Final Words

The last period fell into its final resting place. All that remained was THE END. Gregor took a calligraphy class years ago for this exact moment. He scrawled out each letter with elegance and purpose. His pen moved over the paper as if guided by Calliope herself. Each stroke was a lessening of the weight off Gregor’s back. With each whip of the ink, he saw more of the picture he’d longed to see for six years. With every curve of the letters, peace abounded. It was his masterpiece. His life. It was finished.

           The light of the lantern flickered and danced over the cave walls. Gregor tapped the lantern to still the fire. He turned back to his book and gently blew on the ink. He closed the book and rested his hand on the front leather cover for a moment, reminding himself that it was all real. He opened it again to the first page to let the title wash over him. He marveled at its perfection. Short but descriptive. Meaningful but simple. The title called out to the reader. With it the reader knew the whole story but desired more, the language and the wonder begging on. The cover wouldn’t matter. It could be blank or gray. It could go without a cover entirely. Start with the title page. There was no escape from its allure.

           Gregor closed it again and stood up from the crumbling wooden desk. He walked over to the shelves in the hewn-out stone wall and retrieved the knife. He walked to the other side of the cave. It was dark. The light of the lantern didn’t reach. On the wall he saw thirteen small bloody marks lining a portion of the cave wall. Gregor examined them while muttering under his breath. He repeated the names of the men and women whose blood was displayed.

For the good of the world and the good of themselves, these authorial giants hid away in this vast hole in the ground. For years each toiled at the divine work – using their individual methods, timelines, and voices – to produce novels that would change the world for the better. In hopes of exorcising the words within them, each set out into the jungle, carrying only what they could fit on their backs. Wandering for weeks, some for months. Eventually stumbling upon an old man sitting in front of a cavernous hole in the ground. A few insisted it was always the same man, but from the first to Gregor, it was over two hundred years. The old man doesn’t speak. He only points downward into the hole. Then the decaying ladder strung together with wood and rope, stretching down for a mile and swinging back and forth, side to side. The narrative adventurers descend. At the end of the ladder they find four pathways leading in opposite directions. Some take the wrong one first, costing them days as they begin to lose a sense of time in the darkness. They turn around to find the right one. Once they do it is another two-day trek to reach the final destination. There they find a small room, no bigger than half a subway car. It has a rickety desk and chair. On the wall shelves a knife, a few unfinished books of writers no one has ever heard of, a cup, and a plate. The lantern on the table. A small cot in one corner. No pillow. A bucket for a toilet. Then they begin their work. When they need food, water, pens, paper, or oil for the lantern, they travel the two days back to the center to find supplies. They don’t know if the old man sends it down or some other organization hoping the work brings about the change they desire, but they always have what they need. They want for nothing so that the writing never suffers.

           Gregor cut his thumb and pressed the blood into the stone. He repeated the names of the other authors and added his own at the end. He wiped the remaining blood on his pants. He gathered the few amenities he brought and stuffed them into his backpack. He left out his clothes to make room for the book, wrapping it in a T-shirt and placing it in the smaller pocket of his bag. He turned out the lantern and put the bag under his cot. He decided to rest before beginning his journey. He slept for an unknown number of hours. Once he awoke, Gregor took the bag and put new batteries into his flashlight. He stood at the entryway to the room. He felt no sentiment towards it other than respect. It was a hard space and a hard master, but he understood its purpose.

           On the first day of the journey back to the center, Gregor reflected on the favorite parts of his book. He knew his characters were strong and that the book could ride on that alone, but he impressed himself with the adept and creative plot structure. The story working forwards and backward was remarkable. The absence of a clear narrator was disorienting to the point of awe. Gregor's heart beat a little faster as he thought about it. Tears filled his eyes as he remembered the beautiful ending. Love was the destination but death was a relief. He chuckled at some of his most clever lines. “Try the veal." "If ever there was to be someone so, that would be you." "Forget the treason! It won’t be winter for months.” Brilliant.

Gregor considered the television and radio interviews waiting for him. He imagined the scenes of the movie adaptation. The Presidential Medal of Freedom was a given. The Nobel was undoubtedly within reach but not something to dwell on. He gave a passing thought to the money. He thought of the speaking engagements and the book signings. He thought of his ex-wife and her disdain. He'd lost appetite for women in the cave, but he assumed it would return once back on the surface.

He stopped and slept once he was tired. The tunnel was dark, lonely, and quiet.

On the second day of his journey, Gregor questioned the book. He worried that a few of the characters weren't as well-rounded as they needed to be. He knew them so well but what he left out to avoid clutter, he now feared was necessary for the whole thing to work. The main characters were not entirely likable either. He knew they didn't need to be and that was the point, but some of their choices were potentially alienating. Gregor was not personally prone to vulgarities but the book was littered with them. He intended for them to have a purpose, but he wondered if the crassness distracted from the depth of the story. He thought of the possibility that the book was not as intelligent and profound as he initially hoped for. He began to speculate its worth and, along with it, his ability as a writer. The whole work might be garbage and, even worse, an embarrassment. He might be deluded about its worthiness of the Greats; it may be nothing more than bargain bin filler. It could be a joke. A horrible, life-ending joke. The knife. It wasn’t for food only. Gregor understood that now. Those thirteen, now fourteen, bloodstains on the wall were the ones who finished. How many didn't?

When Gregor reached the center, he was tired and weak. Light shone on the cave floor. He’d seen the sight whenever he came for supplies, but it appeared different this time. Brighter. Soon he would feel its warmth on his skin. The heat of life. All that stood in the way was the ladder. It looked worse than it did six years ago. Climbing up would be far more arduous than climbing down. He decided to sleep to regain his strength and scale the wall with a clearer mind.

The rest helped. It calmed Gregor. He’d finished the book. A writer's work never feels complete, he told himself. He could edit it forever and never be fully satisfied. The work was excellent, though. He could look at it and say that he was well pleased. The fears of climbing the ladder too washed away with the weariness of his eyes. He rechecked his bag for the book and stroked its spine. Then he began his ascension.

The wood of the ladder felt brittle. The rope was frayed. Gregor made frequent stops to catch his breath and fix his grip. He’d lost twenty, maybe thirty pounds in the cave, but his arms and legs were weak. He kept his eyes on the light overhead, but they adjusted to the darkness of the cave and now struggled in the light. The opening of the hole never appeared to get closer. Gregor told himself that this wasn’t true. It was getting closer. He would soon be out.

At some point – Gregor couldn't tell how close he was to the top or the bottom – he heard a small voice. The words were unclear. He yelled back for the speaker to shout, but there was no change. Soon the voice stopped. Gregor continued to climb, and after several more rungs of the ladder, he heard the voice again.

“Soon…going…choose…full…important!”

Gregor shouted again for the person to speak clearly. He assumed the words were coming from the old man, but the bright opening of the hole obscured the small shape of the person shouting. The sight of the shadowy figure encouraged him, though. He pressed on.

After a few more minutes, Gregor shouted, “Who’s there?”

The voice returned, “Soon! Keep climbing!”

“I’ve finished.”

“You must keep going.”

“I’m almost there.”

“Choose wisely.”

Gregor decided to stop talking and save his energy. He looked down at the bottom of the cave. He looked back up. He tightened the straps of his backpack.

Snap!

The wood crumbled under his left foot. He caught his foot on the next rung and held tight with his arms. He looked back to the opening.

“Be careful.”

Gregor breathed. He gave time for his arms and legs to stop shaking. He let his heart slow down.

As he was about to resume climbing, he heard a tear. He noticed the rope on one side of the ladder unraveling. Hurry, he shouted to himself. He raced up the ladder. With each bound he heard the cracking of the wood and felt the continual loosening of the ladder. He ignored it all, keeping his eyes on the surface and his attention on the bag slapping against his back. He saw more and more shadows. The shapes of trees. The outline of the sky. The shadowy voice did belong to the old man. 

“Which is more important?” the old man yelled.

Gregor ignored him.

The old man repeated his words.

Gregor felt like he was climbing on air. He saw the old man’s mouth, his clothes, his hat. His arm was extended out. Gregor was close when the rope came undone and the ladder swung to the side. He grabbed the opposite rope line that held the ladder together. The wooden rungs were useless. He had to pull himself up.

"Which is more important?" The old man wasn't shouting now, but he spoke with urgency.

“What?”

“Which is more important?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your book or your life?”

Gregor looked into the old man's eyes. They appeared black to him.

The rope slipped. “Grab the rope!” Gregor screamed.

“Which is more important?”

It was too late for thinking. Gregor grabbed the backpack from behind him and thrust it upwards to the old man.

“The book!”

The old man grabbed the bag. As it left Gregor’s hands, the ladder gave way. Gregor reached for the bag and for the old man. He scratched at the rocks, but his grip didn’t hold. He vanished into the darkness.

The old man watched him fall. He seized the bag tight and turned away when he couldn't see Gregor anymore. The old man stood in silence for a minute or two. Then he set the bag on the ground and searched for the book. He found it wrapped in the T-shirt. He took it out and held the leather in his hands. He opened it to the first page. The title was The End. He turned the page, and it was full of the words The End. Over and over again. Those two words followed by a period. The old man turned the next page. The same. He flipped through it. Hundreds of pages in the book. All the same. The End followed by a period. On the last page was an elaborate drawing of the same words, marking the actual end. The old man sighed and closed the book. He walked into the jungle and found the tree into which he carved a couple of small shelves. He placed Gregor's book alongside a few others. Then he returned to his seat next to the hole.