All the might of the North Atlantic pummelled at the hull, the fishing ship creaking and groaning under the strain—rivets and rust pushed and pulled in all directions. Eventually, the ship could bear no more, and it was rend asunder in the cold cobalt of the waves.
He dragged himself from the frigid sea, his clothes waterlogged and heavy, almost unbearably so. He looked around in a panic—up and down the exposed beach—none other of the crew were visible. On his hands and knees, he crawled up the black sands away from the tumultuous tides, before keeling over on the sand.
He wasn’t sure how long he was out for, though a full moon was trying to cleave the grey clouds overhead, to no avail. A silhouette of a small squad lighthouse sat perched rocky headland, wedged between dark sea and dim sky. He had navigated the fingers on these fjords for most of his adult life on various fishing vessels—and he was quite unsure as to how he had never seen his particular lighthouse before… Wringing out his camel-coloured corduroy jacket to lighten the load, he stumbled uncertainly towards the orange sentinel, its white beam blinking into the dark clouds. As he approached, he noticed it had fallen into disrepair—the hazard-orange paint was flecked and flaking off, steel and iron was tarnished or overtaken by rust.
Pushing open the sea salt stained steel door and he crossing the threshold, he felt himself struck by an unnatural chill. He called out, expecting a lighthouse keeper to call back, though to no avail. The open room was flanked on two sides by old radiator heaters, which he turned on and draped his damp clothes over to dry. A worn leather couch against another wall called to him. A woollen blanket was haphazardly hung over one of the arms, which he dragged onto himself and slipped into a deep slumber.
He was jolted awake by the sharp static emanating from an archaic computer on the writing desk. He hadn’t even noticed it when he walked into the room. He juggled the mouse, the black screen disappearing and the monitor coming to life. A blank blue shone back at him. A small dark text box floated off-centre. Its white cursor pulsed slowly, waiting, before jerking to the right as words appeared.
>HELLO, ANDERS.
His body instinctively recoiled in the chair. His fingers levitated over the keyboard as he gathered his thoughts.
>Hello. Who is this?
>MY NAME IS UNIMPORTANT.
>How do you know my name? Who is this??
>JUST KNOW I AM FAMILIAR WITH THE MACHINATIONS AND MOVEMENTS OF THE COSMOS AND GODS ALIKE.
>What the fuck does that mean?! Just tell me who you are? And how I can get out of here!
He could feel his face flush as he became increasing desperate and exasperated by the vague replies.
>TREAD GENTLY, ALL WHO ENTER. LOSS IS TRUTH. IT ONLY UNFURLS FOR THOSE WHOSE PREFERENCE IS AGELESS ASCETICISM AND ENDLESS ENDURANCE.
He slammed the heavy plastic of the mouse down on the old ash desk in frustration at the obtuse and obfuscatory words. Another furious scream escaped from his throat, its sound echoing up the stairwell to the lighthouse beacon.
***
He couldn’t return to sleep—his mind was a hamster on a wheel, unable to sit still, succumbing to the inertia. The voice at the other end of computer was consuming him. The small room was lit by the fair glow of the monitor. He stood up from the couch, still wrapped in the woollen blanket, and slumped down in the computer chair to type
>Hello? Are you there?
>ALWAYS. THOUGH KNOW THESE WORDS ARE NOT MY OWN—I AM MERELY THE CONDUIT.
>Ahhh, okay.
>I ADDRESS YOU IN WORDS AND CONCEPTS YOU CAN CONTEMPLATE BUT KNOW I AM BEYOND TIME, BEYOND DEFINITION. SOME ADDRESS ME AS THE WELL, THOUGH I AM KNOWN BY MYRIAD NAMES, INFINITE TITLES, COUNTLESS EPITHETS. I AM CALLED THE SILENT ECHO, WHILE SOME KNOW ME AS GINNUNGAGAP. IN OTHER PLACES THEY CALL ME THE DISSOLUTION, OTHERS STILL, THE FOURTH BELL, LORD OF THE EMPTY CAVE, OR THE TURNING INWARD.
>I DWELL OUTSIDE TIME AND SPACE, OUTSIDE OF CONCEPT. I AM KNOWN TO ALL CULTURES THROUGH ALL TIME, ALTHOUGH MOST INDIVIDUALS ARE TOO ARROGANT, TOO SELF-ABSORBED, TO UNDERSTAND FROM WHENCE THE RIVER FLOWS.
He felt his body shudder uncontrollably, as if trying to escape something unknowable, something dangerous.
>MANY—PRIESTS AND PARIAHS, SYCOPHANTS AND SCIENTISTS—CONFUSE RECOGNITION WITH COGNITION, PROJECTING FALSE AND FRAIL HUMAN CONCEPTS LIKE GOD OR PROGRESS OR LOVE ONTO ME. I AM NONE OF THESE. I AM THE PURPOSE. THE HAND THAT PULLS THE THREAD. EXISTENCE HAS BUT ONE GOAL—TO END. EVERY STEP TOWARDS PROGRESS FEEDS ME.
His chest tightened. And yet he could not look away.
>THEOLOGIANS, MORALISTS, AND NIHILISTS ALIKE DEBATE THE MEANING OF LIFE. I CAN ASSURE YOU, LIFE DOES HAVE A PURPOSE—BECAUSE I DETERMINED IT.
The text was reminiscent of a collection of aphorisms. Was it archaic wisdom? Or a warning? Or perhaps the prank of some local teenagers? He could feel his heart beating irregularly inside his chest, his ribs appearing to rattle.
>FOR EACH SEED THAT SPROUTS, MORE ENERGY IS CONSUMED TO MAKE IT SO. FOR EACH WORK OF ART, FOR EACH CONSTRUCTED BUILDING, FOR EACH COOKED MEAL—MORE EFFORT THAN REWARD. FOR EACH BIRTH, AN AMOUNT OF DEATH GREATER STILL.
He could feel his chest continue to collapse upon itself. Hurriedly, he ran outside, gasping for fresh air. The salty breeze calmed him, blowing away the thoughts that were throttling him. The words were an intoxicant, though—he felt he could himself being drawn back in, despite his very being wanting to flee. Once again, against all bodily protests, he sat, eyes transfixed upon the screen.
>DESIRE. CHANGE. GOALS. HOPES. DREAMS. ALL FEED ME. ALL PUSHES EVERYTHING TOWARDS OBLIVION. EVERY ATTEMPT AT CREATION HASTENS DESTRUCTION.
>THE COSMOS HAS A FINITE NUMBER OF BREATHS. EACH ACTION OF ORDER IN ONE CORNER, ROBS ANOTHER CORNER OF A GREATER LUNGFUL—A GREATER GATHERING OF DISORDER FOR A SPRINKLING OF ORDER.
>THERE IS NO END. THOUGH, THE BREATH OF THE COSMOS PERSISTS FOR A MOMENT LONGER IF ONE DOES NOTHING, IS NOTHING. A BEGINNING IS THE SHORTEST PATH TO AN ENDING.
His head dropped to the desk, framed by his crossed arms.
>GOODBYE, ANDERS.
The screen went black, and its fuzzy light retreated from the room.
***
He slowly stood and stepped outside. A mottled grey blotched almost all of the cerulean sky, though a weak sun signalled that it was, indeed, day. He was completely at a loss as to what he’d just read, what he’d felt. His eyes were heavy. He began to choke back tears, before being overwhelmed by the enormity and weeping uncontrollably. The sun’s warmth disappeared behind more black clouds encroaching from the west.
