hair-thin lips turned upward. “You can scoop up soil and put us into pots. Even if it takes a long time to collect enough pots to transport us, we are willing to wait.”

  “You’re willing to wait?” Joran looked into Mendallah’s tiny eyes. Although they were little more than slits, they seemed filled with passion. Of course, doing as she asked was probably impossible. Where would he find pots? How would he haul the plants out? And what would he do with them? Reroot them and see what they would become?

  “I’ll tell you what I can do,” Joran said. “When I find the key to get out of here, I will see if there is a way to take you with me, but for now, I have to leave and do what I came here to do.”

  The voices built up again, creating a swirling wind. “No! Do not leave without us! It has been so long, so terribly long!”

  “Patience!” Joran shouted. As the word left his lips, it created a breeze of its own and brushed the plants back, silencing them and briefly turning their stalks as yellow as the grass.

  When they reverted to
their original colors, they closed in on him and lifted their voices in a rush of rustling words. “Take us! Take us!”

  “You’re hopeless!” Joran rose and strode toward the red horizon, dodging the plants.

  They continued shouting, “We cannot stay here! Do not leave us behind!”

  As their voices faded behind him, the sound of his own words echoed in his mind. You’re hopeless! The words stung. They were true, of course, but what good had he done by reminding them of their desperate state? At least he could walk from place to place and try to get out. They could do nothing but wade in the soil, hoping that a deity-like being would come along and collect them one by one and take them to a better place, though they had no idea what that better place might be like. Yet, any new place had to be better than this field of yellow.

  Joran halted. Yellow meant patience. These poor souls, whoever they were, had practiced patience for a long time, but they certainly hadn’t perfected it. Maybe if he could inject some positive vision into their miserable lives, they could gain some hope. It was the least he could do … and maybe the most he could do.

  He turned and looked at the sea of indigo and purple faces staring back at him. He knelt and strummed the lyre’s four highest strings, A through D, and began a song Father taught him long ago.

  My journey takes a thousand steps

  To gain the wisdom I must learn;

  I dance in light, through darkest nights,

  While you shed tears till I return.

  So sing this song to bide the time;

  A sprout must grow from root to stalk,

  And truth reminds the earthbound minds,

  To dance, you first must learn to walk.

  As he played and repeated the words, Selah appeared in front of the strings. Like a swaying mist, she danced along, her arms and legs moving in flawless beauty. The plants stood motionless, their little mouths agape.

  When Joran reached the final note, he stretched it out in a hum and continued plucking the A string. Selah finished her dance with an elegant twirl and spread out her arms as if expressing the joy of mobility.

  The plants waded closer. They crowded around quietly, their side stalks pressed together in front as if in prayer or worship. The smallest plant, however, stayed back and continued staring, tiny specks of blue sparkling in its eyes.

  Joran dubbed that plant Zohar, because of its brightness. For some reason it seemed more intelligent than the others. “Now,” he said as he continued playing Selah’s string, “here is what you have to do. I want each of you to push together a pile of dirt, enough to fill a pot.”

  “Joran,” Selah said with a tone of warning. “Are you sure they can do this?”

  “Of course they can. It’ll take some effort, but they’re capable.”

  “Okay.” Her tone shifted to one of skepticism. “If you’re sure.”

  “When your pile is finished,” he continued, “stand next to it and wait. When I return with the key, I will take those who have completed their task.”

  While the other plants cheered, Mendallah bowed her head and spoke in her rustling voice. “We are able to gather soil, though it is toilsome. They cry for joy now, but will this joy last?”

  “Maybe they need a little more incentive.” Still plucking the string, Joran swept his gaze across the animated plants. “Tell them that those who aren’t ready when I return will be in big trouble, because I will set the field ablaze, and those I leave behind will burn.”

  “Joran!” Selah cried.

  “What?”

  She folded her arms in front and looked away. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Joran rose and scanned the plants. “If you don’t want to burn, be ready.” He pivoted and walked toward the red horizon again, the breeze from their voices flapping his tunic as he continued playing the A. When he passed out of earshot, he looked at Selah. “What are you so upset about?”

  She moved her hands to her hips. “Why did you threaten those poor little plants?”

  “I’m just doing what Elohim did, except with fire instead of water.”

  “And exactly how do you plan to start a fire? I don’t see any flint around here.”

  “There are other ways. I’ll find something.”

  “I hope not.” Selah’s frown deepened. “Even if you could start a fire, who are we to judge who is worthy and who is not?”

  “Someone has to. There’s no way I can take them all, so the ones who get the job done are probably the most worthy. The rest live pathetic, worthless lives anyway.”

  “Joran?” She blinked at him. “Are you really my brother? Are you really the warrior who hunts demons to rid the world of evil?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re supposed to be an instrument of Elohim, not Elohim himself. You can’t make such judgments. Besides, what did we have to do to prove ourselves and escape the flood? Nothing!”

  “I have no idea why I escaped, but you had faith, and you proved it by your righteousness. Noah proved his faith by working a hundred years building an ark. I’m just asking them to prove theirs.”

  “Joran, you’re treading on dangerous ground. Elohim decided to flood the world because the people were evil, not to goad them into becoming righteous.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t have much choice. I have to make a decision. For all I know, they might be evil, so I have to give them a test to see what kind of plants they are.”

  Keeping her hands on her hips, Selah gave him a long, hard stare. “And what kind of plant were you, Joran, when Elohim rescued you?”

  Joran focused on the red wall, now drawing closer. What could he say? Elohim hadn’t given him what he deserved.

  “Help them first,” Selah continued. “Even an evil heart can be conquered by love.”

  As her words dug into his mind, they gouged a painful divot. She had talked about love and faith so many times, practically memorizing Father’s nightly lessons, and it all sounded so good, so wonderful. Who wouldn’t fall down and worship a loving deity who obliterated every horrible deed a person had ever done? Who wouldn’t want a fresh start, free from a haunting past?

  Yet, Elohim didn’t work that way. He threatened everyone with destruction if they didn’t do what he demanded, and untold thousands drowned in his watery retribution. Such was the love of Elohim.

  “Do you mind if I stop playing your string for a while? My fingers are getting tired.”

  “It’s all right, Joran. I understand.” Selah lowered herself and sat cross-legged. “You have a lot to think about.”

  Still walking, he held the lyre’s frame with both hands and watched her disappear, then, looking through the strings, he gazed at the red wall in the distance, now much closer. A man knelt in front of the wall, his hands folded, as if in prayer.

  Joran slowed his pace. Might he be Tamiel?

  “Come, stranger,” the man called, “and I will show you events that very few people witnessed. And fewer have survived to tell the tales.”

  Joran hurried to join him. “I am—”

  “I know who you are.” The man rose to his feet, turned, and smiled. Dried tear tracks smudged his cheeks. “Joran, the Listener.”

  Joran looked him over. In his thirties and dressed in unusual garb that covered his arms, legs, and feet, he didn’t seem familiar. “How do you know me?”

  “I am an old friend of yours. You do not recognize me, of course, because I have changed a great deal. Yet, I am surprised that you have not changed. Millennia have passed, and you have not aged at all.”

  Joran studied his sincere face. The only way he could have been a friend would be if he somehow rode in the ark, but he certainly didn’t look like any of Noah’s sons. “What is your name?”

  “Timothy, but you know me by another name.”

  “And that name is …” Joran prodded.

  “I will show you who I am in a moment.” Timothy reached out and laid a palm o
n the red wall. Pushing to his right, he slid the redness out of the way, as if drawing a curtain open.

  Behind the curtain lay a water-laden field with Noah’s ark in the middle. Droplets poured from the sky, and low clouds swirled. Two dragons, one red and one tawny, stood on the deck and looked down upon the growing flood.

  Joran took a step closer and touched the wall. It seemed that power emanated from the surface, passing through his arm and into the lyre. Selah, still sitting cross-legged, appeared again in front of the strings.

  “Joran?” She rose to her feet. “I didn’t hear the A note.”

  “I didn’t play it. I don’t know why you appeared.”

  Selah stared at the wall. “I know those dragons. Makaidos and Thigocia.”

  “Correct,” Timothy said. “Now watch quietly. Listen and learn.”

  Joran stood at the man’s side. Even though he no longer touched the wall, Selah’s image stayed intact, apparently energized by the radiance emanating from the scene. It had started out as a two-dimensional painting, but now it looked so deep, so real, it seemed that if he were to jump, he might splash into the rising water. A moist breeze blew across his face, and sounds from the ark reached his ears.

  “I cannot leave my father!” Makaidos shouted as he beat his wings, apparently getting ready to fly from the ark’s deck.

  “We must go!” Thigocia bit his tail and pulled him down.

  Makaidos jerked his tail away. “Don’t make me fight you!”

  Scarlet light flashed on all sides. A pulsing ball of fire descended from the clouds, egg-shaped, like a huge ovulum. Fingers of flame sprouted from the egg and pierced the ground, giving birth to geysers of muddy water. Thunder rumbled, and torrents of rain veiled the ark, leaving only flailing arms visible as people fought to keep their heads above the raging waters.

  Another red dragon, as large as Makaidos, floundered in the surge. Red beams emanated from his eyes and pierced the black clouds above. “To you, Maker of All,” he shouted, “I commit my spirit!”

  Joran reached out. “Arramos!”

  A few seconds later, Arramos submerged, along with dozens of humans who could no longer fight the current. The ark floated atop the waves and drifted into the distance, becoming a tiny craft in the midst of the stormy swells.