The Gorgion

Quinn Bidmead

Humans see time through space. That is, the movement of space implies something beyond it, and we give that non-thing a name, and we call it time.

The Gorgion is our opposite. It sees time, not space, living in our world but on the other side of it. What the Gorgion sees is where time is spent. 

An infinite expanse of blankness passed before the Gorgion. In the early years of existence there was nothing by which to be. It was not dead or absent. It was not asleep. It just had not developed yet. That would come later, when attention began to grow, and carve out of the waiting canvas basic shapes. 

First, out of the flatness came a circle. The circle grew light, and outside it grew darker. A line sawed and expanded through itself to make a horizon. And then a new circle sketched itself out of the old one, which was smaller and brighter and higher. This was the sun. Then rudimentary eyes made greater organisations. Predators turned prey into darting light, and prey saw the long teeth and looming eyes of faces which enveloped their whole world. The Gorgion saw these things and did not judge, for it was not yet ripe to judge.

…

It does not act, but influences. It binds. Neither an era, a century, a decade, nor even a year or month or day could exist without it. The Gorgion is there when a child plays with a doll, or when two people observe the movement of stars. It is there for good and evil and their procession.

We watch films, we read books, we stare at paintings or photographs. We observe wars, love stories and heartbreaks. We watch stories of the mundane and supernatural, we listen to the unlistenable just for the novelty. In this way we are not looking only at objects. The facts do not speak for themselves; we give them voice. We are searching for the Gorgion. The Gorgion stands on the other side of the mirror, not as a reflection but as a strange imitation of ourselves blocking that reflection, as we are to it. 

Then something new happened. A breach. A hole opened in the medial fabric and a boy came wandering. Behind him, a ripened wind blew from dark and heavy rain, shuttling fields of grass about their stalks. The Gorgion stared with noneyes at the boy, and the boy stared back.

    How are you here? the Gorgion asked. 

    I was let in. 

    By who?

    I paid a stranger. 

    How did you pay?

    That is a secret. 

    I can keep secrets. I have not told a secret my whole life. 

    Oh. Well. I met him on the road. I was hungry, so I asked for food. And he looked surprised. As if he didn’t expect me to see him. He said, I’ll give you something more than food.

    What did you give in return?

    Well he took out a long knife. It was thin and black and serrated. And he put the very tip in the ground and pulled up, and even though it was just air it seemed to catch on something and out came this hole, leading me here. And he told me that if I went in and came back out, hunger would never hurt me again. But if I did, my tongue would stop working. But I figure that since I never see anyone in these times, and especially since I’m so damn hungry, it wouldn’t matter. So here I am. 

    Here you are. 

    Here I am. The boy looked up at the Gorgion again. What are you? 

The Gorgion looked at the boy and realised suddenly that he had been speaking, that after fourteen billion years’ silence he had been moved to speech by a child who had wandered between worlds. He realised there was nothing to explain himself by, not even dust. 

    I am the Gorgion, he said. 

    What is a Gorgion? the boy said. 

    It is me. 

    A Gorgion is a Gorgion. But what is that?

    That is me. 

And then a new sense came to the Gorgion. In seeing the boy and past him into the rip, it knew it had to leave. The opportunity had come to see what he’d been waiting to see all this time. 

    He spoke to the boy. Let’s make a deal, you and I. Clearly there is some sense of balance here. We cannot both stay together for long. But you gain something by being here, and I want to go where you have been. Let us swap places for a year. 

    Sure, he replied. 

And so they swapped places. The Gorgion took to the world, feet flat to the earth, and the boy took time, fading from view and entering into a knowledge which was not his to know. 

And a year came to pass, and they returned to the cut. The Gorgion had taken on skin and clothes patinated with the dust and grime of travel, and the boy had become little more than a floating idea, soaked darkly in knowledge unfettered, unshuttered and unblinded. 

Stepping through the hole brought back the painful memory of what he had been to the Gorgion. Before he did not know his task. He did not know that he was a he, that he liked red wine or brown hair or betting on sports or long treatises or poetry or the satisfaction of a hard day’s labour. 

    Is it time to leave? the boy thought. The Gorgion could hear the thought but the boy’s lips did not move. 

    I’ll go hungry again, I don’t mind, the boy thought, just let me leave. I can’t hold onto everything anymore. 

And indeed he couldn’t; the Gorgion could see cracks forming in the firmament. And though he wanted to return to daylight, the crack of smile which wound up out of the pained boy’s face determined for the Gorgion his duty; that no matter how much he wanted to return to life he could not; that someone had to hold the mantle and it could not be the boy. 

    Yes, it is time to leave, the Gorgion said. I am sorry for not coming sooner. 

And he took from his pocket a little grain of bread, which in this otherworld was not bread but something else, and gave it to the boy to eat. And the boy ate and was satiated, and he left. 

Somewhere in the crevices of the world, in an unlit margin, a corner unmarked and forgotten, at a dead bar drinking cold death, a stranger cursed and began to plan anew. 

—

Quinn Bidmead is a Psychology and English graduate from the University of Auckland who has always had an interest in writing fiction. When he’s not working, he enjoys philosophy, running, and new experiences. Find him at: https://www.instagram.com/quinn.bidmead/