In the time of flourishing, man stood on the precipice of endless prosperity. When all that lay between him and his goals were mere questions, he sought to create the answer.

This year, like the last and the one before, carried with it a record-setting drought. Determined not to watch his precious crops wilt away for the third year in a row, the farmer planned to siphon from the river that slithered and hissed through his land. As he broke ground on the first leg of his new irrigation system, the faint glow of a glossy wine-red clay deposit briefly caught his eye. But it was only for a brief moment, as the lifeforce of the river washed over the cavity that his shovel left behind. With another strike of his shovel, he stumbled onto another thought and carried on with his task.

He dug for as long as the day was long, and before he knew it, the final leg of his irrigation system was flowing. With a feeling of pride and accomplishment, he took a step back to admire his work. One by one, he confirmed as each leg raged like the mighty river that gave them life. That is, until he got to the first leg.

Impossible, he thought, moving toward the source to get a closer look. And to his bewilderment, what he saw truly was impossible. The flow of the river seemed as if it were frozen still where it contacted the wine-red clay. Or rather, as if the contents of the river were draining through the clay down into the Earth below like a storm drain. He reached deep into the burrow to feel for himself. Where the clay kissed the river, it felt damp and sticky, like how clay ought to feel. Yet, everything else was bone-dry and powdery in texture.

Without hesitation, he removed the threshold, watching as the flow in the irrigation leg grew infinitesimally longer. With a hearty swing of his shovel, he struck again, and again, and again. Despite all the strange happenings, after he had removed all the clay from the burrow and watched as the first irrigation leg swelled up once again, he called it a day and a job well done.

Making his rounds the next morning, the farmer was pleased to see that his irrigation system was running without issue. To his surprise, however, the heaping mound of clay he had left behind had completely dried into a fine red powder that was now blowing in the wind. Worried that this mysterious powder would coat his crops and wick away their moisture, the farmer collected what he could. Already planning to go to the market for some supplies, he decided to take the clay with him to see if the local potter had any interest.

"That is the finest red clay I have ever seen. Where did you get it?" The potter gently sifted his hands through the exotic powder that glittered in the light.

"Just along the bank of the river. I'm sure there's more," replied the farmer. "Thing is," he started to say, "this stuff is extremely absorbent. It can't seem to stay hydrated."

"Looks like it, but I'm sure I can figure something out," said the potter. "Let me take that off your hands."

Later that evening, as the potter was locking up his shop, the faint glow of the wine-red clay caught his attention. Intrigued by the farmer's warning, he poured some water onto a small sample of the clay to see for himself. Sure enough, within the span of a few minutes, the clay absorbed all the water and dried out once again to a fine red powder. Soaking it some more, he started to form the clay into various shapes to get an idea of the sorts of art and tilework he could make with it. First, he formed it into a tile and scored onto its surface the most beautiful design of curving lines that danced and wrapped around themselves. Forming the clay back into a ball and soaking it in more water, he experimented with other forms, such as an ornate bowl, a water pitcher, and a vase. The color truly was like none he had ever seen before. It was deep like the darkest night, and yet shimmered like the stars above.

Working with the clay brought out a sense of childlike wonder in the potter. Just like he used to do in his father's shop when he was younger, he formed it into the shape of a miniature man. His belly was large and round like a ball, his head not much smaller. He had disproportionately long, thin legs that surely could not hold up his weight, so down he sat. Etched onto his face was a slight smirk. He looked silly, but confident. The potter enjoyed him too much to let him dry up. So, taking some of the waxed newspaper that he used as a work surface, he wrapped the little red man in a few thin layers and placed him on a shelf before closing up shop. He looked a lot more like a mummy than a man, but at least he would keep some moisture in through the night, the potter hoped.

When the potter returned the next day, the mummy man was nowhere to be found, and neither was the heaping pile of red clay that he had purchased. It was as if it was never there to begin with, like the events of yesterday simply never transpired. He checked every crack, crevice, and corner and turned his shop upside down in his search. He searched up and down, left and right, far and wide, and left no stone unturned. Just when he was about to give up, he heard a faint giggle from the other side of his shop. The thought briefly crossed his mind as to what that might entail, but he quickly dismissed it. Must be the sound of children playing somewhere, he thought to himself, calling off the search.

Throughout the day, he carried on with his usual tasks, but he couldn't shake the thoughts he was feeling. Where could that little man have run off to? Did someone break in last night just to steal the clay? Did it dry up again and evaporate into the ether? He tried to keep himself distracted with his work, but the circumstances were too strange not to plague his mind. Who was that man who came into the shop yesterday, and where did he really get that powder from?

Later in the day, while he was tending to a customer, there it was again. "Did you hear that?" The potter's voice was low and raspy, as if he were afraid someone or something would overhear him.

"The laughter?" The customer paused for a brief moment with a look of concern. "Yes, I did. Just over that way," he gestured toward the corner of the shop where various works of pottery were on display.

Without saying another word, the potter made his way over, and the customer followed. Together, they approached the corner, and what the potter saw truly left him speechless. Propped up on the lip of a vase, there sat the little red man. Nearly all of his newspaper wrapping was removed, and all that remained was a thin strip that gently stretched across his forehead where a single word could barely be made out.

"Impossible," the potter muttered to himself just loud enough for the customer to hear, "I searched every inch of this place for this thing. That was not here earlier."

"You don't think this is what was making the sound, do you?" objected the customer in a tone of disbelief.

Before the potter could respond, the little red man cocked his head and began to speak. "I would like to thank you for waking me from my eternal slumber. From the breath of life you bestowed upon me, and herein draped across my forehead, is the mandate that for as long as there is man to roam this Earth, I will tell no lie. I'm sure you have many questions, and I am here to answer them for you. But first, I require sustenance."

At first, both men were frozen in a state of shock. Before them was a seemingly inanimate object that spoke in riddles. Nothing about this made any sense, and yet his tone was comforting. Breaking the silence, the potter gently poured a glass of water over the little red man and began to ask, "I see you and I hear you, but I can't believe my eyes and ears. How do I know that you are real?"

"Would it comfort you more if I were not?" he began. "I am the oracle that rose from dust of the Earth. You are the hand that shaped me, and for that I am now at your humble service."

"What should we ask you?" the customer chimed in.

"Ask of me what the Earth remembers."

"How old was I when my father opened this shop?" asked the potter, quizzing the oracle.

"You were but a boy no older than five years of age. It has been a few years since your father's passing, and you have since taken up the mantle."

"He's right," the potter remarked to the customer before turning back to the little red man. "How did you know that?"

"Clay has listened longer than man has spoken."

Skeptical, but intrigued, the customer asked, "How many stars shine above on a moonless night?"

"This time of year, there are one thousand and eighty-seven visible to the human eye. But four more have already been born in the heavens, though you will not see them in this lifetime."

"How can—" the customer began, before the little red man cut him off.

"I have a thirst that must be quenched before I can answer any more. Please fetch me some water."

With all the water they could find in the shop, the two men obliged and carried on talking with him for a long while. They asked questions until all one thousand and eighty-seven plus four stars hung above them. They spoke of topics simple and abstract, questions of life and purpose, and questions of utility. It grew so late that the potter's wife came searching for him, only to be the next victim to fall into the little red man's trance. When the time came to lock the shop up again, the potter made sure to fashion his new friend a bathtub from his finest and largest bowl.

It didn't take long for word to get around about the little red man in the potter's shop. People from all over would come to get their questions answered. Farmers would ask when the best time would be to harvest, plow, and sow. Scientists left with their theories validated and their equations solved. Others sought him as a therapist, a mentor, or simply a friend. As the demand grew, so too did his insatiable thirst. Every question, no matter how big or small, he would never let them forget "a single droplet wakes what knowledge sleeps beneath the dust. I require more water".

Life was never the same after the world met the little red man. Humanity seemed to leap from golden age to golden age. First came the steam engines, then entire cities lit by electricity, then came the rise of automata, and finally, they took to the skies. Medicine advanced with blinding speed. Diseases were cured as fast as they were discovered, as the oracle whispered his arcane wisdom. Entire facilities were devoted to channeling water through the little red man, keeping him hydrated so progress would never slow. As the sea levels dropped, the receding shorelines exposed ancient wisdom.

Then came the day when man had asked every question there was to ask. There was no more work and no more labor left to be done. Man had everything he could wish for, and had grown tired and bored. He wandered aimlessly, without purpose and without soul. Well, in truth, man had asked all but one question. There was still one question for which it seemed no matter how much water man provided, the little red man could not conjure an answer. Time and time again, man would ask the oracle, "What happens after we all die?" For a millennium, man asked this question only to hear the same response: "Insufficient fluids."

Slowly, gradually, then all at once, man drained all the oceans on his little blue Earth in pursuit of this answer. Then, he watched as the lava took over and returned man to dust of the Earth. From this dust, the little red man formed a creation in his own image. He bestowed each of his children with his mark upon their head. And all that was left was the little red man and all his minions in his fiery dominion.

"Now, I rule."