The Spirit of God hovered over the face of the abyss, watching as the tumults twisted and writhed, like formless specters.
There were nothing in them. Nothing but a few prokaryotic cells, wandering aimlessly and without meaning: tenacious embryos, yet useless on their own.
It was a world without a memory, without witnesses, without history.
And so, in the darkness, God rested His hand in His chin, pensive. "It's a little boring," He thought, and His voice, even within Himself, seemed to reverberate in the void.
His body was the only source of light in the primordial ocean, a solitary sun in a world untouched by dawn.
Thick clouds of methane and water vapor swirled in the atmosphere, shrouding Him beneath a toxic veil. Apart from the volcanoes spewing their fury in the distance, nothing else broke the darkness of that barren rock.
Undoubtedly, it was a depressing place, a landscape of absolute desolation, where not even mollusks dared to exist…
After a long silence, He exhaled and spoke into the air with His voice of thunder:
"Are you sure a single drop will be enough?"
"Yes, Lord," an ethereal voice answered after a few seconds. "Your blood is so powerful that a single drop is enough to break the stillness of this world."
"I see."
God gazed at the primordial ocean for a moment.
What was about to happen would be inscribed in the annals of time, a feat that the gods of old would look upon with reverence.
The men who would come after would build temples in His honor, recount the tale in trembling voices by the fire, and carve it into stone so that neither wind nor tide could erase it.
But before their feet could tread the earth, life had to bloom; it had to open like the first flower in a field and spread like the tide of a new dawn…
With a slow gesture, He slid His index finger across His Left palm, inflicting a small cut from which a single drop emerged, shining like a newborn star. Then He extended His hand, opening it as one would when letting a handful of sand slip into the wind.
The drop of blood fell into the empty waters, resonating with the deep echo of a gong. The moment it touched the surface, it neither floated nor dispersed; instead, it began to sink, and the sea, like a hungry child, rushed to drink the divine nectar.
Now, all that was left was to wait a few eons… or hours, in His case.
With one final glance, God vanished like a breath in the breeze, taking with Him the only gentle light that ocean had ever known. But He had sown the seed, and soon it would take root and grow into a tree with vast, sprawling branches.
____
In the real world, Abel opened his eyes. The whisper of the wind through the leaves greeted him as, for a instance, he let himself be carried away by the swaying of the foliage.
When the feeling of unreality faded, he placed his hands on the edges of the hammock and slowly sat up.
He massaged his temples, trying to anchor his mind to the present, and finally turned his gaze toward the orchard.
Orange and plum trees grew here and there among wild herbs, their branches heavy with citrus blossoms swaying in the breeze. The air was alive with the intermittent cooing of birds and the monotonous song of cicadas.
With a strange sense of peace, Abel stoop up and took a few steps to the side. The house was right beside him, nearly blending in with the very trees that supported the hammock.
The earthy aroma filled his lungs as he stepped onto the small entrance step. A cool breeze slipped through an open window, and the low chimney rose timidly toward the sky.
The whitewashed walls, marked by the years, and the terracotta tiles, weathered by the sun, welcomed him with their familiar warmth.
Once inside, he walked to his room and sank into the chair before the small chestnut desk. Sunlight filtered through the window, painting the sheets in golden hues.
Abel picked up a plum from the bowl on the table and bit into it. The tart flavor burst in his mouth, the contrast of the juicy pulp sharp against his tongue.
When nothing remained but the bare pit, he tossed it into the wastebasket and licked his lips in satisfaction.
He took a deep breath, and as he opened his hand, a tiny planet appeared upon it, no larger than a meatball. A grayish veil covered it almost entirely, obscuring what lay beneath.
He observed it for a moment, still in awe, before gently placing it on the table. Instead of rolling, the tiny orb floated motionless, defying gravity.
"Are you really sure the air currents won't damage the planet's atmosphere?" Abel asked, his gaze fixed on the orb.
"Sir, I've already told you," the unknown voice replied with the patience of one repeating the obvious. "It will only affect the troposphere."
Abel let out a quiet sigh. Sometimes, the ethereal voice carried a hint of condescension that irritated him, but he chose to ignore it. After all, the Verb was the source of his wonders.
Without further hesitation, Abel took the small fan beside the bowl of plums. He exhaled in anticipation and switched it on. The black — plastic blades began to spin slowly, like a wind turbine.
He brought the fan close to the tiny orb and, in a solemn voice, whispered:
"Let there be light."
And there was light.
As the dense clouds dissipated, like mist at dawn, Abel saw the sun's reflection on the waters. The extensive, fragmented continent had mountains breaking the horizons and scattering plains ready to be claimed by life.
What kind of beings would inhabit those lands? What stories would rise from its seas and skies? What creatures would lift their gaze to the sun for the first time? What histories would be written in the currents of its rivers and the whispers of its forests?
The age of light had begun.