Churn
by Caleb Winterburn
Our world is empty. It is desolation itself, barren, in every sense of the word.
It was not always this way. Once, in a past so distant it evades our generational memory, this was a place of life. Not only for ourselves. No, our world was once the well-spring of the living soul itself, a nourishing sustenance for planets less fortunate than our own.
Which begs the question: Who will bring life back to our world?
“Aspen? We have to go.”
I shook the disconsolate thoughts of dust and death from my mind and turned towards the man who had spoken to me. His name was Linq, and he had taken me to the Heights, performing his duty as a Cultivator.
“Hey,” Linq continued, notes of urgency seeping into his voice, a minor paradox juxtaposed against his apathetically glazed eyes. All Cultivators were curiously glassy, held in the thrall of the Maw, yet desperate to avoid its grinding teeth.
“Did you hear me?” Linq asked. He was looking down the steep, rocky embankment of the Heights towards the town that slept below.
I glared at him, refraining from offering a response. How could I answer a race-traitor? No, that was the wrong question. Why should I?
My tiny act of rebellion wouldn’t change what was about to happen roughly a kilometer below us. The townsfolk were already irretrievable victims of the Maw, even before it came to consume their corporeal forms, they had been stupefied by the beast long before.
Still, I hoped beyond hopes that the men, women, and children sitting in their homes would wake up and run. Why didn’t they leave?
“Because they don’t care,” Linq muttered. He already knew what I was thinking. Of course he did, I wasn’t his first assignment. “It’s stay for the Maw, or starve to death. You will choose the same when your time comes.”
“But we are starving because of the Maw,” I said incredulously, my emotions breaking and surging against my flimsy resolution of silence.
Linq simply shrugged in reply. It didn’t matter to him if I believed, the Maw was inevitable regardless.
The ground beneath our feet began to shake. At first it was the tiniest reverberation felt through the soles of our boots, like an idea on the tip of your tongue, unwilling to reveal itself. The vibration grew in strength, rocking the escarpment with its violence.
Then, for the first time, I saw it - the Maw.
I had never seen the Great Wyrm before, indeed I was the first Sapling in my cluster to lay eyes on one. Immediately I wished I had not witnessed its vast grotesquery, the visceral, disgusting way it moved, it consumed.
The first thing I noticed was the sheer size of the creature. To say it was massive would be to understate just how tiny it made me feel. I was an insect to a whale, a seed perched on the mountainside.
Secondly, I was struck by its composition. Yes, the teeth were frightening. Rotating, grinding, crushing appendages affixed within the great hole that earned the beast its name. But it was its skin, its sickeningly slick patchwork of human skin, that I found the most revolting. It didn’t just devour people, it wore them like hunting trophies. No, it was more intrinsic than that. It was them. It took who they were, pulverized the fleshy parts within, the bones, the soul, the mind, and used the only thing that mattered to it - their skin.
“‘The Paste within feeds the beast, so he may give us the Paste without,’” Linq was muttering. It was an old Cultivator passage describing the magnanimity of the Maw. “‘Without the Paste we cannot give, if we cannot give then neither shall we live. The Sapling shall grow into the Giver, so he may give the Paste to Saplings yet to be.’”
The mention of Paste did nothing to quell the bile threatening to surge from the pit of my stomach to my throat. The Maw kept our skin, and returned the Paste to us, a gluey, tasteless food that kept Saplings alive. Those under the Maw’s control, the soon-to-be devoured, did not consume the Paste, they instead wasted slowly away, until the beast reclaimed them. Givers, giving to the Great Taker.
“We didn’t need the Paste before the Maw,” I rebutted acidly.
Linq hissed at me, “Blasphemy!”
But my words must have made him hungry, for he produced a dark clay jar from within the folds of his robe. Untying the rope holding the container’s canvas cover, he dipped his fingers in and scooped gobs of the glutinous Paste out, shoving the glue past his wet lips, saliva dribbling down his fingers and chin with every nauseating mouthful.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing the turmoil within my belly to sleep. The vibrations made it hard for me to concentrate, but I would not allow the Maw, nor this repugnant Cultivator to disturb my peace, my resolve.
Yes, I had made a resolution. I would not go quietly to the Maw. I would not allow myself to metamorphose into a Giver, a husk awaiting my fate. I had learned the truth. Or, more accurately, I had followed the truth to a conclusion, a decision, an idea.
Everyone knew the Maw had not been the only wyrm in the days before Paste. There had been many, hundreds, thousands even. Beautiful creatures of crystalline skin and baleen teeth, cultivators of the planet, the very reason our world had been so lush with vegetation.
But the Maw had grown envious. It strengthened its jaws for crushing work. It developed cunning ways to deceive mankind. And it had gone about consuming, devouring the other wyrms, and wearing the skin of humankind as its own.
Gone were the vivacious, diverse ecosystems of our world. Here harkened the era of dust and Paste.
But not all submitted to the Maw. Some, though very few, refused to become Givers. These renegade Saplings would replant the seeds of our dead world, they would grow back the rich history of our people’s past.
The Maw and its Cultivators regarded these ones with a measure of apathy. All would be consumed, whether they submitted or not.
Except for me. Yes, I was the exception. I could stand up to the beast and do what so many before me were unable to do: I would plant vegetation and live apart from the Paste.
“I’m going down there,” I said to Linq, standing up from my crouched position. The Cultivator had unwittingly brought me to the very place I needed to be. A village designated for Consumption was off-limits to Saplings. But this town had something I needed.
Linq opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then he clamped it shut and stared up at me with those half-closed vacant eyes.
His expression infuriated me, stinging me into leaving him with a parting remark. I pointed toward the Maw, still some kilometers away, churning up the desolate countryside with its great toothy mouth and excreting the aforementioned Paste in a wide mucousy swathe behind it. Thousands of nomadic Cultivators followed the beast closely behind, harvesting the precious paste, to sell and extort Saplings and Givers with the only food source remaining.
“Look!” I said, enraged. “What is it eating? Dust and rocks! Soon it will eat people. That is what your filthy Paste is made from!”
Linq stared up at me for a few seconds. His expression was so painfully dull, that I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. Should I repeat myself?
Finally, Linq shrugged in reply. Gathering his jar of Paste, he got up from where he had been sitting, and without a word, left, heading away from the town and the Maw, and into the planetary wastelands, ostensibly to groom more wild Saplings into docile Givers.
I set my jaw and tore my eyes away from Linq’s receding form. It would take at least a few minutes for the Maw to reach the town. It moved quite slowly, and was adverse to turning directions. The village would be devoured, and soon, but I decided I might still have enough time to rescue my prize and confront the creature. Maybe, just maybe, I could save the hundreds resigned to their fate within the buildings below.
Scurrying down the escarpment, a task made difficult by the violent tremors kicked up by the Maw, not to mention the jagged, loose rock that tore into my legs with every slip, I made it to the valley below and sprinted toward the town.
The racket kicked up by the Maw filled the canyon, a scraping, roaring violence of sound, pummeling my ears and making my heart beat faster. It was hard to even think through all the noise, so I didn’t, I just acted.
Reaching the town, I pelted down the twisted roads and alleys splitting the buildings. Those shops and dwellings had at one time been painted brightly in yellows, pinks, and blues. But as the townsfolk settled into their roles as Givers, they had abandoned any aesthetic exercises. What was the point after all? Why would they care what the colour of their home was as they were mulched and torn within the Taker?
Strewn among the decrepit buildings were the emaciated forms of the Givers. Many were already dead, though others horrifically clung to the last vestiges of life, determined to meet the Maw still conscious. Bursting into the building containing my prize, I found its lone occupant to be among the latter category of Givers, a grizzled old man, wasted away to little more than a wrinkle-skinned skeleton, sitting at a small, rough table. In his hand he held a mug, its steaming contents pricking at my heart: it was coffee, the old man had not given up. Not completely, at least.
“I’ve heard about you,” I said breathlessly. Sweat dripped thick and salty from my hairline down my face and back.
The old man looked up at me, his sunken eyes betraying a glint of intelligence from beneath a heavy, hairless brow.
“Then you know that I am a fool,” the old man said, sipping his bitter drink.
“No,” I said, my emotions coursing strongly, “No, you mean everything to people like me.”
“To people like you?” the old man said derisively. “There are no people, not anymore. We consume just as the Maw does, we eat each other up. There are no Saplings, no Givers, no Taker, only the drive to consume.”
It felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath my feet, the old man had given up.
“Then why the coffee?” I asked bitterly.
The old man paused, about to take another sip of the aforementioned beverage.
“I suppose,” he said softly, hesitating. “I suppose I didn’t want that god-awful Paste to be the last thing I ate before…”
“Last thing you consume,” I interjected acidly.
The old man chuckled, “What? You think you’re making a point? Don’t be naïve. Yes, of course it’s still consuming. But I learned long ago that it makes no difference whether you try to grow your own food, or you partake of their effluent. It all ends in the same path. The Taker wins either way. But, yes. I saved these last few beans to consume before my time is up.”
My eyes widened in shock, “The plants?” I asked, the horrible truth all but confirmed by the old man’s words.
“Gone,” he said, the word sinking like a stone to the pit of my stomach. “Just as I will be, just as you will be.”
The old man’s eyes glazed over and he slumped in his chair, the conversation was over.
The whole house shook as the Maw approached, but I stood in place, feeling a numb defeat spread out from my heart to my fingertips. The shaking intensified, and the mug of coffee slid off the table and shattered on the floor, spilling its warm, black contents over the filthy tiles.
The crash gave me the jolt I needed. I wasn’t beaten. I was still standing. But I needed to keep moving. It was the stupefying effects of the Maw’s pheromones that was making me feel defeated. I couldn’t spend any longer in this place.
“No, you’re wrong,” I started to say, but the old man wasn’t listening. I wasn’t even sure he was still alive, he looked so flaccid.
Frantically, I began searching the rooms within the old man’s house. He couldn’t have destroyed them all. The coffee proved it, whether he admitted it to me or not. He had been clinging to life, and life clings to people such as him.
Opening and closing doors, throwing aside blankets and ransacking cupboards, I dredged the house for my prize, holding fast to the final gleam of hope within my heart.
But it was all in vain. I had scoured every inch of the quivering house, and came up empty-handed.
No, wait, there was one place I hadn’t looked.
I ran back over to where the old man sat. It was hard to stay on my feet at this point, the quaking had reached a crescendo.
“Out of my way,” I said angrily to the old defeatist.
“What, no? Wait - you can’t,” he protested, but I threw him aside, sending him and his chair sprawling onto the coffee-soaked floor.
“So you are still alive,” I snarled.
Paying no more attention to the sputtering old fool, I pried at the tiles formerly beneath his chair until my fingers were raw and bloody, my nails torn and scored. Finally, a tile came loose, and there it was. Tucked into a neat, square hole, carefully dug beneath the concealing tile was my prize. A plant, in all its verdant glory, green-leafed and beautiful.
Tears streamed reverentially down my cheeks as I gently picked up the potted foreign object in my battered hands. Everything melted away, the shaking, the fear, even the old man had quieted. Only I was left, a moment alone with this tiny sliver of green truth. It was as much a piece of our history as it was a scion of the future, an emerald guide to a better way of life.
But the brief moment of ecstasy was cut short by the reality of my situation. The Maw was close, nothing could be said or heard above the volume of its grandiose approach. It was time. I would confront it. I would show it the bit of truth I had gathered in my arms.
Hurrying out of the house with my prize in hand, I took one last look at the old man awaiting his death on the tiled floor. He looked so pathetic lying there, tears streaming down his oaken cheeks, eyes pleading for another fate. Yet, he did not get up to save himself, he might as well have already been consumed by the Maw.
“I will do better than you,” I promised him as I left.
Then I was in the street, on my way to intercept the unstoppable beast.
Every step was a chore, my legs became leaden as the ground’s constant vibrations chewed away at my fortitude and conviction. I looked down at the diminutive potted plant in my arms; so pure, so innocent. A bit of green life amidst the dusty greys and browns of my lifeless planet. It was beauty incarnate, what right did I have to risk something so vibrant against the churn of the Maw?
No, I had to continue. I had to change things. This was my one chance to not only redeem the Maw, but revive the very soul of my world.
My pace slowed as the Maw drew near on the outskirts of town. I halted and lofted my prize over my head with both hands, boldly daring the Maw to consume us, my head held high. It had to notice me, it just had to. What I possessed was too wonderful to turn into Paste.
There were noises from behind me, sounding a lot like cheering. That couldn’t be possible, I thought, twisting around to observe the disturbance.
It was cheering! Almost one hundred of the townsfolk had dragged themselves out of their drugged stupor just long enough to follow the brave girl with the potted plant. Tears welled up in my eyes as I recognized who led them: the old man still had some spirit left after all.
Filled with renewed courage, I turned and faced the approaching beast.
The ground’s shaking turmoil ceased as, to my great relief, the Maw hesitated, slowly coming to a standstill a dozen or so metres away from me.
It raised its great skinned head up from the detritus churned up by its interrupted burrowing. It regarded me wearily, though how a giant eyeless wyrm - all gaping mouth and serrated teeth - could regard anything was beyond me. Yet, there it was, watching me.
I wavered, unsure of what to do next. This close to the Maw, its incredible size completely overwhelmed my senses, almost to the point of being unable to comprehend what my own eyes were seeing. It was as if a feature of the landscape itself, a mountain made of skin, had transplanted itself before me, and now waited for me to act before responding.
Waffling over my choices, I decided to speak.
“O’ Great Wyrm,” how does one address a faceless monolithic creature? “My name is Aspen. I have come bearing a harbinger of the future. It is time we came to an agreement, it is time for organic life to spring forth once again over our barren planet.”
The townsfolk behind me - those still conscious - muttered in approval.
The Maw held still for a few moments, before shifting its cavernous head down toward me. It came close enough to brush the plant in my hand with the dry lip of its horrifying mouth. It then retreated back upward, and seemed to look from me to the townsfolk beyond.
I waited with bated breath. Was it actually considering my words? Could this at last be the watershed moment I had always dreamed it would be?
“Great Maw,” I said, “once we-” but I was not allowed the chance to finish.
The Maw screeched, a horrid, shrill scream that overpowered my senses, and sent me down to my knees, hands over my ears. In my agony, I had dropped my precious cargo, and the plant rolled some meters away.
Desperately, I crawled towards the flash of rolling verdant leaves, but I never reached it.
The Maw lunged at me, swallowing me in a great crash of dust and dirt. At first, the creature’s gummy lips embraced me with a sickly warm, and somehow comforting, grasp.
But then came the teeth.
I gasped and groaned as piece by piece the Maw took me apart. The pain was excruciating, but the wyrm cared not, desiring only my skin and my mind. The rest of me was just… waste.
Finally, it was over. The pain eased as my body ceased to exist, except the parts used to further the Maw’s interests. I realized it was all over, my struggle, my former life.
More importantly, I now understood. The Maw was inevitable. My puny plant wouldn't have changed its course, it hadn’t even changed its thinking, aside from assessing how best to devour me.
I understood now because the Maw was me. It was everyone who had been consumed. We could not be stopped, and we were hungry.
We turned our attention to the small town, its residents still arrayed at the outskirts, all of them dismayed by my demise. They would do, for now. We burrowed toward them, eager to ingest our next meal.
Atop our head, bouncing and shaking as we moved, sat the vibrant green plant, a harbinger of the future indeed.
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