HYMN

He had never seen the ocean before. Rumors had spread about that it once was beautiful, deep and mysterious. Now, it was nothing more than a desert of sand storms and whirlpools of quicksand. The majestic, constant waves had now been replaced by the mundane, static rise and fall of the dunes. Never had there been so great a contradiction of consequence since the Fall.

He hummed quietly to himself. That’s how he had gotten his name: Hymn. The songs he would hum came from a long line of writers, all dead and gone, and while he never could remember the words, the melodies remained with him. Hymn could faintly remember his mother praying over him while he fell asleep in his cradle. What were the words, he wondered. If only he could remember the words.

A gentle breeze hushed over the dead land, whispering in Hymn’s ear of the far off place he was looking for: The Fountain. Older rumors had circulated that there was a Fountain that never ran dry, despite the famine and droughts and earthquakes. Hope, some called it. Still others called it Lies. Nevertheless, whether it be hope or lies, Hymn had set his mind to seek this place, a life he believed, should he not find it, would not be a wasted life. As long as there was land beneath his boots and feet to walk upon the land, Hymn would search for the Fountain. Maybe it was because he had no other purpose in life but to search; perhaps he simply enjoyed a challenge. He liked to think it was because he knew that some dream and others do. Hymn was lucky enough to be both.

A leather backpack with supplies, cargo pants, a faded plaid blue and grey shirt, goggles, a hand woven bandana folded to let his dark hair hang of the sides, a few books, his walking stick and water were all he needed on this trek. But this was not all he had. He had more. More than he had bargained for and more than he had wanted.

The nights were as cold as the days were hot, but the night held a deeper magic. Amidst the twilight, for the past several nights, the image of a little girl would appear beside the campfire where Hymn would lounge, startling him. Her ragged, white dress with blood on the him let Hymn know how she had died. Her deep, hollow eyes and dark skin told the man that she was not from the States, but from across the rumored ocean. She followed him, singing eerily in the night. What songs she sung, he did not know for they were in a language that he could not understand, but the atmosphere thickened when she appeared for an hour or so, just watching. Always watching. Tonight, however, was the night they touched and talked.

As he pitched his tent and stoked the fire, Hymn, laid on his back and looked at the sky. The moon had been hit by an asteroid the side of Chicago and was left cleaved in twain yet was still maintaining her celestial path around the globe. Tonight, the moon was red and cast her flames upon the earth. There had once been stars, but they had all vanished with the sea.

Hearing a staticky hum, Hymn sat up, grabbing his staff. There she was, floating just inches above the ground, lifelessly looking at Hymn with her vacant eyes.

His heart racing Hymn, inched backwards, only to be stopped by what happened next.

“Are you Hymn?” asked the levitating figure. The voice was that of a young girl, but it was surrounded as if by a chorus of voices.

Pointing at the frightened man she repeated the question: “Are you Hymn?”

“Am I whom?” replied Hymn. The words crept out of his throat like a turtle from its shell, cautious of the possible, elusive danger.

“Are you the one they call Hymn? The man who sings no words because he only remembers the notes?” She gracefully moved forward, but glitched like a disc that skipped. “Like a house, with out the means to live in.”

Hymn stood up, still wary of the nightmarish visitor. Holding out his hand, as if to steady himself, said, “Yes.”

“Then you know of the Writer of Melodies,” said the ghost. It was less of question and more a fact. Her words hung in the air like a dense fog in the morning. The words held a thickness, as if they were tangible. However, these were not words that Hymn could change, rather, they were words that changed him. His heart slowed, in a sensational pace of peace and strange comfort, even in the presence of this ghost.

“I had hoped the stories were true. I had always hoped,” he half chuckled in joy and half sight with relief. He now saw her as a small child, blacked with soot and dust. The bottom of her white gown was tattered and torn. The bottom of her feet were dripping a deep, dark liquid, and that liquid slipped off her toes and brought death to the sand below her. She waded in the air, as if suspended underwater. Her eyes were hollow and deep and black.

“You have been gifted,” she said, “gifted so that others will find the faith you easily found as a boy.”

Hymn’s lips twitched as if to smile, but they were stilled by the sudden conclusion of the girl’s next statement.

“However,” she continued, “you will never see the Fountain.”

Sadness and confusion fell over the boy. Never see the Fountain? The ghost’s words struck Hymn like a blinding sun. Had all of this been in vain?

“But others will.”

He looked up at the girl and for a second thought he saw hundreds more behind her, only to blink and see darkness. Standing up, he asked the only question he could think to ask: “Then what’s the point?”

The girl suddenly rushed up to the boy’s face and whispered melodically, “I’ll show you.” And with that, she shoved her hand through his chest, past the bones and tissue and grabbed his heart.

In pain, Hymn looked to see what appeared to be scenes from all different lives of people he had never seen before. One was of a girl hearing about the Fountain from her grandmother; another two friends who set out as he had to find the Fountain; there was a mother and father and child who built their home deeper in the desert than ever before; then there was a community of people who set out to create a settlement when they found the Fountain; from all across the shattered world, people came in search of the fountain. They had all heard of the story because of Hymn. His eyes became surrounded by white light then colors he had never heard of nor seen flashed and danced across his vision. And then there was nothing.

He woke up to the sound of the wind, tearing the sand from its anchored dunes. He saw that his camp was still there as it had been before. He also saw that where the ghost had touched his chest, there were scorch marks of a hand print. He knew now that the songs he sang were true, and it was also true that he would never see the Fountain. But there was a satisfaction in his heart knowing that others would. Perhaps that was the point in his quest after all: to fail knowing that through his failing others would see the promise. But, would that really be considered failing?