MORPHOGENESIS

When I emerged from the fog at the swamp’s eastern edge, bare hills rolled out ahead. Dawn glowed blue. I climbed the first slope, fell forward onto the grass. Cool wind swept across my back.

A fresh corpse stiffened in the swamp.

Looking up, I saw flocks of translucent creatures swarming like a hive of bees. They seemed to be constructing an enormous—though invisible—matrix onto which they arranged themselves in precise order. As more and more fell into place, the remaining members raced ever faster until the final blur subsided and a completed picture suddenly appeared—a floating tablet printed with unreadable script.

Half sunk into a puddle of slime, the skin just beginning to marble, he raised one eye to a cloud of buzzing flies.

I stood and saw into a jagged valley. A slender trail led down.

I’d strangled him, pounded his skull against a rock—because he’d followed me there, wouldn’t leave me in peace. I wanted nothing more to do with the place I’d left behind.

As I descended, the sun rose over the distant mountains, igniting the horizon. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle swept up from below. By the time I reached the bottom, morning light sifted through branches on either side, throwing an occasional beam across the divide.

He was my only brother.

I came to a wide, rushing stream spanned by a silver bridge.

The city I’d fled burned—towers of fire leaped from the black plain. It’s true I hated the place, hated every last citizen and their lies. But it’s not true that my hatred sparked the blaze. I don’t believe in pyrokinesis. I don’t believe in pyrokinesis.

I stood where the path met the arch of steel planks. Just as I was about to step onto the bridge, I saw that its rails touched a kind of boundary—an invisible curtain, extending endlessly in both directions, through which all that lay beyond rippled as though liquefied. I plunged ahead, directly though the curtain, like a man falling into a vertical lake.

My brother followed me out of the inferno.

I emerged into incandescent, moonlit darkness. The bridge remained, and I could see that on its opposite end another shimmering wall stood between me and further daylight. Below, the stream flowed pink and violet.

I traveled on foot. Behind me, in the distance, he rode a swayback stallion—never faster than a leisurely walk. I shouted, “Turn back!” I threw rocks at him through the dark; once I even struck his horse’s snout. But he kept moving. Dust curled around his silhouette.

As I crossed, the air filled with dissonant music, twists of smoke, deep rumbles, and occasional high-pitched peals. On both sides, canyons of glass veered away at odd angles. I halted at the bridge’s midpoint, gazed up into the curve of space above. Stars flashed everywhere.

I found his persistence infuriating.

Gripping the pipe of the handrail, I watched as a red cloud—globe-shaped, flickering—appeared above the stream. Within its churning vapors, I saw eight tiny polished stones. Two remained stationary—the lowermost yellow stone and the central blue one. The rest rolled in concentric circles like marbles in a children’s game.

Then I reached the western edge of the swamp. The burning city had long since dropped behind the horizon—but the moon remained to light the ropes of vine. I pulled one aside and entered. I moved as quickly as possible, looking often behind me. Just as the swamp’s edge reached the the far limit of my vision, I saw my brother enter.

Soon another image appeared, the outline of a human form, assembled piece by piece against the background of the stones. When I saw that the face—whose eyes just now began to open—was my own, I turned and resumed my trip across the bridge, stepping faster and faster until I crashed through the invisible wall and emerged again into sunlight.

He must have abandoned his horse. He continued on foot, twisting and stumbling. More than once he barked curses. We’d traveled several miles into the swamp, maintaining the same distance from each other, when I made up my mind to kill him.

I faced a vast meadow rippling under strong wind. In the distance I saw a cluster of cream-colored tents—thirteen in all—standing in irregular formation around a central clearing. Obelisk-shaped, each rose on four poles capped by a canvas pyramid. Their long sides hung untethered. As I circled the clearing, I discovered that each contained a single, incongruous, antique object—grand piano, wrought-iron birdcage, apothecary’s cabinet, lunar landing module, Victorian doll house, cotton gin, clock, barber’s chair, iron lung, nuclear warhead, mirror, sarcophagus, brass telescope.

When I found a thick enough tree, I stood upright against it. I held a flat rock in one hand. I tried to wait quietly—but my pulse pounded. At last I heard him walk up to the tree, lean briefly against it, then lurch forward. I crushed his teeth with the rock. He went down screaming. I pounced on him, got my hands around his neck, and choked him. He kicked, of course, and gagged. But I beat his head into the ground and eventually he went limp. I rolled him into a nearby pool. He sank sideways. His eye flashed in the moonlight.

In the center of the clearing, on a solid stone platform, stood a towering female figure constructed from assorted junk. One leg, visible through a slit in her robe, consisted of an airplane wing hammered to a smooth curve; the robe itself was a motley of road signs, steel panels, fiberglass, and plastic. She held both hands out, palms skyward, and gazed into the distance, her eyes slatted with blue fluorescent tubes.

After that, I made good time. I moved faster without a shadow. When the fog set in, I knew it wouldn’t be long before morning and the end of all my sorrow.

I walked out of the circle. I traveled for several miles, reached a fork marked by a weather-beaten plank with arrows pointing in both directions. Though the sign was printed with the same script I’d seen earlier in the sky, I found that I could now decipher it.

I chose the right way.