I woke to a throbbing pain.
My forehead was pulsing. My left arm still hurt, too, but it was better than it had been yesterday.
The cave interior was dim. Faint light leaked in from the entrance. Was it daytime?
“You’re awake.”
A voice spoke. The boy who had rescued me was sitting near the entrance, whittling. He was shaping a wooden stick with a knife.
“...Good morning.”
My voice was still raspy.
“There’s water right there,” the boy said without looking back.
A bamboo tube sat by my pillow. I picked it up and drank. The cold water moistened my parched throat.
“How is the wound?”
“...It still hurts.”
“Of course it does. You took a hell of a fall.”
The boy stopped his knife and looked at me. The oil lamp illuminated half of his face. His expression was stern, but his eyes were calm.
“Can you eat?”
“...Yeah.”
“Then eat something.”
He held out some dried rice cakes and dried meat. I nibbled at the hard cakes bit by bit. A faint sweetness spread across my tongue. Slowly, my strength began to return.
When I finished eating, I stared at him. There was something I’d been wondering since last night.
“...Hey.”
“What?”
“The Observers... who are they, really?”
The boy set down his knife. He placed the half-finished stick aside and laced his fingers over his knees. The flame of the lamp wavered, casting our shadows against the cave wall.
He was silent for a while. Then, he began to speak slowly.
“They want to ‘fix’ the world.”
Fix.
At that word, my body went rigid. I remembered the Observer’s voice: “I shall fix you, as well.”
“They want to measure everything, record it, and ensure it never changes.”
The boy’s voice was flat.
“Turn everything into numbers. Turn everything into coordinates. Stop time itself. That is their goal.”
I caught my breath.
“...Why would they do that?”
“Because they hate fluctuation.”
The boy looked toward the entrance.
“To them, change is the enemy. Birth, death, movement—anything unpredictable must not be allowed to exist. That is why they measure everything. They measure it, and then they fix it in place.”
“...What is ‘fluctuation’?” I asked.
“It is change.”
The boy looked at me.
“Gods are masses of fluctuation. They are born, they vanish, they move. They are never settled. Humans fluctuate, too. They hesitate, they change, they die. The world is made of it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“The Observers want to erase that. They want to make everything measurable and create a perfect world. A world like a collection of specimens.”
Specimens.
I thought of a butterfly I’d seen in a science lab. Pinned down, trapped inside glass. Beautiful, but never to move again. Time stopped, its wings forever spread. They were trying to do the same thing to the entire world.
“...That’s...”
My voice trembled.
“...That’s no different from being dead.”
“...Perhaps it isn’t,” he said quietly. “A fixed world is a dead world. But they consider that to be ‘perfection.’”
The drawstring pouch trembled faintly.
“...I’m scared,” whispered the Shrine God.
“...They’re scary,” added the Vacant Lot God.
I gripped the pouch tight. The gods were terrified.
“...You’re a Gatherer, aren’t you?” the boy said. “One who collects gods and delivers them.”
“...Yes.”
“Then you must understand. What you are carrying is fluctuation itself.”
The boy stood up and paced the cave.
“Gods fluctuate. They travel. They change. By carrying them, you maintain the world's balance. You keep it moving, preventing it from being fixed.”
He stopped in front of me, his eyes searching mine.
“To the Observers, that makes you a nuisance.”
A nuisance. The word pierced my chest.
“As long as you keep carrying the gods, the world cannot be fixed. Fluctuation will remain. That is why...” His voice dropped. “That is why you are in their way. To them, you are an obstacle.”
I couldn't speak. I just sat there, looking up at him. I was hunted because I was in the way. They tried to kill me because I was an obstacle. Because what I carried was the Observers' enemy.
“...But,” I said, finding my voice. “...If I don’t carry them... what will happen to the gods?”
He fell silent for a long moment.
“A god who isn't delivered will vanish. One who loses its place fades away until it ceases to exist. That, too, is the same as being fixed.”
I looked at the pouch. Inside, the gods were shivering—the Shrine God and the Vacant Lot God, who had followed me because they believed in me.
“...I won’t let them vanish,” I whispered.
“...I’ll deliver them. I’ll make sure they get there.”
The pouch grew a little warmer.
“...Thank you,” the Shrine God whispered. “...I’m coming with you,” said the Vacant Lot God.
The boy stared at me. Something flickered in his eyes. Was it respect? Pity? I couldn't tell.
“Once your wounds have healed, get out of here. If you stay too long, the Observers will find you.”
He returned to the entrance. I nodded, my mind racing.
He had called me a nuisance—an enemy to those who want to fix the world. But that was exactly why I couldn't stop.
If I stop, the gods will vanish. If I stop, the world will be fixed.
I felt like I finally understood my role—just a little bit more.