On the God Élan and the Lost Universe - Short Story

There are physicists who maintain that time and space began in our universe simultaneously. But physicists are men of questionable character, who place great importance on the value of measurements and calculations in reaching conclusions. Most people are far more reasonable — they know that the most reliable information is revealed to us in the form of stories. This is most likely owing to the fact that stories do not pretend to be the truth.

This story is about the day time began. Contrary to popular opinion, space was already around at this point, suspended in the centre of reality in perfect order. This order might seem like chaos to us, but an attentive, omniscient observer would clearly see that each of the Universe’s moments was in its proper place — which was precisely where they wanted to be.

Seeing as time had not yet been invented, people were free to live their lives in any way they wanted to. They’d usually choose to live and relive their best moments: one moment they’d live through all the days they spent in love, the other — all the days they spent falling in it. Sometimes they’d go see how they were born; other times, how their children were born. And when they became truly bored, they’d die for a while, just to experience some nothingness.

It was an extremely convenient existence, which presented hardly any reason to ever live through difficult times. If someone were feeling particularly adventurous, they could go sneak a peek at what their days looked like when their hearts were broken. But no one remained there for long. At most, the brief visit would cause them to better appreciate their time with their loved ones.

This was all well and good, until one day, a god from another universe happened to arrive in ours. This god, by the name of Élan, found himself overwhelmed by strange and peculiar observations. He saw the universe begin and end; he saw people alternately living and dying; suns expanding or collapsing, depending on their mood; Galaxies being born, cultures dying and fading away. All of this was happening both now and never, spread out before him in what appeared to him as a truly unhygienic cacophony.

Élan grimaced and turned to a nearby group of local gods to inquire about the situation at hand.
“Excuse me”, he said to the gods, who were deep in determined slumber, “pardon the intrusion, but may I ask — who is in charge here?”

The gods merely rolled over and carried on with their persistent napping. But Élan would not be deterred. Relentlessly, he pestered the gods with yet more questions: why was everything just lying around? What’s with all this matter everywhere? Why was purple made out of red and blue, while red and blue were also made of purple? Why was a language a universal concept, and so easy to understand? Why could the stars speak? Why did everyone get more than one chance? And love — what were they thinking?

Eventually, one of the gods, who was truly tired, snapped at him: “do as you please!”

This was precisely what Élan had been waiting for. As he was quite a young god, just barely forever years old, he’d been eagerly awaiting his chance to access some universe in which he would have total autonomy to do as he pleases. Once the opportunity presented itself, he did not hesitate.

In the beginning, he mused, he really ought to get rid of this awful chaos. He waved his hand at once, purging the universe of most of its matter — undoing, in effect, an infinite number of materializing galaxies, over a hundred sentient beings, millions of possible word combinations, two-hundred thousand species of prancing insects, eight-thousand introspective automatons, and three varieties of seasoned eggplant. Nothingness, believed Élan, was far more aesthetically pleasing than somethingness.

After examining his work with satisfaction, Élan decided that it was time to buckle down and get some real work done. Firstly, he arranged it so that red and blue could form purple, but never the other way around. This was a matter of supreme importance to Élan, as he found vagueness to be utterly insufferable.

He then separated the different solar systems, so that sentient creatures could not simply up and visit each other so effortlessly. For Élan also adamantly believed that privileges should be earned. Before his third order of business, he hesitated, attempting to decide whether he preferred that people be able to talk to each other or that they’d be able to understand each other. He eventually became bored with this dilemma and randomly waved a billion languages into existence. The talking stars began to complain about these harsh decrees, and especially of the inability to explain their feelings, now that language had turned into such a complicated business.

Élan, who was never considered by anyone to be abundantly patient, and who was feeling somewhat guilty for neglecting to conduct a survey on the matter prior to passing these judgments, decided that stars have no need for mouths, and hastily waved them into inanimate objects. This is why, to this day, no one may speak to the stars, other than via twinkling.

Concerning those matters of multiple chances and love, Élan was at first unsure what to do. He was annoyed by people living and reliving their finest moments, while deserting misery to wallow in itself. On top of this, it completely nullified everything Élan had done so far, as everyone would simply keep returning to the moments before his arrival and acts of de-creation. This upset him greatly, as he was indeed a young god, and he felt that his attempts at contributing were wholly unappreciated.

Just then, an idea sparked then in Élan’s — a spark so bright that several suns were forced to squint at its radiance. It was a solution, simple and singular, to all of these seemingly insoluble problems. With youthful vigor, Élan pounced at the universe, and began arranging its moments, stacking them one on top of the other. One moment followed another, and no one could pass into a previous moment after passing into the next. Élan cleverly piled the moments in a straight column, so we would be forced to fall through them in the order he established.

He proudly examined his creation — no more second chances, no more dilly-dallying, no more taksies-backsies. However, upon finishing he was quite shocked to discover that his column of moments was dripping with love. Apparently, in some way or another, when he was arranging the moments of the universe in order, he had accidentally stepped in some love, and had dragged it along with him from the first moment to the very last.

No matter, thought Élan, I’ll fix this soon enough — and he meant it, too. But just then, one of the sleeping gods awoke from its slumber, looked around him and cried out in stunned horror. The other gods woke up as well, responding to what they saw with varying degrees of alarm. They swiftly surrounded Élan, demanding he return the universe, at once, to the state he had found it in. Élan was mortified. “But I can’t recall how I found it, what it looked like. I think I knew, some moments ago… but so much has changed since then.”

The gods tried to recall themselves what their beloved universe had once looked like, before Élan had begun redecorating, but they also fell victim to his clever organization of time, and could no longer go back.

“But look,” said Élan, “at least love remains.”

“Who needs a love that lasts forever?” one god wondered, bitterly. But since it was the only remnant of the old universe, they decided to keep it anyway.

And sure enough, it remains to this day, its strangeness setting it apart from everything else in existence — an eternal love in a universe of moments.