The Veil of Flowers

I am dying yet the darkness and silence are comforting. My world is flat, shaped in a rough oblong shape, and the walls of the sky are hard, with tiny gaps peeking into another realm. My world also floats above an ocean which once was rich with food. I have lived my days well sated and wish my life could extend even longer but I understand the ephemeral aspect of my existence.

The bright, noisy hand of death eventually comes for all of us. Many of my clansmen have already succumbed, as have plenty from the three other clans. In unity, there was strength yet our hold now is very tenuous, each death weakening the entirety. Our colony, which once numbered in the millions, will soon collapse, leaving but a pile of corpses at the bottom of the sea. Little to indicate that we were ever here and that leads to despair.

In the beginning, at the time of my birth, I recall a time of plenty. Abundant food, so intoxicating and compelling. Our clan, the Cheres, thrived, and we were the greatest and most populous of the four clans. The Beti were the second largest yet there was still a significant gap between our numbers. But that can be a temporary matter, as all of the clans desire supremacy.

It is a fragile balance though and we understand that our colony exists only if we all work together. If we engaged in open warfare, a raging and extensive battle, the end result would likely be total annihilation. So, this mutual assured destruction tempers our actions. The battles that exist are more small-scale, border skirmishes where only a few of us die at any one time. This is considered an acceptable loss, considering our prodigious birth rate, and provided that it does not escalate.

The least amount of battling occurs during the Time of Great Heat and the Time of Great Cold. In both seasons, the elements take a heavy own toll on my people, killing off many though fortunately not enough for us to be unable to recover afterwards. The temperature extremes can be so devastating to our constitutions. I know some other colonies are not so lucky, collapsing.  It is a culling period, when it takes great strength to survive. Between those times, we must then procreate often and flourish.

One of my brethren theorizes that our eventual demise is our own fault, that we are the enemy. He believes that there are only a finite amount of resources available, only so much food available to eat. Our consumption thus will eventually reach a natural end point. In addition, he theorizes that our consumption also alters the sea, eventually making it lethal to us. He might be correct, as many colonies do seem to die within the same time period.

But there is another theory as well, one held to be true by most of the colony. It is a tale of gods, of omnipotent beings who intervene into our lives, most often leaving destruction in their wake. None doubt their existence as we often hear them and see their handiwork. We pray to these great beings, hoping to appease them with worship, yet they seem immune to our entreaties. We have even offered sacrifices, though in vain.

We savor our peace but at times it is disturbed by the buzzing of the gods, strange vibrations which apparently are their means of communication. We quake in fear every time we hear those strange voices, worried that the bright moon will appear too. Though the bright moon might also appear when it is silent, it most often appears in conjunction with the voices of the gods. The bright moon is a harbinger of death.

Through the bright moon, the Great Spike arrives, thrusting deep into our colony, slaughtering indiscriminately while capturing others. We cannot conceive of a rationale for this horror. Is it punishment for our sins? Do we not give the gods their proper obeisance? There is no regularity to the timing of the Great Spike, no predictability in its appearance. It strikes quickly, often several times within a short span. We are defenseless against its predations.

I even have heard terrible stories of other colonies that have been poisoned by the gods. A lethal toxin is added to the ocean, which murders the entire colony. That is even more difficult to comprehend. Are we but toys for their cruel pleasures? Are we subjects in some bizarre experiment? How can we get the gods to leave us be, to stop slaughtering us?

When we are not eating or procreating, we think, often pondering those questions. We also debate with each other, without the need for a judge. We simply surrender when we know we have been defeated, or declare a draw if warranted. Cosmological and religious questions constitute the majority of our debates.

One of the most intriguing questions is: What is the purpose of life? We eat, we reproduce, we think, we talk, we die. We create nothing, no books, no art, no music. Yet we still possess an ancient belief, that there is a genuine reason to our lives, that somehow we achieve greatness without even knowing so.

It is with religious fervor, a rigid conviction, that we hold this to be evident despite any tangible evidence to support this belief. Denying it accomplishes nothing, and the believers say that our belief is not even required. Our very existence alone leads to a path of greatness, despite our ignorance of the means or goal. Such a belief is very reassuring, and makes death much less fearsome. Or are we but fooling ourselves?

A frequent point is made that if our lives were nothing, if we were meaningless, then the gods would simply ignore us. Yet their intervention in our lives indicates something, that we must have some type of meaning. If we could only communicate with the gods, maybe we would find some answers. But how do you speak to the unknowable? All we hear are the vibrations and all we see is a Great Spike.

Maybe I am one of the most curious of my people but I have spent a very long time concentrating on the voices of the gods, seeking a pattern, trying to understand even the tiniest of words. Finally, as the end of my life nears, I have made significant step forward. I have finally isolated a single word, which is often used and seems to be a word of power, a word of deep meaning. And though I have no evidence, I feel deep in my core that this word is also a clue to our greatness.

“Sherry.”

Addendum:  The preceding tale was related by Dr. Alfonso Esteban Ruiz, a noted biochemist in Jerez. Dr. Ruiz alleged that he had discovered a means of communication with the flor yeast in a sherry bota. He claims that a Saccharomyces, a type of yeast, related the above story, which Dr. Ruiz then translated into a more understandable form, though still maintaining its essential accuracy. Despite his esteemed reputation, Dr. Ruiz faced much ridicule over this story, and he eventually was forced into an early retirement. Dr. Ruiz now refuses to speak on the matter.