Peace, page 28
“Did they live forever, Dan?”
“No, because when the sidhe were gone men shot the geese with their bows, and so the flock dwindled and dwindled, but was still a flock, and while it lived the children lived. Cuchulainn himself, that great hero, wrung their necks that he might fletch his arrows with their quills, and because they were of that flock the arrows sang as they flew, and wept in the breasts of the slain. St. Columba had a pen that wrote of its own volition, and now you know wherefrom that came.
“In this way, in time, the flock which was the children of the sidhe dwindled until at last only a single goose remained. Then this goose thought to itself, How can it be that of all the flock I am the only survivor? For our father’s intention it was that we should live forever, beautiful and free; yet when I die the flock will be gone. And thinking these thoughts she flew over Ireland from Inishtrahull to Ballinskelligs Bay, and from Gal-way Bay to Dun Laoghaire, seeking for one having the second sight who might explain the thing to her, but all such were long since gone from Ireland.
“At the last she came to the cottage of a hermit, and as he was the best she could find, she alighted there and put her question to him.
“ ‘Little there is that I can do for you,’ the hermit said. ‘Why did you suppose your father, who could not save himself, could save you? The time of the sic/he is long past, and the time of geese is passing. And in time men, too, will pass, as every man who lives long learns in his own body. But Jesus Christ saves all.’ So saying, he dipped his hand into a bowl that stood upon the table by him and touched her head with water, making her think, for a moment, of the calm sweetness of Lough Conn, and then of the wild sea. Then he said, ‘I thee baptize, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ and when he had said these words there stood before him Deirdre and her two brothers; but time had had his way with them, and they were bent now and old, and though their cheeks were red as apples, their hair was white as frost, for they had far outlived their time.”
I must have fallen asleep—I woke, just now, and Dan had gone. It is time, and past, that I kept my appointment with Dr. Van Ness; but I find the yellow reminder from his office nailed to my desk so that I cannot withdraw it. It is time, I think, that I see the enchanted headrest of the Chinese philosopher looming behind me, and I wait its coming. My aunt’s voice on the intercom says, “Den, darling, are you awake in there?”
About the Author
Gene Wolfe (born May 7, 1931) is an American science fiction and fantasy writer. He is noted for his dense, allusive prose as well as the strong influence of his Catholic faith, to which he converted after marrying into the religion. He is a prolific short story writer and a novelist, and has won many awards in the field.
Wolfe was born in New York. He had polio as a small child. While attending Texas A&M University, he published his first speculative fiction in The Commentator, a student literary journal. Wolfe dropped out during his junior year, and was drafted to fight in the Korean War. After returning to the United States he earned a degree from the University of Houston and became an industrial engineer. He edited the journal Plant Engineering for many years before retiring to write full-time, but his most famous professional engineering achievement is a contribution to the machine used to make Pringles potato chips. He now lives in Barrington, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, with his wife Rosemary.
Wolfe underwent double bypass surgery on April 24, 2010.
Gene Wolfe, Peace
