“I tell you: one must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star...Alas! The time is coming when man will give birth to no more stars. Alas! The time of the most contemptible man is coming, the man who can no longer despise himself. Behold! I shall show you the Last Man. ‘What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?’ Thus asks the Last Man and blinks...‘We have discovered Happiness,’ say the Last Men and blink."
— "Zarathustra's Prologue"
But a man with chaos does come to give birth to such a star. Somewhere in the rural lands of the Ohio Valley nestles the salt of creation. The corn here is...abundant, suppliant, ready to serve the Earth and its people of this small community. But why does the air feel so hot? Why does the old man at the diner carry on about those woods? And what is beyond these fields, being studied 1,000 miles away in Colorado?
“You would not believe how many chicken coups I have passed in this solo journey. Along my drive, I’ve been monitoring for any signs of local activity, and apart from barns and coups, I’ve got to say, there doesn’t seem to be anything left here.”
The FBI agent shook his head and clicked off his tape recorder. He knew his travel would be long, and his lower back ached from the hours of driving into this lone destination, but he committed himself to another hour on the road before he would retire for the day. He shifted in his seated to alleviate some of the pressure and tuned into his car radio.
For the length of the drive, only dull static persisted through the line. Not a station was to be heard for miles, and the only thing keeping him company were these many hills and blue sky lined with power lines he took the pleasure in seeing. Drifting his mind to a comfortable place was a treat any assignment he had that involved long travel granted. While others at the Bureau took up offers to investigate drug-trafficking or international ordeals, he would always vouch for the ones that seemed strange and remote. And so, here he found himself located somewhere below the Ohio.
A report came in of a missing agent that had entered this neck of the woods some fifty years ago. Investigations were carried out extensively, but none of which would yield any real evidence as to what became of him. Some speculated the agent had been murdered and his trail so well-maintained that it somehow eluded all indication of his presence. However, others say he had lost himself in a deep state of psychosis and eventually gave way to Nature. Many have trouble with this theory because, under such a condition, some flaw or mishap would have emerged itself. But none did. And none would be likewise ready to believe that such a genius would have intentionally went away unheard of if he truly was about to be murdered and needed help. In this scenario, surely he would have left clues along the way to wherever his captor—or captors—had taken him.
But recent activity had been spotted in this area when an electromagnetic signal was detected on Intelligence monitors, what has been designated as “The Artifact at 4am”. Sent over to the Bureau, a status was collected on the general whereabouts of the signal, and what came to light was an impossibility no one had ever believed.
What had been discovered was more than electromagnetic static—it was the ending of a song from some unknown source. Their eyes never really had left the site, after all, but what this new finding indicated was a kind of sentience about the whole mystery. Up until now, investigators had ultimately only conjecture to go on, aware only of that the agent was on assignment in the general area—an assignment that never existed after the year 1974. What’s more is that, while this particular assignment had mysteriously disappeared from all records, the people working at the Bureau during that time have clear recollection of its existence.
If it really wanted to be hidden, the other agents would have been silenced, yet they were perfectly able to speak openly about it as they wished. It seemed almost as if that the assignment itself had evaded detection by the Superiors, that whatever had abruptly ceased its development must’ve pulled a memory blank on the issuing authority. It was something that easily had been brushed back into the peripherals, where only hindsight may uncover its truth.
Agent Elbert may not have been old enough to remember the event, but his senior colleagues regarded it as testimony to something more than what meets the eye, that may have something to do with the area’s semi-frequent UFO activity.
And this is what he believed above all else: the classic alien abduction case that would break open wide the boundaries of civilization. This was more than what he could have asked for—this was a godsend and a one-way ticket out of the jaded monotony of supposed “civilized” life and the horrors witnessed within its grueling capacity.
As the rural folk always preach of the peace found in the country is unlike anything ever felt in the cities, Agent Elbert was certain of their conviction and its rejuvenative qualities.
Static buzzed on from the car radio, but before his finger touched the dial, a voice broke through. It was the same that was received back at headquarters. He turned the volume up, the song continued. After about thirty seconds, the signal fell again into static. At once he slammed on his brakes, put the car in reverse, and quickly shot straight. As expected, the voice returned, and he now found where exactly he was supposed to be. He listened patiently, and as the song ended, not static clogged the transmission anymore, but simply a clear silence permeated.
These were the correct geospatial coordinates, he was certain of it. Placing his car into park, he collected his flashlight, for, though the sky still shone day, it would not be long before night fell, and that was a mystery itself he would not venture unprepared. Climbing out, he got the immediate sense a presence was near. He could not distinguish what body that may be, but it was a misty presence that drew him to the encroaching purple evening hanging peacefully over the woodland as the crow flies.
He walked forth to begin his search for the missing agent.
* * *
Nothing of great importance stood out to him. As eerily magical of a place this may be, yes, it spoke something to him, but ultimately it didn’t give any lead to the missing agent. Agent Elbert forfeited his search, and returned to the solid black vehicle where he would deduct and reason into the tape recorder.
“. . . still I can’t shake the feeling that there is something here. What god may have put me here and for what purpose, I feel I have a vague idea. It is not certain as to what will come of this case now, but what I will do is pay another visit to the nearest town, which appears to be a good 35 miles from here. I need answers to this place, its history. I’ve got to know more about these barns and coups. Thus far, I have counted 42 altogether, none of which look to be in operation anymore. I want to know the reason. The locals will know something, I’m sure of it.”
* * *
An elderly fellow with a cane and veteran’s cap hollered to the agent. “It was Saigon!”
“Sorry?” The agent broke the conversation he was having with a couple of middle-aged farmers, filling him in on the year’s crop productivity and local deals on tractors.
“It was Saigon, I tell you! Those woods...I saw it. It—”
The waitress piped in, “That’s enough. There’s plenty to get spooked about, but none of it is somethin’ that will do good to get worked up over. He,” she gestured towards the old man, “has just been under some hard times lately, with the economy and all. It’s hit all of us here pretty bad.”
“No, that’s enough of you. Agent, while the folk here stay all quiet about it, I, for one, will have the audacity to speak up.” His eyes brightened. Curious, the agent’s interests piqued, but he stayed silent for a bit longer to let him finish undisturbed. “They say if you go out into them woods there, you ain’t ever comin’ back. Now, since I was a boy I’ve hunted and fished and been all around this whole area. I know it like the back of my hand. Yeah, I’ll admit there was always somethin’ strange ‘bout it, but nothin’ crazy that’ll make a story outta’. But that was until I came back home from the war…” His tone hardened as he spoke more deliberately. “When I came back, things...were different. I told my wife those years ago ‘bout it, and...she was good to me.” He cleared his throat, and began again. “I’ll tell you somethin’ right now. Those woods,” he pointed south-west, “I saw it again. Saigon. My wife ain’t here no more. But I tell you, it was different, and I cain’t explain it right. I felt somethin’ I hadn’t felt back then. It was hope. And it was as easy as butter.”
“How so?”
He leaned in, “I won.”
“You won?”
“And I ain’t meanin’ I had changed the outcome. What happened happened. It was still all the same from where I left off. But I saw there was more to it, more reason for my being there. I saw what nobody saw.”
“And what did you see?”
He chuckled a little and paused briefly. “They need the cattle. Chickens and horses too.”
“If I understand it correctly, there have been not just one, but several incidents of cattle abduction, but no mutilations. Do you know why that is?”
The waitress had been glaring him. The other customers stopped eating and had also taken on the same manner. He smiled and fell silent.
“Agent Elbert, I like you.”
“And I you, sir. Thank you for your time, and I hope you folks enjoy the rest of your day. The food here was incredible, by the way.”
“Any time, agent.” And with his one, good eye, he winked.
As the agent made his way for the door, he noticed a little corn leaf cross with equal-cut spokes, pinned above the entrance, a not too distant reminder of the sundry cornfields laying in every direction.
And there’s so much corn here…
The hot Sun singed his face as he opened the door and walked into the bright light. Squinting his eyes, sweat already beginning to burn his vision, he held his hand up to his brow and surveyed the scene. Even the corn seemed to have knelt in submission to the sweltering day. A light, spirited wind blew across the tops of the corn, as if reminding them of the rewards awaiting them that night for their loyalty and endurance. Trial and tribulation, raised up as crop for the endgame, blessed with the assurance of a healthy afterlife…Frowning, he turned towards his car to escape the damning heat and humidity. Another trip on the road, another trail to blaze against the heaving mirage of heat waves twisting and curling in their serpentine dance upon the asphalt. But so many of the individual plants themselves, this infinite sea he could see before him as the crow flies..God, there are so many. Then it dawned on him that no one can eat this much corn. What were all the others for? Who did they belong to, if anyone? What was the purpose for this small community and all of their product here? Maybe..maybe the fields were born and raised before civilization’s emergence? And this, as he stood here, is the mind creature…? No…or...maybe yes…
A wicked smile flicked out, and he pressed on the pedal.
* * *
He was back now, to the spot that had brought him here from over a thousand miles away. He pulled into a small, comfortable clearing, as close as he could get without getting hung up in the raw earth. Turning down the radio at the pure, crystalline sonance, he checked his handgun for full ammunition and replaced it in the holster at his waist. He reached for his flashlight and opened the car door, closed and locked it up forever. If the missing agent would be anywhere, he would most certainly be in those trees. Agent Elbert’s eyes lit up brilliant and great and reflected the white light of the Moon light descending up ahead into the seventh house, into those trees. He followed forth onto his trail, a soldier’s march into the shadows.
The tree branches bent low before him, the leaves bristled upon his entry, veiling him in mystery and mystery until time’s end. Primal masculinity drove him through, a god now before all eyes within the forest, venerating the path he paves, a religion growing and following up in his shadow. The musk of the forest heightened his senses, his eyes glowed, his hearing acute, and he smelled for blood. The old man was right… Something in this old Nature twisted ‘round and writhed and threw itself as a lion, as a serpent against the walls of known reality. As he walked on, he could feel his mind expand past contemplation and directly headlong into complete and utter knowing—the knowing of Being. “Dasein…” came from under his breath. His breathing climbed heavier but fuller and greater, stamina increasing with each step, by each ticking of the clock beating in his chest. “...it is like making love.” The humidity was high and hot still, but he understood why the corn and all else lived. It was this brilliant secret of the forest, not just any forest, but these woods here and these alone. This was his kingdom and domain now. Every movement, every thought and course of action became the sensual and erotic—what is there not to love in such a reality? This hyper-reality… it is the vision of the Übermensch. The forest floor with its foliage of dead gum and maple leaves and fallen trees hollowed by the love of life; moss at tree feet, lichen and wood mushroom cladding tree body: feeling what it feels in this now, ripening moment. “Καιρός…”
Silently, he proceeded onward, wrapped in his own thought, his thoughts manifesting its hue into the woods he was looking at around him. Time pressed nearer to him, fixing its orientation onto him—the God of the Wilds. As he walked, a low hum began to emanate from this bending of time, both audible and ultra-low in frequency. Insects buzzed away, carrying on into geometric flight patterns—some spiral, some lemniscate, some double helix, and those also altogether octahedron, all under the spell of the golden ratio. Amongst the throng, from behind a tree and thick ivy brush, a figure darted forth fast, and without hesitance, whipped out his handgun and shot at it, and it fell in an instant hard to the ground.
The hallucination pulsated and throbbed into a hypnogogic crisis, but then as he gave it a powerful, conscious effort to relax every muscle… he was relieved to find he had been falling into this heavenly void of the Wild, like falling into the black hole of a galaxy for every particle of your Being to be absorbed and spat out into pure vibrational radiance and become the meaning of the whole Universe.
…and he won.
Bright white lights flashed on the batting of eyelashes and iridescent butterfly wings, and he found himself having come back around to where he had first began his sojourn into the deep. Standing at the forest entry, the sky quite so dark nor quite as bright as he once remembered. He peered over at his car and discovered its black color having somehow turned some murky shade of grey. Arriving at the scene, he put his finger to it and wiped a line of dirt from its shell. On the hood laid scattered old and new leaves and twigs; this car hadn’t been in use in a long time.
Digging the keys from his pocket, he soon learned they too belonged to this ancient car.
“Ah yes, the missing agent,” he chuckled to himself. “His name was Elbert.”
When he got in and ignited the engine, the radio lit up with a distant, ethereal tune—one he had recollected as the “The Artifact at 4am”. With the resonance on and serenity in the atmosphere, humming to himself as he began once again down the road.
* * *
Meanwhile, a couple visits the same diner too…
“This is scrumptious. The way this sweet corn is buttered and the sausage and cornbread tender...Markus, could we get another?”
The professor smiled and shot his thumb and index in request for two more helpings of the day’s special.
“You ain’t from ‘round ‘ere, are ya?” the waitress leaned in.
“No, not quite, but I presume you’re fluent in English too? We’d like two more orders, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”
The waitress snorted and took the request to the kitchen. Soon two mounds of steaming, wild corn ambrosia were presented on the table, and both Zora and Markus dove in.
“Much thanks!” Zora’s cheeks glowed bright with the red of life.
Markus looked up at Zora amusingly when the eagle cry of a storm weather alert piqued his attention over her shoulder, and there in a red leather booth sat a middle-aged man, rugged but clean in his flannel and trapper hat, turning the volume up on the portable table radio. The man listened intently for the news broadcast, and a steely voice summoned to its report.
“This is not a test. I repeat—this is not a test. The National Weather Agency is issuing report of a second nuclear detonation. This is not a test. A second nuclear detonation has been spotted on the African continent. A scale has been rendered that estimates a projection as far East as Indonesia, as far South as the Antarctic Ocean, as far West as Brazil, as far North as Pakistan and Morocco. According to—”
“That’s ‘nough. Don’t concern none of us here.” The man switched off the radio and let out a long sigh, falling back into his seat. The diner remained quiet. With a solemn gesture, the waitress furrowed her eyebrows and walked over and poured another cup of coffee—on the house. She returned behind the counter, clearly tossing and turning over in her mind the information, and whatever else concerned her customer, as she rolled silverware. There was some silent, meaningful conversation between the two, some unspoken history. Markus knew that and watched them carefully.
Zora stared at Markus. For a moment, she opened her mouth and thought to say something, but realized the gravity in the diner and decided to stay put and casual. Markus met her eyes and told her through them he will investigate. He slid out of his seat and stood up, the sun setting and basking him in orange glow, his shadow cast onto the counter. He did not want to impose upon him as a passing tourist. He wanted answers as he could sense something wasn’t right about the situation, and walked over to the sitting man.
“What is out there?”
The man sat up straight and regarded him respectfully, but in all brevity, kept his words to a fine minimal. “No Internet.”
* * *
Many years later, following in the footsteps and the religion of the God…
Machinations hummed low and guttural under the shadows of invention. Mankind, for all its technical and creative ingenuity, did not know what creature they played with. Headlines ran from East to West of panic and the “Paranoia of the Robots”, for the machines were believed to have a sentience, and when something is believed in forever it comes alive and grows a kami. The real terror did not arise from the grossly complex network of science—a peak where once something becomes too complicated, fine and intricate, fight-or-flight activates, and the overloaded individual shuts off any further accumulation of knowledge and enters a plane of thought known to us as superstition. And that’s just what humanity did. When science crossed over the threshold onto superstition, man’s primordial soul reactivated, and it was this belief that caused the simple plastic dummy to autonomously convulse in the examination room of Federal Jefferson Laboratory & Research Facility.
Behind the glass observed doctors Rice, Grubb, Messerschmitt, Ballard and van Hoesen, their neurons, sanctified by the undulating cigarette smoke they breathed, quivering with interest. He and she each to their own ruminations, in the quiet, still air they said nothing. The smoke rolled on and on, to collect together again in some distant time, and there they sat in the midst of holy priesthood praying with ardent faith this look-alike—this lump of plastic with no controls or inputs, this facsimile whose face is a thousand times more convincing of man than would be any worm heap of wires and electricity—would wriggle out from its vegetative state. “Ach, mein Gott...” Their eyes filled with tears and awe. The instrumental trans-communication a success, they looked at each other dignified and together left the room.
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