A ways back there was this boy, a regular old kid, like any kid here. He lived in a small, happy community. He had a family and friends and he had a purpose in life. Some people might call that purpose faith in his creator, but let’s not get too religious. We’ll simply call it devotion.
One night, this devoted kid was alone, bathing in a pond, when he heard a voice. “I wish I knew the point of this,” the voice said. “I need to know why someone so guilty and sad has been given so much power.”
The voice came from the pond, so the kid was keen to investigate. He plucked a bamboo reed from the water’s edge and used it as a snorkel. He explored the murky depths. He swam around the edges and dove to the bottom. Nothing to be found, not even a frog, but here’s the thing: he knew the voice. It was the voice of his creator.
His creator didn’t live in the clouds, or in the underworld, or in the confines of his imagination. She lived in a cave, among the people she had created. In other words, the boy was her neighbor.
The boy was a good neighbor. The best, in fact. And he knew he had to help his creator, because she was calling out in distress and, to a person of devotion, that type of call is the most awful sound in the world. So through the forest the boy ran, clutching the bamboo reed, and he ran so fast that by the time he reached the cave, water from the pond still clung to his body.
“Una,” he said, for that was his creator’s name, “are you all right? Can I help you?”
“You love me, don’t you, Banar?” she replied, for that was the boy’s name.
“More than anything,” Banar said, and before Una could speak, before she could make the most god-awful request she could possibly make, he knew what he had to do. It wasn’t something he even thought about. It was like breathing, or eating … or pooping. A completely natural reflex.
What she asked of him was this: Bring about an end. To all of it.
And that’s exactly what he did.
Apologizing as he leaned over, he slipped the bamboo reed into her ear. With his mouth on the other end, he sucked. Gross, right? Actually, no. Because he wasn’t sucking out her brains. He was sucking out her soul, and Una’s soul—a dense, sparkly, heavenly cocktail—filled the reed.
Boo, you say. Boo! Because this sounds horrific. This sounds unjust. I know. But remember, this is exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed. And as Una’s soul filled that reed, the world in which they lived, the place Una had created, a land called Mahaloo, began to slip away. The color drained out of everything. Out of the plants, the animals, even the people.
Have you ever seen Popsicles melt? It was like that. But instead of Popsicle sticks remaining, it was piles of ash. And what happened to all those swirly and pretty colors? Well, they pooled together and formed a river.
Understandably, Banar gasped and crouched over Una’s lifeless body and shook it. “What have I done?” he cried.
But shaking her body was like shaking a seeding dandelion. Poof! It broke apart into tiny pieces, and the pieces drifted into the sky like they never weighed a thing. Fearing her soul might suffer the same fate, Banar quickly plugged the ends of the reed with compressed balls of ash and clutched it to his chest.
Can you imagine what that was like? To have your creator ask such a thing of you? To have to witness all the things you know and love simply disappear or drain away? You’d have trouble believing it, as Banar had trouble believing it.
“Maybe all is not lost,” he called out. “Maybe I can get it all back.” And he dove into the river with the reed in his mouth, and he swam downstream. It seemed as though his hopes might have been fulfilled, because the river eventually led to … Mahaloo. His home. Una’s creation.
It wasn’t lost! It had moved!
Mahaloo was like an unmoored boat washed up on a distant shore. Banar climbed out of the water and into a field, where his friends and family were going about their lives—hunting, gathering, all that stuff people must do to survive. But when they saw Banar coming toward them, they didn’t welcome him. In fact, they cursed at him.
“You took her from us!” they screamed. “You stole Una!”
Banar wanted to explain, but how could he? Guilty as charged. So with the reed clamped in his teeth, Banar hauled butt, and they chased after him. As they closed in, he monkeyed his way up a tree. It was a tree so tall that no one could see where it ended. Everyone assumed it reached to the top of Mahaloo, but no one knew for sure because no one had climbed it that high. At least not until our buddy Banar did.
Rather than play follow the leader, his people set fire to the tree. Flames crept, grew, and ate away at the bark and branches. Banar was fast enough to outclimb the flames, but when he reached the top, he was met by the sky—gorgeous and tinted green, but empty, except for a small, lumpy cloud no bigger than a pumpkin.
The flames finally caught up, as flames do, and the heat became unbearable. Banar had no choice but to jump. He flexed his legs, clenched his teeth on the reed, and pushed off. His body shot out into the air and collided with the cloud. And you know what?
Instantly, unexpectedly, he was sucked into the sky.
I know. I know. Sounds like one of those wormholes you have in the school, right? But you have to realize, this wasn’t in the days when beings moved from world to world. I know you see aliens all the time here, travelers who pop by and charm you with descriptions of magical realms. But for Banar, there was only one realm: Mahaloo. So when he was sucked into the sky and he found himself somewhere new, he was thrown a bit off-kilter, to put it lightly.
This new world consisted of rocks. Yep, rocks, that’s about it. A flat plane of rocks with edges that bordered a gray void on every side. There was no one to serve, no one to flee. Definitely no way to get back to Mahaloo. All there was to do was stack.
So that’s what he did. Day after day, he stacked rocks. He started by taking rocks from the edges of the plane and bringing them to the center and stacking them in a circle. Then he stacked circles on the circle, until the stacks became a home, a round tower that strained into the void. When he finally moved enough rocks to uncover what was beneath them, he found water. The water rose over what was left of the plane until a moat surrounded the tower. And like a clogged toilet, the water kept coming, spilling over the edges and into the void, creating a circular waterfall that never dried up. Up went the tower, down went the water, but there was no seeing the bottom of the waterfall. Maybe it had no bottom.
From then on, Banar lived in this world alone, in this tower alone, in a room at the top that was so cold that icicles formed from condensed vapor on the ceiling. There were windows in the room that looked out into the void and down to the waterfall. He still had the bamboo reed and he held it close at all times. The ash still plugged the two openings, keeping Una’s soul locked away. It was all that he had left of his creator. He couldn’t bear to lose it.
Holding it close would never be enough, though. Unplugging the reed, gazing into the sparking liquid, that was the good stuff. That was what he really wanted to do, and the temptation eventually overpowered him. This sort of thing rarely goes well, and now was no exception. As soon as he unplugged the reed, it fell from his hand and bounced on the floor. Some, but not all, of the liquid splashed on his body, and the reed flipped up and out a window.
Down the spiral steps of the tower he ran, and when he reached the bottom, it was too late. The reed was floating in the water at the base of the tower. It was empty.
Misery!
Pain!
Tragedy!
It was all too much to bear. He dove into the pool, hoping he would be swept over the waterfall to his death. Yet as he dove, he noticed a strange reflection. It was not Banar diving into the water. It was someone who looked like the night sky, a creature that was the color of nothing and the color of everything.
It was a being of purpose.
Banar’s head was suddenly full of new thoughts and ideas, of things only Una could have known, including what he was supposed to do next.
“Come out and play,” Banar whispered into the water. “Please come out and play.”
What’s this? Was he crazy? Not in the slightest. Because his whispers did not fall on deaf ears. Quite the opposite. They traveled through the water, over the waterfall, to faraway places. Kids heard his voice, sneaking out from ponds, and creeks, even puddles. Some kids even followed his invitation. Daydreamers we call them, and they made Aquavania what it is. They built worlds. They played inside the worlds. They lived inside the worlds. And when they grew tired of the worlds, when they were through with it all, they called out for Banar. Because like Una, they needed Banar to do what they didn’t have the strength to do.
Bring about an end.
He answered their calls, because that was what he was born to do. But he wasn’t known as Banar anymore. Now he had many names.