Two days ago I watched my transfer pod dissolve, its once solid walls decaying into a foamy lump and then dissipating as the containment field imploded and the pseudo-matter seeped back into to the other universe from which it came.

My legs don’t work, of course: part of my punishment. I have dragged myself to the bank of a rivulet, so I have water, but there is only one day’s food ration left. The court assured me that edible plants abound here, but I would have to experiment to find out which they are, and of course I must get to them.

It is a strangely peaceful world, this prison of mine, turning under its blue-white sun, I have spent my time reading my Bible (they allowed me to bring that), thought-recording this journal, and, within my limited range, studying my surroundings.

Night is exotically lovely. Planet G-A-3 is on the outskirts of the galactic core and the sky is littered with stars in wanton profusion. A pearly aurora, streaked with silver, its edges shimmering green and electric blue, dances in graceful slow ripples across the southern horizon. The plants, apparently Iucifeinates, also come alive at night, so I lie in a luminescent sea of muted color and revel in the gentle yet heady fragrances. The plants also move, though there is little wind on this moonless world. The planet is devoid of animals, but I was warned to watch out for the plants.

“As a self confessed Follower of the Way, you have been found guilty of dissemination of disinformation and propaganda contrary to the interests of SolCon and the people of Daena.” By this the judge meant the Bible study I had been holding in the Abandonments. “You are hereby sentenced to neural deactivation of your lower limbs, followed by permanent exile.”

I remember looking at the judge in her Pedestal of Truth, small yet austere between her two Badapharian guards, as she sat staring back at me dispassionately. Her stateliness and the severe grace of her white robe gave her the appearance of a creature of myth. Never have I seen such beauty and such coldness in one creature.

Under Derrani influence, the Daena senate had recently abolished capital punishment. The cheapness of sending a pseudo-matter pod through the Otherspace continuum (though three out of four pods broke up in transit) made exile to an uninhabited world the preferred method of punishment. For those who had committed crimes against the state, an additional physical handicap is imposed to make survival more of a “challenge.” G-A-3, the planet on which I lay in phosphorescence and watched the stars, has lately been the favored planet for Followers of the Way. On paper it appears that survival is simple. It is a lush and abundant world with clean water, edible plants, no diseases, and no animal predators.

They say no one has survived more than twelve days, even without handicap.

NOON, DAY THREE. My rations have run out, and I can no longer put off a task I have feared. I must sample the native food. My first try, a lilac strawberry shaped water plant, tasted edible but my throat started burning some five minutes later. The burn subsided after about twenty minutes, but left me hoarse. Those are off my list unless nothing else shows up. I spent an hour in prayer after that; this is obviously a dangerous business.

EARLY EVENING, DAY THREE. Thank you, God! My food supply appears secure; at least seven different types of fruit and seed, all abundant, which are palatable and have not yet—pray God they won’t—made me sick. One, a ground nut that looks like a stone but has a meaty pink heart, tasted so good I didn’t want to eat anything else. Still, it is more likely that a variety will meet my nutritional needs better than a single type, so I am attempting to balance my meals.

Today, for the first time, the loneliness hit me and I cried. Life among the gangs in the Abandonments was often hard, and for many it was cheap, easily disposed of. But I was never lonely there. There are no noises on this world, no birds or insects; only the soft cool wind and the sounds of my body. My mind fills the silence with Seleia; her voice–with that crazy Ice Continent accent–can cause time to stand still.

Followers of the Way are forbidden marriage on Daena, so we had been scraping together enough credits for the trip to the mission monastery on Der. The Derrani sanction marriages performed there, and allow family privileges for the couple. They also have no population limit. We wanted lots of children. In two months we would have had sufficient funds.

Seleia will continue my work with the gangs. She has always been a survivor, tougher, less naïve, more streetwise than I. She grew up there, a part of those people. God knows how I survived there as long as I did.

MORNING, DAY FOUR, I awoke to find a thick, leathery vine wrapped solidly around my right ankle. It is not impairing circulation, and I have no feeling in the limbs since the neural deactivation, but try as I might, I cannot remove it. The vine, like a long leash, gives me plenty of room to move. I can reach my food supply, my “bathroom,” and the stream with no more difficulty than before. The plants only move at night. I will see what I can do then.

EARLY MORNING DAY FIVE. After what seemed like ages struggling in vain to pull free from the vines (they glow scarlet at night), I gave up and lapsed into an exhausted sleep.

I woke this morning to find that I seem to have been moved. My Lord only knows how far and by what or whom. The stream is gone and in its place is a largish pond, almost a lake, deep and clean, reflecting the white sunlight like a magic mirror or the steely hull of a Nayuna battlecruiser. For miles around there is nothing but brown. I first though it was rocky desert, but it’s really ground nuts, so my food supply is assured. The vines have released me but I can’t think of anywhere else to go. “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

My Bible is still with me, which is very odd, since I thought I had left it down by the stream.

MORNING, DAY SIX. Last night real fear gripped me for the first time. My heart races when I think that night must come again.

The ground nuts don’t glow at night; they sparkle. I felt I lay in a galaxy of stars strewn like diamond dust. The coreward sky of my memory seemed barren by comparison. Closing my eyes, I lay back in the sea of lights.

In a state of half sleep I felt a tickle at my ear, like a small insect crawling, and brushed it away. It was back in a few moments. I was startled awake when I remembered that there are no insects on this world. A tendril, glowing fleshy pink, had sprouted from a nut and was reaching for the side of my face. I struggled to move, but the scarlet vines were back, pinning me softly but firmly to the ground.

I tried to scream, but my voice was still hoarse from the strawberry thing, and all I managed was a strangled groan mixed with my tears and the sweat of my struggle. The, tendril, thin and smooth as silk thread, crawled slowly up my cheek, seeking my ear again while my hands were tied by vines. There was a small prick in my ear as the tip went in, and I prayed to God for it to leave.

In a matter of moments that seemed like hours it did leave, and 1 swear that as it pulled out there was a sound of music. Maybe I dreamed it, for the next thing that greeted me was the sunrise.

NOON, DAY SIX. I will sleep during the day to prevent a repeat of last night. I could not find the nut that had opened to release the tendril, nor any sign of the vines. There is another oddity: I am starting to regain some feeling in my legs, and I can’t shake the thought that it is due to something done by the ground nuts, when they entered my head.

MORNING, DAY SEVEN. Last night was unbelievable! When I awoke, it was already getting dark. I got up and walked to the pond, and only when my toes felt the water’s caress did I realize what had happened. I felt like the healed cripple in the Book of Acts, “walking and leaping and praising God.” My exuberance was tempered only by one stubborn vine that held me by the ankle. Sitting at the water’s edge, I wriggled my toes and grinned like a child.

Soon afterwards the nuts came awake, sparkling like fireflies. I picked one up to examine it. It felt just like before, but I couldn’t crack it open. The spark of light, too, was odd, as it stayed on top of the nut no matter how I turned it. The tendril, exiting from the point of light, startled me, and I tossed the thing into the pond. It floated and started swimming for shore, wriggling its glowing tendril like a faerie tadpole.

I noticed then that I sat in the middle of a six meter semicircle. The nuts around me and to the water’s edge had sprouted and were building. Glowing filaments like strands of spider silk were spinning, weaving into an opal wall that was already knee high. Within ten breathless minutes they had, thrown up a domed shelter.

It is raining this morning–water cascades in gray seamless sheets from a thunderous heaven–but I sit dry in an egg shaped shell of nut-tendrils.

The shell has an opening right at the lakeshore, but there is an overhang like an awning so I can drink without getting wet, There is another smaller opening away from the water and what appears to be a soft mattress of interwoven tendrils in the center of the dome.

It is becoming harder to shake the feeling that someone or something is caring for me, and it appears to be these vines and ground nuts! They have fed me, sheltered me, possibly even healed me. They even relented in the face of my fear.

Tonight I am resolved to lie down and let them come.

EARLY NIGHT, DAY SEVEN. Outside the rain still falls, splashing softly into the pond and pattering soothingly off the roof of my little hut. I lie waiting, eyes half closed in the warm tendril light suffusing the room.

A lone filament climbs my cheek and I feel a small twinge of the other night’s fear. Nevertheless, I force myself into stillness, the thread enters my ear, and there is a gentle prick.

There is music! At least the sounds are musical, though the pattern seems random, natural. The sounds are in layers, some near, some distant, Those close at hand seem earthy, like a reed or a woodwind, and I can’t help but think that they come from the nuts and maybe some of the other plants. Some of the farther sounds seem crystalline or even electric.

My other ear has been pierced and I can now give direction to the sounds. I find also that I can focus on any layer at any distance, tuning down the rest. There is no frame of reference to measure how far I am probing, but there is a feeling of vastness, a heavy infinity I can’t shake.

The tendrils are retracting, so dawn must be near, though I did not sense the passage of time. I feel empty and alone, longing for tonight.

NIGHT, DAY EIGHT. Today dawned clear; the eastern sky kissed with peach-hued clouds. I spent the daylight hours eating, reading Psalms, and using my newly repaired legs to explore. By mid-afternoon I returned to my “egg” to sleep.

I awoke to the music. Tonight I found my eyes covered also, but I can see. “Seeing” is too limited a word, Like the tendrils in my ears, the ones covering my eyes appear to enhance the sense.

The earthy music does indeed come mostly from the nuts, They are interconnected through their little points of light and form a network, a lattice that dresses this whole world in intricate geometry. By coordinating my ears and my eyes I can trace any note down a light-path all the way to the horizon.

The planet sings too: a silvery song of magnetic waves that runs from north to south. The nuts allow me to tune into bands anywhere in the spectrum and “see” and “hear” them.

The roof of my “egg” has parted and I peer into the heavens, limiting myself at first to normal sound and light spectra. Slowly I open my ears to other wavelengths. One at a time, like instruments in an expanding symphony, the sounds come through: microwaves, x-rays, electrical pulses, and others, each adding its own precise pattern to the song. My enhanced eyes can trace each to its source: the collapsing scream of a neutron star, the heavy-steady cadence of an old red giant, the speeding “pips” of planets, the silent, hungry, gut-emptiness of a black hole, the snowy hiss of clouds of hydrogen and super-cooled dark matter.

Here and there are sight-sounds of a different type, I focus on the efficient pattern of a coreward bound Derrani freighter. Its sounds are as fluid as the creatures who built it. Closing in fast is the precise geometry of a SolCon destroyer of Nayuna design; Its pilots silicate forms, the antithesis of the Derrani they hunt. An anti-proton beam leaps out and the Derrani is no more.

I chase the patterns of their departing souls, but the tendrils have unplugged. The roof of my hut closes. Dawn tinges the horizon a cheery gold.

MORNING, DAY NINE. This morning I read a Psalm in the beauty of an ancient translation.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth His handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Their line has gone out through the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath He set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race . . .”

I felt it last night; the pattern of the heavens, intertwined like some infinite bridal dance! If the court on Daena knew of this, would they still have sent me here?

There are further questions. I have been here eight full days, and the planet seems a true Eden. My handicap has been removed and I think I have even gained a pound or two. The plants have proved non-threatening, actually beneficial.

Seven hundred fifty three of my fellow Followers have been exiled here. Why have none survived?

I have come to the conclusion that there is no sentience in the nuts. Their internal form is too simple. They must be a channel, a conduit. Their movements, however, show the marks of a guiding intelligence. I am considering the possibility of an incredibly advanced alien biotechnology. It would have to be centuries beyond our current knowledge. But what is the purpose? The dismal survival rate would point to a hostile intent, but its actions to this point seem to show the opposite. Anyway, there is nothing to do but wait and see.

NIGHT, DAY NINE. I am back on my bed. The tendrils have plugged in. and the ceiling has opened again. I have found a battle, a dogfight between two Badapharian ships; a corvette and a scout. As usual, the hulking ones cannot keep peace even among themselves. The scout has taken a hit in its rejector coil. Its crew will be dead of hyperspace disorientation syndrome in about ten seconds.

My enhanced eyes follow the Badapharian dead as their energy, their souls, slip into another continuum, but I am prevented from seeing further. Another interposes himself, blocking my line of sight, calling for my attention.

The winged creature that met my gaze appeared to be made of some sort of controlled energy with the liquid sliver sheen of mercury. He (the masculinity was evident somehow, though it was not a sexual quality) was many faced, covered with eyes within and without, with an expression both stern and joyous.

“Come,” he said, and his voice was heavy yet calming, like the song of thundering waters, “We have been waiting for you.”

He directed my sight back to G-A-3, but its aspect in this continuum was a faceted crystal globe of arcing light, the lattice of the ground nuts. I looked around my “egg.”

Three other creatures like the first were standing around my bed. They had come back into my continuum with me, sort of. As I stared at them I got the giddy feeling of motion, a racing to keep up with the spinning and orbiting world, as if our two realms touched but did not mesh. I opened my mouth to talk, but the first creature raised a powerful wing and I was silent. Then the powerful beings all bowed and knelt. Without knowing why I turned to face the lake.

A man was coming across the lake, walking on the water, his feet sending light circular wavelets across the deep mirror smoothness of the surface. I turned to my winged companion, but he had disappeared from view along with the others, yet I felt a presence, a silent weight in the room that told me they were still there. I realized then that I was seeing with my unaided eyes. The sun was rising and the tendrils had retracted unnoticed.

I knelt as he entered, for I knew who he was. Had I not been following him for years?

He touched my head and I felt the roughness of an old round scar. “Seleia,” he whispered, “She comes. She has been blinded and hurt and she is hungry and afraid. Go meet her, comfort her. Follow the stream north.

Then he was gone, though I never saw him leave.

EVENING, DAY TEN. I found her this morning, washed her and brought her back to the egg. Bright eyed Seleia has nothing but holes where her eyes were, holes gaping painful red. Unable to cry, I cried for her, wept all day as I carried her and led her back here.

They sent her here four days ago; gouged out her eyes and sliced her hands at the wrist, leaving angry blackened scars on cauterized stumps. The vines had moved her near water, but she could not get food.

I fed her and she smiled.

I read to her from the Song of Solomon.

“The blossoming vines spread their fragrance, Arise, come my darling, my beautiful one, come with me.”

Her face turned to me and I kissed her forehead. My fingers touched the lids over the hollows where her eyes should have been. With them closed, one could almost forget the eyes weren’t there. I stroked the softness of auburn hair and she relaxed into sleep.

Father God, what kind of woman is she? The gangs had once tracked her with a S’Karith mind whore and almost killed her, yet she loved them. Now someone had betrayed her, yet she showed no bitterness toward the ones who caused her pain. I discovered that I was among the last to get “deactivation.” The process was “a drain on the state’s limited funds.” Now they imposed the “handicaps” with a laser! She told me of the sneering Badapharian that was her last sight as he burned out her eyes; talked of him as if she loved him. I wished him damned to hell, but no, no; I don’t either, God, Jesus, reach out to him.

“I have, and indeed the Badapharian will be here by this time next week.”

I raise my head and the man who walked on water is back with me.

“He could not forget Seleia. She blessed him aloud even as the beam struck. He is now my Follower.”

I turn to Seleia. Her eyeholes are covered with nut-tendrils, her face rosy, lovely in their glow. I lie down close beside her as the filaments reach for me, and I hold her hand . . .

Her hand! I rejoice in the wonder as I feel the tender softness of new-made skin. The Christ stands at our heads, lightly touching our foreheads, and he is smiling.

Through the roof of the egg a stairway ascends, stairs of crystal gold, aglow with a deep inner fire. The four silver creatures stand two to a side at its base, their mighty heads bowed, their awesome outstretched wings touching overhead to form a royal arch.

In the distance, close as my heart, and yet as if seen through a rent in the very fabric of space, a mighty city floats; golden majesty in scintillating spires and graceful arches and intertwining bridges, fruitful with verdant trees and laughing with rivers and roaring falls. The solid reality of it smites the senses like a physical thing, making the egg, G-A-3, the stars, seem tenuous, ghostly in contrast.

Lining the avenues I see people. Some of them I know: Arin, Dores, little Matthees, all sent here by the Daena court. They are cheering. The Christ starts up the stairs under the arch of the angels’ wings, turns to us, smiles as if sharing some inside joke.

“No Follower of mine has ever died here, for I am the Life. This world is Tiran-Hamir’tai, the Gateway. The world’s sentence of punishment is your reward. You have come Home.”

We rise from our bed, and I look into Seleia’s perfect eyes, then, with both of us holding his outstretched hands, we follow.

Tom Whitehouse won the Chapter One contest for fiction with “Heavens Declare.”

Surreal World by Melanie, a German graphic artist and web designer. Visit her website to see more of her amazing art.

We originally included a video of the Dublin Philharmonic performing Dvorak’s New World Symphony, 2nd Movement, Part 1, conducted by Derek Gleeson, but Internet Explorer errors made it impossible to keep up. We’ll try video again next issue.