by Luke Donegan
An immortal life, feeding off the life of the world. To sit, and stare, and feel nothing.
He refused to follow that path. He could not face it.
He closed his eyes.
He pitched over the edge ...
... and fell.
He fell for a long time. But Dark Matter would not let him die.
Like a blind man he wandered through the silent Museum. Somehow he came to the Nature Dome. He entered the dome and walked down the hillside. He sat on the grass beside the stream. He felt the grass between his fingers, fibrous and cool. He pushed his fingers into the soil.
Deer and zebra stood on the slope near him, frozen in time. The stream babbled. He saw frogs sitting on a rock in the stream.
He closed his mind to thoughts.
And this is where Clara found him. When the girl sat before him, he did not know how long he had been there.
“Scion-Teacher?” she asked.
“Yes. Clara. Taxidermist.”
The girl studied him, gauging his readiness. She seemed older, not so meek and not so frightened. And then Erys saw something that puzzled him. There was a barely concealed smile on her face. A hint of excitement. Something she was fighting to contain.
“Clara?” he asked.
“Scion-Teacher, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. No-one has. There was so much pain. So much lost. It blinded us.”
She spoke with passion. Her eyes had a light within them. A growing power, a gleaming of possibility.
“Clara?”
“The Taxidermist would have known immediately,” she said. “It’s all around us. The Nature Dome.”
Erys looked at her carefully, and when he realised what she was saying he stood up. He held out a hand and lifted the girl to her feet. Surveying the dome he saw the stream flowing down to the central forested area. Across to the west was the Desert Zone. He could see kangaroos, camels. Opposite that the Polar Zone. Bears, penguins, seals on the ice.
“Do you see it?” asked the Taxidermist.
He did. Animals were all about them, on the grass, on the sand, the snow. Animals in the forest, panda bears, monkeys. Animals were on the rocks of the fake mountain, beyond the trees. Animals, suspended in time, frozen, never to walk in this world.
And yet they were alive. They had Spirit. Erys could smell their Spirit forms. Behind their inanimate, physical lives existed within each animal a Spirit form that flew and swooped and called on the great wind.
“They are pregnant, all of them,” explained Clara. “They host fetuses until they are close to term. Then they are transferred to the units in the Ark. I didn’t remember them until this morning. I woke and remembered. They are all pregnant. Thousands of them. Hundreds of species.”
Only a fraction of what we had, he thought. But still, it was something.
“I see it,” he said.
It was a beginning! A way to start again. And the breeze of elation began to dry his despair-soaked soul.
He lifted Clara into his arms and hugged the girl.
“Yes. I see it.”
He touched her feet to ground. They walked hand in hand down the grassy hillside, further into the dome.
“Do you think ...” Clara began.
“Yes, I do.”
Yes. It was something. Something worth surviving for!
Part 3 – Ascendant
All paled behind the glory of the Ascendant in his Spirit form. A golden, spotted hyena with white teeth and black gums. Small red eyes, quick and hungering. And his wings, as they unfurled from his body were brightly coloured. These wings twitched and flapped, and the Ascendant lifted up through the chamber and emerged through its open ceiling into the blinding, gold-hazed morning.
Teacher
Chapter 18 ARRIVAL
With a rising joy in his heart, Paris Aristotle crested the last saddle in the broken hills and sighted what he had longed for these many days. Across the sand plains sat the distant city of Pars, and beyond shimmered the wide, blue ocean.
“We have arrived!” he cried. With such gladness he could have lifted up and flown the remaining miles.
Saskareth stepped up, and behind him came a hundred more - the Umawari, those who had volunteered to embark on this trek across the desert to the sea in the west. One hundred men and women, caked with the thick, red dust of the desert, faces glistening with sweat, gazed with wide eyes on a sight they had never seen before. A human city!
Paris turned to Saskareth and planted a hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“We made it, my friend.” He smiled. “Umawari,” he said to the wider group. “Behold, the city of Pars. I welcome you to my home.”
Before embarking on the descent to the sand plain, they rested and drank from their water bags. The emu people, dark and weathered, listened intently as the Curator of History pointed out landmarks on the plain below.
“The large buildings there, by the riverbed,” he pointed, “are the Ascendancy. The government buildings. The pink granite in the middle is the Ascendancy itself. There the Ascendant resides. The white marble is the Courthouse. The Judge sits there and adjudicates on points of law. The red fortress to the right is the Barracks. The army trains there.”
“Why is there need for an army?” asked one of the emu people. “You are so isolated. Who do you fear?”
This animist, Gilmagesh, had been wary from the beginning and slow to warm to Paris. He represented many of the Umawari who felt it safer to remain hidden from humans.
“There is no need,” agreed Paris. “It is merely a relic of the past. Now, past those buildings, see there, by the coast. The three domes and the tower – that is the Museum,” he said proudly. “We will be there by evening today.”
Gilmagesh and the others gazed on the distant structure with awe. They had never seen anything like it in their lives.
“Gob, gob, gob!” said Gilmagesh.
My colleagues, thought Paris. How excited I am to see you soon. Jaime, my boy. How has the responsibility of office weighed on your shoulders? Erys, young man. Will you have defeated your demons? I could have used you in the desert on this long march.
And Xia. Lovely Xia. Determined to save our beautiful world. I am such a foolish man, but you make me feel otherwise.
He looked at the animists sitting around him on the rocky ground. They were dark-skinned men and women with black, tangled hair. He had even seen some of them change into their emu forms in moments of great stress or pain. During the march one animist stepped on a tiger snake buried in the dust. As its fangs pierced his ankle’s flesh he transformed with sudden pain and shock. The sudden rush of hormones through his body scorched the snake’s venom and saved his life.
This transformation mesmerised Paris. He gazed at the bird-like face, its blue-black skin and its crown of feathers. Its small red eyes. A thick aroma of dust and heat assaulted his nostrils. And he knew this was the closest he had ever come in his life to Spirit.
Xia, he thought, watching the emu people around him. Wait until you see what I have brought you. Await the wonders you will achieve with their aid.
Paris climbed to his tired feet. “Let’s go,” he said to Saskareth. “We still have a full day’s walk ahead of us.”
For the next two hours they picked their way down the scarp. The steep incline and loose pebbly slope slowed their progress. For much of the descent Paris shimmied down on his backside. He lacked the coordination and the toughness of those around him. When the Umawari reached the bottom he still had half a mile to go.
The march had taken its toll on him, unmade as he was for physical toil. A tall, thin man to begin with he was now as skinny as an insect. Loose skin hung on the bones of his jaw. He knew that the Umawari could have reached the coast days earlier if he had not been there to hold them up.
No great hurry. No great hurry, he told himself. Xia will berate me for how thin I have become, just as well now as before.
The Umawari greeted him enthusiastically
on arrival.
“Hail Curator!”
“Well met. Gob, gob, gob!”
There was no irony in their words for the emu people held the Curator in high regard. This man, committed to Nature, to History and to the Law, contradicted all their assumptions about humans. He was a good man. And if all humans were as he was, a new age of communication and cooperation between animists and humans was certain. For the animists, Paris Aristotle was an emissary of goodwill. This skinny, tired, dusty man with flashing eyes was a messenger, calling at the dawn of a new age.
They entered the city from the east.
The sun, dipping deep in the west, glazed their faces with light. As they neared the Ascendancy, people appeared on the streets and watched them with astonishment. The animists looked like savages, savages from the deep desert. Had the Curator of History discovered a lost tribe?
Few knew the Curator by sight – he was greatly changed. He wore the robes of the Umawari, faded linen, and there was a braid of emu feathers in his hair. But some knew him, and from his look they thought he must be mad.
Paris acknowledged them with a nod as they watched his group. Many people followed, and by the time they rounded the Ascendancy and entered the great piazza, a large group of citizens followed behind.
The Curator pointed to the public buildings and named each for the Umawari. For its faults, he was proud of his city. Emotions washed through him. He felt like a little boy, dreaming of being a man and coming home.
He turned to the west. “And there is the Museum,” he said, pointing at the distant building.
And then he saw something closer, in the piazza. A little past a long-dry fountain. A silhouette before the sinking sun. A framework and a platform ... and a hanging figure.
His breath caught, a smile frozen on dry lips.
A horrible silence. No sound, not from the Umawari, nor the citizens around them. No sounds of life, of the city, of the world.
As if in a daze he started to walk towards the platform. It stood alone in the centre of the piazza. The only sound was of his sandals slapping the terracotta paving stones. This beat quickened as his pace increased.
The hanging figure was swaying in the breeze.
He was running now.
Her blue robes of Nature ruffled around her legs. Arms tied behind her back. Her head shaved and eyes closed.
He reached her and stopped. His mouth hung open, as if about to speak. A thousand times he had imagined their meeting, her eyes wide with joy.
Maybe I will ask her, he had thought. But no, silly fool. Passage will take you before you find the courage.
He heard the sound of something breaking, something far, far away. A lonesome, distant sound, brought to him by the breeze, touching his cheek.
Something broken on the wind. It would never mend.
As a child Saskareth had witnessed the death of his mother, a pre-Passage accident. Under the waterfall in the Jewel Cave three days from the city, she slipped and fell two hundred feet to the cave floor. A stalagmite had pierced her heart.
Gazing at her body, Saskareth stood on the cliff top and gave rein to his animal self. He screeched and squawked with pitiful loss, his father holding him back from the edge.
“It is better this way,” rationalised his grief-stricken father. “Gob, gob, gob! It is better than Passage. Her Spirit still has a chance.”
But Saskareth, seeing his mother’s broken body, did not believe it was so. Even when he grew to adulthood and understood the truth of Passage, part of him always felt there was something repugnant and undignified in a dead body that could not dissolve into golden light.
Saskareth called to his companion: “No! Paris!”
The Curator raced across the piazza to the hanging figure. Saskareth saw clearly who it was. A hanging figure in blue robes - the Curator of Nature.
Paris, what has happened in our absence? he thought.
The Curator reached the hanging woman. He watched Paris embrace her legs.
What have I done, bringing them here? thought Saskareth.
“Stay here!” he ordered his companions. He strode towards the gallows.
“What is happening?” asked one of the Umawari.
“Stay where you are,” Saskareth called over his shoulder.
As he crossed the piazza he heard the sound of great doors opening. He glanced to his right. A company of soldiers were emerging from the Barracks.
He paused halfway between Paris and his people and looked from one to the other. Oh Gurajareck, grant me wisdom.
He chose the Curator and ran to join him. He glanced up at the silent face of Xia Tsang. Her skin was grey. She had been dead for two or three days. Paris clutched her swinging legs, his own body shaking. Saskareth placed his hands upon the man’s shoulders, and tried gently to pull him away.
“Paris, we must go,” he urged.
The Curator was unmovable. Saskareth looked behind him. The emu people were huddled together in the piazza, confused at this arrival to the city. They looked at the soldiers marching towards them, and at their leader and Paris, not knowing what to do.
“To me! To me!” called Saskareth, drawing the emu people to the gallows.
“Curator,” he said to Paris. “Save your sorrow. Soldiers are coming.”
He pulled Paris away from Xia’s body. The Curator looked at him, bewildered and unfocused.
“She is riding the wind,” said Saskareth gently. “Towards the ocean of souls.”
“No,” said Paris sadly. “There is no Spirit realm. Not anymore.” He turned back to the body of his friend. “Her light has dimmed and found no purchase in this world.”
Saskareth’s people were unprepared for the horror of Xia’s hanging body. In their world, such a thing did not exist. Murder did not exist. And murder on public show was beyond their understanding.
“This is the Curator of Nature?” asked Gilmagesh.
Saskareth glared at the man, but it was too late. For months, while trekking across the desert, Paris Aristotle had told them stories of this woman and her fight to preserve Nature. In their minds she was a champion of the world.
In quick succession, aroused by grief and rage, the Umawari changed into their emu forms. Black hair became feathers, dark skin became blue hide. Nose and lips hardened into tough, black beaks. The emu people gathered around the gallows and knelt on the paving stones. On mass they mourned the death of Xia Tsang. Voices rumbled up from deep in their bellies. Gob! Gob! Gob! A hundred voices of grief! Their beaks clacked open and shut.
Do not change, thought Saskareth. You must stay in control!
It was a struggle, for his Spirit cried out to commune with his people. And he too felt the grief and horror of this moment. But he was their leader and his first need was to preserve his people.
The soldiers approached quickly across the piazza, their boots stamping the paving stones in unison.
“Paris!” He shook the Curator from his stupor of grief. “Help me!”
For the first time the Curator saw the approaching soldiers and understood immediately the danger they were in. It was the worst way for their cultures to meet - Umawari in their animal form and soldiers unprepared for an alien presence.
Paris Aristotle strode to meet the soldiers, his hands held up in supplication.
“Peace!” he cried. “I am Paris Aristotle, Curator of History. I have returned from the desert, with friends.”
The black-suited Captain at the head of the company held up a fist. The company halted. The Captain gestured right and left and the soldiers dispersed like a parting wave, flowing around the gallows. Within half a minute the soldiers surrounded the Umawari.
“Peace,” repeated the Curator. “We come in peace.”
The soldiers held their batons at the ready. They were one and all dismayed by the scene before them - half-human, half bird-like monsters with feathered faces. The creatures bobbed up and down at the dead woman hanging from the gallows. Two of the soldiers dropped
their batons and pushed backwards through the ranks.
“Bilarj dark!” cried the Captain. “Hold your positions.”
He approached the Curator. “What are they?” he demanded.
“I am Curator of History. These are the Umawari people from the desert. They are guests of the city.”
“People?” asked the Captain. “They are monsters.”
The emu people had now noticed the soldiers surrounding them. They faced the insect-like humans, bracing for an attack. But this looked like an aggressive move. The soldiers stepped in, tightening the noose.
“Remember the Laws of History,” said the Curator. “They were invited here.”
The Captain tilted his head, unable to gauge the situation.
“Gob, gob, gob,” said Saskareth gently. “Peace.”
The emu people heard his voice. They stood, breathed deeply and slowly, and transformed back into their human forms.
The soldiers shook their heads with disbelief.
“You will accompany us to the Barracks,” ordered the Captain. “The General will decide what to do.”
“No,” said the Curator firmly. “They are guests of the city, not prisoners. They have not walked three months across the desert to be locked up.”
“Come peacefully,” said the Captain.
“Do not test my resolve,” said Aristotle forcefully. “I am Curator of History.”
“She was a Curator.” The Captain gestured towards the hanging figure. “But she broke the Law. Your currency is not what it was.”
Calm yourself, thought Saskareth, but he felt fire rising through his body. Ripples of feathers appeared on his neck. His skin toughened.
The Curator placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
“You fools,” said Paris to the Captain. “What have you done?”
He turned away and led Saskareth with him back to the gallows.
“Help me,” he asked the emu people.
Saskareth and the Curator held her legs while two of the Umawari climbed the gallows and released Xia Tsang from her shame. They lowered her gently into Saskareth’s arms.