aesmael

She continued to grow her island in fits and starts, trying to make it more lovely in whatever way she could, yet there was one thing she could not bring to her retreat no matter how she tried: Surprise. Every hollow, every bend, every corner was familiar to her, for she had made it. Even what she had not designed herself – for there were other realms than hers, made by other hands – she had placed and always, always studied beforehand.

Still she did not stop trying and often would roam through such realms as would have her in search of inspiration, public spaces as well as the private creations of others, made available to guests or friends. From these she found models of trees and grass which soon populated her island, and the idea of rocks, which is very, very important. She dressed herself in white and black with hair to match, and made her name Magpie.

Many of the spaces with public access took the form of such monuments to humanity as clubs. Rather too many, in her opinion. They pretended to have food and they pretended to have drink while people danced and talked and mucked about. Sometimes even the music was pretend. She told herself that even though she did not care much for any of this, she did care for their designs. Ideas she could borrow. She visited them quietly, keeping to the walls and watching as she had in other lives Sometimes she would try dancing halfheartedly to blend in, which is entirely the wrong way to do it.

Not really her thing, nightclubs. She scorned them for being frivolous places, devoid of soul. Too loud and confusing. She sought out places set aside for (mostly) more serious pursuits instead, discussions of weighty topics on which few could help but argue. They usually were less decorated than nightclubs, and less tacky, and she was not expected to dance usually and at least two of those qualities she considered virtues.

'This is good,' she thought to herself. 'This is a worthwhile use of my time. I shall visit these places and learn.' There were many of them and more, and each caught her interest in a different way so that she soon found herself in a constant state of movement, flitting from one to the next. She still did not often speak up any more than she had in the clubs. The people in these places were many and loud and ferociously smart – but eventually she noticed something distressing: the discussions were repeating. Not in precisely the same way, no, but always the same topics with new players, the same classes of argument and counterpoint with only wit to relieve and the Magpie wondered in slow horror, how long had this been going on?

She continued to watch, fascinated. Sometimes she would step forward to help when one of the players missed a step. And always, always flitting faster, through ever more venues, chattering rising louder all about her. Too much, too fast, too much. She looked down at her clothes that no longer fit and asked herself another question: How long have I been doing this? What am I doing, even? But there was no time for thought. No time for answers. No time for anything. Onward, onward, onward. What were they even talking about? She couldn't say, anymore. It was just noise.

“ENOUGH!” she screamed.

The place was empty, looked as if it had long been empty. There was a feeling of pigeons scattering, but of course there were no pigeons. She was alone.

“Oh,” she said.

Before the beginning there was not. After the beginning there was nothing and there was potential. Not even the status of formless chaos had been attained.

Time passed, of a brief and insignificant duration.

Into this nothing faded the form of a girl with chestnut hair and green-gold eyes. She wore a dress of yellow and a floppy hat that spoke of summer. Looking about as if direction actually meant something, she smiled. There was much for her to do, none of it questioning the wisdom of how she might be visible without illumination.

The first shaping is easiest to gloss over, yet it took her long and hard study before she was able to realise even the most basic of forms. Impatience pushed her to quit many times, tempting retreat back into herself where at least her imagination had no waiting period, but of course she did not give up with finality and learned at last to give shape to the nothing.

It took the size and the form, more or less, of an island. A very crude island of mostly flat solid rising to a vague peak in the middle and bordered not by water or indeed anything at all, just nothing. The underside was a rough mirror image of the overside, so that from a distance it might seem as though a great spindle of land had uprooted itself to go adrifting wherever the wind might take it.

The girl examined what she had made. She saw it was the best she could manage for now, so it would have to do. She landed herself near the edge – it could not honestly be called a shore – and announced to no one in particular “I shall call it 'This Land'”. And then she laughed, because she was precisely the sort of person who would laugh at her own jokes.