Challenger and Keeper
At the beginning of spring, an unusual flower blooms in a meadow. The other flowers in the meadow have five petals; this has six. The other flowers are red, orange, or yellow; this is purple. The others smell sweet; this smells of spices.
“It’s beautiful!” says Challenger. They stoop to look closer. “I have never seen anything like it — a reinvention of what a flower can be!”
Keeper smiles at Challenger’s enthusiasm. “And yet,” says they, “it is still only a flower. A new incarnation, but a very old soul.”
“And what is the point of old souls, if not reincarnation?” asks Challenger, raising their eyebrows in mockery of their elder.
Keeper, wryly: “What is the point of reincarnation, if not to learn from old souls?”
Moving on from the meadow, the travelers encounter a creek running clear and cold over a bed of stones. Here they fill their waterskins and wash their faces.
“Soon,” says Keeper, “I will show you the place where all creeks begin.”
“Is that where we travel to?” asks Challenger.
“Indirectly. Our pilgrimage must first visit two other sites.”
And so Challenger and Keeper continue on for several days, across many more miles and streams. Finally, they arrive at the Edge of the world. Here there are no flowers nor meadows (as the climate is not especially temperate at the Edge of the world). Keeper instructs Challenger to peer over the Edge.
“Oh! It’s very bright and hot down there. It hurts my eyes!” says Challenger. “What is it?”
“It is parent Chaos. It is the source of all the energy in the world.”
Challenger beholds Chaos and feels comforted by its warmth, but terrified by its conflagration. Keeper beholds Chaos and is not shaken.
“Where does Chaos come from, Keeper?” asks Challenger.
“It hails from the beginning,” replies Keeper. “From Chaos sprang time, and change, and heat. Without it, neither you nor I could be.”
“I see,” says Challenger. Turning now to address the light beneath the world: “Well-met, parent Chaos. I will honor you as best I can.”
After observing a moment of silence, Challenger and Keeper depart the Edge of the world. Traversing across wide grasslands, the pair soon enter the foothills and begin climbing into the mountains.
On the first day of their ascent, they climb high enough that there are no longer any plants around them. On the second day, they climb high enough that they must look down to see the clouds. And on the third day, they climb higher still—higher even than the stars in the sky. At last, they reach the Top of the world.
“It’s awful dark here,” says Challenger, “and chilly, too.”
The summit is so quiet that they can hear their own heartbeat. An encompassing, inky void permeates forever in all directions. They hesitate a moment before asking:
“What is in the darkness?”
“It is parent Stillness,” says Keeper. “It is the death of all the energy in the world.”
Challenger gazes into Stillness, and feels comforted by its stability, but terrified by its suffocation. Keeper gazes into Stillness and feels a nagging pull.
“Where does Stillness come from, Keeper?” asks Challenger.
“It hails from the end,” replies Keeper. “From Stillness arose structure, and rules, and cold. Without it, neither you nor I could be.”
“I see,” says Challenger, “or at least, I think I see.” Then, addressing the dark above the world: “Well-met, parent Stillness. I will honor you as best I can.”
Now, having paid respect to this second parent, the shivering travelers trek back down the mountain. At the bottom, they chart their next steps.
“We have been to meet parent Chaos at the Edge of the world, and parent Stillness at the Top of the world. Where, young one, do you suppose we will go next?” asks Keeper.
“To the Center of the world?”
Keeper smiles. “Correct—you are keen! We will go to the Center of the world.”
At the Edge of the world and the Top of the world, the air is dry and the ground is rocky. Both are mostly desolate. The Center, however, is quite different! As the travelers approach it, they confront thicker and thicker vegetation. And the sound! Compared to the dull roar of the Edge or the silence of the Top, the Center of the world is symphonic. Insects buzz, whir, chirp; birdsong is constant. Water drips and splashes onto leaves and in streams, and breezes stir the branches of whispering ranks of trees. The air is damp and temperate, and shimmering mist hangs in the canopy.
Challenger searches the trees for brightly-plumed birds and comments cheerily with each one they find. Thus occupied, they are startled when they step out of the rainforest and into a clearing five miles across. The jungle ends abruptly here, as it would be irreverent for it to encroach any further, yet Challenger feels inexplicably welcome in this place. Now the ground turns from loam to shale rock clinking under their feet, like broken pottery. Before them: an irregular tessellation of foot-tall shelves of stone, with clumps of moss living in the nooks and crannies. Streams cascade from shelf to shelf, occasionally resting in shallow pools (but mostly tumbling down into the jungle). The travelers’ eyes trace the streams backwards, they tilt their heads upwards, and at last, they spy the source.
In the exact center of the clearing — the exact Center of the world, in fact — stands an unusually large tree.
The trunk: wide enough that its curvature is imperceptible to one standing beside it. The branches: twisted, knotted, striking into the sky like upside-down lightning bolts, each wide enough to build a village atop. The highest of these cannot even be seen, for they disappear into the clouds. The leaves: evergreen mainsails billowing in the wind.
It takes the travelers nearly another hour to reach the base of the tree. The closer they draw, the more impressed Challenger grows. Around one mile out, the shale-shelves begin to interweave with the roots of the colossus — great serpentine roots, thicker than Challenger is tall, humming with power. Challenger brushes against one; notices it is warm to the touch — warm from the inside.
The light from the sky grows dimmer with each step. Occasional sparkling patches of it still filter through the web of branches and clouds above, but such patches grow rare nearer to the trunk. The air cools, and before long, Challenger’s breath mists. Roots now cover the ground entirely, and the heat radiating from them keeps Challenger’s toes warm even as their ears go numb with cold.
At last, the travelers arrive at the base of the tree. The branches overhead block out all the light from the stars, but it is still possible to see. Faint, soft (yet undeniable), a warm golden light emanates from the crags of the trunk; reflects off the surface of countless shallow pools of water.
“Each pool is a spring,” notes Keeper. There is a hushed reverence in their voice, and Challenger mimics it when they respond.
“And they feed all the streams in the world?”
“Indeed.”
Challenger’s brow furrows. “Where does the water for the springs come from, Keeper?”
“From the tree.”
“The tree creates the water?”
“Yes.”
“How?"
Keeper draws a long breath. It is time Challenger learned the nature of things.
“First, there are the roots: diving far below the surface — below the oldest stones, into the realm of parent Chaos. These gather time, change, and heat, and carry them up into the world.”
“Then there are the branches: stretching far above — above the oldest stars, into the realm of parent Stillness. These gather structure, laws, and cold, and pull them down into the world.”
“Here — at the Center of the world — is where the gifts of our parents meet. Stillness from above, Chaos from below, brought together at the base of the tree, and the tree takes them and fashions them into all things. All that is, all that was, and all that will be exists at the boundary between the primordial forces.”
As they speak, Keeper removes two vials from their pack and unstoppers them. Out of one flows pitch-black ink; out of the other, glowing white ink. The masses of ink hang suspended in the air, held aloft by old magic. The black rises to nearly the level of Challenger’s head, while the white drifts down to about their waist.
“The dark,” says Keeper, “is like parent Stillness. The light is like parent Chaos. On its own, each is formless. Incapable of complexity. They are hard to look at, because they are pure — the eye searches for features to latch on to, but finds none.”
A tendril extends from each body of ink, reaching out across the empty space between them until they meet in the center. All of a sudden, there is turbulence, collision, edges, shapes. More tendrils arise and stretch into the center. The light form roots, the dark form branches—a tree!—and waves of creation radiate out from its trunk. Stars, seas, mountains, forests, clouds, streams, mammals, birds, insects, moss, animalcules — all emerging from the turbulence. Formed out of the turbulence.
Keeper continues their instruction: “I have told you all things exist at the boundary between the primordial forces. But that is… subtly inaccurate. Rather, all things are the boundary between the primordial forces. Chaos and Stillness are intangible and incorporeal. They do not… exist in the way that you, or I, or this tree does. Only the interactions between the forces exist.”
“Life, death, right, wrong, you, me, this whole world — all of it makes up the fractal manifold betwixt all-creating Chaos and all-consuming Stillness.”
Challenger holds this in their mind. They and Keeper continue to admire the spectacle for some time, but at length Keeper separates the inks and returns them to their vials. A long pause. Then:
“Why?” asks Challenger.
Keeper smiles.
“Why not?”
Once every year going forward, Challenger and Keeper visit their primordial parents and the tree. Each visit, Challenger’s questions grow more wise, and Keeper’s answers more lengthy. The two discuss whether it is their duty to tend to the tree. They discuss whether the tree knows of them. They discuss insects, hopes, dreams, and favorite foods. They speak of loneliness and howling winds. They joke about worn-out shoes.
One day, many years later, they talk about death—because as Challenger grows up and Keeper grows old, death looms ever-lower over their minds.
This year will be Keeper’s last.
“Are you afraid of dying, Keeper?”
“Of course! But it is a small fear.”
“Do you wish not to die?”
“No. All the most marvelous things I’ve encountered have frightened me at least a little.”
“I am very afraid of dying.”
“As was I, when I was you. You are at the height of conflict between Chaos and Stillness. You are in the middle of them, pulled every-which-way into life and purpose. But me? I am leaving the manifold soon.”
“Are we… meant to die, Keeper?”
“Are the streams meant to run?”
“I suppose.”
“Then I suppose we are meant to die.”
This year’s journey to visit the parents and tree is slow, as Keeper’s joints are stiff and Challenger is in no hurry. Greeting parent Chaos at the Edge of the world, Keeper closes their eyes and basks in the heat beaming up from below. For a moment, they appear younger to Challenger. Saluting parent Stillness at the Top of the world, Keeper remains resolutely attendant. Despite their thinness, they do not shiver in the cold. Challenger cannot bring themself to look up for too long. The void feels welcoming; it unnerves them.
This year, like all other years, the tree appears resplendent. There is no pomp nor ceremony when Keeper dies. The travelers simply rest at the base of the tree, warmed by the roots. Eyes and faces soften in the glow emanating from below. Keeper has their back against the trunk; they breathe slow and easy. Challenger’s breathing is hesitant, and hitches every now and again. They sit across from Keeper.
“Do you have regrets?” says Challenger.
“A few. I am grateful for them, though.” Keeper reaches into their pack and removes the two vials of ink, and hands them to Challenger. “Take these.”
“I’m scared to be alone,” says Challenger.
“Why?”
“Because I do not understand the world yet.”
“Neither do I. It’s splendid, really.”
A ripple of gold, refracted by one of the spring pools, plays across Keeper’s face,
“I don’t know what I will do after you are gone.”
“Well—” Keeper shifts their weight, sits a little more comfortably, “you’ll keep investigating, won’t you? Keep making your annual journey? Keep cultivating your experience?”
“I will try.”
“Well, then, there you have it. That is all there is to being a Keeper. You’ll make a fine Keeper.”
Challenger’s throat tightens. They nod, and move closer to their mentor.
“I will try.”
The travelers embrace. One begins to cry—gently, silently.
“I will miss you,” says Challenger.
“Yes, you will,” replies Keeper, kindly. “And you will continue on through the twists of the manifold all the same.”
A deep breath in.
“You will discover so much in your life, young one. Be kind.”
“I will.”
A long, slow breath out.
Silence. The trickling stream. The breeze playing through the branches of the tree of equilibrium. A Challenger become Keeper, a Keeper become Stillness. A moment stretched into a whole lifetime. A twisted root, about the size of a person. A lone traveler with their arms wrapped around it.
A memory of a dream the universe once had.
A year of solitude passes. Keeper strives to adhere to the advice of their late mentor. The solitude is oppressive, but at the same time it is liberating. True loneliness, Keeper finds, is both poison and cure.
They travel far and wide this year. They cross the desert, and when they reach the end of the desert they build a ship and cross the sea. They encounter marvels beyond their wildest imagination: a mountain who spews fire from their peak, a cavern full of little glowing worms, a forest which grows upside-down with roots in the clouds and branches reaching towards the ground.
When they return from these explorations, they build a hut next to a meadow. In the meadow are flowers of all kinds. Most have six purple petals and smell of spices, but in the middle of the field grows a single bloom with five orange petals. It smells sweet. Keeper smiles whenever they see it.
Eventually the year draws to a close, and Keeper embarks on their annual pilgrimage. The Edge of the world, the Top of the world, and at last, the Center of the world. Approaching the tree, Keeper worries. Can they continue on alone?
Now the sky is just barely visible between the branches. The air chills. The pulsing hum of Chaos flowing through the roots resonates in their chest.
They arrive at the trunk and set down their pack. Sit down. Their eyes wander across the gnarled roots, searching for where their mentor once sat. Nothing looks familiar. It occurs to them that they do not know if the roots even remain stationary — perhaps they move like the arms of a giant sea-creature, but so slowly that they appear still. Keeper rests, and contemplates, and feels uncertainty and fear begin to build inside them despite their best efforts. Tears begin to leak out and drip off their face.
“Why are you sad?”
The voice gives them such a fright that they slip and tumble into the pool beside them. Disoriented, they pull themself out, bewildered and sopping. They scan their surroundings—had they hallucinated the voice? They could swear they’d heard it, it had sounded so real, like—
A child stood a few meters away, curious. Watching intently. For a moment, Keeper is speechless. Finally, they compose themself enough to ask:
“Where did you come from?”
The child’s brow furrows. They’re very young. Their eyes pierce straight through Keeper. They don’t answer the question. Instead, they ask their own:
“Why are you sad?”
Keeper pauses.
“I… miss my friend. I lost my very good friend and I miss them dearly.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I’m sorry,” says the child. Keeper decides to try their original question again.
“Where did you come from? I thought I was alone here.”
The child’s brow furrows again, but this time, they seem to understand. They point to the tree. “There.”
“From the—tree? You come from the tree?”
A nod. Keeper glances up into the dark canopy above, puzzled. Something feels familiar about the child. Keeper knows for certain they have never met before—and yet…
“Do you have food?” the child inquires, stepping closer. It takes a second for Keeper to register the question, then they snap out of it and rummage in their pack. They find a basket of berries and hold it out to the child, who accepts it gleefully. “Berries!” they cry. Keeper smiles.
“I like berries, too! They’re my favorite, you know. You may have as many as you like.” Keeper’s mind races. They cannot shake the feeling that, somehow, they have experienced this conversation before. But each time they try to retrieve the memory, it slips just out of reach.
“How long have you been here?” asks Keeper. The child shrugs. Berry-juice stains the corners of their mouth. “What’s your name?” they ask.
“I am Keeper.” It feels oddly… unnatural to say, but they can’t imagine why. “What is yours?”
“Challenger!” they exclaim in a singsong voice.
Keeper blinks. That name—why do they feel they know it? They must have heard it before. But where?
“That’s a nice name,” says they, “it suits you.”
Challenger looks proud. “Will you be my friend?” they ask.
The memory is fading, fading, fading. Gone. They can’t even remember what it was they wanted to remember. Ah, well—perhaps it will come back to them in time.
Keeper laughs.
“Why not?”
The End.
Thank you for reading. I hope you have a nice day.
