The warrior stumbles, clutching his gut. Blood warms the space between his fingers. When he rises, it is into an altogether different chamber than the last. This Crucible, this cube, the size of planet, orbiting a black hole, hasn’t strayed much from its endless corridors and vast chambers, all alike in their sparseness and blackness. But the one he drags himself into now is not like the others.
Some say the Crucible is a machine, harbouring an intelligence so colossal it exceeds our ability to comprehend it. Some say it is a labyrinth, guarding a secret so powerful it would rupture the universe as we know it. Others say a prison, concealing an enemy so ancient not even our genes recall it.
So why, if any of these things are true, does it have a garden such as this? A twirling tangle of grasses, ferns and vines, flowing up and around dense, tropical woodlands, interspaced between open patches of wildflower. Water trickles down rocky inlets, all leading up a hill, topped by a great, white tree. It’s golden leaves flutter around it, descending into the valleys below, glittering against the black ceiling far above like gilded stars.
What use is this in a machine? Or a labyrinth? Or a prison? The warrior does not know. He collapses into the long grasses.
He’s fought long and hard. Too long, too hard. It’s finally caught up with him. They’ve been warring over the outer edges of the Crucible for years now. One company against another. Hardly anyone has made it more than twenty layers down. They estimate there must be thousands. He feels sad that he’ll never see them. Perhaps there are more gardens down there.
He’s just glad to have seen this one. A small, mouse-like creature peaks at him from behind a green blade. Hey there, small buddy. The warrior closes his eyes. Make sure to enjoy the garden while it's there, he mumbles to the creature, to the garden and to himself.
Paddy Dobson
28th December 2020