The Spiral Road, page 93
part #1 of The Spiral Roads Series
There was a long silence in the camp, as the crickets sang to themselves, and the small lives flickered through the night. Unimportant, except at the finest granular detail, at which point they became the canvas, the background itself. Without which, there could be no art at all. Old Man saw a familiar pain in the spirit, and knew him for no mere teenager. Even if he had been one once, that world was long gone, and this one held many new things that were very old. Perhaps this was one such, he decided finally.
“What’s your name?” He didn’t expect a True Name, since those had power. This would be the spirit-name, the loa riding him, as the saying went. Old Man had the internet, when he’d lived on Earth, just like everyone else.
He recognized something in the manner of the visitor, something other than himself, but familiar, like the smell of decades-old magazines, dug out of a box. Dry and somehow interesting, calling out for a long read, peering deeply into history.
Marius thought for a moment, having already considered this choice. It would require a final commitment, a mere formality, really. But it was final, if he took this step. It would cement his path, never to return to being a normal boy, a normal man. He took a deep breath, and told them.
“I am the one who is Mar Esh, the Ghost Hand.” He spoke the old tongue of the Annunaki, learned through the Tool and the memory it retained of the previous owner. It was fitting that his name come from those who failed at their attempt to evolve, to learn the proper lessons required to move on. He would not allow his people to make the same mistake.
“Therefore, you may call me Maresh, from now on.” Old Man shivered, as the power dripped from the apparition in front of him. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it radiating across his face and skin. It lit the darkness with an invisible light. It was darkness itself. Young Man felt it too, his hackles rising, although he sensed no threat from the spirit man, Maresh. Boy was in awe, somehow feeling some kinship with the spirit, knowing a small part of it was in pain, regardless of the visible confidence.
Old Man recognized a name-taking when he saw one. They had been honored, or cursed. It would be for time to determine.
“And now I must ask of you, as I said I would.” Old Man sighed, knowing this was the end of things as they had been, and the beginning of something new. Young Man bit his tongue on a denial, and Boy looked confused. Maresh stood, and his Tool floated down from high above to rest between his hands, spinning slowly, glinting a sanguine red in the wavering firelight. The three men gasped, looking up at him, as he held the hovering disc vertically over his upturned palms. Once again, it began to spin, faster and faster, a dull red glow that outshone the firelight grew around the edge. All three watched, enthralled, as the red turned white, while a stiff breeze began to blow the fire to guttering rags. After a few seconds, a small bud appeared at one edge, growing larger by the moment, eventually reaching a size equivalent to the one Marius, now Maresh, held sway over. As both rotated, one over each palm, they slowed, cooling rapidly, shedding the heat of the division, or twinning. Eventually, an identical metallic disc, featureless and slightly curved around the edges, floated beside the original.
The one Maresh had brought down from the heavens floated around behind his head, refracting the firelight that illuminated his face, giving him a red halo. The other floated gently through the fire, to land gently in the unwilling hands of Old Man. He looked down at it wonderingly, feeling the cool surface.
“It’s not even warm!” he exclaimed. Young Man and Boy reached over, running their hands across the strange material, feeling it’s slick, nearly frictionless surface.
“It’s...TALKING to me!” Young Man drew back his hand, as if stung. Boy held his still, cocking his head, listening.
“It is, sorta...hey, wow!” He smiled at Old Man, hoping they would keep the gift. Which Old Man heard clearly, in his mind. He looked up at Maresh, over the device.
“What is this, Maresh? What do you ask of us?” Maresh smiled back at them, not completely reassuringly.
“It is power. Pure power, limited only by yourselves. Do with it what you will. But I liked your answers, your choices. Seek courage. Seek strength, seek wisdom. You’ll need them all.” With that final pronouncement, he walked away, leaving like the spirit he was, in a silent waft of air. Then he was gone from the firelight.
Epilogues
I
Another annual storm cycle had just passed, and another brief year on Garden, as everyone now called it. It was time for the first ever Festival of the Long Summer, being held in Riverview, a local idea met with much goodwill by the people at the pyramid complex. That was now dubbed Pyramis, since most folk used the word ‘pyramid’ when trying to refer to it. There would be dancing, feasting, imbibing, and even a few weddings. Although, the traditions of marriage had lost much of their former religious trappings. They had taken on the form of personal vows of commitment, some even for specified periods, others involving more than the traditional number of participants. But having them witnessed by the entire community, a cause for celebration and joy, this tradition had held, perhaps grown in importance. Especially with the rarity of children now.
The seven babies born the previous year had been the entire crop, among the people under the protection and command of General Worthington. Two more had been born in Bargersville, as well, far to the north. If other communities of refugees on Garden had experienced similar low rates was unknown. Most had not even been contacted yet, much less had any awareness of others also on the planet with them. The continent was incredibly large, and difficult to traverse. And the children that had been born were...different. Not deformed, or obviously mutants, but all had exceptionally high brain volume, for human children, giving them all slightly overlarge heads. It was within the range of accepted norms, just barely, assured the medical professionals. Researchers pointed to a sample of nine, all with the same seeming increase beyond the statistical averages, and shook their heads.
They seemed otherwise normal, although it would be years before their intelligence could be tested and assessed. Their parents were supported by their entire communities, never lacking for a babysitter, and the children were emotionally adopted by almost everyone. Those who were trying to conceive without success looked at them with envious wonder, hoping for a miracle of their own. But those folk were relatively rare, most people having spent the last year or so adapting to their new lives, sloughing off useless character traits and habits left over from a lost culture. Very few were really ready to move so quickly forward through this disruption and have children, especially now that the rumors of longer lives had percolated through the population. Although existing children seemed to be growing at almost the same rate as on Earth, which might leave childhood a fleeting instant in comparison. Exactly how long people might live was still undetermined, or why this was occurring. No one complained, who wanted to die? Oldsters kicked up their heels, cackling about every extra day. But as the coming years rolled by, children might become more and more scarce, ever more treasured.
Gil Holder, his Earthly wife Jenny, and their friend, Deenah stood together, barefoot and ankle-deep in the rushing river water. The throngs gathered on the banks cheered, clapped, and whistled approval. The three figures were clad in simple white, shift dresses of local cloth and Gil in white trousers and shirt of coarse weave, flowers around their necks and in the hair of the two women. With their friends and family looking on, they exchanged their vows.
“I, Gilliam David Holder, declare myself devoted to Jenny, and devoted to Deenah, to love and care for, until I can do so no more.” He grinned like a fool, still as nervous as on the day he’d married Jenny in a stuffy old church in Kentucky. Yet this ceremony carried no legal obligation, no tax implications, nothing but the declaration of love, a life together. Somehow it felt even more real than their first one. Jenny responded next, rehearsed as well as all women manage to be.
“I, Jenny Lynn Holder, declare myself devoted to Gil, and devoted to Deenah, to love and to care for, until I can do so no more.” She smiled mischievously, daring him to think of the honeymoon to come. Then she looked at Deenah, her best friend, sometimes her co-lover, and third pillar of their relationship. It seemed as if she’d always been there, in one way or another, orbiting the two of them like a wayward moon. She held out her other hand, the one not clasped in Gil’s, and grabbed at Deenah’s. Encouragingly, she squeezed, while her blushing friend haltingly married them both.
“I, Deenah Marie...Holder, declare myself devoted to...devoted to Gil, and devoted to Jenny! To love and care for, until I can do so no more!” She finished in a rush, grabbing Gil by his free hand, closing the circle. Gil kissed them both, and the women embraced. The crowd on the shore, having listened with bated breath, erupted in cheers. Other couples, a few triads and at least one foursome stood in line to be next, the honor of first wedding of the festival having gone to the village leader. The trio waded ashore, only to be lifted in sapling chairs, carried through the town to the gazebo, and fed until they nearly burst. When the evening finally arrived, the three of them were so tired, full, and relaxed from drink and marijuana, that all agreed to postpone the honeymoon one more night. They failed to honor the agreement though, in the end.
II
Robble was a fully-grown, adult lynx, in the prime of his youth. The power and stealth he exhibited was dwarfed by the massive sabretooth tigers that came and went among the jungle occasionally. Yet he was unafraid. His person, Lucy, had raised him well, teaching him much that his mother would have, helping him survive as a sibling might do. In return, his devotion to her was unbreakable. His life was hers to ask for, and he would give it gladly if ever called upon. He was her protector, now, and he guarded and warded her steps in the forest, warning away the predators that might stalk her with his powerful scent, and sprays of urine.
Like all cats, domestic or wild, he considered the primates to be foolish, loud, yet ultimately fascinating creatures. They shared a selfish nature, a view of their own superiority that cats also possessed. Of course, the cats knew they were in fact far superior to the monkeys, but the clever-pawed climbers were a reasonable second, in the feline opinion. But his Lucy, oh, how he loved her; she was his brilliant, hypnotic sunbeam, his purr. He gloried in their adventures, lived for the thrill of chasing her and being chased through the jungle. His heart would pound, his flanks grew wet with sweat, his stubby tail twitching in ecstasy. He tolerated her smell-mates, and deigned to allow them his occasional attention, but only out of love for his mistress. The villagers were a background blur of irritation, opportunities for mischief or fish, largely ignored. Only the landscape of their home was familiar, and all the other monkeys were interchangeable in his opinion. He lived when he was in the wild, as did his person. The village was just where they denned.
Many people thought cats that developed civilized mannerisms, aped human behaviors, must perceive themselves as humans. Nothing could be further from the truth. In those instances, the cats are trying to teach the humans how to copy THEM. So that they can learn how they should truly be living. They aren’t bringing you a mole as a present, or a thank you for the dried, processed food you give them: they are trying to teach you to hunt, to live close to the raw edge of nature, to become a part of the world. To pay dues, to earn life. When you let them out, and they come right back in, it’s to get you. To persuade you to come outside with them.
Today, they reclined in splendor among the rocks, the warm sun caressing his tawny fur, warming him deliciously. Lucy lay nearby, next to the stream, allowing her toes to dangle among the running ripples. The Great Old Ones were here also, the ancient primates from the days of his ancestors. Shaggy and towering, they bore no smell of threat or prey, and he had come to ignore them as he did most humans, although not in the same way. They occasionally spoke to him, an honor he recognized as his due. The conversations were short, of course, and not in the jabbering noise Lucy used with her smell-mates and the other monkeys. Mostly they told him of food close by, and once the matriarch had complimented him on his claws and fangs, long and pure. He had preened for a day after such praise. Lucy spoke with her friend, Hidden-But-Sees-Well, while Robble scanned the dell for foolish rabbits.
“I’m so happy! My mothers and father had a… joining? Joining, and we ate and ate and danced all night!” Her signs had improved in the last year, but she continually ran across complex cultural behaviors and notions that just didn’t translate. Hidden bobbed his head slightly, his universal approval.
“Joining is rare, happy time. You must be proud, have two mothers.” In his society, the females managed the clans, kept the histories, taught the lessons, and ruled without obstruction or dissent.
“I am proud. I am one of few.” She knew of a boy that had two mothers and no father, but he was older than her and she didn’t know them well. And one little girl much younger than herself had two fathers and one mother, just like her family, but opposite.
“Storms expected this time? No family hurt?” She still hadn’t managed to disabuse him of the idea that all of the people in the village were one, large, interconnected family group. They just didn’t understand the concept of villages, cities where strangers lived side by side.
“Yes, plenty of warning, all family safe.” Another head bob, her mind translating it to ‘good, good’. She remembered something else she had been wanting to ask, and she thought she knew enough to be able to do so.
“Did you come from where I did? Did you come through a bright tunnel? A spiral?” She drew the shape with her finger, causing Hidden to widen his eyes, his face and mouth an expression of reverence.
“Lucy is lucky-lucky. Spiral road saves, brings only the wisest. My family, long ago they stride the Spiral. From your home, to other homes, to this home. But we may leave this place, soon.” His face had gone from reverent, to sad. Lucy immediately became upset.
“No! Hidden cannot go, I would miss you, miss-miss you!” She wasn’t sure she had the sign right, a brush of the heart, which she kept repeating. Mistakenly, it was the sign for ‘love’, unmodified by the facial cast of loss and longing, but to Hidden, the message was clear.
“Not soon-soon, maybe never, no fear, no hurt for Lucy!” Hidden reassured her, but he knew the decision was not his, and he could not refuse the call to move on, should it be issued.
“But why, Hidden? Why would you leave? This place is perfect, so wonderful. It’s even better than home!” She realized as she signed it that this was her home, now, and that she didn’t have any desire to see her drab old scrub-pine woods again. She twirled, expressing her love for the dell, the jungle, the life of the planet she felt so keenly. Her fluid spin was as readable to Robble as it was Hidden. Joy, participation, life lived and loved. Movement, connection to the real. Innocence as deep and pure as only a child can manifest. Her wild beauty captivated Hidden, in a way that could never be sexual, or even sensual, but was as enthralling as any untamed creature moving through the world.
“Lucy we love. Lucy and Robble, they are Known. Others, your family, they hurt the world. Why we left your home, long ago. If they hurt this world, we must go.” He sadly groaned, the rudely audible sound echoing slightly through the dell. The scarce birds fell silent, as he did so. Lucy trembled, and for the first time in her life, she felt the stirrings of real anger. Anger that had been deeply buried, bruised and tied in the closet of her mind, forgotten. Anger at being left to raise herself, at being so poor they’d often had nothing to eat in a world of plenty, anger at her mother’s self-destruction, and at the society that allowed her commit it. Anger at the stupidity of her kind, that they could even think of ruining something so grand as a planet. And anger at the sneaking suspicion that they had already done it once, right before they’d been saved. She was young, but she remembered television, and the environmental messages had targeted children pretty heavily on the E/I programming. She signed violently. Her face was a study in determination.
“No! NO-NO! Lucy will not let family hurt this home! Lucy will stop them! I will tell them, Hidden, I will tell my family not to hurt the world!” She began to cry, in sorrow over being such a horrible thing as a human. She wished she was like Hidden, free to live in the forest, walk in the sunshine, sleep in the deep, quiet caves.
The direct descendent of the Gigantopithecus reached out a great hand, closing it gently around the tiny skull, drawing the child close, two friends who simply had a connection. He hurt for his friend, and he hurt for himself, as he would dearly miss Lucy if he had to leave. But it was not in the nature of his kind to mourn a lost relationship, especially before the event. His sadness was muted by the knowledge that many things could occur to prevent their exodus. His family had walked here for so long, their forebears had seen the others come, and seen them go. Why was unclear, but none stayed for long, in their view. Perhaps this world could defend itself, and they would soon be alone again.
III
Tinkling glass rods, of various complementary colors in greens, gold and amber, pale turquoise, twisted and chimed in the slight breeze. Several strands hung from the low ceiling, barely two meters high. The old stone building was close to the cliff, below and to the left of the causeway but at the distant corner of the plaza, far from the larger edifices and statues, the obelisks that broadcast electricity, day and night. The doorway was a simple stone arch. Behind it rose the cliff, towering nearly three thousand meters vertically, before becoming almost level ground again for many kilometers, slightly sloping to the conical interior. One of the oldest structures they had identified, it may have been a simple store house, since it had no windows, only the ever-present crenelated cuts near the roofline. Thatch and vines now covered it, newly laid and grown, allowing it a harmonious aspect, almost Hobbit-hole in nature. Hummocks of grass and vegetation crowded close, with the exception of the small patch of garden to one side, budding sprouts. The occupant had been bustling busily, going about her daily domestic duties, humming to herself, before her visitor had arrived. Now, they were seated on two log stools, sipping tea by the arched doorway.
