The Hermit

Those days had been quite difficult after the Office discovered that, instead of sending specialized wildlife reporters to explore the wilderness, it was cheaper and easier to send me, a modest editor with limited survival experience. It all started when I mentioned to someone in my department that I was into an occasional bushcraft adventure. I should never have done that.

That was how I ended up in the deciduous reserves of the border between the US and Canada—a harsh and unwelcoming place full of bears and mountain lions, only a few weeks away from the merciless embrace of winter. Needless to say, as I ventured into the wilderness to document the recently-restored lynx population, I became lost. After rolling down a steep hill, my satellite phone broke down, and I was stranded. And, after running away from an aggressive grizzly, I lost my compass, water filter, and half of my supplies.

Unable to warn my employer that I was stranded, I simply used the stars and the sun to guide myself to the nearest settlement. I was no stranger to the basics of using the constellations and the cold winter sun as compass. But, something was awfully wrong about that forest. The stars seemed all wrong—some constellations were flickering on the North, but, suddenly, they shifted and appeared in the East. Sometimes, the sun rose in the East, but, other times, it appeared in the West, or even in the North.

I thought I was simply getting lost, mistaking the large trees, rocky cliffs, and other landforms that I used as reference. But, after five days, I realized that I was headed deeper into the forest. I feared for my safety, but I feared the forest even more. Those trees towering over me were strange. They seemed to gnarl as I passed by them: their trunks twisted and uneven, their barks mottled and thick, rough in texture, and a creeping whisper of their leaves hissing angrily at me, as if I was unwelcome in their midst.

It was the sixth day since I became lost, and the cold was starting to become unbearable. The earliest snowflakes were dancing as they descended from their thick gray citadels in the sky into the bronze-colored, leaf-covered floor below. I would have died if it wasn’t for The Hermit.

I found him when I was struggling to cross a narrow waterway that was about to freeze. I was in low ground, surrounded by steep bluffs and huge boulders, and by imposing, menacing trees that twisted above me like the arches of a cathedral. His figure stood silently on the highest boulder above me, and I took a while to notice it. He was dressed in a long, intricate dark tunic made of purple fabric that was too dark to be natural. An intricate embroidery of gold and silver threads decorated the garment with exquisite precision, depicting patterns, animals and heraldry that was rarely seen in modern textiles. He held a long wooden staff, its tip resembling a hand that stretched up with countless fingers forming a claw pointed toward the sky.

The Hermit seemed like a creature taken straight from a fairy-tale—a wizard of long-forgotten campfire stories told to scare children and provoke in them lucid nightmares. He was incredibly old, but energetic and strong, with a perfectly straight posture, well-defined muscles, and a kind of tenacity that I had only seen in the most hardened athletes. His long beard and long hair were alive: an entanglement of long silvery threads, moss, vines, and mushroom caps. His skin, though still recognizable as human, was of an unnatural pallor: a pale, almost translucent hue, like moonlight filtering through mist. Its cracks and wrinkles resembled the rough surface of distant planets, with deep canyons and ravines cutting through a rocky ground. Depending on the angle that he stood near me, and the direction of the light, I had the impression that miniature clouds were hovering over his body, like clouds hovering over a planet’s surface. Other times, when shadows cast upon him, I saw clusters of light that resembled cities, connected by well-lit highways, not unlike those denounced by nocturnal satellite photos of Earth.

His eyes were cloaked by a great hood, and his face was shrouded by darkness. When he glanced at me, I saw the glow of two stars against the blackness of the shadow, where his eyes should be, and I found myself with an uncanny certainty that he was not human. As he stared, a thought came to my mind, though it didn’t seem like my own. “Come.” The thought said. “Follow me.”

He then turned his back and walked away. Without even thinking, I followed him. I should have feared this strange apparition, but, somehow, I felt nothing but an undying curiosity to know who was that strange man. I was overwhelmed by a mysterious energy that made me forget about the pain in my body, the thirst, and the near starvation of six days lost in the wilderness. As such, I quickly climbed the rocky bluff by the river and, as I reached the top, I found his figure moving ghastly between the trees ahead. He seemed to be hovering above ground, with his great purple tunic floating in an unnatural lightness.

“Wait!” I cried. “I’m going!”

Indeed, I descended the smooth hill and followed him. Regardless of how fast I moved, he was always far ahead, almost fading between the shrubs and tree trunks, blended into the shadows as if he and the shadows were made of the same substance.

At last, I lost sight of him. Terror overwhelmed my heart, and I became desperate. I had a powerful drive to find him, and I could not be happy, nor in peace, if I wasn’t near him. I remember thinking that “This is how moths feel like, when they seek a source of light and cannot find it.” Indeed, I was in the dark, cold and lost, and I started to sob.

While blinded by my own tears, I wandered aimlessly through the forest, until I found myself in a strange encampment. The old man was there, standing over a pile of dried leaves, leaning over a rough clay cauldron where a broth gently simmered.

“You came just in time for dinner.” The man said, with a voice that felt ancient—as ancient as the oldest of trees, and as the rocks that cracked under the summer sun.

“Who—Who are you…?” I stuttered, still fascinated by his figure. I didn’t even notice that I was on my knees, crushed by his presence. My legs were wobbly and didn’t want to move. I was certain, at this moment, that the old man was God.

“I have many names.” He smiled, and looked at me. This time, though, the hood was not covering his eyes, and I could see them as they were: black as the night sky, star-clad, profound, and infinite, with no sign of sclera. They were like openings to outer space. I could see the glow of an entire galaxy twisting in a multicolored spiral in each of his eyes.

I was without words.

“Once, I was called Menashe. But, that was a long time ago.” He smiled with a mysterious nostalgia. “And, you are Julian Turner. Ah, what an interesting death you have! And, what a difficult birth too.”

I stared at him, certain that he somehow could see my present, past, and future at the same time. I didn’t know how I knew this, but I simply knew.

“Julian means you are ‘one with Jupiter,’ yes.” He continued. “The lord of thunder and lightning… Lightning that, once it strikes, does not change course. But, how interesting, you are a turner too. I wonder when and where you turn, and how painful it is for you to turn, yes. A lightning that turns. How creative.”

At this point, I noticed that, whenever he opened his mouth, there were no teeth or tongue inside—the darkness of space that escaped through his eyes was the same that his mouth revealed. More constellations turned slowly, glowing against and endless dark within him. He was infinite underneath his skin. For a moment, I had an impression that the Earth itself was part of that micro-universe, quietly orbiting one of those billions of stars.

“Please, have a sit.” He said. “Let us eat.”

I noticed, now, that the encampment was like a great, comfortable house built and grown from living things. An old rock carved by eons of wind and water formed the table, and the floor was under a thick carpet of fluffy moss. The fire that warmed up the stew was an eerie, pale blue flame that seemed to cast no heat, but illuminated everything with a strange, spectral light. It didn’t flicker like regular fire: it pulsated like a heartbeat.

I dragged myself toward the table, without daring to stand up. He sat in front with legs crossed and laid a bowl of stone in front of him, and one for me. I approached it like a starving dog who sits by the table of a king. I didn’t find myself worthy of being there—let alone of the food that the wizard carefully poured, with a wooden ladle, from the pot to the bowls.

“How is this happening?” I stuttered. “Who are you? When are you…?” (This last question seemed logical at the time).

“Well, I can tell you my story, if you want. Though, it is not as interesting as you may think—at least, not the part that I can safely tell you. There is much I cannot, because, if I did, your spirit could not resist.”

“Please, tell me, master.” I begged, grabbing the bowl of stew with a reverence that I never showed to anything before or since.

“Well, let’s see…” He said, digging through his infinite memory to find the right words. I was certain that he was about to tell me that he was God, and I was excited, for I was about to discover the origin of God himself. But, to my surprise, he said: “I was born in the year that you call eighteenth.”

“Eighteenth? The eighteenth day since the Big Bang?!” I stuttered.

He stared at me with his endless dark eyes, and, suddenly, he exploded in laughter. I shrunk of shame. But, as his laughter dispersed, I realized that he was simply surprised by my question.

“No, son. The eighteenth of the Common Era: after the birth of Ha-Nazari, that people call Jesus.”

“Oh…” I said, confused. The question of why God was so young was pounding in my head so loudly that I didn’t stop to realize that this incredible being sitting in front of me was not actually God.

“I was Menashe of Emmaus, apprentice of shoemaker. A foolish, rude teenager I was. It seems so long ago. So many ages have passed…”

I remained quiet, listening to every word. As he spoke, the very forest seemed to sit around us with silence and curiosity, ready to listen to the tale. The noises of insects and the rustling of leaves above us stopped, and the whole universe fell into a profound concentration. The trees appeared to lean forward and closer to the camp, trying to listen more clearly.

“I saw this man dragging a cross to the Golgotha. Many men carried crosses and died in the hill of the skull. This one seemed weak, and pathetic. In his eyes was fear of death, and no hate at all. And, I taunted him. I said, ‘Hurry up. This path will lead you nowhere.’”

I widened my eyes instantly, and sensed the strange feeling that I was face-to-face with a celebrity. The story was well known, and even before he finished telling, I realized that he was the Wandering Jew! As he lowered his eyes and shook his head, he told me the same story that the books recorded:

“He looked at me and said, ‘You shall walk this Earth until I return.’ I never thought these words had any power—I couldn’t be more wrong. For the source of magic is the Word. And, indeed, I never aged a day, and I never died. I roamed the land, all the land, and never stopped.”

Confused, I opened my mouth to question his apparent age. After all, if he was cursed in his youth, why would he look so old? But, even before I asked, he understood my question and replied:

“The form you see is not the form I was. Much has happened since that day. Much has changed. For years, I wandered aimlessly, going from town to town, seeking life. When I couldn’t find it, I sought death. And, when I couldn’t find that either, I sought meaning.

“In my quest for meaning, I met many masters of the Arcane. They taught me everything they knew. I discovered the powers of magic, and, slowly, I understood the secrets of Nature and the Holos. I became stronger. My mind grew bigger. My soul grew deeper…

“That was when I realized that the god who cursed me was not my superior. He was not my lord. I was not static, not bound to be forever a child. I could evolve, and grow in power and wisdom. I could become greater than him. I could become like God, and even surpass him.”

I was staring at him, so fascinated that I forgot about the forest, the cold, the hunger, and the broth that steamed in front of me. He took a spoonful of his, so I did the same. The flavor seemed to awaken me to the material world. I felt cold—but, instantly, it went away. I felt pain, but the broth’s flavor of meat, herbs, and grains numbed it. I was better than I ever was, and better than I had ever been. I kept listening.

“I met beings in the Great Abyss—eldritch things and non-things, shapeless and nameless nothings and somethings. The more magic I learned, the deeper I looked into the darkness, the more darkness filled me, and the bigger I became. What I am is but a larva. Many metamorphoses await me.”

“So, you were cursed by God, and, now, you are trying to become bigger than God?!” I said, like a child who listens to a tale by the fire.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Indeed. And, I shall. He had no more right to curse me than I had to taunt him. His words took everything from me, but I took them back, and more. With time, I shall grow into a universe of my own. Once this path starts, it is impossible to stop or revert it.”

I nodded, and, in an instant of illumination, I saw in my mind the stupid face of my boss. To save money—a few pennies, really—he put me to roam the wilderness aimlessly, reporting on wildlife, at great risk and expense to myself. I feared to challenge him, when this man in front of me had challenged God himself. Who was I? I wondered. How petty and meaningless I had been; how cowardly and weak! But, as I thought, my heart warmed up, and a spark gained life. The man smiled. His eyes focused on my chest, like they could see the fire that lit inside me.

He nodded, knowingly. I nodded back.

After the meal, I felt sleepy. My eyes were heavy and drowsy, and I fell into an uncontrollable stupor. When I came back, I was at the edge of the forest, laying on a bed of brown leaves, leaning on a tree trunk, on a pillow of moss. In front of me there extended a great plain, and I saw under the setting sun the flickering lights of a town. I couldn’t tell how I ended up there, but I knew that the wizard had helped me—in more ways than one.