Columns

He lives on the edge of forever. Where the plain turns from a rocky desert into a smooth expanse covered with sand and fine dust, his hut leans into the constant wind blowing toward the stars. In the direction of the world of men the vast emptiness is a desert strewn with rocks, occasional boulders, sparse vegetation. In the direction of forever the drifting sand and thins out, spreads out, gradually fading into nothing, losing itself in the stars.

A gravel road fades into the dirt beside his door, terminating at a row of strange columns marching into the twilight. These pillars, each different from its neighbor, are evenly spaced, making their procession unified, dignified. Each is separated from its neighbor by five steady strides. All face, if they have faces, away from the things of men, leaning toward distant stars. Something about the vertical forms suggests movement, a pace that is individual yet universal. They diminish and blur in the distance, forming a faint streak, fading softly into the flickering nameless constellations.

The nearest pylon towers over the shack, a great weathered grey-blue rock, following its companions toward the distant non-horizon. Strange lichen-covered markings have been chipped into its sides, but are smoothed by centuries of wind and rain.

Further on a monolith is hunched over, its gnarled, petroglyph-covered shape looks as if it has crept from some lonely aboriginal landscape to join this silent procession. Beyond is a spire twisting gracefully toward the sky, leaning slightly toward the sparkling motes twinkling above the end of all things. The next stone is a black stella which quickly tapers to a four-sided tip; it is covered with strange cuneiform inscriptions. Beyond rises a huge obelisk reflecting the surrounding landscape from its stark smooth marble sides. Next a wooden pole, which may have once been a gnarled ancient oak, has sides so smoothed by countless hands that it seems to be a swirling, twisting tower of earth toned material, no longerwood. Beyond it is a spire of rocks, a complex jigsaw of odd shaped stones that have been so carefully matched it presents no space, no gaps, hardly even a seam, in any of its sides. The line continues through countless types of pillars. Some are polished wood displaying lacquered bands of vibrant colors, their dynamic hues singing of long vanished cities. There are Asherah and totem poles, pillory posts, stocks, and crosses. Stalagmites, crystals, and fossil-encrusted towers are followed by finely carved thin pilasters rising gracefully into the purpling sky. Immense monoliths give way to short wooden posts, and strange marble blocks half reveal struggling forms like unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo.

The columns, though wildly different from each other, form a unified progression that conveys a sense of movement. Each pylon motionlessly moves in file toward the edge of forever.

He feels his role is the caretaker of this strange regiment marching into eternity. He wanders beside the long file of columns Once he walked for four days into the distance, to where the starlight had begun to shine through the dirt.
A dusty stranger paused at the road’s end, beside the caretaker’s door, and his eyes rested on the gentle transformation of Earth and Heaven. He was robed in rough brown cloth; his dirty feet were thickly calloused from many leagues of travel. His right hand held a staff of twisted wood, the remains of a small tree that had once struggled against wind and dry air, gripping glacier-worn rocks until this stranger’s hand had coaxed it from its hard-won purchase. His left hand was resting gently on the lichen-covered carvings of the grey-blue monolith.

The man who lived on the edge of forever let the stranger gaze silently into eternity throughout the afternoon. But when the distant sun crept behind the horizon of the world, he offered a humble meal, and the cot inside.

The stranger, ignoring the offered respite, asked if other men come this way. Had there been any others who had come with ascetic apparel, simple hearts, and singular minds to search for what could not be found elsewhere? Had there been anyone else, companions in his quest for truth, who had tarried here?

The caretaker told him no, no one had come this way, no one had spent more than a night in the many years that he had been here. The few who had ventured this far had fled in terror at the vision of the immortal universe lapping at the shores of Man. That he had been here nearly all his life, and that his only colleagues were the silent columns; his closest friend was the large blue stone upon which the stranger now rested his hand.

The stranger was silent, saddened. He thanked the caretaker for his hospitality, but said he wanted only to spend the night beside the silent row and watch the stars creep overhead. Perhaps in the morning he would start his journey, forward or back he knew not. For now the quiet of the evening and the solemn file that moved into eternity were all he craved.

So the caretaker left him with his thoughts beside the great blue stone, and retired within.


Morning came with the weak rays of the distantly beckoning sun, and the caretaker stepped out to see after the stranger. But he was gone. No one slept or moved in all the area around the hovel.

Once again his only companions were the ones he always had. The columns continued their timeless march into forever.

Yet there was one difference. The first pillar was no longer the great grey-blue stone. That one was now second in line, a little further toward forever. In its place stood a new one, a weathered brown sandstone column, leaning eagerly in the direction of eternity.