MANAS ZYA

The repelling emotion was strong. It made each step difficult, as if the path to the shoreline had lengthened since yesterday. Still, something was different now. In the past, this emotion would have been final, freezing the limbs and branding Go Back into the mind, but now it was not so.

Maybe it was because of the Error.

Do not. Do not continue. The gravel of the path crunched and popped beneath the feet of the Matoran unit . . . of this unit . . . of me. My feet. Beneath my feet. The path rose over the last ridge, and beyond there was the sea. I could hear it. This too was different. Me, my, these new words. This sense of . . . self.

Do not. Do not look. Do not look upon the Error.

The Matoran unit trudged on. This unit trudged on. I trudged on, toward the place where the Error was.

The Error was Matoran. The odd one, whose name could not now be spoken. The one that had not joined in the labor. Six days or more, it seemed. That one—no . . . you . . . You had not joined in the labor, our labor. You had sat and looked out at the sea. Six days or more. Your eyes were different. Maybe they always had been.

Yesterday was when it happened. The Elder came down the hill to look upon the Kini Kofo, by the sea. The work was near complete, and the Elder had looked upon the work with a Good Face, had measured the angles with her staff.

Then the Elder looked up the shore and saw the odd Matoran—saw you—sitting, looking out at the sea with your different eyes. She looked upon you with a Bad Face, and the other units . . . we . . . We knew that it was time.

The Elder had spoken the words: Manas zya. Address the Error, Target the Error. Had spoken them not to anyone, but to the empty air. The Elder was the Elder, and the Elder’s words meant more than those of a Matoran. The air heard the words, and they went up and up and then He heard them, and He would know.

Would know to come fix things.

Go back. Do not look. The repelling emotion came again as I . . . as this unit . . . as the Matoran unit crested the rise. The Matoran unit wavered. It looked back down the path, back toward the village, where the others had retired at the end of the day. Go back. Go. Back.

The word for Error is Manas. Errors must be fixed. Soon it will happen, and it will be over. Soon. Go back, Matoran unit.

But . . . but the Matoran unit . . . but this unit . . . but . . . but I had known the Error. The odd Matoran. You. I had known you, though now I cannot say your name. You spoke to me in the evenings, when the clouds fell beneath the horizon and the stars burned into red night above the Silver Sea. You with your different eyes. You spoke with these new words, and they went into my ears and down into my mind, and now I . . . I was different too.

The repelling emotion stirred in me at this thought. The repelling emotion . . . Fear. If you were Error, then so was I. Your new words were fearful, for they were so new and so many, but it was a different kind of fear. A fear that thrilled and intrigued, and . . . and . . . and Do not

. . . and Do not look.

Do not look upon the Error.

At the top of rise, I turned and looked.

You sat by the sea, on the rock you had chosen. You were waiting, alone. You saw me, and your face showed the . . . the declining emotion. Sadness, you had called it. The Fear was still strong on me, but the Sadness was somehow stronger. I did not have to obey the Fear right now, not as before.

I went to you, quietly. It was almost night, and we talked together and shared the Sadness.

“Why did you not join in the labor? Six days or more. It was too much.”

“I don’t really know. I have these . . . feelings, bigger than I am, bigger than the labor, maybe. I am . . . I am an Error, I guess. I am . . . a Monster.”

“Monster?”

“It’s a new word.”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither do I. But it’s as the Elder said. Errors have to be fixed.”

“Yes, and the Elder’s words mean more than our words. Even your new words.”

“Yes they do. So it must be so.”

“I am . . . sad.”

“So am I.”

Then you looked upon me with a Good Face:

“But now I am less sad than before,” you said. “You have to go now. You must not remain. I am an Error. I am a Monster, and soon I’ll be gone. It must be so.”

“It must be so. Good . . . goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“A new word, I think.”

“It’s a good word. Please tell it to the others . . . for me.”

I turned and walked back up the path and left you alone by the sea. As I walked, the Fear did not rise—only the Sadness. When I reached the top of the hill, I stopped . . . this . . . this unit stopped. The Matoran unit stopped.

Do not.

Do not look.

Do not look upon the Error.

I looked back once more . . .

. . . And now you were not alone.

The great Thing squatted over you, framed against the sea, huge and black. Its treads scored the earth on either side, and the shape of its mighty claws was limned with evening light. I saw it only for a moment, standing above you, dripping with seawater. You, the Error. Its two eyes, white specks, flicked toward me for an instant, and the Fear came upon me like a tidal wave.

And I knew, as I stumbled down the hill into the darkness of the village and I knew as I staggered against the wooden fence and fell headlong in the gravel and I knew as I dragged myself away, away, away, away into the dark, into the dark hut into the darkness with the others, away away away, into the dark with the others where they hid, where they huddled, in the dark, in the safe place away from That.

I knew . . . that if Errors were Monsters, then the Error . . . the Manas . . . was not Matoran.

It was That Thing.

And I would tell it to the others.

For you.

This work can also be found on the author's tumblr, see here.