Waterfall
At the end of Time, there was a waterfall.
Waterfall
By Samuel Sullins
At the end of Time, there was a waterfall. It was as wide as you could see, stretching off to distant nothingness in either direction.
An old man sat there, at the end of Time, on a rock among the soft green grass. He watched the waterfall with his eyes closed. It was beautiful, a million rivers melted together, falling with a combined roar into the abyss below. A mist steamed up out of the abyss and landed on his eyes, making drops that added up and trickled down to run, crystalline, along his eyelashes. A faint sound echoed in the distance, a long, drawn-out sound, like a scream. It quickly faded again.
It wasn’t cold here, and the man felt rested. He watched the waterfall, felt it flowing past. It never stopped, did it? It never had stopped. The water was a jewel mist that thundered past him, forever. Could he touch it, if he wanted to? Could he jump off the grassy edge, into the air, and touch the water, feel the wetness on his skin, drenching him, as he plummeted into the forever nothingness?
“It goes on forever, you know,” said a voice behind him. A deep voice, resplendent with some quality the old man couldn’t define. But he felt that it was a voice he’d heard before.
“I know,” said the old man. “I can feel it.”
“I’m referring to its width. You could walk along this edge for all your life and never reach the end.”
“Oh.” The old man turned and looked at the other. He was an old man too, with a long white beard and gentle white robes. Behind him, the waterfall stretched on to nothingness. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I am right.” The other didn’t sit down. He just stood there. He didn’t watch the waterfall. Just looked at the old man.
“If I follow it, where will I go?” said the old man.
“You’ll end up right where you are.”
“Oh.” Where had he heard that voice before? The old man didn’t feel young anymore, but talking to the other made him feel…childish. A little.
“It’s not a metaphor,” said the other, sensing his discomfort. “It’s a circle. If you could follow this edge long enough, you’ll come back to the same place, maybe.”
The old man didn’t say anything. He remembered a thing he’d done, once. Walking, for a long time, days and days and days. Days, he thought, were something he’d miss. There were no days here.
“Will it stop?” He looked up at the other.
The other nodded.“Yes.” He couldn’t read anything in those eyes. Hard eyes, steel blue, with an expectant weight to them.
“Everything seems simple, now,” said the old man.
“It was always simple.”
“It didn’t feel that way. It hurt. It still hurts, I think.” The old man let his fingers brush his hair, touching the mist there. He did remember things. He remembered a heavy smoke, rolling over a field of burned grass. Shouting. Why that?
“I don’t think I remember much,” he said. “I’m old.”
“You remember some things, though.”
“I don’t remember what matters. I remember running on grass, like this grass, only there was smoke—fire…” And death. People had died, someone he loved. Had there been others, once?
“I remember love.”
“Then you remember death.”
“Yes.” Death was firm in his mind. Only, to love and to die, there must have once been others. He thought he could remember some of them, too. He saw faces in his mind.
“Are we alone here?”
“No. There are several, like yourself. Or rather, there were. Maybe there are more, beyond you.”
“Perhaps I should find them, talk with them.” But he knew he wouldn’t. Now was a final time, a time to be alone, wasn’t it?
“Perhaps.”
The old man stared into the water again, watched it rushing down, down down. It was thunder in his ears, but only when he listened to it. When the other spoke, he could hear him without effort. This place was strange—or perhaps it was not strange. Perhaps the other place had been strange.
“You think of the water, the grass, the sky,” said the other. “You have seen these things before.”
“Never like this,” whispered the old man.
“No, never like this. A place like this—it was not made for your eyes.” The other put a tired hand to his head. Tired. He almost did look tired. Or maybe…
“Are you afraid of me?” asked the old man.
“No,” replied the other. “You do not yet remember who you are.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you were.”
The old man closed his eyes, again, waiting, calmly, for the past to come before him again. He saw a bright room where men gathered around a machine, remembered words—a question came to him. He looked up at the other standing there so firmly, in mist that fluttered his robes and his beard.
“Are you God?”
The other looked at him quizzically, then replied, slowly, “Yes.”
God himself. That brought many memories back, memories of a plan—of hatred in his heart, and a terrible deed to be done. He’d been chosen, with a group of others. There were others that had come before him—no, come with him, to this place.
“You said there were others here, like me,” the old man said to God.
“Yes,” said God, calmly. “There were.”
“Are they—dead?”
“No. They will never die. When you come to this place, you cannot die, again.”
“Oh.”
God was silent. He did not speak to the old man. He simply waited.
“Where is this place?”
“This is the end of Time,” said God, his voice clear. The old man could hear the power behind his voice, behind those words.
“How did I get here?”
“Truly, I do not know. I must admit that I did not expect you.”
The old man nodded. That made sense, faintly. He’d come here—unexpectedly. Unexpectedly, but on purpose. He could not allow himself to be expected. None of them could.
“I think there are more,” said the old man.
“Maybe,” said God.
“You must know. You are God, aren’t you?”
“I do know.” God’s voice was calm, collected, imperturbable.
“Tell me, then.”
“I did not ask you here. I did not even bring you here.”
“Time will end, soon,” said the old man. “If this is the end of Time, then Time must end.”
“This is the end of Time,” said God, “but there is no Time here. Time waits for me.”
“Does the world end, when Time ends?” asked the old man.
“What is the world, old man?”
The old man was silent. “There was a place—before I was here. I lived.”
“That place has long since ended. You have traveled far beyond that place. Much too far. You have traveled nearly beyond Time.”
“I cannot remember,” said the old man, “why I am here. I have a purpose, I think.”
“I think you do,” said God.
“Do you know my purpose?” asked the old man.
“The others did not know their purpose,” said God, “but they found it, eventually.”
The old man said nothing, and listed to the water again, pounding down, down, down, into the infinite depth below. The edge was soft, with long grass growing over it. He hung his legs over the edge, feeling the distant pull of the abyss as a gentle thrill.
“What is down there?” asked the old man.
“Darkness,” said God. “The final Abyss.”
The old man nodded. He knew about that, somehow. He’d practiced for this, trained for this very moment, he could feel it. Only now—now he couldn’t remember anything, nothing.
“I have met men like you before now,” said God. “But it has been a long time, even for me.”
“Here, at this place?”
“I have never been here before.”
“Other men,” whispered the old man. “Other places.”
Neither spoke, for a moment. A breeze drifted across the grass, ruffling it gently, making the mist cold on the old man’s cheeks.
“Did any of those succeed in their purpose?”
“No. None have even come close.”
“I am close, am I not?”
God nodded. “The closest any has ever been.”
The old man smiled. “Perhaps you can respect me for this.”
“No,” said God. Nothing more.
The old man stopped smiling. Waited, hoping for more memories, but the past was gone. He needed the now. Why was he here? He remembered something, looking at his hands, so wrinkled now, and wet with the dew of the end of Time.
“I was young, before my journey.”
“An old man could not make such a journey.”
He was remembering, now. He’d come here to do something. Break something? No, that was not it—but it was close. He was close. There was a sense of Time, suddenly, and the old man felt that he did not have much left. He sat, silently, and let the roaring waterfall pound in his ears. He looked down at his clothes—he wore a simple brown robe, tied with a cloth belt.
A knife hung from that belt, sheathed, with a simple wood handle. And suddenly, it came back to him. Too late, he knew, but there was pleasure in knowing his purpose, at last.
“You remember, don’t you,” said God.
“Yes,” whispered the old man. “I am a destroyer. I am here to kill—you.” He drew the knife. The blade was glimmering, white, made of something strange.
“Yes,” said God. “You are here to kill me.”
And God turned, suddenly, and shoved the old man into the Abyss. The old man screamed hoarsely as he fell.
Author’s Note
Sometimes stories are incredibly easy to write.
You’ll sit down to write and then, an hour later, you’re done.
This story was that way. All I remember is sitting down with an idea: a great big waterfall at the “end of time.”
I had to backtrack and start over a few times as my ideas became more concrete (that’s what happens if you don’t create an outline.) I’m quite pleased with the final story.
— Samuel
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