While his physical body hovers in a black sea of tranquility, the Caretaker’s detached spirit walks on the cratered surface of his cemetery.
The night’s mourning silence suddenly becomes embedded with an unearthly transmission of gravelly voices speaking all at once.
Do you see us?
“Yes. You’re watching me.”
Thousands of years ago, we came as one. Together, we shaped a sentient being your human mind could only conceive as a ship. We came for the giant under this land. But our child refused to come home with us, choosing to remain in his mother’s womb until her final breath. With his mighty hand, he sent us raining down on the Beakman tribe. You were the sole survivor. Our blood continues to flow through you, as do our words: Keep our child fed with the bodies of the dead to delay your world’s end.
“That’s the yesterday that remains buried in the graveyard of my mind. That’s the yesterday that continues to chew on the flesh of every single day I’ve buried since then. Buried, like the giant you left under my care, against my own will.”
Giants once walked this world, like they continue to walk ours. It was their hands that shaped Mother Earth’s body, making her sing with pleasure at every touch. This planetary passion conceived a child. He was born in the image of our colossal children, but cursed with a hunger for flesh. We returned to save Mother Earth from him.
“Before your return, my brothers and sisters had sacrificed themselves to your promise of resurrection and eternal life. You took their corpses and restrung them with the threads of life. They walked, like the dead now walk.”
They were the beacon that led us to the exact location of our child. As an act of gratitude, we answered their prayers.
“An act. Was it an act you wrote to be staged in my mind? Is that what all this is?”
This is the story of the world’s end, and the epilogue of the dead. We have no part in its writing, for we are solely the Narrators. We are the covers of the stories we tell. Their names are carved on our faces.
“I’m trapped in the middle of my story. When will it end?”
We married your life to immortality. Yours is the one true marriage on this planet of broken hearts. Yet you believe burying yourself alive will divorce you from longevity.
“I was tired of watching headstones. I was tired of watching this graveyard. So I looked up, only to stare at the same thing. Space is a graveyard of stars. The moon is a lone headstone.”
Though you may have turned our remains into headstones, our home is not one. It’s time for the Beakman tribe’s last eagle to land on the truth. Look up at the full moon. Closely. Do you see them?
“Yes… They’re… watching me…”