Major Work: Short Story ~ opinions needed!

[Akilina]

Sorry, it's very long, and it's in two parts. I'd really appreciate it if someone could read this (or even parts of it) and give me an opinion on the concepts. Thanks, and enjoy!
Note: some sections are appropriations.

Tree

He awoke, finding himself on the side of a road, not knowing who he was, what he was doing there, where he was going and how he got there in the first place. Using legs which felt like they didn’t belong to him, but necessity compelled him to use, he staggered up and followed the grey road, hoping to find someone. Anyone.
His name, he realised, was Paul. That’s all he knew after walking for only The-One-You-Worship knows how long. The four lettered word just staggered into his head, but for some reason, he felt the name to be a little unfamiliar … like he should have some other name. For now, though, as far as he was concerned, he had no knowledge of a family, any friends, what country he came from, and what he did in the last 20 years of his life (though he was not to know his own age yet). However, if he had a mirror, it might have told him that he had Asian features: narrow, hazel eyes, jet black hair, and a slightly rounded nose. On the other hand, his complete unawareness of where or what Asia was would have defeated the purpose of having that mirror anyway.

Paul stopped at what he vaguely remembered was a tree, which stood right in the middle of the path. This one was a small, skeletal thing. Slumping down against it, he tried to wipe away the tears. Thick mist had grown around him and he could not see more than a few metres ahead of him. His memories seemed close, yet agonisingly impossible to reach. The last fleeting memory was of a dark shape tumbling down the sky towards him. I’m dead, he thought. How can I be anything else? There could be no doubt that he was dead. But why did his head hurt? Paul looked up at the tree. It had stretched up through the clouds.

Paul sighed. He had walked around the now vastly different tree five times and it showed no sign of becoming less impossible.
For one thing, the frail, leafless thing had grown so large that its top was out of sight beyond the clouds that hung motionless in the grey sky. Its trunk was as wide as a castle tower, a massive cylinder of rough bark whose roots seemed to extend as far downward as it did up. For another, the path had disappeared.
He had walked around the tree and could make no sense of it, nor anything else that was around him. He had walked away from the tree, hoping to find an angle from which he could gauge its height, but that had not assisted his understanding either. No matter how far he stumbled back across the featureless plain, the tree still stretched beyond the cloud ceiling. And always, whether he wanted to or not, he found himself returning to the tree again. Not only was there nothing else to move toward, but the world itself seemed somehow curved, so that no matter which direction he took, he eventually found himself heading back toward the monumental trunk. Paul sighed deeply. There was only one course of action left: the impossible thing must be treated as possible.
What do you do with an unavoidable tree that grew up into the sky beyond the clouds? You climbed it, of course.

It was not as difficult as he had expected. Although no branches jutted from the trunk until just below the belly of the clouds, the very size of the tree helped him; the bark was pitted and cracked like the skin of some immense serpent, providing excellent toeholds and handholds. Some of the bumps were even big enough to sit on, allowing him to catch his breath in relative safety and comfort.
But it was still not easy. Although it was hard to tell in that timeless, sunless place, he felt he had been climbing for at least half a day, or maybe even a week, when he reached the first branch. It was as broad as a country road, bending up and away. Where it, too, vanished into the clouds, he could see the first faint silhouettes of leaves.
After a while the air grew cooler, and he began to feel the wet touch of clouds. The sky around the tree was becoming murkier and the ends of the branches were obscured. As he climbed higher, the fog thickened until he was surrounded by a phantom world of branches and drifting, tattered clouds, as though he had clambered into the rigging of a ghost ship. No sounds reached him except for the creaking and scratching of bark beneath his feet. Breezes blew, cooling the thin sweat on his forehead, but none of them blew hard enough to shake the great, flat leaves.
Later (he had no idea how much later) he found himself climbing into growing radiance. The grey bark began to show traces of other colours: sandy beiges and pale yellows. The upper surfaces of the branches seemed flattened by the new, harsher light and the surrounding mist gleamed and sparkled as though tiny rainbows played between the individual drops.
The cloud-mist was so thick here that it impeded his climb, weighting his clothes and dragging at him treacherously as he negotiated difficult hand-to-hand changeovers. He briefly considered giving up, but there was nowhere else for him to go except back down. It seemed worth risking an unpleasant swift descent to avoid the slower alternative which could lead only to eternal nothingness on that grey plain.
In any case, Paul thought, if he was already dead, he couldn’t die again. If he was alive, then he was part of a fairy tale, and surely no one ever died this early in the story.
Nevertheless, he kept climbing. The dampness kept him from noticing how bright the world was becoming, but as he pushed through the last clouds and lifted his head, blinking, it was to find himself beneath a dazzling, brassy sun and a sky of pure unclouded blue.
No clouds above, but clouds everywhere else: the top of the great frothy mass through which he had just climbed stretched away before him like a white meadow. And in the distance, shimmering in the brilliant sunlight … a castle.
As Paul stared, the pale slender towers seemed to stretch and waver, like something seen through the waters of a mountain lake. Still, it was clearly a castle, not just an illusion compounded of clouds and sun.
He laughed, suddenly and abruptly, but his eyes filled with tears again. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. After the great grey emptiness and the world of the clouds, it was too strong and almost too real.
There was the faintest suggestion of a path across the plain, a more solid line that stretched from the giant tree and meandered away toward the distant castle gate. He climbed until his feet were level with the top of the clouds, paused for a moment to revel in the strong swift beating of his heart, then stepped off the branch. For a sickening instant the whiteness gave, but only a little.
He began to walk.
The gate was open but did not seem welcoming. It was deep, black and empty. Paul stood before the looming hole for sometime, took a deep breath and stepped through.
The vast chamber beyond was curiously stark. There were no doors anywhere he looked, but the castle seemed a lot larger from the outside. However, when Paul turned back to the gate, he found himself surrounded by a jungle.
But it was not quite that, he realised a moment later. Vegetation grew thickly everywhere, but he could see shadowy walls through the long vines and leaves.
He stepped forward, pushing the plants out of his way and worked his way through the thickest tangles. Powdery clouds of dust rose up into the light angling down through the high windows. He reached up with both hands and spread the leaves as though they were curtains. Paul stopped in his tracks.
It was a woman.
A great cloud of dark hair framed her long, pale face and spilled down her back to merge with her intricately decorated, silk gown.
‘I am Layna’, she announced in a far away voice, while her entire body glowed with an almost annoying radiance which reminded Paul of a dying heat lamp. A heat lamp? This thought struck him. He wasn’t sure what a heat lamp was, yet the two words put together sounded familiar.
With his eye twitching slightly, Paul muttered his name. In response, Layna stood without a word, staring back. Was it his imagination or was she shrinking? Paul tilted his head slightly. Layna had starting growing smaller in size, but she still stood at Paul’s eye level. No, Paul realised. She’s moving. Moving away from me. With his heart thudding like a drum (another word he could not quite place), he started running towards Layna – he hoped – who was by now the size of his forearm.
A path suddenly appeared beneath Paul, and he was following it. As suddenly as it had appeared, it turned into a river of translucent gold, then a solid, bold line, then springtime flowers, dark chocolate, electricity, feathers, nothing! Paul fell. Upwards. As he hurtled towards the purple-saffron sky, a current of light shined upon him, and struck him with thousands of echoing thoughts…

‘There is no Truth’ …
‘Only Uncertainty’…
‘You are... no one, so who cares?’…
‘That’s right. You don’t exist’…
‘But you do exist’…
‘But you don’t breathe. Not here’…
‘But who’s to say you don’t’…
‘Or do?’…
‘There’s no proof… of anything’…
‘There is’…
‘Not if you don’t exist’…
‘Who’s to say you don’t?’…
‘I was talking about you’…
‘No, I was talking about him…’
‘It…’

Feeling rather confused and insane, Paul pelted back down and landed softly within a haze of mist which stretched away in every direction, as heavy and empty as before, but there was nothing else. He tried to keep his eyes open but the darkness eventually surrounded him.
It seemed an eternity before anything happened while Paul was in this state of unconsciousness. However, when something did happen, he did not know whether he was experiencing a bizarre dream or lying awake, delusional, for figures had appeared out of the darkness like drifting ghosts: Queen Victoria, Shakespeare, Emperor Han, George Washington, Barbara Kruger, Mao ZaDong… Who are they all? They seemed familiar, but Paul did not know them. He didn’t care who they were, he only wanted to know who he was.
The next thing he was aware of was a quiet whispering, a thin papery sound that grew out of the silence. Paul opened his eyes, then sat up, full of wonder. A leafy forest of tall, thin trees had sprung into being around him.
He took a breath of air and smelled everything, damp earth, and the scent of drying grass. The forest stretched away in all directions, revealing nothing that looked like a road or even a trail.

‘Edwod.’
Paul jumped. ‘Sorry?’ He whipped around but could only see shadows and trees.
‘Find Edwod,’ the voice repeated.
‘Who – who’s Edward?’
‘Da Guardian.’
Who am I even talking to?
Paul suddenly found himself looking up at a portly little man perched upon an unusual looking horse. With short, stiff, black hair and a rough, saffron coat, he was rather ugly looking. The horse that is. As for the little man, he had long, black, braided hair which reached his knees and wore a patterned, dome-shaped cap and a matching silk gown. His small, beady eyes beamed down upon Paul. Paul smiled. The little man smiled back, his thin moustache twitching slightly to reveal two large buckteeth.
‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’ Paul asked cautiously.
‘I,’ the man replied slowly and deliberately, pointing to himself. ‘Stereotype.’
‘What?’
He shrugged. ‘Whateva you fink.’
Paul’s head seemed to be filled with fog. ‘Are – are you Edward?’
‘I told you to find Edwod,’ the man snapped. ‘If I am Edwod, I wold hide, then tell you to find me.’ He then giggled in a small, almost childish voice, enjoying his own joke.
Paul frowned. ‘Okay … right … wait, so you’re … Stereotype, then? You’re called Stereotype?’
‘I am stereotype. You can call me da Chinaman.’
‘All right … so, why do you want me to find Edward?’
‘You wanto hear story? I tell you story.’ The Chinaman leapt off his horse with amazing agility and sat crossed-legged in front of Paul, still smiling.
‘Long time ago, eva since white man come to our country … years later, we all the same.’ He waved a hand to indicated himself. ‘We haf no… identity in aza countries but for what they first saw, then create for movies. I wear our traditional clothes, even in twenty-first century, have large teeth, large ears, speak funny in English (though when I speak Chinese, even I dunot understand what I am saying) and if your imagination good enough, I can even do Kong Fu.’
The pair sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other.
‘Uh, okay. That… that was a nice story. But, what’s that to do with Edward? Or me?’
The Chinaman gave Paul a long, hard stare. ‘If you dunot wanto become me, find Edwod.’

‘I’m trying to find Edward’, Paul said despairingly for the two hundred and forty-eighth time. The approached person shook his head, puzzled. He trudged on, briefly interrogating someone here and there.
‘I am Edward,’ he greeted.
Paul looked up.
‘Can you tell me who I am?’ Paul asked dully. He was exhausted. The novelty of finally finding the person he was looking for had worn off.
‘I could, but I couldn’t. That depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘On what you need to hear. I can tell you that your name is Paul.’
Paul’s face grew hot. ‘I already knew that,’ he replied heatedly.
‘How did you know that?’ Edward’s voice was beginning to sound monotone.
‘I… I just did.’
‘Sub-conscious perhaps?’ Edward then proceeded to inform Paul of his birthday, name of his parents and pet fish, schools he went to, what country and planet he came from, and his career as a librarian. Paul’s heart was bursting with joy to know all this about himself, yet he was still unsure.
‘How do you know all this? You tell me these things about my life, but I still don’t remember them – like I’ve never lived that life.’

A shudder ran down Paul’s spine.

‘Wait! I know who I am now!’ His memories rushed backed in a sudden instant, as if filling a gaping hole.
‘You do? Tell me, who are you, then?’
‘I’m, well… I’m Paul. But I have my memories back.’
‘So. Does that create an identity for you?’
‘Of course. I…’ Paul faltered. ‘I remember where I come from, don’t I? I can see images of my home –’
‘China? It is but a landmass where you were born. You had to be put somewhere or you’d drown in the sea. How does it signify your identity?’
‘I’m defined as Chinese, aren’t I?’ Was Edward trying to be difficult on purpose? ‘I have… a name! Another name. A Chinese one which my parents called me: Xiao Hu, and my –’
‘There are 1.3 billion Chinese people in China and thousands with your exact name. Are you all of those people?’
‘N-No… but I have a memory of my whole life –’
‘Memory may give you an impression that you had a life, but how does memory create you an identity? What if I told you that all your memories were false?’
‘Let me finish my sentences –’
‘Or that there was a copy of yourself,’ Edward went on relentlessly. ‘With your exact memories and personality?’
‘Stop it! There’s only one me and my memories are mine alone!’
‘But how do you know?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Listen.’
Suddenly, that was all Paul could do. Instead of shouting and screaming and covering his ears with both hands like he wanted to, he was somehow forced to stay still and quiet. But instead of hearing more utter nonsense from Edward, he was instead flashed with more memories. No, he was in his memories this time, reliving them… but they had somehow changed…

He picked up the picture book from inside the cardboard box. It was the one his mother read to him at night when he was a child: WanAn YueLiang. The book was in Chinese, but the characters were simple. He flipped the book open and smiled at the childish pictures, finding it hard to imagine that his mother had a little child on her lap reading Goodnight Moon, but the words were as familiar as his own name. The little monkey perched on his great peach tree saying goodnight to all his friends and his surroundings, to the birds, the leaves, the caterpillar, and of course, strangest of all, to “nobody”.
Goodnight Nobody. He had never understood that. In one way it was the most magical part of the book, and in another, the most frightening. All the other pictures, the little monkey, the old rabbit reading, all made sense. The catalogue of items, lanterns and nightingales and flowers, goodnight, goodnight, then just that blank page and “goodnight nobody”. But who was Nobody? Sometimes he had thought in his little-boy way that he might be the book’s Nobody, Paul himself, an anonymous presence – that the book knew he was there watching the monkey get ready for bed. His mother had contributed to that: whenever they reached that part of the book, she had always said, “Goodnight, nobody. Say goodnight”. Perhaps she had only meant for him to say goodnight to the little someone known as Nobody. But he had always believed she was calling him Nobody, telling him it was his turn to say goodnight now, and so he had dutifully obeyed.

The scene changed and he was looking down at his frail mother lying on the white sheets of a hospital, dying of cancer. Everything around him was a blur of white and bright lights.

Suddenly, it changed again. Dark, slumped shadows all around. The funeral.

His father on his deep scarlet death bed.

His brother in a tangle of metal from a car crash.

There was a chill in his spine. Three people he knew – loved – were dead, and they left so little behind to mark their existence. They were like pebbles thrown into a river, the ripples gone within moments.
Everybody starts out as somebody. Then it slips away…

The memories dissolved and Edward’s blurred and unfamiliar face emerged again from the corner of his eyes. Paul had collapsed onto the floor (or whatever it was) and was shivering miserably.
‘No,’ he sobbed, ‘no, they’re not dead. They’re not…’
But Edward carried on speaking as if Paul wasn’t there, rolling around like a distraught animal. ‘Also, what makes you think you are Chinese? You have lived, according to your memories, most of your life in Australia.’
‘So?’ Paul whispered, barely hearing himself.
‘It will affect you.’
Paul slowly picked himself up and fixed his eyes on Edward’s. ‘No, it… who… I don’t care! But tell me this: who the hell are you?’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘I am… a Thing. I am… Everything and Nothing. But I have a purpose –’
‘To confuse me?’
‘– to tell you things that are obvious, and things that are not.’ With that, Edward faded into nothingness.
‘Come back you!’ Paul demanded. He was not heard, but fell…

Paul… find…

‘Hey, wake up.’
Someone was gently shaking Paul’s shoulder. Slowly, he opened his eyes and what he saw was a familiar face, but he could not put his finger on who he was. However, after he had rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, realisation dawned on him. ‘Kalil?’
The young man smiled. ‘How are you feeling, Paul?’
‘I… what are you doing here?’
‘I don’t really know. I just found myself here. I also found you, sound asleep.’
Paul didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Fond memories were starting to emerge from their time spent together throughout High School and University as the best of companions. However, it didn’t seem as if his newly recovered friend could answer any of his numerous questions.
‘It’s so good to see you again. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. It’s all so weird. I want to tell you everything, but right now I feel… sick.’
His friend gave him a worried look before darkness claimed him again.



Moon

He could see dark walls beyond the thin silk of the bed hanging: he seemed to be in a room made of large, grey stones. The energy it took to move his head exhausted him, and for a while he only lay, staring at the farthest wall. The floor was carpeted by a huge, over decorous rug. The only objects in the room stood one very long sword and a few slightly smaller versions, large rectangular shields, and plates of armour engraved with an ox.
So where was he? It looked old-fashioned, and oriental, but he was too tired to think about it much.
A moment later a man pushed open the door and stepped inside. He dropped to one knee inside the doorway, his face turned down to the ground.
‘Forgive me, Lord,’ the soldier said. ‘There are many who wish to speak with you.’
Paul frowned, trying to remember what had happened. Where was Kalil? ‘I don’t want to see anyone.’
‘But it is the Emperor, Lord.’ The soldier spoke nervously, startled by Paul’s refusal but determined to deliver his message. ‘He sends a messenger to say that the hope of Ch’ins rests on you. And Zhang Liang also asks to see you.’
‘Tell them all to go away.’ Paul managed to raise a trembling hand. ‘I’m sick. I can’t talk to anyone. Maybe later.’
The soldier seemed about to say something else, but instead nodded and rose to slip quietly back out of the cabin.
Paul let his hand drop. It was one thing to make a choice, another to have the strength to see it through. What if he couldn’t? What if he didn’t get any stronger?

Something scuffled at the door. Paul sighed as a young man sidled in.
‘It’s me, Kalil,’ he spoke softly.
‘Kalil? Is that really you? You look different. What’s going on around here?’
‘The Emperor wants to see you –’
Paul waved his hand dismissively. ‘I don’t care, Kalil. I don’t even know who he is.’
‘The Great Emperor is Qin Shihuang, and he fears you are upset with him over the matter of the peasants.’
Paul groaned. ‘I just want them to leave me alone. I don’t know anything about peasants either.’
‘Without you, the Ch’ins cannot win.’
‘Ch’ins?’ He closed his eyes and let his head sag back.
‘The Ch’ins,’ Kalil repeated. ‘The federation that have come to conquer Eastern Chou.’
The word Ch’in flickered in Paul’s memory. ‘I need sleep. Why do they want me? Who am I suppose to be?’
There was a pause. ‘You are Xiao He, the greatest of heroes,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you pleased? Great Xiao He, whose deeds are legend. Even the heroes of Chou tremble at your name, and you have left the burned cities behind you…’
Paul tried to shut out the lecturing voice of his friend. ‘Please leave me alone,’ he murmured.
He was sick of it. Sick of everything that was happening to him. He just wanted to find out who he really is, then get out. At least now he had his best friend – his only friend.
Xiao He, Paul reflected. Me? Am I going insane? How can I be in Ancient China? And what about that giant castle? Is this how the afterlife is – to swim aimlessly in a pool of fairy tales and mythical history? Or have I become utterly mad? An accident, perhaps, which knocked me on the head. Yes, I remember something like that. But some things still don’t make sense. For one thing, I couldn’t be having these thoughts right now if I were to be raving mad. There were so many questions.
He flopped back down on his bed. It felt good to be lying down. Tired. Oh so tired! He just wanted to sleep for eternity.
The people out there… the villagers, the soldiers… the Ch’in… they wanted him to fight for them. How could he fight when he couldn’t even beat his brother on the Playstation? No, Paul decided. I’m not going to fight. I refuse to fight.

‘Those people, they need you Paul,’ Kalil stressed, who had come back again in another attempt to persuade him to fight.
‘No they don’t. I’m nothing. I hardly know who I am.’
‘Think of all the lives –’
‘Kalil, we don’t even know if they’re real people!’
‘I don’t understand you. How can they not be real?’
‘If you haven’t noticed, we’re in Ancient China. Last time I checked, we were born in the twentieth century. Just think about it!’
‘Look, Paul. No matter who you think you are, you’re Xiao He now. New body, new powers. All you need to do is beat what’s-his-name.’
Paul frowned for a moment. Kalil seemed to have lost a bit of his role-playing character. ‘They have Chen Sheng. And other soldiers. They don’t need me. In fact, I don’t want to be needed.’
There was a moments silence before Kalil gave a grunt of disapproval and left the room. Paul regretting being on bad terms with his friend, but what could he do? He soon drifted into another uneasy sleep and awoke, probably a few hours later, to find that the battle had started outside. Paul could hear the distant clashing of metal upon metal.
Feeling a little strength returning, as well as a creeping of boredom, he decided he needed some air. Kalil, it seemed, still had not returned. Maybe I can’t be Xiao He; I can’t save the day like some godly hero. But perhaps I could do a little to help.
For the first time, Paul wished that there was a mirror so that he could look at himself. It took him awhile to put on the pieces of armour and both the shield and sword, which was crafted out of jade and inlayed with gold, were not light. Still, he did not think that anyone would recognise him. Heaving a sigh, Paul stepped out into the sunlight.
The Chou attack seemed more a force of raw nature than an assembly of humankind – an armoured mass flashing with bronze and silver that came howling over the hills like a terrible storm. Paul stood to stare at the grassy hills and low, bare mountain sides. He expected the battle to be on a flat plain of some sort. As he tried to observe his surroundings closer through the chaos, realisation dawned on him. The Great Wall of China. I’m on the Great Wall of China! The Ch’ins were still struggling into their own armour as the first of the Chou soldiers reached the wall around the Ch’in encampment. Arrows flew over the barricade and hissed down in a fatal rain. Soldiers stumbled and fell on their faces in the churned earth, bristling with feathered shafts.
The sun had barely appeared above the hills and the gate and walls of the Ch’in encampment was already the site of a fierce struggle. Paul had never seen anything so impersonally terrifying in all his life. As the first wave of Chou archers pulled their horses back from the wall and sped away along the edge of the great defensive ditch, the second wave wheeled in with thundering hooves and wailing war cries.
How can I avoid a battle that’s right on top of me? Paul wondered desperately. He crouched lower behind the wall where he deduced it was safe enough to stay. Two arrows thumped into the shield, jolting his arm. What am I suppose to do? The spear clutched in his hand already felt as heavy as a lamppost. I can’t fight with one of these things – nobody taught me how to do this!
The Chou soldiers could not use their shields while they were shooting, so when arrows began coming back from the Ch’in wall, the cavalry pulled back to a safer range.
A ragged cheer went up from some of the Ch’ins as the hail of arrows slowed, but if any of them were foolish enough to think they had repelled the Chou attack, that misunderstanding did not last long.
‘Liu Bang!’ shouted one of the Ch’ins. ‘It is great Liu Bang!’ Paul could feel dread ripple through the men around him. Elsewhere along the all a few shouted insults down at him, but even those had a nervous sound.
‘We cannot face him without Xiao He,’ muttered one of the Ithacans as Paul made sure his helmet was still covering his face well. ‘Where is he? Is he going to fight?’
The Chou leader did not respond to any of the insults, but hurried forward as though afraid that one of his own comrades might reach the wall first. By the time he had gone down into the ditch and begun clambering up the other side his shield was pincushioned with Ch’in arrows, but he carried it as lightly as if it were made of paper. Many of the soldiers around Paul felt that hope was now lost.
Suddenly, Liu Bang and his men pulled back a few metres. There was confusion on both sides until Paul saw what made his heart skip a few beats. Amidst the roaring cheers of the Ch’ins, Xiao He in his polished, ox decorated, armour plates was charging towards Liu Bang. Most of the Chous retreated but Liu Bang stood his ground and was ready to take on his rival.
Paul was frozen in his crouched position, too stunned to move. It wasn’t until he realised that the only person permitted to enter his room, and imprudent enough to pull something like this was Kalil, that Paul came to his senses and started yelling.
‘What are you doing? Get back here or you’ll get yourself killed!’ It was obvious Kalil did not hear Paul’s warning. I’m desperate, Paul realised. Desperate to keep the only friend I’ve found in this place alive so that I don’t have to be alone anymore.
By the time Paul had arrived out of breath and only a few metres from the duel, his friend had been thrown onto the ground and Liu Bang had his sword pointed over Kalil’s heart, making some sort of ‘I have you at my mercy’ speech.
Before Paul had time to realise that it was a stupid thing to do, he had hurled his spear at the Chou, which was swiped away by his shield. However, it was obvious his attention was now diverted.
‘It is brave of you to come forward to save your leader,’ Liu Bang said, ‘but you are foolish to interfere. This is between me and Xiao He.’
Paul pulled his helmet off. ‘You said it.’
Liu Bang took a step back, confused but not very worried. He then glanced back at the figure still lying on the ground. ‘You are not Xiao He?’ Before anyone had a chance to say another word, Liu Bang charged at Paul. Just as he took a swipe at Paul’s head, the world seemed to stretch and bend. Space itself seemed to be turning inside out, then it stopped as soon as it happened. Liu Bang had disappeared and the sounds of battle was in the near distance behind him. He and Kalil had somehow ended up on the beach.
Kalil seemed slightly put out that Paul had come to save his life.
‘Did you see them? Did you see?’ asked Kalil. He seemed a little hysterical. ‘The Ch’ins were cheering for me. Well, Xiao He. And the Chous were running for their sorry lives.’
‘Kalil –’ Paul began, but it seemed his friend was pressed to continue.
‘I was worshipped! Until you ruined it. I think I like it here. Can I borrow your armour Paul? You know, its really quite unfair that you should be Xiao He.’
‘But I don’t –’
‘It should be me.’
‘Listen, Kalil!’
‘I’m not Kalil. I’ve decided I’m Xiao He from now on. It’s only the matter of appearance.’
Paul was about to argue back when he noticed that a figure was walking swiftly toward them. He stood up quickly.
‘Who are you?’ Paul asked the tall, Chinese man. He did not seem to have any threatening motives.
‘I am Alethea, but there are more important matters at hand. Come, quickly, if you wish to leave the Battle of Troy.’
‘I’m not leaving!’ Kalil cried out. ‘I’m going back.’
Paul was hesitant, but it was better to leave the wild chaos behind him than staying with Kalil. He did not seem quite himself anymore, not to mention he was about to be killed (again?) by some war hero. He tried persuading Kalil to come with him, but to no avail. Alethea reminded him that time was short wouldn’t let him consider his decision any longer. As the boat pulled off from the bank with Paul inside it, he offered his name and hoped that, this time, he would discover more answers than questions.

The deep, blood-red sun was now setting low on the horizon of the clear blue waters of the vast ocean, casting the numerous mountains in the distance into shadow. The sky had turned into a soft, watercolour-like smear of purple, a resplendent backdrop for streaks of gold tainted clouds. The scene was so spectacular that it almost brought tears to Paul’s eyes.
‘It is indeed beautiful,’ Alethea said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Those who constructed it did their work well, but it is not a place in Ancient China at all. It is a representation of an idea – an Englishman’s idea of an Asian paradise, to be accurate.’
It took Paul a moment to register what he just heard. ‘Those… who constructed this place?’
Alethea watched a bright green bird streak overhead. ‘Yes. The designers and engineers.’
‘Engineers? People?’
Now the stranger turned. ‘What do you ask, Paul?’
He hesitated, torn between the need to blurt out everything, his fear and ignorance, and the urge toward secrecy. ‘Just… just tell me what this is. This place.’
‘This simulation, do you mean? Or the network?’
Paul’s legs turned wobbly. He took one staggering step, then had to sit down. ‘Simulation? This is a simulation?’ He flung up his hand and stared at it, then took it away and stared at the valley in all its intricacy. ‘But it can’t be! It’s… it’s real!’
‘Did you not know?’ Alethea asked.
Paul shook his head, helpless. A simulation. Someone had implanted him, then covered it up. But there were no simulations as perfect as this. It simply wasn’t possible.
He even felt a moment’s disappointment as he realised that he had not seen a battle of Ancient China, but only someone’s coded dramatisation. Still, the people, whatever they truly were, had not only seemed real to Paul, but if they were programs they seemed awfully self-sufficient ones, fully engaged with their own pretend world, with their fears and triumphs and folklore. Perhaps, he reflected, even imaginary people just needed a story of their own – something that made sense out of things.
‘How could that be possible? All the people here, they’re not real?’
Alethea shook his head slowly, but his next words sent Paul reeling. ‘Who’s to say they are not real and you are? You are not the judge of that.’
‘That… what are you talking about? And how did you know that I wasn’t a program?’
‘I come here to the Battle of the Ch’in Dynasty to relive it. It is fascinating to me.’
‘Relive? You mean, all of what just happened… repeats?’
‘Yes. Of course. And so I noticed that both Xiao He and Zhang Liang were acting… differently. You also do not speak like they do. Like they are programmed to do.’
Paul was trying to get his head around everything. ‘You said… if you they are programmed to do certain things, then how can be real?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘We are programmed too in some way. What is that word? Instinct? In some ways, I think people think they are acting upon instinct. But what if it is just some made up explanation for a… an automated action?’
Paul shook his head too. But not in disagreement; he was in wonder of all the mysteries of the world he hadn’t even considered before.
‘I do not think I can explain better than that,’ Alethea concluded.

When the sun had finally dipped below the horizon and stars simmered across the sky (simulated sky, Paul reminded himself dully), he and Alethea were met by some virtual tribesmen. Apparently, they had already exited Ancient China and crossed over into another part of the simulation, or node, as Alethea called it. As they sat, watching the fire burn down from a roaring blaze to a flicker of orange flame, one of the tribal women recited the tale of Samkin Sead, a foolish young man who, because of his purity of heart, saved a bird (apparently the Wood Fairy in disguise) from a hunter. Because of the Fairy’s help, Samkin was later able to solve the deadly riddles of King Kardel and marry the monarch’s daughter, Princess Weaver. (Paul was fairly certain those were the names, but he was still depressed and tired now, too, and thus finding it hard to keep his attention focused). It was apparently a familiar folktale among their people: all seemed to end happily, with evil thwarted and virtue triumphant, although some of the details seemed inexplicably strange, like the frightening Voice of the Disposal, an all-devouring monster which recited the king’s riddles. As he was sliding into sleep, Paul wondered idly if this was a story that had been programmed by the designers, or whether the programs had invented it themselves.
But programs can’t invent anything, can they? At least, Paul didn’t think that was possible. Surely only things that were alive could make up stories…

My brother. He was always better than me… never gave up no matter what. If only he could give me a hand right now. I hope I see him again…
Waking again from a troubled dream, he found himself very much alone. Alethea and the tribal people had gone, or rather, he had been dumped somewhere else while he was asleep. The place he was in now looked… oriental. His first thought was not again. But it didn’t look like he was in any recognisable part of history. After wandering for some time, he finally found someone, who seemed to be practicing sword fighting.
‘Can you help me?’ Paul asked the young, muscled man.
He turned around and shook his head, looking at Paul curiously. ‘Who are you?’
He hesitated. ‘Paul.’
‘Nice to meet you Paul. I’m Mizuki, of course.’
‘Right, well, can you?’
‘Can I what?’
‘Help me.’
He shook his head again.
‘But –’
‘I was hoping you could help me.’
‘How can I when I’m lost myself,’ Paul replied. He looked pale and near fainting. He also wasn’t sure if this Mizuki was a real person or another program; it was so frustrating… ‘Both of us may as well give up,’ he continued in a mutter, talking more to himself now. ‘We’ll never reach what we’re looking for!’
‘No Paul!’ cried Mizuki suddenly and triumphantly, seeming to understand exactly what Paul was talking about. ‘I am going to find myself in this world. I seek the truth, and knowledge of everything.’
‘But how can you find the truth and knowledge of everything? I’m already at a loss trying to find my own identity,’ said Paul.
‘You’re weak. Of course you’re having a hard time. You must persevere. Never give up.’
Hero talk again. ‘But… I’m tired.’
‘Be strong, like I am.’
‘But –’
‘You can give up if you like, but I’m going to complete my destiny, even if it’s the last thing I ever do!’ Mizuki’s triumphant face turned into agitation. ‘You have not heard of me?’
Paul shook his head.
‘Hm. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I am the grandson of a great Warrior. He had saved our village from destruction and was then known throughout the country as the fourth Hokage. A great honour. Now, even though my name is common in that country, I am only known as the ‘fourth Hokage’s grandson’. With that, Mizuki sped off on his snake-like dragon. The force of the take-off almost knocked Paul off his feet. But something else did…
He fell again, not leaving him a second to respond to having just seeing a live mythical creature…
He drifted…
Mum, Paul suddenly thought. I miss her the most. ‘BoaZen ZiJi,’ she’d always say. Look after yourself…

Paul…

He opened his eyes, looked around and saw nothing. The voice was in a dream… no… the voice was in his head this time…

The voice was Layna’s, Paul remembered after a moment – hallowed and echoing. He somehow found her voice comforting.

Paul, be strong. Do what Mizuki has gone to do. Place yourself in this world… any world. Search…

He did so. And the result was…

‘We do not accept you. You do not know who you are,’ said a stocky, little man.
‘But I do know!’ cried Paul. The man shook his head, ashamed that Paul was in his presence. Suddenly, he was not able to remember who he was. Everything but his name was gone again. All those memories. Gone. Feverishly, he staggered and fell…

‘I’m afraid we cannot take you in,’ said a wise-looking, old woman.
Take me in where? But as soon as this thought floated into Paul’s head, he remembered. ‘Yes you can! I’m Paul! My Chinese name is XiaoHu and I’m a librarian. My parents…’
‘You think you know so much about yourself,’ the woman shook her head slowly, not letting him continue, ‘but really, they are just meaningless statistics.’

Like a dream, Paul floated past people, or they passed him, glaring at him disapprovingly or ignoring him completely. Those who spoke would not listen to Paul.
‘XiaoHu, how can you be one of us? You are Australian.’ They shoved him away.

‘Paul, you’re not Australian, you’re Chinese. Anybody could see that.’ Figurative doors slammed in his face. ‘Return to where you came from.’

A small figure jumped down in front of Paul, startling him. ‘Go, we don’t need you. We already have one of you,’ said the little monkey. Paul was so overwhelmed that he could not reply. But the last remark had touched a nerve. He could not accept what was being said. ‘There is no other me! I’m unique.’
‘Paul, why do you think you are here in this simulation?’
He shook his head, exasperated. ‘You tell me!’
‘You are an experiment. Will you look here?’
He looked. It was a large mirror framed with a wooden, engraved arch and there in the mirror was a reflection of himself. It struck him like a cold splash of water across his face. He could hardly remember how he looked like and so he stood like a frozen statue with only his eyes darting around, intently studying his long forgotten features. Suddenly, to his horrid surprise, the reflection winked at him and grinned, then walked out of sight. Paul was now staring at a large tree which had been in the background. A soft gust of night breeze stroked his hair and he realised that it was not a mirror he was staring at, but a doorway. A moment later, Paul saw himself climb agilely onto the tree and fall asleep under a bright moon.

Goodnight Nobody.
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[RohitMalhotra]

Man that was long..But good any whichways


regards

Rohit Malhotra
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[img:42afab0ae0]http://www.malhotra-online.com/rohitbnr.jpg[/img:42afab0ae0]

Life is a battle field.


http://www.malhotra-online.com