A Planet's Fallen

I had once through my great voyage around the wide world happened upon a wishing well, heavily covered with vines and moss, decaying and decrepit; and in my exuberance, with the dime I had in hand, wished an impossible wish: to witness something extraordinary.

Granted, back then, I had been critical of the feasibility of dreams, whether they could ever come to being. But this was no dream. It was a wish, even more impossible, something I coveted and did not just desire, something possible within the boundaries of reality, yet so unfeasible. And I had been told for many years that if you yearned for something truly with all your being, you would one day realise it and make it a reality. But this I did not believe, and had never believed.

I had sailed on the deepest seas, climbed the greatest mountains, rowed down extensive rivers, witnessed every droplet falling off the apex of the highest of waterfalls, and voyaged through the greenest of forests and most ancient of deserts. And admittedly, before that day, the day a planet had fallen, I believed that I had seen it all, all that nature had to offer; its beauty had, for me, extinguished, ceased like a vision in the harsh Sahara. But how wrong I had been to think nature’s many twists and turns to have run their course.

The night of Saint Valentine’s Day, 1964, fell upon a Friday. The climate was not one precisely set up for Cupid to be out and about across most of the country; but still, the lovebirds roamed about here and there, behind trees and bushes, and some—few as they were—roamed within sight, free for all the lonely crows to see.

It was alongside the border of the forest of Chippewa in the humid state of Minnesota, as I recall, where I had taken the liberty of renting out a room at the local motel.

I can recall indulging myself with a leisurely stroll around the many facets of the natural plains surrounding the place. But my travels came soon to a swift halt, as the gateway to the forest had been sealed off and placed out of bounds. Then, I thought that perhaps calling the night off would be within my best interest, and began my march back to the motel. Thinking about it now, I see it all as a sign, of what expected my presence that night.

The suite itself, not much unlike the façade of the building that encompassed it, was frankly horrid in every sense of the word: the papers covering the narrow walls were devoid of any hint of colour, it seeming to have worn off with time, and thus lacked any depth or vigour. There seemed not to have lived within these dull confines a single living being for far too long. Not a fly flew by aimlessly through the air and buzz its way through the night. It all seemed very impossible for a man of my background to spend even the slightest moment engulfed within this deadly silence; but still, I had to bear it just the same.

Perhaps there was a day when I could tell you precisely why I was out here, so far from the comforts of my home city of New York, but today I cannot. Most memories I retain now are of the many peculiarities and wonders of that humblest of nights, and the details they entail.

The bed was seated closer to the window than I would have liked for it to be, for I have more than once throughout my life suffered the unrivalled fright of making visible contact with vivid hallucinations of the greatest horrors my mind could conjure. There was no reason to be frightened of them, I knew that quite well. They were mere ghosts, an unreal figure, distorted with that vapourous quality in possession of visions of the phantasmic, dark and withered. But they frightened me still, and thus I made a point of sheathing my eyes with a night mask I had packed within my case. And with my eyes closed and laying abed, having dressed into my nightclothes, I settled my mind upon all the good in the world and the memories of it, and wished it all goodnight.

And that was when it came, just a few hours into my slumber, awakening me. It was a sound, an unfamiliar tune, one alien to my ears. I sat up in my bed and, pulling up my night mask, looked through the now foggy glass of the window, for the sound came from far away, appearing almost as if with foreboding tidings. And from within the forest, a bright green had begun to glow.

In my mind, then, a sort of urgency grew, to get to the bottom of it all, to witness the source of the noise for my own. So, I sprang up from bed, and rummaging through my case, produced the electric lantern I had stowed within, a crocheted brown scarf, and a matching waffle robe which I wore onto my pyjamas, and set out through the door.

I do not recall there being anybody outside: no one running about anxiously, screaming, or making a ruckus about the whole affair. Perhaps they were still asleep. But my mind was not then set upon such trivial matters, for the earth now shivered beneath my feet, throwing off my balance, as if my legs were chilled by a passing wind.

And as I exited out from the parking lot into the road that separated the confines of the motel and the forest, the very air seemed to instill upon me a gloomy sense of intrigue, eldritch in its feel, as the trees audibly shifted and rustled, taking air in and out, breathing as if assailed with a sudden sting of sentience. It had seemed quite frightening an atmosphere, and yet it was so familiar and comforting. A dream within the waking world.

I sauntered towards the forest with care, listening all the while to the nocturnal tunes it released from within, and as I reached its well-defined border, I felt a spark running down my spine, reaching all the way into my core, preaching, compelling me, flouting my every instinct, to tread onwards into the unknown. And so was what I did, ignoring the seals that barred the entrance.

The soil that now nestled beneath my feet was damp, sinking minutely with every step I took, softened by recent rains about the area. And as I walked farther into the depths of the misty forest, the trees began to frown, their branches twisting ever slightly to block my path, to shield me from further seeking the light. But it grew stronger, and the sound grew louder, blinding my judgement. They mesmerised me, consumed me with their charm, their otherworldliness. And I walked on. But the trees did no longer resist, they did not scowl; there was only sadness now within their motions, that my mind could sense quite plainly.

That was when I crossed its path, seated below upon a flattened clearing a hundred metres in length and fifty wide, cool and verdant, lush and mysterious. It sat in the middle of the forest, the colossal mass of fluorescence from which the green light came, a dusty globe of celestial rock, its surface marked and uneven, leaving only the slightest crater, an unnoticeable dent onto the ground.

Yet, it was no comet that I saw, I knew that from since first I set eyes upon it. I had no reason to believe it true, other than that my mind could not think of it any less than a planet, however small it may have been or wherever from it had emerged. Perhaps there is some wisdom in the words of old: one can only ever truly see what he or she chooses to believe.

I approached it with slow, methodical steps, down the slippery slope of muddied earth, and as I did, the sound loudened even further, and the object’s glow strengthened once more, its colour reflected onto the translucent mist. The ground once again shook beneath me, causing me to tremour slightly as the mist gathered around me from every direction. And it crept ever closer, nearly consuming me within its wake. But I continued onwards, my vision hazed, guided only by the light.

And there it was, just afore me, majestically overlooking the luscious forest wherein the middle of it lay, and, carefully, I stretched my arm forwards and set my hand upon the unearthly material. It was then which I knew, that never had I witnessed such beauty grounded within reality, and that never I would again.

Then, the ground shook once more, this time more violent than before, and the object shook with it. I stumbled onto the earth, and watched as the object elevated high into the air—rising the fog with it—now shining a bright red. It was a ghastly sight, too ominous to behold. But I could not look away: my eyes were fixed to the object. It hypnotised me, seized me by the neck and did not let go. But I did not wish for it to: its allure was too great for me to set my eyes free from its spell. And, just then, it came right back down, slamming into the ground, splashing mounds of mud all about and onto my face and clothes, blinding me momentarily.

Taking out a handkerchief from my pocket, I scrubbed off the mud that had spattered onto my eyes. And once they were sufficiently cleaned and my vision had cleared, I opened my eyes and saw it for my own.

As unbelievable as it may sounds, I confess that the object had gone, vanished, gone hiding into the shadows. And in its place, there lay a most humble abode, a cabin the size of a mausoleum, a dark oak comprising its antique exterior. Yet, it was clearly new, for one could not find a trace of corrosion or rot, no broken sills or shattered glass; it could not have been there before, it could not have. And all that went about in my mind then was of the house and what lay within, and this I had to know.

Gingerly I arose from the ground, and swiped my muddy hand against the clean patches of my robe, dirtying its fabric, picking my lantern back up, and approached the house warily, my mind still aflight. Its atmosphere inspired within me a dreadful sense, a feeling that I had no place to go, nowhere to run to, that I was wholly and utterly at the mercy of what lay therein.

In time, I reached the front door of the house, as dark and dull as the night itself, and placed my hand upon its silver knob. And to my surprise, the door flung open without resistance, without need for force. And inside, a faint light still shone, a colour that I had never set eyes upon before, coming from the middle of the spacious room, the outline of a large figure projecting itself from within, bound upon an armchair. As the light slowly dimmed and disappeared, I held out the lantern in hand to illuminate the room, and approached the figure with easy steps.

And then, I saw its face, onto which a golden mask it wore, reflecting the light of my lantern back into my eyes. And just below the mask, around the area where the mouth should have been seated, twisted tentacles drooped downwards like thick, slimy vines. A cloak enclosed its loosely human-like figure, a hood draped over its head, and its sleeves, nested upon the arms of the chair, were long and loose, nearly reaching the floor.

The mere sight of it frightened me beyond measure. But then, it began breathing, its chest moving. And then it coughed violently, congealed liquid convulsing from its mouth, and its arms and body twitching. I dropped the lantern onto the floor in fright, and walked backwards towards the door, horrified by what I had seen. I turned around as the creature lifted its heavy head and arose from its chair, making haste towards the forest.

And that was the last thing I recall of that night, the night I saw a fallen planet.

I was found the following day, tens of kilometres away from the motel or the forest that surrounded it. The doctors found no abnormalities concerning my health. I had told them of the previous night, of what I had seen, but, alas, they did not believe a word of mine.

I voyaged to the forest upon my recovery, to see the house once more. But it was not there, nothing was, nothing strictly out of the ordinary.

So, here I am, writing it down, my account of how the events went. But whoever is there to read it? Whoever else to believe it?

One thing, however, remains still clear to me, that neither was it dream nor reality. It was something else entirely, something beyond my scope of understanding.