The Being of NOTHING

The Silvergrey Sea

Part Six: Storms

The Being of NOTHING

* * *

Abram wasn’t here.

Abram just wasn’t.

Who then had made those observations?

Wait.

Start Again.

In the beginning…

* * *

…what?

There had been time.

There had been a time, when…

* * *

For a moment, there was a moment. Pain!

Gone.

Gone where?

Another moment. Now sight. What is that?!

* * *

Later. A moment again.

Think, damn you!

Who?

* * *

“Gotcha!”

“What?” Abram could not force his thoughts to flow. Couldn’t remember…something.

“Abram. Abram!” Abram felt something but had no idea what he had that could be felt, nor what could cause feeling. Had no idea what ‘feeling’ was. He was still dealing with the whole ‘I’ business.

I.

Me.

Ego.

Mind.

Brain and—body!

“Who is that?” Abram was being held tightly by both arms. Sensation was pain. He was being shaken.

“It’s Drago.”

“Drago! What’s happened? Where are we?”

“We’re in a cocoon of sorts, buried in the Æthyr.”

“Why can’t I see or hear anything? How do I know what you’re saying?”

“We’re in contact, let’s leave it at that. We’re buried in NOTHING, man. You should remember what that means.”

“Of course.” Long suspended synapses began firing. “How are we still alive?”

“Strictly speaking, we’re not. We’re suspended, existing only as potential.”

“I know that. I meant, why haven’t we simply been broken down and absorbed? What’s holding nonexistence at bay?”

“I am. I am an Element; in case you’d forgotten. The Æthyr and I have an affinity. We’re both pure.”

To that, the Hermetist had no reply.

A flickering became apparent. Dark as the blackness of the NOTHING, it seemed. Abram had gotten used to sightlessness, so it came as a surprise. It came and went so quickly he couldn’t have been sure he’d seen it.

It came again. This time, it looked to be the darkest indigo. Wispy, cloud-like forms. Perhaps it lasted longer; he couldn’t tell. Time was not here at all.

The third time, the colour seemed brighter. The Mercurius Pro Tem thought he could make out the form of it—and immediately hoped he was wrong. Something so vile shouldn’t exist.

Assuming his companion had observed the same thing, “What are those things, Drago?”

A moment of silence. Then, “You can see?”

“Only in flickers. I thought perhaps it was just in my mind.”

“In a manner of speaking, it is. It’s not being produced there, though. I’m impressed, Hermit. I hadn’t thought you strong enough.”

“Are these things in the Æthyr?”

“They are the NOTHING.”

“I was taught that it is…uhm, nothing.”

“‘There is a light so bright, it is not perceived as light.’”

It sounded like a quote, but Abram couldn’t place it. “So, the NOTHING of the Æthyr is composed of—”

“Energy of so high a frequency and intensity that it cannot be perceived by an untrained mind. These forms are temporary products of the Æthyr.”

At that moment, another painfully clearer view of these forms presented itself. Abram didn’t know whether he was more nauseous or horrified. One of those glimpses would haunt his dreams for years to come. “Why are they all so horrible?”

“They are possible forms. They need not rely on anything you might be familiar with, not even physics. Some are bound to be familiar but, given the total possible forms, most will not. Your reaction to the alienness of them is what causes your horror.”

“Are they going to keep getting clearer?” Abram asked, wishing he had eyelids to close.

“Likely.” He thought he could hear a smile in Drago’s tone. The Hermetist lamented then he hadn’t got a fist to punch into the face Drago didn’t have.

—Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, October 2026

© Gideon Jagged
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