FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I lost the echos.

I didn't mean to. It sort of just slipped away, and now whenever I try to yell, I don't hear anything anymore, that far-off voice is gone. No one responds back, here in the deadlands, especially to me.

I don't live alone. That would be too difficult, and it's near impossible to find food around here. Wakers like me, oh yes, there's a lot of them here. All quiet, all different, and then there's the strange wakers who come and go. They bring new sweet or pungent scents and pollution to the deadlands, choking fuel and exhaust from cold and steely metal pipes. They bring the sound and the noise to supplement the silence, they called it music, to overpower the perpetual silence, because otherwise, the strange ones would never come here.

They don't come often though. They come when they want to. It's quiet when they're gone and very peaceful. No wildlife exists around here, and the gray and black rocks are muffled against the soft dirt, incapable of any loud collisions. There's no wind, no rain, no snow, (the strange wakers told us about these things called weather) no sounds, not even from us. We all stopped talking when the echos disappeared. The silence is absolute, and sometimes, the silence gets so unbearable that we wish the strange ones would come again.

My life was like this, well into my early years. The strange wakers came back to the deadlands several times during that time period, and each time, they brought to us a new noise, some foreign smell, and occasionally, another unwanted child. We didn't want more children either, we tried to refuse silently, but no, the strange wakers were deaf to our mute pleas and insisted and pushed him or her onto us, saying we must, and soon enough, we had another waker on our hand, deep in the silence.

I started to hate the silence. I suppose it was the strange ones' fault for bringing sound to the deadlands in the first place. I wanted to hear more. I wanted to listen to that sweet melodic sound they called music. I wanted my ears to strain when a waker whispers, for my ears to sting when the sounds pierce the air in rising volume. I just wanted to hear something.

I tried to make the strange wakers take me with them once, to take me to the sounds. I had forgotten how to talk, however, so I grabbed onto them, pleading with them with my eyes. They didn't understand, of course, so they shrugged me off, telling me to go back home, go back to the silence. I did, and I watched them leave again, trailing black smoke and the wake of noise. Then they were gone.

The silence was heavy, as usual. I stood there, staring off into the distance where they disappeared into a small speck, off towards the other world, wherever they came from. I turned and realized they had forgotten something. It was an instrument, light and delicate, and a color not seen anywhere else in the deadlands. It lay next to the fire, staring at me, telling me to bring me back to the strange wakers. They were long gone, but the instrument didn't care. Take me to them. I don't want to stay here in the silence, I'm meant to be played.

No one cared when I relayed this information. They told me with their mute tongues, be quiet please, I don't want to hear anything. The silence is good. The silence is wonderful. Let us take care of the wakers who cannot take care of themselves. Let us make them silent too, so they can enjoy the silence as well. The strange ones can come back and get the instrument later.

I forgot the instrument, and let it lie on the soft dirt. Things don't rust or erode here, there's no rain or wind, whatever they were. Things stayed the same, and so did I. I had that nagging feeling in the back of my head, but I pushed it away. The other wakers were right, I should not be worrying about anything other than taking care of the younger wakers. The instrument once again lay forgotten.

The strange wakers, however, never came back. Several years passed, and the instrument sat there in the silence. The wakers had moved it far off, and the instrument almost slipped completely from my mind. In fact, had I not stumbled across it again one time while I was searching for something to eat, I would have never thought about returning it.

Take me back, it said. Take me back.

So I did. I picked it up and started walking in the direction the strange wakers had left in, following the indented tracks they had left behind so long ago, unmindful of the others who glared at me. Let him leave, let him chase them. Let us continue to live here in the silence.

It took me two months to leave the deadlands. I didn't mind the walk, really, because the instrument kept me company. It complained, it groaned and moaned, wanted to rest, wanted to be played. I tried to one time, but not knowing how to play it, I ended up stopping short as soon as the first notes were played.

I kept following the seemingly endless trail. It curved, sometimes, for a rest, then resumed its course again, but eventually the ground changed and the indents became shallow. They hardened and cracked, and soon enough, as I kept walking, the tracks vanished. I stopped, for I had gone a long way and entered the other world.

I felt wind now for the first time in my life with an incessant shiver, saw color on the ground and in the sky, and to my surprise, I heard the distant voice that was lost so long ago, the echoes.

I walked at a quicker pace now, towards the place they were calling from, passing up rock steady asphalt, heard the echoes getting louder, felt the blood rushing through my head, the uncomfortable feeling of cold on my skin, and yet I also felt the perspiring sweat running down my neck. All this was new to me, this world of color and sound and noise, and I grew excited, Here are the echoes, gone from the deadlands so long ago! The instrument I was holding in my hand had stopped complaining as well, became still and quiet.

Then everything did. A gigantic wall stood in front of me, enclosing in a box, and there was silence all around. On the great wall was an open door, miniscule in proportion, inviting me in. I heard the echoes rebound off the wall, which was ebbing from the door and out, and it washed over me. It compelled me.

Go in, the instrument whispered. Just leave me in the noise, I don't want to be in the silence.

I entered.

The change was shocking. Noise, loud noise everywhere. Thought'd it'd be something like home, but there were no wakers here, no whispering or quiet emotions. No, there were people here, and apparently, I was a people too, and it was accepted as such.

People could talk and sing and play instruments. They didn't communicate silently, they shouted and yelled, in different accents and confusing chatter, or banged and raved over their ostentatious instruments. There were large ones, booming loudly with smacks and hums and unrelenting zings with hammers against vibrating tempered steel and sticks against polyester fiber, and there were the small ones that whizzed and sparked, growling at passerby with mechanical dominance, shoving them into synthetic worlds and piling on false insecurities. There were the large shouts and cheers and noise and sweat all around, enough to nullify all the senses of any being, enough to choke someone from the world.

Let us stay loud and roaring. Let no moment be silent. Yell and shout, this is the way to live. The sound is good. The sound is wonderful.

I was lost in the crowd, mesmerized. My ears were packed to overflowing, and I loved every minute of it, and I became hypnotized by the sounds of this world.

Many years passed by before it came to be that I realized that I was still holding the instrument, but now it held no interest to me, for this world had something new every single day, something amazing that shined and dazzled the day and night away until something else came to the light. I became blind to the outside, nearly forgot about the deadlands, and when I got tired of carrying the little instrument that screamed to be returned, I remembered.

Then the noise was gone and done with, for had I slipped back away into the silent pockets between ubiquitous noise, hidden away from the deaf, away from the noise.

"Don't you love the quiet..." a blind man said as I passed by. He was in a rocking chair, staring into what seemed to be his own little world.

"It's too peaceful and it never changes... like the deadlands."

"Ah the deadlands... I haven't gone there in many years. Eighty, I think. My sister had left her violin there."

'Violin?'

He described it to me. It started whining, but I realized that the old man had taken it out of my hands and attempted to play it. He stopped.

"The years have robbed me of my sight and of my ability to play this instrument. Go find my sister and ask her to play for you, I'm sure she'll be happy to."

He gave me the directions to his sister, on the other side of dark place (he called it a 'city').

"Oh, and can I ask you a question before you go...? You're from the deadlands, right? Can you tell everyone I'm sorry that- ah, never mind, they won't want to listen anyway. It seems to have become their way of life."

He smiled and rocked, quietly laughing to himself, staring off into space. He was off in his own little world, where the silence was not his salvation, but the darkness that comforted him. This man no longer needed to see, and was deaf to the world. He was a waker.

The directions were reliable. I found his sister quite easily, who was as old and withered as her brother.

"Hello dearie., what can I do for you?"

I asked her about the violin she had left with us, and her eyes grew wide.

"Is that mine?"

"Yes, it is."

She cradled it then held it firmly and started to play. It flowed like colors seamlessly blending into each other. It was nothing like the white and fuzzy noise I had experienced earlier, but the same soothing music that had been brought to the deadlands. I felt a tear collect and drop from the very corner of my eye. Then she stopped playing, listening to the resounding silence once more..

"The deadlands don't age at all, it was just as if I had left it there yesterday. It's still in tune."

"Why did you stop coming back?"

"Oh, my husband grew tired of it about... what was it, eighty years ago? Seemed to think he was bothering you wakers."

"Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes, but as you can see," - she pointed all around the room where there were various instruments scattered about - "I don't think I'd be able to live in the silence like you wakers can."

She looked at me sternly for a bit, then handed me the delicate violin.

"Let me teach you how to play, then, and you can keep it."

The violin was fragile, and difficult to play. The notes squeaked, but as time passed, they became smoother and silkier with the passing notes, and soon I heard it, but I was disbelieving and played louder and faster, trying to race the resounding noise. Then I slowed and heard it, louder, clearer. The echoes.

I don't know how long I began to play after that. The notes flew from the violin like feathers, scattering across the room and back, and I soaked myself in the echoes.

The woman was waiting outside after I stopped, wondering where she was.

"You've been playing for days. I didn't want to bother you, so I left you alone."

"Thank you for teaching me."

"Think nothing of it. The violin is yours now, to play whenever you want in the deadlands... and before you leave, can you talk to my husband? He wants to tell you something."

It took me a while to find him. Her directions were confusing and conflicting.

"Hello again... what brings you back here? Did you talk to my wife?"

"Yes, she said you wanted to talk to me..."

"She mentioned you hated the silence."

I showed him the violin, then remembered that he couldn't see.

"Well, I don't know if I will ever see you again, so I must tell you this now. I am sorry for leaving you in the deadlands."

He paused.

"We left our siblings in the deadlands because we wanted them to be happy with the silence, because that's all they'll need. The deadlands don't age, and the silence... oh the silence! There's no other place like the deadlands for that.'

"Well everyone else is happy with the silence..." I said, "But I want to hear the echoes."

"There's nothing stopping you. You are the echo."

He motioned towards the violin and I understood. I hugged him before walking off, clutching the violin in my hands.

When I came back to the deadlands, they greeted me as if I had only just left earlier, as if nothing had happened. The years passed. No seasons, no change, no wind, no sound.

The silence is good. The silence is wonderful. Let it stay that way.

In time, the great walls, like the city, came and surrounded us as well. We became oblivious to the outside world, and the silence deepened, yet I lived on.

When the time finally came for me to go, I left the walls and played the violin, and soon I could feel and see and smell nothing, only hear the sounds slipping away with me into the dark, because there with me, it became one of those faroff voices.

The echoes returned.