Work Text:
Beginning yields an onyx void,
No noise, no shape, no life.
Existing only one maker,
With heavy mantle passed
From those before, a legacy,
An image to impress.
Eternally a Creator,
Cynefin desired,
Sought within equilibrium,
In worlds made absolute.
Flaws repeated in stark relief.
Cycles now exscinded.
Perfection verging, yet unfound.
Here, we meet Umea.
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I remember my first creation.
It was small; a sphere with an uneven surface, barely filling the palm of my hand.
Nonetheless, I held it with pride, as anyone would with their first piece of art. I wanted to show it off to anyone who would witness it. I had finally created something!
But I knew I had to do more to impress those before me.
From that sphere, I created others - some smaller than my fingertips, to others half the size of my body. I made them spin around themselves and around me. I made them chase each other and avoid each other. I made them dance.
Soon I had a circular galaxy rotating around me and am now realising how incredibly bored I am. I love creating, yet the void has aged twice over, and all I have been able to do is make some spiralling balls. I am a Creator; I should be able to do more than this.
My boredom turned to sadness, sadness to frustration and frustration to... fire. In my emotive explosion, it seems I discovered sparks of red, yellow, and blue.
This was new to me, and I suddenly found myself brushing off my previous mood and diving headfirst into the new, sparkling inspiration of my existence.
I moved between each creation, painting them with the flames, transforming my galaxy into a kaleidoscope of brightly hued nebulas, supernovas, stars, and comets.
All except my first.
During my moments of productivity, I explored the fire. Observed how it flickered across my fingers. How it spread over my spheres as if it had a mind of its own. It was warm. Alive.
Does this mean I can create life? If I had conceived the flames from a place of frustration, what would I achieve if I contrived something from a place of care?
And where better than on my first creation?
My first creation can hold my first, perfectly balanced world.
I remember my first failure.
Upon realising that the creation of life was possible, as well as upholding the image left by those before me, I set forth intending to design a perfectly balanced world.
An Earth where the creations upon it could grow and flourish just as the fire had.
So I began. I formed elements. I formed plants. I formed creatures. And I failed.
I began again. I failed. I began again. I failed. Begin. Fail. Begin. Fail.
My attempts continued. My care diminished.
But this is the purpose of my being; impress those before me; be a Creator.
When striving for a goal, you always remember the beginning; the first feeling, the first failure. Then you hold on to that until you reach the end. Until you succeed.
Anything in between is inconsequential. It all blurs together, and you forget.
The void is aging.
I am forgetting.
This cycle has failed.
My creations have separated; the ‘Humans’, as they’ve called themselves this cycle, against everything else. They have chosen to live apart. Fond of inventing problems, with solutions for those problems that rarely work.
‘Humans’ are fond of life. They believe in a bird that dies by fire and emerges from the ashes left behind. The ‘Humans’ are so fond of life; they think they can control death. Believe they can push it away and prevent it. But death and life are the same. They are both endings and beginnings to something new. They are both controlled by me.
‘Humans’ think they can control everything.
How fitting of the Phoenix.
How foolish of the Humans.
Thus, I begin again.
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Standing upon the ashen slate left behind, I wonder; have I gone overboard?
I always wonder if I go overboard. The bittersweetness of cleaning a workspace, I suppose.
As a Creator, I appreciated the inventions ‘Humans’ were able to invent. But in their ambition to move above each other, they continuously took without giving back.
They did not live in unity with each other or the Earth.
I do not regret infernolising this cycle.
I stopped counting the number of cycles regenerated long ago. It is easy to lose track when it happens so often. And it is a caustic blessing to forget so many failures.
Previously, I created the cycles alone. Unleashing all my hope into developing my creations, then unleashing all my frustration into renewing them.
Perhaps distilling my power and bestowing it to other beings will circumvent this cycle.
Thus, I begin to create.
Taking inspiration from the corvids of the last cycle, I shape some ash from the ground into a crow’s head. I pull at the membrane giving my form its shape and keeping my spirit in place, rip some of it from my hand and place it upon the ash sculpture. The substances solidify before rising from the ground, the crow’s head now attached to a figure similar to my own.
“I am Umea,” I speak. “You are Ngariya. You will shape this empty, ash-covered land into landscapes worthy of the galaxy’s gaze.”
And so Ngariya roams the Earth, shaping the ash just as I shaped him.
He moulds the land, kneading it into mountains, hills of vast heights, deep chasms, undulating plains, and rising plateaus. He pulls water from the atmosphere to fill the spaces between every rise and fall of the land, producing glittering turquoise lakes and cerulean oceans, that could rival deep space nebulas. He produces plants, colouring the land and fashioning flora of many shades, stretching some into trees and scrunching others into shrubs and flowers.
As I follow Ngariya, watching his creations take form, I, in turn, forge an opposite.
Where the mountains stand too tall, I pull wind and water from the sky to erode it. Where the oceans are simply a mass of liquid, I manipulate tides so that it can jump over land and carve through the ground, slithering across it like the roots of the very plants it feeds. Where plants remain too long, I weaken root systems to make them fall and allow for the growth of another.
Thus, the landscapes were created.
I gaze over the mural Ngariya created, the disharmony I balanced with it and announce, “This is not enough. This world is too empty and too quiet.”
Moving to the first river, I pluck some of my spirit from the gaps in the membrane on my head. I hang it over a small stick, taking inspiration from the willow trees of the last cycle. The water coils up the spirit strand before rising into a figure similar to my own, with long hair draping their form.
“I am Umea,” I speak. “You are Cetun. You will construct creatures diverse enough in sound and feature to fill this empty air and calm this restless earth.”
And so Cetun roams the Earth, following Ngairya’s path, shaping creatures just as I shaped her.
She begets creatures to travel the terrain, roaming as she roams across each landmass. She constructs creatures to move through the waters, blending with the blues, spinning, and twisting to the motion of the tides. She effects creatures to move with the wind, quick and playful to match the breeze’s sportive nature. Cetun sets the creatures free as she goes, composing a sound unique to each. An orchestra transcendent.
As I follow Cetun, watching her creations take form, I, in turn, forge an opposite.
I make each creature prey on each other; land creatures prey on water creatures, water creatures prey on land creatures, wind creatures prey on all. I conduct Cetun’s melody into harmonious discord, placing slurs, ties, rests and bar lines into each and every tune. I create age, causing creatures to sing for longer or shorter periods of time; rhapsodic movements ceasing into codas.
Thus, the creatures were created.
I gaze over the ecosystems Cetun and Ngariya created, the disharmony I balanced with it, and announce, “This is not enough. This world and these creatures need guidance.”
I take Ngariya and Cetun, morphing them into one, transforming them until they become a new figure, inspired by the orcas of the last cycle yet still bearing features similar to my own.
“I am Umea,” I speak. “You are Estori. You will help the land, and the creatures cultivate into a harmonised world and keep the balance.”
And so Estori roams the Earth, forming unity between the order and the chaos, just as I formed them.
Estori first refines the noises of the world, teaching each creature to distinguish their music from each other, calming the rumbling of the sky, emphasising the whisper of the waves, and organising the sounds of the Earth to understand each other. Estori shows the creatures how to create, how to make structures and how to exist in balance with the landscapes. Estori teaches care, care for their Creators, care for every being, care for the Earth.
As I observe Estori, I choose not to follow.
Shedding my membrane, I return to the void to hold the sphere within my palm once more.
The creations continue to evolve, growing and shrinking, living and decaying.
Estori continues to guide them.
Until, slowly, they begin to forget.
They forget how to understand, simply drown each other out.
They forget to exist in balance, simply push above each other.
They forget to care.
Burying Estori underneath ego, left to fade away.
My creations have failed.
Repeating the faults of so many cycles before it and failed.
Failed to last longer than an aging of the void.
Failed to reach my hopes.
Failed to merely live while thinking of something other than themselves.
Failed to be perfect.
I have failed. Again.
I am Umea.
I am a Creator.
And I will create until the void ceases to exist, taking me with it.
Thus, I begin again.