Piercing the Bleak Chapter One

Xacquan doesn't know who she is, or where she is, or even that she is a "she". When she decides to stray from the Greylands and embark on the adventure of a lifetime, she opens her eyes to the world.

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t remember the exact moment that I acknowledged my own existance.  I mean, it must’ve happened sometime.  I know I exist.  Now, at least.  But how can I ever be sure that there wasn’t one point of time when I did not know I existed?  One point of time when…?

            And that bears the question.  What point of time was it, when I crossed from the realm of nonexistance to the realm of existance?  That I do not understand, either.

            What I do remember, though, is when I named myself.  I was standing beneath the tree I had named “the Cray,” right on the border of the Greylands.  The heat from the orange flows all around me warmed my bones, and the ragged Cray above me overlooked those flows, somber and melancholic in its demeanor and with its bare, bare branches and the lonely carvings in its trunk that mystified me ever time I’d see them.  The Cray �" it had been my companion for life.  At least, I believe so.  I could not remember my origins.

            I spoke to myself often, and to the Cray besides me.  But mostly myself, because the Cray would and could never speak back.  It was just a part of my surroundings, like any old rock or orange flow or green life-patch.  But it was different, too.  It had…sentimental value.  Yes, that was the Cray.  A projectile from the ground with sentimental value.  A special old tree.

            When I would speak to the Cray, and moreso to the Cray than myself, I would ask it things.  “What is the nature of the orange flows?” I would ask.  Or, “Why is the sky grey?”  But of course, my companion would stay silent, gazing wistfully over the orange flows as always.  It was a curious fellow, the Cray �" silent and stiff but with an air of wisdom around it.

            Sometimes, I would ask the Cray about figments from my dreams.  “What were the other voices in my dream?” I’d ask.  “Who were the figures that stood like me, two legged and two armed with eight fingers and two thumbs and bumps on their faces where my scent-feature is, and modest enough to clothe themselves as I do?”  Which would lead to the question, “What am I, the Cray?” 

            And the Cray would never answer.

            There came a point in time that I realized that the Cray did not have a voice like I did, and that was when I started speaking mostly to myself.  So when the question arose in my mind �" “What am I?” �" I would answer it myself. 

            “You are a four fingered, two thumbed, two armed, two legged creature with a bump on your face where the scent-feature is.  You have an ability like no other, and that is the ability of speech.  You are modest so when without clothing, you forge and wear garments.  You are special, an anomaly among all the other projectiles from the surface of the ground.  You are mobile and you are curious.  You can get injured, such as if you misjudge your steps and fall to the ground.  You are invincible, despite this, able to manipulate all that is around you except for the orange flows, but they are not attacking you anyways.”

            But saying that to myself every time became too wordy, and used too much breath.  Repeating it would exhaust my lungs.  I decided, like the orange flows, the Cray, and the rocks, that I would have a singular word to describe me, too.  So I thought about it, thought long and hard about what I would want a specimen such as I am to be called.  And finally, I decided.

            “You are the Xacquan,” I declared, proudly,  only to turn my head to the Cray, rest my hand on its rough surface, and introduce myself.  “You have known me for a long time, the Cray, but now I bear a title, too.  I am the Xacquan.  And I chose Xacquan, because it brings to mind the creatures in my dreams, creatures that were much smaller than you but could grace heights as tall as you.  They were colorful creatures, and they had long, long double tails that floated behind them as they soared up above.  They were fantastic, the Cray.  And I wish they were not only in my dreams.”

            The Cray didn’t speak, of course.  Instead we sat, contented acquaintances beside each other, savoring for days the fact that I now had a name.

            And every night, when darkness overtook the greyness of my surroundings, my mind would grow tired of thinking about my identity and the Greylands and the orange flows and the Cray, and my vision would begin flashing in front of me.  I would yearn for nothing more than to curl up at the trunk of the Cray, sink my teeth into its soft bark-projections, and feed as I drifted away to the place of my dreams.

            My dreams… They were a whole different world.  Like nothing I’d ever seen.  I can’t even comprehend how I, raised in such a grey world, with the exception of the orange flows, could create such magnificent fantasies.  I would dart through forests of creatures similar to those brought to mind by my Xacquan name, and discover new creatures by the minute.  I felt such happiness there, immersed in the pleasure-world of my dreams.

 

            I also remember when I decided to run away.  I suppose the dreams were the root of the depression that fell over me one day as I was sitting by the Cray, staring out at the orange flows and thinking.   The many hours I took staring at the orange flows and sitting by the Cray were nothing in comparison to my vibrant dreams.  I wanted to see, truly see, what was in my dreams.  I wanted to taste and touch and feel and hear everything that was not the steady bubbling of the orange flows, or the rickety noise the Cray would sometimes make as the winds blew through.  This, the place that had sustained me ever since I realized my existance, could satisfy me no longer.

            That is when the Cray and I parted ways.  I placed my weathered hand upon its rough surface and whispered, my speech feature as close it could get, “Goodbye, my trusty Cray.  I can no longer tell you my dreams.  But one day, I will return.  I will tell you all my adventures then, all my sorrows and joys and successes and failures.  And maybe then, you will be ready to speak to me.” 

            But it didn’t feel right to leave the Cray just like that.  It was always there for me, and it felt like betrayal.  So gently, ever so gently, I snapped off a piece of the Cray’s rough surface.  I put my forehead to the body of the Cray and sobbed, holding the piece to my chest and repeating how we would always, always be together.  No matter what.  And for the first time in my existance, a flavorful liquid poured from my eyes and I tasted the saltiness upon my lips.

            And the Cray stood there, calm and motionless.  Expressionless, even.  It seemed to be telling me, in its silent, silent way, ‘I cannot help you here any longer, my dear Xacquan.  I cannot do anything else for you.’

            Nevertheless, I wrapped my arms around the Cray.  But it felt as if I was wrapping my arms around something without sentimental value, something that was not as dear as it should be.  I viewed that as a personal fault.  No more could the Cray watch over me.  But no more could I treasure the Cray as I always had.

            “Goodbye,” I finally said, and headed out into the Greylands around me.  The Cray didn’t follow, couldn’t follow.  But the orange flows were more desperate to keep me confined.  They leapt up and bit my ankles, and I cried and jumped and ran.  The Greylands crackled beneath my toes, smothering my feet in blackness and crawling up my legs.

 

            I ran for many nights, ran until I could no more.  I fainted, revived, and found some trees that were like the Cray but different.  They fed me and gave me enough energy to carry on running through the Greylands.

            The days, they passed, and after more than a week, I came to believe that the figures in my dreams were all in my head.  I suppose they only were.

            I tried to remain hopeful.  I really made the effort.  But hopefulness only goes so far when all one can see, far out around, is blackness and the occasional orange flow.  Trees for sustaining my energy were growing sparse.  But hope was growing more sparce.

            Soon, all I longed for was the protective shadow of the Cray, and the wisdom that emitted from its dependable sustenance.  I would hold its fragment to me as the liquid poured from my eyes and dotted its rough, dark grey surface.

            Grey.  Cray.  That is how my protector earned its name.

            Xacquan.  What is a Xacquan?  Just an individual looking for the nonexistant.  The sense of futility was becoming overwhelming; even the dreams were beginning to show themselves in darker shades.

            There came a time that I curled up next to a tree that was not the Cray, and I attached myself to its rough surface and drank.  As my eyelids grew heavy, I decided that I would stay in the dream world when it came.  I would never wake up again.

Author's Note

Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Reviews

[C. Lee Battaglia]

Wow! This is so deep and powerful! I really like it a lot! To figure out who we are is the main point of life!
You showed that very well in this story!
No one can tell us who we are or what we do besides us. We need to figure out our own story and you are so good at showing that!
Keep on writing!

C. Lee Battaglia

[>>AMV]

Thank you so much for the encouraging review, and that's right. If life is an autobiography, only one's self can write it.
I'm glad you liked it; thanks again!

[C. Lee Battaglia]

Your welcome! Keep up the good work!

[Laura Lynn]

very philosophic, to name yourself and question your own existence, it is an invaluable self-defense when we need to figure out who to know and how to deal with conflict, very rational, though it's hard to feel for others and empathize with too many people when we are lacking in some aspect of life, we are always having some struggle, lacking in some aspect of life, whether it is love or friendship or earthly belongings, job security, failure of any kind whatsoever occurring from out judgements and assessments of varying thing in this earth...though now here the character is in another plane

[>>AMV]

Very true. I was hoping to portray this concept in some way, and I'm so glad you can see it. Thank you so much for your review, very much appreciated.