by Gregg
Marchese
When the Kronologers announced that the number of years
until the final failure of the Earth Current and destruction of the
Great Redoubt (though not yet of all human life) had dropped under one
million, the great furor that some had suspected might ensue did not
happen. Instead, there was a subdued ambiance throughout the Four
Hundred and Eighty Cities, a quiet acceptance that, while still a great
time off, the End of Humanity’s Last Refuge was looming closer in the
dark, even as the Watchers had crept closer through the Eons. And the
long-accepted mandate that now the count of years would reverse and
tally, not up from the Last Sunset, but down to the Final Fall, went
into effect.
Many people went to the Halls of Honour and stood
silently beholding the shrines and statues of the ancients, thinking of
the enormous Second History of mankind since Night had prevailed upon
the Earth. And they marveled at those great millions of years, and went
away somberly, knowing that, as the Foretellers had seen through so
many ages and as the New Foretellers now concurred, the end was
inevitable: and, in the vast scale of time they contemplated, imminent.
Some others, mostly among the Scholars and Youth
Leagues, thought of the First History, now confirmed by many
memory-dreams and accepted as fact, when the strange Sun had shone
through the aether. They wondered in awe at that further span of
long-lost but now mostly-remembered time that humans had been upon the
Earth.
But most of the people lingered at two shrines
especially, and gazed silent upon the statues there as they filed along
the discolored path made by the shuffling of countless feet on the
metal floor. And if they felt any contentment in their quiet distress,
it was at the attainments and courage of the humans honoured in those
shrines.
The first statue was a great warrior in torn and
battered armour, carrying a slim swooning maid in his arms. The man’s
name was not known, for it was thought in his humbleness he did not
wish for notoriety, and so the Scholars honoured him by leaving him
nameless. The maid’s name, however, is well known, for she is Naani,
only survivor of the Lesser Redoubt, which fell to the Monsters and
Evil Influences of the Night Land some four million years ago. Once
safe in the Great Redoubt, Naani and her anonymous rescuer ultimately
spawned fifty ordained lineages, with many offshoots (some legitimate,
some not) whose blood, though at first thought deficient, gradually
birthed the heightened powers of the New Foretellers, the vast
increases in Night Hearing and memory-dreams, and--as some
Monstruwacans would sourly attest--the dreamy impulsiveness and foolish
optimism of the Youth Leagues. And most remembered that Naani, swooning
maid in the statue, was also the Spirit of Mirdath, unutterably ancient
noblewoman and eternal companion to the warrior.
The other shrine where the people lingered was that of
Perithoos and Telemachos. Here was the graven idol of a young man,
weaponless and armourless but for greaves and vambraces, carrying
another wounded man on his back. The wounded man’s arm dangled, torn
off at the elbow, and a bandage was across his eyes. But the hale man’s
head was lifted, eyes looking up with an expression of hope or relief
or exhausted joy upon his face, as if he was looking at some final
salvation. Many treatises had been written to explain the expression on
the statue’s face, and most proclaimed it as the moment when Telemachos
saw the lights of the Great Redoubt shining across the Night Land on
the last leg of his arduous journey back from the ruins of the city of
Usire. Others thought it might be the moment when the Star Ray again
speared down through the Dark above, and warded the two heroes from the
spells of the House of Silence. And some few wondered if the expression
on Telemachos’s face is due to what he beheld when, in his
circumnavigation of the House of Silence, he glanced West toward the
soft effulgence of the green luminous mist. Of these few, one even
speculated that Telemachos might have caught a glimpse of the beloved
Sun.
And so, soothed by the accomplishments of great heroes,
which no final doom could unmake, and heartened by the strong spirit
dwelling in the human breast, that can survive direct contact with
Watchers and Evil Influences, the people filed away from the shrines
and returned to their lives. And for a while it seemed that nothing
much had changed.
-----------------------------------------------------------
From the seven-mile height of the peak of the Pyramid
the Tower of Observation stood another full mile up into the Night. Its
upper half had been abandoned three hundred thousand years ago, after
the Giants had contrived a strange siege engine that launched a winged
missile which struck the midst of the Tower, cutting off the channels
of Earth Current to the upper reaches. But the Great Spy Glass had been
salvaged and brought to the lower half of the Tower, where it was
mostly reassembled--though regrettably the number of oculuses was
reduced, and their resolution and range were less.
Here, in the chamber of the Great Spy Glass, Dione,
Master Monstruwacan, peered through a myopic oculus, comparing the
location of the left upper lip on the face of the South Watcher with an
image on a view table of the same lip exactly one century earlier. Even
allowing for the point six metrons the Monster had loomed closer, the
lip seemed to have lifted noticeably; though what was noticeable to a
Monstruwacan, especially the Master, was not visible to an average
citizen.
Dione suppressed a sigh. She was convinced that this was
the beginning of the sneer the New Foretellers had seen in their
visions, a grimace that would stretch across the face of the South
Watcher just before it crashed its paw through the Great Gate five
hundred thousand years from now. She made a note in the margin of the
view table, but hesitated before launching it into the aether where
anyone with a table could read it or the Sensitives in each city could
receive it and announce it to their populations.
The Master lowered her finger. The announcement of the
Kronoligers the week before had been dour news enough. Dione did not
wish to further sink the depressed mood of the populace with this
confirmation of their doom. She doubted that reminding them of an
associated New Foretelling, the vision of a slender strand of white
light that would arise and forestall the Watcher from stamping through
the rest of the Redoubt for another half-million years, would engender
much hope.
She glanced around the chamber. Other Monstruwacans
peered through other oculuses, made notes on view tables, spoke with
the Scholar Advisors who moved throughout, or consulted with the New
Foretellers standing humbly near the walls, hands hidden in the sleeves
of their white robes, the encircled red cross bold upon their breasts.
A symbol with too many meanings now, Dione knew.
One of these New Foretellers was looking at her, calmly
expectant. She composed herself and went over to him. Looking into the
strangely smooth face--though Dione knew he had well over a hundred
years of life--she nodded slightly and smiled. “We need not dissemble,
Koniopses,” Dione said. “You know what my Century Scan has revealed.”
Koniopses’s bland expression brightened the merest
fraction, something it took most of the Master’s powers of observation
to detect. “The knowing of the New Foretellers is both comforting and
uncomfortable,” the Foremost Foreteller said in his thin voice. “It is
not confirmation we seek here. It is concurrence.”
“Then we concur,” Dione said. “The sneer has indeed
begun.”
The briefest flick of the Foremost’s eyes toward the
Master’s viewtable revealed his thoughts. “I could not issue the
announcement yet,” Dione said, and turning, drawing Koniopses at her
side, walked to the old breathing bell in the center of the room. She
absently stroked her hand along the smooth curve of the bronze-like
tube. These airways had not been needed for over two million years,
since the lungs of the Monstruwacans had evolved to extract more oxygen
from the air here, and since that air had grown denser through the
ages.
Dione engaged her brain-elements and spoke directly to
the Foremost’s mind. One of the
meanings for the symbol you New
Foretellers wear on your breasts is compassion. I felt compassion’s
weight upon my heart as I was about to launch the announcement through
the aether.
Koniopses’s head inclined a tiny metron, bold
acknowledgement from him. As
acceptance of mortality brings compassion,
he sent back, so compassion brings
wisdom. Though we New Foretellers
keep a strict adherence to timing, we do not ask that others do also.
It may be well that you have delayed the announcement.
The Master felt another presence in her mind, and she
and the Foremost both turned to see Mett, Scholar Supreme, and his
protégé, Scholar Potentate Nemia, approaching. Mett, ever
over-dramatic, swept off his black hood in the moment when he stepped
into the light from an overhead arc-lamp, revealing his bald head.
Nemia was more circumspect in doffing her hood, but obviously proud to
display the long jet braids that dangled down her chest, clear sign of
her descent from Naani.
The Master and the Foremost opened their thoughts to
include Scholar Supreme Mett, though Dione kept hers closed at first to
Nemia. The Scholar Potentate had a right to attend in the Tower due to
superior research achievements, but Nemia was not necessarily to be
admitted to these private councils among the Redoubt Archons. So when
Dione noticed that Koniopses had opened his mind to the Scholar
Potentate as well, she sent him a wordless query. ?
This too we
Foretellers have seen, Koniopses sent back. She is to succeed Mett as
Supreme. And soon.
And I, Mett
sent, leaning insouciant upon the breathing
bell and smiling, am to go forth
into the Night Land and be lost beyond
the Place of the Ab-humans. He turned his bright smile and the
gleaming
arch of his forehead at the other three in turn, needlessly emphasizing
the absurdity of the statement.
The Master directed her glare, and the sendings of her
brain-elements, at Supreme Scholar Mett alone. Impossible. Those who
have learned the secrets of the Monstruwacans are forbidden to venture
into the Night Land.
Directing her thoughts to the Foremost, but allowing the
others--including Nemia now--to hear, Dione sent, So you keep a strict
adherence to timing? There is more you New Foretellers have seen, and
spoken of with the Scholars. And when were you planning to tell your
new visions to the Monstruwacans?
Scholar Potentate Nemia replied, respectful yet not
submissive. We did not want to
distract you so close to the Century
Scan, Master. We agreed that after, depending on the results--
We! thought
Dione. Meaning a coalition of Scholars and
New Foretellers. She glared at Mett and Koniopses. These are not good
times for petty alliances. We must have open trust among our three
factions.
The New Foretellers
are
patient, sent Koniopses. And
we
had foreseen the results of the Scan. We but awaited the concurrence.
And my research--
Nemia began.
But Dione cut her off. Your
research is well known. The
compilation of Old Foreteller records, and their comparison with New
Foretellings, was enough to place you as the Scholar Potentate, but it
is not sufficient to justify withholding new visions from the
Monstruwacans. You--
Dione knew her thoughts were becoming accusative, and
she withdrew, disengaging her brain-elements. She actually sought a
brief breath from the anachronistic breathing bell, and in her private
thoughts asked herself, Why do I feel threatened by this young Scholar?
Could it be envy of that glorious black hair? No. I too am scion of
Naani. More the impulsiveness and unpredictability those wild genes
express, that have not yet been disciplined in her. Like the Youth
Leagues. She is a brilliant Scholar though.
Dione reviewed what she knew of Nemia’s work. The young
Scholar had searched tirelessly through the accessible Libraries of the
Four Hundred and Eighty Cities, sifting countless ancient records, even
enlisting the help of Current Teks and Power Proctors to re-energize
fading view tables and sort through their stored images. Then, using
ancient maps that showed the locations of long-abandoned Libraries, she
had organized an expedition to the Lost Cities. Wearing Grey Armour and
special cloaks designed to preserve their body heat against the bitter
cold, and surrounded by warriors of her own Youth League and their
Mentors bearing Discoi, she had descended the energized and relatively
safe core conduits that still connected the Upper Cities with the
Underground Fields. The expedition then braved the terror of the
deserted Lost Cities to enter two abandoned Libraries, including the
Library-of-Ages-Yet-To-Be, and return with key records of the Old
Foretellers, most notably the fabled Sibylline Book.
The cost had been four members of the Youth League
slaughtered by a feral Night Hound, which had actually been kept as a
pet by some former citizen of the Lost Cities. Four Mentors had
intervened and slain the beast with their discoi, though two were
mauled to death in the effort. And since returning, twelve of the
expedition had died in their sleep, victims, according to the
Oneiromancers, of still-unidentified dream gaeses.
And that is why I fear Nemia, the Master thought. She is
more courageous--and more reckless--than Mett. The potential for
foolishness grows greater as our end looms near. And if-- She glanced
at Koniopses the Foremost Foreteller --when she becomes Supreme
Scholar, many others may follow that recklessness.
She peered openly at Mett then. Especially if, as
apparently the most recent Foretellings reveal, the current Supreme is
to venture into the Night Land. Looking at his cocky and disdainful
posture, his insouciant expression, the thin shoulders but puffed chest
supporting his gleaming head, and knowing his preference for
contemplation and comfort, Dione could not conceive how such a
Foretelling could come to be.
Dione reengaged her brain elements and returned to the
conversation. The others had remained respectfully silent in the
interim, though the Master wondered which of them had the power to read
her thoughts. And in those thoughts was the beginning of a belief that
Nemia might make a valuable and powerful ally when she became Supreme
Scholar. I am of course distressed
by the results of the Scan, she sent
so all could receive, though looking at Nemia, but need not direct that
at one so young. Then glaring at Koniopses: And concerned too at these
new visions I have yet to be told of.
Nemia bowed her head, long black braids swaying, and
sent a wordless surge of acceptance, forgiveness and understanding.
That too was something the Naani genes had bestowed. Mett pressed his
wide mouth together and emptied his mind entirely. Koniopses gave no
detectable response.
Then to all of them, the Master Monstruwacan sent, I
will expect a full report of the latest New Foretellings, and
summaries-- She peered at Mett, knowing his tendency to
over-elaborate
--of the Scholars’ interpretations
and comparisons. I myself will wait
one more week before making public the results of the Century Scan.
She
did not need to send that they all were sworn to secrecy until she made
the official announcement.
Nemia blinked and nodded acceptance, Koniopses changed
his expression so subtly the Master could not read it, and turned to
glide away, but Mett’s faint grin became a smirk. “Allow me to offer
one summary now,” the Scholar Supreme said aloud. “There is reason to
believe that the Powers for Good have grown recently stronger, and the
Night Land is not so dangerous as it was.” As he turned away and swept
his hood over his head, the flash of a shadow made his smirk look like
a sneer.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Days later, when Dione finished reading the latest New
Foretellings, her thought was that Koniopses was deliberately testing
the limits of her belief. Children? Women? Elders? Whole families?
Without armour or weapons, and obviously unPrepared! No more strange
and horrific peregrination could she have imagined, shuffling along the
Road Where the Silent Ones Walk. For the ancient Law still held, more
stern than ever, that allowed only men, of at least twenty-two years of
age, of sound mind and body, with no knowledge of the secrets of the
Monstruwacans, and thoroughly and carefully Prepared, to venture into
the Night Land.
Next the report spoke of a small band of Silent Ones
drifting along the Road, tall grey forms slipping below the House of
Silence toward the West and that pitiful peregrination. Then a pack of
Night Hounds, loping down toward the Road, great fangs slavering and
slit-eyes blazing crimson. And a team of Giants, trundling some huge
weapon, cocking and loading the immense throwing arm. And hordes of
Ab-Humans, humanoid beings with out-sized hands and feet, sickly pink
gnarled skin, and misshapen skulls, swarming beside the Road and
threatening the cringing people...
The Master Monstruwacan would have demanded explanation
from Koniopses at once, but her whirling sight crossed her wood-edged
view table and saw the interpretation summary from the Scholars.
Disengaging her brain elements, Dione reestablished the mental
discipline of millennial patience and objectivity required of all
Monstruwacans, and opened the crystal document.
-----------------------------------------------------------
The old man shuffled down the service corridor outside
the four-hundred and thirteenth city, gently sweeping the air with a
static collector he waved in his hand. Occasionally he stopped to
trigger the release that sucked the accumulated dust through a tube
into the charged receptacle he carried on his back. He had long since
lost his fear at the thought of carrying such a concentration of Malign
Pollen so near his heart. His had always been a calm and stable
personality, of ancient commoner lineages never tainted with the blood
of Naani. No such noble blood would ever notice a man of his station
anyway. For generations his family had worked in the Reclamation Guild,
cleaning, polishing, sweeping, dusting, or tending the Regenerators
that took the accumulated dust and detritus and morphed it into useable
materials for the Redoubt.
This Malign Pollen he collected now could never be
reused, the old man knew. Too potent. That these stray spores of tiny
dust could get past the great Air Clog below, and even in such small
concentrations influence the dreams of the citizens of the Redoubt,
spoke to their power. They were thought by the Monstruwacans to drift
in from the Blossoms of Beautific Evil, organisms that had sprung up
eleven thousand years ago near the Plane of Blue Fire, which perhaps
nourished them as the ancient Sun had nourished more benign blooms.
(The old man knew this, and many other speculations of the
Monstruwacans and other Redoubt Guilds, because he was a devotee of the
Hour Slips, as they were still called, that flew through the aether. He
had his own view table to read them, heirloom of his ancestors.) The
best that could be done was to contain the Pollen behind charged
barriers, vats similar to but much larger than the one he carried on
his back, surrounded with a local Air Clog that contained even the evil
emanations that could seep into people’s dreams.
His was a life shortened by proximity to contaminants
from the Night Land, but it seemed long to him now, and in all that
time the old man had never had a nightmare. His psyche was buttressed
by generations of exposure and toughened by the Reclamation Guild’s
sub-culture of stability and devotion to Pyramid tradition.
So he was merely intrigued when, approaching the end of
the corridor where a side vault let into one of the lowest embrasures
still open in the Pyramid, he felt an Influence drawing him through the
doorway. It nowise had the Evil taint he had become so inured to, but a
gentle, benign presence like a soft breeze that encouraged the feather
of his soul to turn. As he drifted into the embrasure, he let himself
be drawn, as a child is drawn to a kind face, toward the crystal window
where a distant green shine showed to his dark-adapted eyes. That
stable, long-experienced and cautious part of his soul wondered if this
could be a deception, an enticing Sending meant to mislead him into
opening the Redoubt to horror, or draw him out into the Night Land
where he could be devoured, body and soul. But that same experienced
part of him doubted it. He had tasted many such Sendings, and this had
an entirely different flavor. He allowed himself to be led to the West
end of this North-West embrasure, and gaze out.
His eyes were drawn to the West, even though closer and
more prominent features loomed, like the Watcher of the North-West to
his right, silhouetted by the Red Pit that smoldered behind it, from
which stretched the Red Tether that hooked the Watcher’s rear ankle. Or
the Plane of Blue Fire even farther right, edged with the dark waving
shapes the discussions in the aether speculated must be the Blossoms of
Beautific Evil. But no, his eyes were drawn West, along The Road Where
the Silent Ones Walk, past the Place Where the Silent Ones Kill, beyond
even the Place of the Ab-humans, to a green luminous mist that glowed
softly there.
And that was its name, he knew, though never in any
ancient document or view table record had it been capitalized. Some had
speculated that beyond that glowing mist was an escape from this world
into another world of light and safety and freedom. Foolish dreams of
the unutterably ancient myth of heaven, most thought it.
Some fools are merely
recipients of other wisdom.
The old man was intrigued by this clear voice speaking
in his mind. Was this like the Night Hearing so many of the people had
now (though it had not arisen in him and his kin)? How could he know?
Again that ancient part of his soul told him this voice would do him no
harm, even as it told him that the Oneiromancers and Monstruwacans
would doubt and subject him to intrusive tests if they should find out
he heard it.
His eyes were filled with soft green effulgence, as his
ears were filled with the voice. You,
whose blood is pure with the
currents of eld, whose mind is steadfast against Evil Influence, whose
heart is calm and soothed by wise tradition, and whose soul is
unamazed, will you be our emissary? Will you present the message we
have finally grown strong enough to send? Salvation awaits.
For a long while his eyes gazed out across the Night
Land, between the Deep Valley and the looming bulk of the North-West
Watcher, through the Place Where the Silent Ones Kill, along that short
stretch of Road Where the Silent Ones Walk, beyond the Place of the
Ab-humans, and into the gentle glow of the green luminous mist. His
thoughts turned. That this Influence would ask, and not demand-- But
the forces of the Night Land could be so subtle and cunning-- But he
was a man of tradition and duty, and after a time he could not measure
he calmly and with a sad reverence accepted the offer. The Influence
seemed to lessen then, and he turned to bring his dust to the
containment vats. He sensed the Influence still within him though, like
something that had always been companion to his soul and had only now
emerged to join him openly. It conferred upon him a new tradition and
duty .
© Gregg
Marchese
2 Oct 2010
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