The Forced Explorer Serge

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A Story about a man who can't stop in one place however desperately he wants to, by our writer, Jan.

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A Buddha stands on the edge of the galaxy. A finger from his eye strips the fragrance of a moment. It analyzes, changes, finds what it has sought. The Buddha closes its eyes, a mere moment taken, gone, and forever never returning. Love to all who would accept, not giving much of one, yet giving all, creating all. In existence creating all is the only possible truth. In love, my mind wanders the endless horizons, I do not even look, he thinks. Meaning passes him, feelings pass him, and all is but a memory.

At the edge of the galaxy stands a Buddha. He stares into the abyss, seeing, perceiving, and knowing. What was done was done, what now, what now? How much longer can one keep up the charade, keep up the face? Can you lift yourself so high?

Standing at the edge of the galaxy is a Buddha. His face a warm carving. His hands afloat. Around him, nothing. At the edge, he is. Flicker of a smile, a trace of a frown, a small motion of the fingers. The robe flutters in the non-wind. From moment to moment all changes, and he is.
Moments before, he yet was not. His will was imprisoned then, long ago. He had lived a life, a small man, yearning for great heights. His achievements were many, his voice a loud tool of search, a quest. And his work was great. His people enjoyed his company, he loved all. And yet he could not let go of the carving of himself. He could not let go of himself. He did not know what kind of life waits, he disliked not knowing.

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A ray of sunlight crossed Serge's face, bittersweet stings of long, or short, sleep. One hand finds its way, the other as well, to his face, rubbing out the drowsiness, the lunar obsession. A day like the one before - lost in the river of time. The river is stale of late, and the fish have been avoiding Truance Bay for more than three months. In their quest for food, the Baymen scoured the great desert surrounding their villages. Its only real function was to make life hard in two directions: both invading tribes and adventurous villagers were discouraged by the sheer vastness of the heated and cooled orange sand.

Some eight years ago, Serge witnessed a lone nomad stumbling out of the sands. The villagers gave him water and nourished him back to strength, all the while hoping he could tell them more of what happened in the world they could never reach. The stranger never shared his name with them, and after thanking them (or so it seemed, the bow and the hand gesture interpreted as only the Baymen knew how to), he set foot once more into the Great Orange and disappeared forever. Yet many young men and women followed in his footsteps, bidding quick farewells while packing as much drinking water as they could. Serge then waved with the rest of the village, desperately fearing the desert and hating all of them for going. He despised this treason of tradition, and remembered never to remember them in the future.

However, memories crept all over Serge's mind of late, for he had come to inhabit the desert, forcefully. Food was scarce in the Bay, and what little of it remained was soon to be devoured by those too old and too young to scour, harvest or kill. Some chose to sail the ocean beyond the Bay, but Serge despised the waves and the blackest depths; contented instead with swimming in the shallows, as well as running through the edge of the desert. But today, three days after he left home (evicted, he rather put it), Serge disliked his prospects. He was yet to find any food, or life for that matter, in the sandy landscape. Still, he had enough water to last him for days, and his tent presented itself as remarkably immune to the atmospheric conditions of the desert. It also took him only a few minutes to fold it, which he now did.
What was left of his family after those more able than him went into either the Blue or Orange seeking riches of a nutritive nature - waved him a tearless goodbye. Hesitant at first, and at second, Serge was made to leave the village after he showed his hesitance at third, so now he spent his day digging up random spots in the sand only to find more sand hidden beneath some sand.

On his fourth day, he walked for about six hours before stumbling upon a sight for sore eyes, a lone palm tree in the distance. Or was it a palm tree? Its top was bare, green and round, and the lower half of the great tree was blocked from view by a rising dune. Serge couldn't say whether it was near or far, so he continued, revitalized by the novelty of the situation. Soon he trudged to the top of that sandy mountain and beheld thereupon a sight to behold. The tree (he just couldn't say what kind of palm it was) was around five hundred feet high and as wide as a raging typhoon, its top gently swaying in the wind. However, more interesting was the base of the large tree with a whole array of tents laying there, with people mingling about, some fifty in number. Serge's heart pounded, yet he remembered mirages and what they were. He hurried nonetheless, and was not presented with a mirage. Not surprisingly, the people proved somewhat shocked by his arrival and (surprisingly AND shockingly) ten or so figures slogged his way with fishing harpoons and spears gripped tightly. Inside he winced repeatedly, but stood his ground, more due to the instant overwhelming feeling of fear than to courage, and closed his eyes. When he at last opened them, he saw the men and women standing before him, clad in orange from head to toe. Slowly they lowered their weapons, with a synchronized motion, and Serge heard a monotone voice boom, deep as thunder but raspy as sand: "Are you of the Bay?"

"Yye-yes, yes I am." He couldn't help his trembling voice. There was an instant of silence, followed by a somewhat quieter: "Follow us."

They turned, somewhat disappointedly, and walked towards the camp. Serge followed, his feet shaking a bit while several strands of sweat raced down his face. The men and women were all dressed in different types of clothing, but it was all orange, just like the desert. There was light orange and dark orange, pinkish orange and greenish orange, brownish, reddish, yellowish, dirtyish, fadeish orange, and many more hues Serge couldn't differentiate, but whatever they were, they masked these people to maximum effect. The figures walked in sync, and some of them exchanged quick glances, while a crowd started gathering at their destination point. He thought of running, but understood this was impossible. So he accepted his fate and surrendered to it.

"Hail, Bayman!" The same voice boomed. "You come to us at a time of savagery, so accept our apologies for the volatile welcome we presented you with." Silence.
Serge eyed the orange company, confirming his previous estimation. Some fifty figures stood in front of him, all breathing in the same manner. There was movement here and there, but nothing that broke their uniquely united calm. He opened his mouth: "What are you doing here?"
More silence, followed by another loud voice: "Do you not accept our apology?"
Serge flinched at the sheer volume of the sound: "Oh, I do, yes I do."
"Marvelous." Silence. The figures seemed to relax a bit, and a less hard and more exuberant voice spoke:
"You have arrived at the Sixth Station, Bayman. Do you wish to reside here or move on?" Silence again.
"I'm-I'm sorry," Serge could not dismiss the shock in his voice, "but what ex-exactly is this station?"
"You are not in the position to ask questions." This voice was rougher than the last, but instilled in Serge a feeling of spontaneous obedience. It continued: "Make your choice."
"I might head back to-to-to the Bay, after all. Th-thank you for your hospi---" As he turned, a third voice squealed, like an irritated little girl drooling over her dolls.
"Your ill-fashioned actions bore me, and I will soon tire of you," She seemed to hate her newest doll. "Will you stay or continue on?"

Serge felt the color leave his face, now as white as the garb he wore. All of a sudden his backpack weighed him down more than it did only moments before, and he felt his knees give. He almost fell to the ground, but stopped midair and straightened himself. This unexpected motion made the crowd shudder, but silence and stillness followed instantly. And only minutes ago he was wishing he was still in the village. Now he wanted to be back in the deserted desert vastness, for there were no choices there except where to dig in order to find nothing.

"I will inquire among your people as to what the wisest approach to this choice may be, and you will secure me safe passage." Ordering them to do something seemed the most stupid approach, yet how could one choose between two choices which had distinctly differing consequences without knowing what the hell was even going on? This last voice came raspiest of all, but also quietest, as if the words were spoken from a great distance.
"You are given time to find your answers. I will soon repeat my question, and you will make your choice."

The gathered crowd then simply dispersed, some in groups of five or so, while others wandered off alone. Now Serge had the chance to take in the sights, which he proceeded to do immediately. All the tents were in hues of orange as well, and they seemed to form a simple maze around the root of the only off colored thing here (except for Serge, that is): the green tree trunk of the largest palm tree Serge had ev---

It was not the largest palm tree; however, it was the largest dandelion stem he had ever set his eyes upon. The seed head itself was bald, and it was so far up... He snapped out of this fascination and stopped the nearest orange person he found, a short woman with brown-orangeish eyes. "Hello there, ma'am. Please tell me what this 'station' is."
Her orange-shawl-wrapped-head leaned slightly to her right, followed by a deep and masculine voice booming as if Serge were a hundred feet from her. "This place lets you stay as a laborer, or leave as an explorer. I do not accept strangers into my ranks, so you will have to change if you choose to stay." Her eyes were fixed on Serge's face, as if she was looking for traces of worth and not finding any.
"I hope you mean a change of clothes, as I see you're all following some sort of dress code." He managed a slight smile which faded as soon as he saw the woman was not impressed. Silence.

Serge turned from the woman feeling embarrassed. He knew they would all answer as coldly and fruitlessly as she did, but a try he had to give. With a series of quick leaps he found himself close to the stem, and there he saw its "root". The green trunk grew from a large circular orange pond. The color of the water matched the color of the sand perfectly, and were it not for the texture and the slightest of waves upon the water's surface, Serge could not tell one from the other. There were two tall men standing nearby, as if in conversation, but no words were exchanged between them. One looked as if he suffered a great back pain, leaning painfully, while the other stood upright, throwing glances in random directions. He approached them:
"What is this tree here?" He wanted to ask about the orange water as well, but had a funny feeling he would again be seen as an absolute idiot. The men answered in succession, both managing a few words before the other took over. One voice was a mellow and deep noise which reminded Serge of long sighs, while the other was as hard as rock and puncturing:

"nooot...aaa...treeeee...staaaands...iiiiiin....theeeeee... Pond-But-A-Huge-Dandelion-Which... leeeeets...yooooouu...gooooo...eeeeelseeeeeeewheeeeereeeee... Yet-You-Would-Need-To-Give-Up-All... yoooouuuuur...wooooorldlyyyyy...poooosseeeeessiiiiiiiiooooons...iiiiiiiif...yooooouuuu...chooooooooooooseeeeeeee... To-Climb-The-Stalk-And-Leave...theeeee...saaaaafeeeetyyyy... oooooof... theeeeeee... caaaaamp... But-You-Would-Be-"
The loudest vocal blast yet cut off the taller man's sentence (or was it his voice, Serge could not tell) and insisted:
"Will you stay or will you leave, Bayman?" Silence followed, and Serge saw that all eyes, and they were all of an orangeish hue, were pointed in his direction. He looked at the camp and then at the dandelion. Where and how would he go, he did not know, yet he knew a sinister note lay right here. "I wish to leave." As soon as he uttered these words, the crowd gathered around Serge in a most hostile manner.

"UNDRESS!" The thunderous voice roared, disturbing the surface of both sand and water. Serge turned in place like a spider encircled with vengeful flies. The loud utterance was repeated even louder and the crowd, no, the Mob came one step closer. When this happened again, Serge felt a sharp pain in his ears, so he obeyed. First he threw his backpack onto the sand and then he took off his white robe. He threw it where he threw his backpack, but it was no longer there. The sand had sloped into a canal reaching the edge of the water, and Serge's belongings were already half-sunk. He motioned towards the backpack, but was stopped halfway by the loudest sound he had ever heard. "RELAX!"
And relax he did. When he woke up, he was hanging only inches above the water's surface, face down.
"Now you must climb the giant stalk, Bayman. If you are to fail, you will fall into the water and join me. If you are to succeed, I will greet you on the other side." And with these last words, spoken in a soft and soothing voice, calm as the windless sand, the Mob, no, the crowd dispersed. Serge felt a sharp twinge of thirst, but chose to remain silent. He was naked, hanging above a possibly fatal pool in an improvised rope hammock which felt pretty unsafe. He stood up, keeping his balance, and grabbed onto the stalk.

He soon found out that the surface of the huge dandelion was easy to climb. Its "bark" was soft and malleable, making for great footholds, while the large hairs protruding from it served as excellent grips. However, the sheer length, or height, of the climb was proving to be the most problematic factor. That is, until the desert wind smashed into the stalk, making it sway like it did when Serge first saw it, at which moment the wind became problem number one. He had to stop every couple of feet, not only to catch his breath, but also to save his life from slipping through his fingers. He managed to do all this, and little by little he came to the top. At dusk he climbed over onto the perch, and lay there, gasping sharply and loudly. He was tired and thirsty, and could have used a break, but a new event shook him. Pressing against his skin, the mossy floor of the seed head moved and formed a chair beneath him. His gaze now fell upon the landscape, which revealed orange in every possible direction. The Bay was nowhere in sight. Then he looked below and felt great, intense and rich fear. The pond was there, only barely visible, with the small tent maze around it. He could not spot anyone moving. He was at a very, very, very high altitude, and he knew it.

"So, I overheard you're a Bayman?" A refreshingly human voice, soft as the dandelion seed, spoke somewhere to his right, and Serge turned his eyes there instantly. Humanlike, though less so than the orange people, this figure also sat in a green armchair. Its body was a mesh of intertwined green vines, with flowers and buds and seeds growing all over it, while its feet were firmly rooted into the surface. There was a thorned smile on its face, with two huge seeds where the eyes should be. Its motion was not reminiscent of breathing, but of soft careening, as if the wind rocked it. It tilted towards Serge. "Bewildered, I presume?"

As Serge opened his mouth to say "no, it's Serge", he found that it was so dangerously dry that even an attempt might seriously hurt him, so he simply nodded. Digging sand was good. Sooooooo good. Serge wanted to go dig up more sand.

"I climbed here some years ago, as well. Must have been a decade, I reckon. Maybe a little less." The creature looked at the last traces of the sun on the horizon. It sighed, although the sound seemed to be produced by the whole body, and not the mouth. "When I climbed over, the dandelion told me I could live forever, if I wanted to." It sighed again, the nostalgic creature. "You know you're the first person I've seen in years." Another sigh. Serge thought sighs were better than silence, yet he couldn't stop thinking about digging sand accompanied by the sighing sound the shovel made every time it struck the small orange grains.
"I..." his throat gave and he could only produce a sharp coughing noise after this. He looked into the creature's eyes.
"I imagine you must be thirsty. I'm dreadfully sorry to say that I won't be able to give you fresh water, but this will suffice, I imagine." It extended its arm towards Serge, and a large bulky vine grew out of it until it dangled before his face. "Bite in." Serge did so.

A sour, but refreshing liquid seeped into his mouth, and Serge slowly drank. There was a time when he would have said no to a vine like creature's proposal of drinking from its arm. Then there was now.
He relinquished his bite and looked at it once more, "Tha-thanks..."
"You're very welcome. I didn't think you'd be thankful for what you just went through." The creature managed a dry laugh, followed by what sounded like tightening ropes. "It is my duty to send you away, traveler. Not because I wish to, of course, but because there is no room here for you. Come dawn and your weight will have dragged us halfway to the ground." His voice suddenly went quiet "...and I can't let you do that."
"But I want to get back to the desert." Serge tried to stand up, but his legs gave, and he sank deeper into the green armchair. "I need to dig for food, my village is starving!" He turned away from Twigsy, as he came to call him in his head, "I'm starving too..."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, unless you find your way back here. You see, you have to manage a little journey first." As it spoke these words, a giant dandelion seed, white as a pearl, grew out of the soft meat of the seed head. Serge gazed at it, his attention completely drawn. It took him a few moments to turn his attention back to the creature.
"...better than swimming in that pool, if you ask me. Some of my friends did that, and now they're mindlessly droning about, preparing for the Great War." This added sentence can barely be heard "...as if I were mindful."

"Is there any food around here, anywhere?!." Serge still couldn't use his legs to get up, so he sunk into the armchair, as what the creature told him only now became clear. "Will I be able to find my way back to the Bay after I... travel?"
"That's pretty unlikely to happen, my boy." It stood from its seat and stretched. The sound of ropes tightening. "Besides, you have no food to deliver, or to eat for that matter, so you're useless to them. Another mouth to feed."
"And what about this 'Great War'? Who is there to battle in this desert?" Serge moved his feet a bit, but understood he needed to sit in order to fit in with the creature's wishes.
"It's a 'great war' with no capitals, mind you. The desert battles the ocean on a regular basis, as you should know. Your next destination is somewhere near the heart of the conflict. Unless you want to stay in the camp below, that is." It shook off a layer of pollen and walked to the edge of the seed head. It looked down, over the edge.
"I have the same two choices again, I see." Now it was Serge's turn to sigh, as Twigsy looked back to him.
"Oh, I don't really think there's much of a choice here." As it said the last word, Twigsy presented the vast and endless orange landscape with one outstretched arm. "Nor much to see now is there?"
Serge's armchair had started to straighten itself out into a vertical position, and he was forced to use his legs again. "How do I get out of here, then?"
"Grab onto that seed... and jump." Serge barely heard what next was whispered, more for the ethereal audience than for him, "...and hope you catch a breeze."

Serge stretched his arms and legs, painful sores aching. He walked a few steps towards the seed, and turned around, "Did the rest of the Bay people find this place?"
"Most saw a mirage and walked on. As far as I know, they died of thirst after getting lost in the Orange vastness. Those who came close enough to see how real all this was, chose to stay in the camp." He turned to face Serge. "You must have seen that these are no longer individual people, save in form. I'm sorry if you had any friends among them."
"And I am the first one to climb since you've taken up residence?"
"I do believe so, yes." The vined creature grew closer to Serge. "I will have you jump soon, my boy. We've already declined ever so dangerously."

Serge saw that the dandelion stalk had bowed slightly. He took hold of the seed with both hands and looked in the creature's direction: "Like this?" He felt sweat filling his closed fists.
"I recommend using your legs as well." It managed a thorned smile. "You'll get the hang of it, never you mind!" It made a snapping sound with its vines.
"Do you maybe have some clotheeeeeee---" The stalk shot upwards and so did Serge, except Serge and the seed did not stop when the rest of the plant did. They flew into the air for another hundred feet, after which they started to descend. Yet after only a few seconds, the seed slowed down into a slow gentle glide. The last thing Serge heard uttered from another creature for years was: "WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU WON'T NEED CLOTHES!!"

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"From my point of view, from the viewpoint of someone who has attained a higher state and held it for so long, from the eyes of an explorer without incentive, I can only say that all things have come to a dead end." As the Buddha descended from the edge of the Universe, there was a grand reception. Twice was the Buddha waylaid by enemies on this road, and twice he had to defend himself. There was this great spectral demon named Chakron, who favored red over blue. The Buddha dispatched him by reciting some purple passages he wrote long ago, and the demon faded into a deep stasis. It is now being examined by our leading spectrum scientists, who seem to have found a way to combine red and blue into a new color, although no one can see it yet.
The other of the two encounters was with a creature once known as Twigsy, at least to our Buddha. It took him almost a hundred years to prevail over the poor creature who had simply faded to rot. Our protagonist then came to us, and we arrive again at the grand reception.

Perched on one of the highest artificial peaks mankind ever produced lay the King's Hall, a resort hotel for the most powerful living, and very rarely unliving, things. This is the place Buddha preferred over all other, if not because of its size or prestige, then because of the view. Crystal balconies gave way to a never-ending blue on all sides: the sea beneath and the sky above. There were never any waves on the smooth surface, as there was never any wind beyond a mere breeze. Slowly our Buddha paced his room, naked. On the other end of the room sat an older woman, a political journalist who had the luck of interviewing him first, right off the bat. She was puffing dark grey smoke from her chimney-shaped pipe and every time she inhaled, she'd bring her left arm to her chest, as if to pacify some inner beast. She exhaled and let out a low humming sound which only the trained ear could perceive as language.

"Souw,yew'reh tewlen meah wea'reh awll doohmehd?" She emptied the chimney and proceeded to fill it anew, both hands set to the task. She was squinting at Buddha, who cocked his head a bit to the right.
"Oh, it does seem so, I do tend to think so myself, yes. See, from my point of view, from the viewpoint of someone who reached this higher level and had been living there ever since, from the eyes of someone who traveled without ever wanting to, yes, I would so say so, of course we are." He leaned against one of the marble walls near the balcony and raised a hand so that the woman would notice him, but his effort was in vain, as she filled the chimney with heaps of soon-to-be-ash, squinting in the process and huffing and puffing terribly. Buddha remained silent for the rest of this process, after which she immediately caught his wave: "Yews?"
"Aren't you here to kill me?" He asked.
"Yews." She answered.
So they remained in their designated spots for some time. He leaned, while she sat, smoking. Her left arm was now constantly pressed against her chest, as she was inhaling more smoke than a Polished chimney.
"Ay heaw tah givv ths uhp. Aythrtha smawken ohr tha killen." She squinted, leering at Buddha through a slowly rising smoky mist.
"Do you have some health issues? From my point of view, I could be a great help-" The woman drew a gun with her left hand and aimed down the sights, quickly. Smoke still grew from the chimney clenched in between her teeth, tightly. Her pipe made a cackling sound while she spoke, regularly.
"Oy cahn seee yew bettuhr nohw. Pleeaze, doow gow awn." The gun motioned the same sentiment, so Buddha went on. This was late afternoon, yet it wasn't until past midnight that the couple left the King's Hall bar - The Pint, both headed their separate ways. Buddha later made a public announcement that all his other interviews would be cancelled, as he feared for his life's safety. He retreated to the edge of the Universe, where he pondered going back some time in the near future, but not too quickly.

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If you loved this story, you can check another Jan's story here.

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