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“The Man Whose Life Ran Away” by Rob MacWolf (read by William Dingo)

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

Transcript
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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.

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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