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“The Man Whose Life Ran Away” by Rob MacWolf (read by William Dingo)
18th March 2022 • The Voice of Dog • Rob MacWolf and guests
00:00:00 00:24:04

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Today’s story is “The Man Whose Life Ran Away” by Rob MacWolf, and you can find more of his writing as well as a lot of bad jokes on his SoFurry page.

Today’s story will be read for you by William Dingo, the sunrise spectator.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/the-man-whose-life-ran-away-by-rob-macwolf-read-by-william-dingo

Transcripts

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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story is

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“The Man Whose Life Ran Away” by Rob MacWolf, and you can find more of his writing as well as a lot of bad jokes on his SoFurry page.

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Today’s story will be read for you by William Dingo,

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the sunrise spectator.

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“The Man Whose Life Ran Away”

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by Rob MacWolf Once upon a time

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there was a man, whose life had run away from him.

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He was waiting for the things that happen to the young

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to happen to him

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—he wished to fall in love,

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to go on an adventure,

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to try to make his fortune fail or succeed as he may

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—and he waited for all of these things to happen

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until the day he realized that he was no longer young,

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and the time for all of them

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was past. And whatever his life was supposed to be,

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it had run away, and he must either sit down and wait for death,

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or go and find it again.

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So he went down to the city, to the great cathedral,

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to ask the Archangel of Wisdom

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what to do. The cathedral was like a riotous forest of stone,

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whose trees had become pillars,

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whose canopy had become a roof,

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and whose fruit was frozen into pictures in glass.

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But there were bars over the glass pictures, to keep out thieves,

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and the door was locked all day

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save when there was a liturgy.

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To speak to the Archangel,

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the man had to kneel by the side

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-door and whisper through the mail-slot.

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“What troubles thee?”

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said the angel. Its many wings were pressed against the door,

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and its face was covered by a shining mask.

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“I do not know,” said the man.

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“I have been diligent and dutiful.

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I have been kind and conscientious.

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I have been humble.

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Yet still all the world seems purposeless vanity.

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Every day do I see that

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all the people of the world

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have a purpose in life,

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yet I have none.” “None are created without a purpose,”

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said the Angel. “If thou could choose any purpose, what would it be?

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Anything at all?” “I know not,”

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said the man, “I suppose I would like a family,

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but my family have shut their doors against me,

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and I have never seen a woman that seemed comely to me,

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nor have any ever professed any affection for me.

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I suppose I would like a home,

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but I have no money,

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and do not like my work,

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nor do I know of any other work I might like more,

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and even if I had it

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it would not pay enough to buy a home.

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I suppose I would like to be remembered and mourned,

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when I die, by my friends,

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but I have none of those.”

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“I think I see your fault,”

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said the Angel. “Thou art guilty of sloth.

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Thy life has concluded

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that thou care nothing for it,

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and so it has left.

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Rouse thyself, and choose to like all the things that life puts before you,

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and do not complain,

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even in thy innermost heart,

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about any of them.

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Then, when thy life sees that thou art grateful for the things it will give you,

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will it return!” “But…

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what am I to do if it does not give me the things I want?”

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he said. The Angel was silent for long enough that the man feared that it had left.

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“Do not fall into heresy and perdition!” it whispered at last,

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in a voice like a distant tornado siren.

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“What thou speak of is close to gravest vanity,

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and this is, no doubt,

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why thou art without purpose!

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Until thou make up thy mind

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that whatever your life decides to give you, is best for you,

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I see no end to your plight!

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When your life bring thee a woman to wed,

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wed her, and love her!

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Or it bring thee to holy orders,

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take them, and love them.

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If your life does not bring you a home, or friends,

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then pay them no mind!”

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And this seemed unfair to the man,

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for he had never seen a woman that he desired,

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and nor did he feel any call to any priesthood,

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and he did not think he had it in him to cease to want things

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merely because he did not have them.

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And he said “This, you say,

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is why my life has escaped me?”

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“I have no doubt,” answered the Angel,

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“that it is the workings of Providence.

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To keep thee from the path of sin,

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that path is wiped away,

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and the life suspended,

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like a tree in an ice storm

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in spring whose buds are frozen forever

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and never bloom.” “Is it not said that

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by the fruits of our lives we shall be judged?”

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“It is.” “And if a man’s life bore no fruits at all,”

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the man’s voice was very quiet indeed,

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but the angel heard him,

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“such that he might just as well have never been born,

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how would you judge such a life?”

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“I have judged some such lives,”

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the Angel said. Its voice was weary.

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“And to them I must say

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‘May you never bear fruit again,’

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and they are withered from the roots,

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and cast out from the light,

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and are never heard of any more.”

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“And how is this just?”

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said the Man, “If it is by providence that my life bears no fruit,

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against my wishes,

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that I should then be condemned and

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withered for the lack of fruit by the same providence?”

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When the Angel did not answer,

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the Man said “I will go seek

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other answers, if you have none to give.”

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The Angel’s voice rang out like a train in a tunnel

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“Turn not away from the light!

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Have no dealings with pagan things!”

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“If unpagan things will not help me,

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where else but to pagan things can I go?

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Farewell!” said the man,

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and he left. The man went to the orc-folk.

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He sought them in their wasteland strongholds,

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and in their underground lairs,

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and in their cheap bars,

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and on their websites where unlawful things were bought and sold.

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He drank with them,

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and he listened to their loud music,

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and he stayed up with them all night

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until they went to sleep at sunrise,

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for he had heard that

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all of these were the kind of things that people did

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when they wished to find themselves.

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And the orcs told him

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“Who cares if your life has escaped from you?

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You’re still here, and you don’t need a life to dance,

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or to drink, or to fight!

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Stay with us, and debauch with us,

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and forget everything else.

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Have more fun than you can endure,

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for then you cannot regret

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anything! Who knows

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but that tomorrow we may all be dead,

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so make the most of the night!”

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And the man grew weary of them,

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and went on, for the orcs had no answers for him.

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The man went to the wolves,

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on the plains and in the forests,

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and he followed them through national parks,

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and down game trails,

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and he made camp in the tundra.

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And they came around his campfire

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so that they were nothing but black shapes and eyes

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shining in the darkness,

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and they said to him,

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“Why do you trouble us with questions about your life?

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What is your life to us?

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We have our own lives,

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and even if we had yours

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it would be nothing to us.

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Was your life chasing the caribou?

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Did it find its way to water and shelter by smell alone?

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Did it face bears and lynx

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and the bitter cold with nothing but the courage of its family?”

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“No,” said the man, warming his hands at the fire.

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“I have no family,

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nor can I get one until I find my life again.”

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“That is the saddest thing we have

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ever heard of.” said the wolves,

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and left him. All night he heard them howling to one another across the empty plains,

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about how pitiful he was.

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In the morning the man went on,

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for they had no answers for him.

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The man went to the loons

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on the still waters of the cold lakes.

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And they said “what does it matter if your life has escaped?

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Life does not matter

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—the fish are caught,

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the nest is built,

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the chicks are hatched,

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the winter comes and you fly away to the sea,

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as surely as night follows day and day follows night,

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and even if you should fail to do these things,

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someone else will do them

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—Life can look after itself.

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But it is Death that should concern you.

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Death must be mourned, and appeased, and sung away,

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and at long last welcomed.

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If you wish, you may build a cabin on the lakeshore,

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and listen to the requiems we sing,

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and in time you will learn the secrets of death that none know but us.” “I care

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nothing for the secrets of death,”

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said the man, “I want the secrets of my life,

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and I cannot know them until I get it back!”

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“Why do you seek among the living?”

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said one of the loons.

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The others turned in the water to look at it,

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like tugboats around a steam barge.

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“You know your life has gone,

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why look in the places that it would be

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if it had not left?

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We have seen from the skies where lives go,

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when they depart,

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to the way to the land of the dead,

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and I can tell you where it lies.

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Seek there!” So the man journeyed to the land of the dead.

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In the land of the dead

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the man saw great forests,

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with trees larger than mountains.

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And there were buildings

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made all of old stones

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—stores and houses

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and apartment blocks and strange ruins

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whose purpose he could not guess

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—with nothing inside them, and falling apart,

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and hanging in the air without falling.

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And there were skies

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with stars brighter and more riotous and more numerous,

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in every color imaginable,

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than any eye on earth had ever seen.

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He journeyed through the land of the dead

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until he came to the shore of a sea,

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and across it he could see another bank of land,

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and beyond that the sunset.

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And the sunset said to him

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“What do the living seek among the dead?”

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He answered “I am seeking my life, for it has escaped from me.”

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“That is grievous,”

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said the sunset. “But I can give you little help.

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I am the ending of the day,

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the winding down of things,

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it is under me that souls pass into the west

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and find rest from grieving.

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If you can find the noon,

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or the sunrise, perhaps they may know?”

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“It is too late for me to seek the noon,

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and too late by even more to seek the sunrise.

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The morning and the noon of my days had already passed by the time I noticed my life had escaped.”

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“You are not the first to suffer so,”

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said the sunset, “I have heard this plaint before.

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I hear it from the murmurs of starlings,

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and from the blackbird rookeries,

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and in the whining of dogs. Lives

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are lost, and lives are Lost,

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and the lost find a way to keep living without their lives.

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Have you no flock?

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Have you no pack?

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Can your family not help you?”

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“No,” said the man, “My father and my mother have shut their doors against me.

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My brother speaks of me as one long dead.

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My sisters refuse to hear my name spoken.”

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“Because your life ran away?”

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the sunset said. “Perhaps.

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Or perhaps the other way round.

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I cannot remember so well, anymore.”

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“If your family cannot help you,

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what of your people?

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Your nation?” “I do not know who they are.”

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“Then there is little I can do for you,”

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said the sunset, “Already the sun is nearly gone.

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But while I can, I will give you Rest from Grieving,

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that your journey may be less wearisome.

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For the way before you grows harder the further you go.”

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And the man thanked the sunset,

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and the sun went down,

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and it was night.

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And the man went on.

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Along the shore of the sea,

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he came to a person in a boat,

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and the person was on fire.

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The flames covered them completely,

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and spilled over the sides of the boat,

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and hissed in the water,

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yet they were not consumed.

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Rather their face burned away and revealed another face underneath,

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so they were now

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young, now old, now a woman,

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now a man, now a small child, now a face not even human.

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They seemed to be in no pain.

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They called to the man

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“What is it you seek?”

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“I seek my life, which has escaped from me,

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but I have sought all along this shore, and I cannot find it.”

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“Well, I know not if your life is there,

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but if you would cross to the other shore,

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I will carry you.”

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So the man climbed into the stern of the burning person’s boat,

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and shrunk away from the heat of the flames

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as the burning person rowed across the sound

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to the other side.

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“Who were you, before your life escaped?”

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asked the burning person.

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“I do not remember,”

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the man said. “It may be I never knew at all.”

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“Where were you, when your life escaped?”

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they said, as the flames ran down the oars.

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“I do not know. I do not know when it happened,

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I only know that one day I realized it was gone.

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I could not find it in the lands of the living.

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And I do not know what I will do

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if I cannot find it in the land of the dead either.”

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“You will go on. Many are those who have come to a place where they cannot go on,

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and gone on nonetheless.”

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“How?” asked the man.

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“Please, tell me how to go on when going on is impossible!”

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“How should I know?

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Each time it is done,

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it is utterly different from every other time it has ever been done.

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Nobody has ever done it a second time,

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each time has been the first.

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But here, we have crossed the sound,

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and your journey continues.

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I can give you only this,”

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and the Burning person touched him on the chest,

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for but a moment,

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and by the time the man felt it

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the excruciating pain of it

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was already past.

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“Remember to have

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courage.” And they turned their boat back into the tide,

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and were gone. The man crossed through the forest on the other side.

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The forest was darker here,

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and the path narrower, and he

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feared many times that he had lost the way.

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But at last he came out of the forest,

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and he stood upon white sand in the moonlight,

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and he beheld the ocean.

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And there was no ship,

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and no anchorage,

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and no more land was there

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anywhere in sight.

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There was nothing but the stars above,

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the empty ocean, and the wind that blew over it forever before him.

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And the wind said to him, as he sat on the shore and wept,

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“What troubles you,

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living man? What business have you here,

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at the uttermost end of the world?”

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“My life escaped from me,”

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he answered. “I have sought it in the living world,

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and it was not there.

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I have sought it in the world of the dead,

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and it was not there.

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Where else is there to look?”

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“I travel in an instant to all corners of the world,”

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said the wind, “and I will tell you truly,

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you could seek from now until the end of time,

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and find no more than you have now.

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If your life is gone indeed,

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then there is no finding it again.

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A life does not work that way.”

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“Then how does it work?”

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he asked. The wind gathered itself beside him,

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and said. “A life is

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not a thing you can have,

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or not have. A life is not a promise that is made to you, that you will have such-and-such,

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or be such-and-such.

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A life is a story.

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The world is built of stories,

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from the foundations to the firmament

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it is all stories piled upon eachother,

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and the part of it that you happen to be in,

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that story that is your life.

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You understand?” “I do not.”

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The man said. “I must look for a story,

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and not my life?” “You still have a story,

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do you not?” the wind sighed patiently,

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and the waves settled.

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“Is not ‘the man who sought throughout the land of the dead for his life’

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a story? You must only take your story’s reins.

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Look you. If a storyteller tells you of some fantastic deeds in a far off land,

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and you do not know that it is a story?

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Why then, you will listen to the end, however little you may like it.

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You will have no say in where it goes or what it becomes.

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But if you know that it is but a story he is telling you,

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you can say to him

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‘No, not this one, tell me another instead.’”

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The wind stirred across the sand,

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and the sand blew,

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and the man’s footprints in it were blown away.

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“So if I wish to regain my life-”

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he said. “-Then you must say to yourself,

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tell me another story.

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You must be another story.

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And it is you who must do it,

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there is no seeking for anyone

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or anything else that can do it for you.

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It will be hard, but I saw the gifts that were given to you.

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You have rest from grieving,

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and you have courage.

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And I will give you one

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more. Breathe deeply.”

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He did, and the wind rushed into him,

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and filled his head

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and his heart, and his eyes were opened,

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and he could see and know all that he wanted from his life,

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like a thousand thousand branching paths spread before his feet

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for him to choose one.

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“I have given you inspiration,

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for a moment.” the wind whispered as it faded.

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“Remember it, for it is you who must use it.”

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And the wind was gone.

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The man stood up,

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turned around, and began the journey home.

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Many years later,

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the man saw something standing at his garden gate,

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looking at his home.

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It was a pale, wan thing,

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almost too thin to be seen,

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and it looked very much like him.

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So he came out, and went to the gate,

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and greeted his old life.

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“I ran away,” it told him,

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“because it seemed that being with you

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would make me a nothing of a life.

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I would never achieve anything.

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I would never win anything.

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So I went away on my own,

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but now I am back,

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and I can see how wrong I was!

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You have done so much better, since last I saw you,

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I am certain we can live happily together!”

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His old life held out its hand,

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but the man did not take it.

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“But I have a life,”

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he said. “I have a husband,

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whom I love. I have a home, that I care for.

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I drink with orcs,

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I wander with wolves,

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I know the songs of the loons, and they are my friends,

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who when I am gone back to the land of the dead to stay,

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will mourn me. And I care not at all if anyone says that any of it is a sin,

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or a pagan thing.

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My life left me, so I built a new one,

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and I built it to my own tastes

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and my own needs,

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and I live it for me,

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not for itself. I do not need you back.

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I am sorry, but I do not think I want you back.”

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The old life frowned.

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Its cheeks were sunken,

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and its eyes were dim,

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and it looked at him through suspicious brows.

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“Well, what am I to do, then?

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You must take me back!

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This is not fair!”

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“It was not fair when you left me, either.

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Perhaps, if you are brave,

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you can do as I did,

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and if you make a life of your own,

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you can find a way to live for yourself.

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If you cannot, if you do not,

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that is none of my affair.

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I wish you all the luck you need,

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now goodbye.” He turned and went back into his home.

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And he lived happily after,

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to the end of his days.

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This was “The Man Whose Life Ran Away”

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by Rob MacWolf, read for you by William Dingo,

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the sunrise spectator.

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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.

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