by Walter Weinschenk
I live on another planet now.
Until recently, I never had reason to disown the earth; I never felt the need to seek a better or brighter world. I certainly had no knowledge of some habitable corner of the universe other than my own, and I could hardly imagine the existence of a planetary haven floating somewhere beyond the azure edge of earth’s soft horizon. If I ever thought there was an island among the stars that could serve as a refuge, that consideration would arise in the course of dreams that would dissipate at dawn and never be recalled. I could have studied the sky in the most conscientious manner, year after year, and I still wouldn’t have seen it—because I couldn’t have seen it, even on the clearest night, even if I had focused my gaze like some oversized searchlight that swings its steely beam back and forth, like a metronome, across the heavens. Perhaps this planet—the planet I now inhabit—didn’t even exist until the moment I set foot upon it. In any event, I am now here, alive and well on a new continent, so to speak: a place I couldn’t see.
***
The earth was frail, and I could feel it deteriorate. I was worried, and my anxiety intensified as the earth declined over the years. The planet revolved in tired deference to physical laws that demanded it spin perpetually, but that protocol was compromised in the course of time so that the earth spun unevenly, progressively slower, much like a gyroscope that loses momentum and wobbles in an ever-widening swoon. I felt that wobble, and I sensed the gradual deceleration of the earth’s rotation as nights grew long and the stars began to wander.
I had a premonition that the earth would not survive and, ultimately, I became consumed with dread that bordered on denial. The streets of the city seemed paper thin, poised to rupture with each step taken. I felt that I needed to tread lightly, even along the pavement, but it was the entire earth, not just its boulevards and sidewalks, that seemed ready to give way. The evidence of disintegration was overwhelming: spent rivers, weary oceans, melted glaciers, burnt forests, bleached coral, flooded beaches, mountains shifting against their will, and the dire crumble of tectonic plates, one crashing against the next, giving rise to multitudinous earthquakes. Confused fish swam in circles, desiccated plants spiraled to the ground, distressed insects abandoned their nests, and jungle animals starved for want of prey. The atmosphere was tainted: the entire planet was shrouded in a noxious cloud. The earth was passing away, slowly degenerating like some old uncle whose well-worn body bends and breaks over time.
I didn’t understand why the planet was perishing. I tried to convince myself that the rising storm would abate, that nature had no choice but to correct its course, that nightmares weaken of their own accord and die at sunrise—but I couldn’t deceive myself for very long. I realized that I was ignorant, unaware of the forces and laws that rule the cosmos, great tides and currents that draw us forever through a boiling sea of planets, dust, and light. I needed to see the world—the entire world—from a distance.
This greater perspective remained elusive until, one day, I walked to the edge of a field, long and fallow, that lay just beyond the city. The crows ranted in protest as I made my way to the very center. I stood motionless, closed my eyes, and prayed that some god, some spiritual power, would deliver me from ignorance and grant me the ability to see with greater clarity. I asked for an understanding of things as they really are—the ability to discern the reality that hides behind the one we think is real. Suddenly, I started spinning like a top about an axis that ran from head to toe, driven by a force that was greater than me, beyond my comprehension, and I lost all sense of time and space.
***
The next moment, I was here, alive upon another planet. I don’t know how much time passed between the moment I closed my eyes and opened them, but when I did, in fact, look out upon my new world, I found myself alone in an immense field of lavender. That meadow was vibrant, stunning, long and rambling, as far as the eye could see. It was a lake of blue-violet light, a rolling plain that rose and sank in wide swaths, undulant and iridescent. It flashed bright and dull and bright again in quick succession as the breeze turned myriad lavender corollas toward the sun and then away—versions of violet afloat upon a sea of green stalks that pulsed electric every now and then. I could very well have stood there for all the days that I have left as different hues of reddish blue flashed on and off, light and dark in even rhythm, a steady cadence like the heartbeat that throbs at the core of every planet. That heartbeat, however, fluttered arrhythmically through the marrow of the planet I had left behind, the life of which was draining into space as its husk staggered along in its orbit.
I was not there, however, but here, standing upon new ground, the fertile terrain of a luminous world. I looked overhead to the powder-blue sky, daubed with occasional clouds, chalk white, and I saw a crowd of large birds pass by. They flapped long wings in slow rhythm and swam through the air in smooth, sublime motion. Each bird flaunted a perfect panorama of color, brighter than the flags of nations, and those colors merged like dollops of paint across an artist’s palette. I could see the edges of their wings tighten and release, each feathered pleat moving in tandem with another; each wing slowly rose and fell and fanned the air in silence, and together they shifted and curled like fins unfurled. Those birds combed through the atmosphere in loose formation, and I felt calm as I watched them wander. I realized, at that moment, that the scene in front of me was not a photograph of something beautiful but was, in fact, the beautiful thing itself.
In my new world, the air and the ground and everything in between weren’t at war with each other. In fact, a quiet harmony prevailed, and this serenity was soothing, like some spiritual salve. I listened as if tranquility itself were a delicate symphony, a soft sonata punctuated by natural sounds: the intonation of the breeze through the meadow, the rapid conversation of birds among themselves, the buzz and whistle of insects crawling across the soil or hovering overhead.
I started walking. I saw my own crisp shadow in front of me and followed it as if it were leading me forth. Lavender spikes tilted in every direction, undecided which way to turn, but the matter was resolved by the breeze, which drew them, as one, toward the sun.
I came upon a gleaming stream that flowed at modest pace, and I could feel the rhythm of rippling water. I wandered along the grassy bank, and there were fish in the stream who raised their silver heads above the waterline. They spoke to me in language I could somehow understand, and we discussed all sorts of things. Perhaps they had brought me into their conversation to allay any sense of loneliness I might feel. In any event, they addressed me in matter-of-fact tone, as though I had lived among them all along. They quipped and chuckled in much the same way old friends speak—with meaning and message dripping from the tone of the words and the silences between them. Some of those fish were quite spirited and asked me random questions. Where had I come from? Where was I headed? I could respond to the first question much more easily than the second, but that didn’t prevent us from chatting away. They told me of their days submerged and their nights afloat, passive passengers riding with the current, and they described, with great enthusiasm, the joy of wandering through waterweeds and the bliss of bathing in neon light when the moon rises overhead. They revealed to me, in muted voice, as if it were a secret: the world—this world—is a living world.
I continued my stroll along the shore when, just then, I was approached by a pair of old lions who walked through the lavender to intercept me. They trudged wearily, and their heavy heads bobbed with every step. Their manes, thick like sheaves of wheat, shuddered in steady rhythm. I was not afraid, and my lack of terror astonished me; I somehow had been purged of the need to feel fear. Those lions came to me as if they knew me and, in unison, greeted me with a simple nod, informal but respectful. Otherwise, they hardly glanced in my direction.
They had been waiting for me, so it seemed, and they escorted me as if called upon by some greater power. We proceeded along a worn path at the water’s edge, though their paws barely seemed to touch the ground. Gentle chaperons: they accompanied me for quite some time to lead me in the right direction. We marched silently, one old lion on either side of me, the three of us in unified procession. I had no idea of our destination, but I trusted them completely. I could sense the pulse of life within them, and I felt the warmth of my own blood flowing through the channels of my own skin and bones. We walked for a while—perhaps a mile or two—until the lions grew tired. They slowed their pace and came to a halt, but I kept walking along the edge of the stream.
***
I felt alive—but my sense of rebirth was undermined by raw, throbbing anguish. Inexplicably, I had been allowed to survive and thrive in a brand-new world. I had been saved, but I was the only one, and I felt guilty to be alive. Remorse and self-censure had penetrated my psyche but, until now, had been repressed and closeted within the lower reaches of my consciousness. Guilt and regret now surged to the surface as I began to appreciate the extent of my good fortune. For no apparent reason, I had been granted the most magnificent form of sanctuary, but I was a random refugee, not particularly deserving of asylum. I had been saved without having merited salvation. I felt unworthy.
I also felt lost. In the course of my journey here, I had somehow managed to abandon my past—and I regretted it. Though it had not been my choice to leave the earth, I had divorced myself from the person I once had been: I had left myself behind. My prior life seemed distant and indistinct, a bit like a conversation vaguely recalled. In fact, my earthbound life didn’t feel like a life at all but seemed, rather, like a conception, a rumination, a thought—not my thought but someone else’s thought, someone else’s daydream, a contemplation of something that might have happened or could have happened but, perhaps, never did happen. The uncountable things that comprised my life—things I had seen and heard and touched—were missing. The various people who were integral to my life—those I loved and those who loved me—were a world away and could never again be near enough for me to see or hear or embrace. In a sense, they no longer existed, at least for me. At times, I felt as if I didn’t exist—and I couldn’t stand it.
My guilt, my loss, and my psychic pain throbbed as a single torment lodged between the deepest layers of my emotional flesh. I thought of my family and friends. Were they searching for me, at this very moment? Were they crying? Mourning? Were they straining their arms through the empty air toward some hazy memory of me? They had no way of knowing how much I missed them, and I could only guess what they were experiencing. Oddly enough, I thought of a childhood friend whose name I couldn’t recall, but the fact that it was now impossible to connect with her accentuated my own sense of isolation. I was severed from my prior life, sequestered from everyone I knew.
Weighed down by burdensome thoughts, I slowed my step and came to a halt. I turned my head, looked back, and was cheered, to some extent, by the sight of the lions, still stationed at the precise spot along the bank of the stream where I had left them. From that vantage point, like vigilant sentries, they had monitored my progress. They stared at me intently and, suddenly, a soothing light streamed from the limitless wells of their ancient eyes into the empty grottoes of my own. It was a glorious light that shot through the air, determined to find me, and when it found me, it infused me with peace and a quietude that calmed me and helped nullify the gravity that was causing me to sink. I absorbed that luminescence as if thirsty for it, and I was comforted by it.
I basked in the light. In the light, I began to live again. In the light, I could see fields beyond the fields that stretched like an ocean in front of me, and I could see trees beyond the trees scattered in those fields, and I could see clouds beyond the clouds that rolled like tumbleweed through the sky. In the light, I understood that there was no sin in survival, and I grasped that I couldn’t be blamed for my own reawakening. In the light, I realized that I hadn’t violated some covenant by discovering myself in an exquisite world. The distress and deterioration of the earth were beyond my control; I could do nothing to save it, and I felt free.
The guilt drained out of me, and I began the process of forgiving myself for having survived. I accepted my bewildering circumstances and acknowledged my own loss. Gradually, through grief and self-reconciliation, I found solace. I allowed myself the freedom to embrace my new life with hope. My soul swam, albeit tentatively, through my newfound equanimity as if it were a tranquil pool.
My attention was now diverted by the setting of the sun. It was a brilliant sun that lingered, then slowly sank, seemingly against its will, but its rays continued to dance around me like gold dragonflies—quite amazing. More amazing, however, was the way in which this particular sun seemed so close, practically within arm’s reach. Lavender calyx lit up for a moment, blenched and tilted across the ground as the sun, almost gone, revealed their points and edges in minute detail. Green stems cast shafts of shadow, leaned into the breeze, and swayed like chanting priests, celebrating me and rejoicing in my company.
The sun fell below the horizon, much like a ship that drifts out to sea and fades out of sight. Darkness set in, and the moon, blushed white with hints of blue, crept like a cat across the carpet of the night. The violet meadow turned pale periwinkle beneath the moon’s milky light. I gazed overhead and I saw six glistening stars positioned directly over me, firmly fixed in the shape of a circle. Those stars were equidistant, one from the next, and together they formed a constellation: each star was a diamond point in an astral necklace that scintillated, now and again, from above.
Six stars glimmered, one by one, against the night’s velvet shawl. I felt enlivened by the cool air, the glitter of stars, and the splendor of indigo-tinted blossoms that blanketed the ground in all directions. I wandered quite a bit, quickened my pace, and I ran through the lavender for a few long moments, as fast as I could. Suddenly, I stopped—and I danced. Yes, I danced beneath the stars, in a field of lavender. I twisted and twirled, drenched in moonlight, and the delicate shadow of a diamond necklace descended around my neck, a perfect fit, and I wore it as my own.
I took a moment to look back at the earth. It was now coming apart, and I could see it and hear it as if I were there. I saw streets unwind, tall buildings fall one atop another, and I witnessed the last hills sink into the ground, the last forests burn, and the last seas overcome the land. I heard the slow, deafening roar of mountains as they cratered and filled canyons with their rubble, and I saw the desert sands rise, lifted by the wind, and dissipate in all directions. I listened to the last frantic cries of birds, the last wails of mammals, and the final sigh of sea creatures: different languages of despair, intermingled and insensible.
The planet shook in a vain attempt to right itself, and I looked on as the small world that once was earth flailed like a lost bird in the wind. The noise dwindled until there was no sound at all. I witnessed all of it as I stood alone in a field of lavender, mesmerized by the silence.
Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter’s writing has appeared in numerous literary publications including La Piccioletta Barca, The Normal School, Lunch Ticket, The Carolina Quarterly, The Worcester Review and others. He is the author of The Death of Weinberg: Poems and Stories (Kelsay Books, 2023). More of Walter’s work can be found at walterweinschenk.com.