The entire species waits for those voices.

She says nothing.

Youngsters and the stubborn begin to whisper among themselves. But those who know better use an irresistible scent to bring silence.

Yet of course silence is never silent, and what seems empty is full of true wisdom. The wise mind contemplates, hunting for the eternal in the wind and the echoes and finally inside the mind itself.

Now, at long last, the old one speaks, whispers and faint flashes of pale, exhausted light washing across her people.

“ ‘The mouth feasts and the flesh grows,’ ” she begins.

“ ‘Each of us is made from common meat,’ ” they chant, “ ‘and each of us wears the same body.’ ”

“ ‘Our bodies are small,’ ” she says.

“ ‘Our essences are great,’ ” they respond.

“ ‘No head,’ ” she begins.

And pauses.

Others complete that good true thought.

“ ‘No head reaches as far as the tiniest soul,’ ” they say. “ ‘When the youngster bursts from the egg, the inevitable, eternal spirit spills out from the body and across the Creation.’ ”

The egg is a sphere. Life is born from a sphere, and life is greater than the flesh. Any other possibility is wrong, is foolish madness and wrong. And every worthy soul encompasses this spherical world, echon and memory influencing the living long after the fragile body dies.

Holding the shape of an egg, the coronas remain steady.

And the First falls back into silence, chewing on great thoughts. Unless she is confused, which is an acceptable possibility. She is old and exceptionally weak. Firsts often struggle to pluck their next words from everything that might be said. The youngsters feel ready to ignore bewilderment and any embarrassing nonsense. But no, the old one is merely gathering her energies, and now she breaks the silence with vigor and clear, brilliant purpose, the mouth and every head shouting while flashes of rich high-purple light wash over the coronas.

“You must keep your work before you,” she says.

All but newborns and the Firsts work. Noble, moral labor helps the mind survive this impoverished realm, and that has not changed since that day when the Firsts became the Firsts.

Sloth and madness are the coronas’ only true enemies.

“Work as if ten billion days lie ahead,” she commands. “But my flesh is leaving this world.”

Including her, only five Firsts remain.

“Live as if a trillion days wait, but I am departing.”

The other Firsts and their old, old children absorb this great news, making no noise or meaningful light. Most of the other coronas assume they understand. They assume that the gray flesh is doomed. The youngest are secretly intrigued: a First’s demise makes for a very memorable day.

The high-purple light fades. Bladders empty, and the sick old creature becomes smaller and denser and darker. And now she is dead, the youngsters assume. Of course, of course. But as she falls closer, they realize that no, she still breathes. The message heard wasn’t the message offered. Because leaving this world has two meanings, and what is she doing now? Descending. The Egg-of-all-eggs falls slowly and then quickly, and startled young coronas scatter beneath her.

A second world exists. It is a lesser, deeply feeble place. None of the First ever make the crossing. Why would they? Yet she continues to shrivel and plunge, escaping from the midday jungle, gaining momentum until nothing in the Creation will stop her. That black body punches through the shimmering demon floor. Old necks stretch out. Thin air and cold embrace her. Surviving eyes gaze at the wasteland. Other coronas gather above the floor, watching as she becomes gigantic, every bladder filled with hot nothingness while great gasps of whispery air explode from her mouth. Even for the fittest coronas, flight is endless work in that other world. Prey is scarce, foul-tasting, and sometimes dangerous. Should the children follow? Should they battle for the chance to give encouragement and help?

Four Firsts remain, and with high-purple words, they call out, “Leave our sister alone.”

An ordinary day has become remarkably strange.

The First talk among themselves with touches and small scents, hiding their thoughts from everyone, including their oldest, most trustworthy children.

Secrecy is rare among the coronas, and unsettling.

But more urgent is the old female flying in that savage realm. Monsters rule that other world. Some monsters are tiny, clinging to the pale cold forests and scampering along the ring-shaped reef. Others are enormous—roaring machines built from corona flesh and corona bones, each buoyed up with gas bags and pushed forwards by little, oxygen-starved fires. The little tree monsters ride the huge gas machines. Which monster is in charge, the tiny or the vast, is a matter of some debate. But machine and flesh work together, killing coronas so their bodies can be sliced into little pieces that they will stitch together and fuse together to make new machines—a state of affairs that has existed forever, nearly.

That second world is thoroughly, appallingly mad.

There is no doubt in that pronouncement.

Yet the cold has value. Cross into that thin, nearly useless air. Let frigid winds flow past blood and furious hearts. Even a giant body like the First’s cools rapidly. Muscles slow and thoughts slow, and the wandering corona passes into near-hibernation, time stretching out and out until each moment feels endless.

There is peace to be found inside that horrible second world. Clarity can arrive before the monsters, and most of the coronas survive the journey, the strong and worthy almost always spared.

A good chill strengthens the good soul, it is said.

Fly beyond the shimmering barrier, and the true world goes on living without you. The furious hot haste of jungle and words pass unnoticed. More than not, the pilgrim returns home energized, refreshed, more capable and self-assured. Some claim that the emptiness is a spiritual sanctuary—a place to be tested by solitude and monsters. But the old ones, particularly the Firsts, maintain that every place is a sanctuary. The monster realm mirrors some lost Creation, nothing more. On rare occasions, the Firsts describe days when both worlds were young and the coronas flew higher than anyone flies now. Back then, curious heads led the bodies up into that slow-growing forest, and they peered into the darkest reaches, and they ate creatures of every sort, just to know the taste of alien bones.

In those times, no monster dared battle against the coronas, much less abuse their glorious bodies. That second world was theirs too, and the little red-blooded beasts could do nothing but cower in the high branches or scramble into the sharp crannies of a younger, much smaller reef.

The Creation used to be a better, richer place.

The Firsts claim so, and perhaps they believe what they say. But the Firsts are subject to many beliefs, and they refuse to speak about times and realms from before the Creation.

The youngsters talk about every subject, and they watch the ancient female fly and glide through air that she hasn’t tasted for a very long while.

Her body emits a weak golden light that normally means, “Help.”

Against orders, several foolish bodies drag their souls through the barrier.

She tells them to leave her.

“You’re asking for help,” they point out. “We are helping.”

“You don’t understand,” she warns. “The ‘help’ is not for me.”

Baffled but compliant, they carry away their embarrassment.

Various monsters approach, mechanical and meat, but these enemies are still distant when the exhausted First returns to the true world.

“Not now,” she says. “The proper moment still comes.”

“Proper for what?” the youngest ask.

“Be quiet, and feed me.”

The First among Firsts is bizarre and possibly insane, but they feed her the best meats, the richest treats, and several mature coronas guide her to a quiet eddy where the wind won’t reach her, where she can float and sleep. Old flesh needs long rest, and meanwhile the coronas finish their work, cultivating the day’s jungle. Only then can they can return to their homes, relishing the purpose and beauty that flows through each of them.