by Gene Stiles
“Do not be disheartened,” Cronus said, still genuinely disquieted. “This is a large world and we have only begun to study its vastness. I have no doubt we will find what we seek. Terra is much like the Atlan that was in so many ways and within the same solar region. Elementally, if there were not innumerable similarities, we could not even exist on this planet.”
“We should institute conservations methods,” Thorina added, “and devise alternative energy systems. Crius and I have a few ideas we would like to explore with your permission.” She glanced over at the young engineer who played with the clear crystal tablet before him. Suddenly aware that the attention of the table was upon him, Crius nodded briefly, flushing a bright crimson, lowered his head and hid his embarrassment beneath his mass of black, bouncy curls.
“Use whatever resources you require,” Cronus responded, stepping out of the hologram and returning to the head of the table. Lying on the polished, green-veined, marble floor, next to his chair, the ornately carved Box called to him with dark promise. His body shuttered inside as if caught naked in a blinding snowstorm, freezing his pounding heart and sucking the breath from his lungs.
‘Am I doing what is right?’ he questioned his tormented mind. ‘Once opened, the horror of this Book can never be entombed again. The terrifying prophecies will never be forgotten and shall burn in their hearts forever. Will I be condemning them as I have been condemned?’
‘You must,’ whispered the voices in his head. ‘They need to know why you have kept your great burden from them, lest they think you mad.’
Cronus squatted before the Box, feeling the calming touch of his mother helping to still the trembling in his powerful hands. His chipped jade eyes felt as frozen as his fingers, so loath to open the latches that imprisoned the vile, soul-tearing demons inside. He inhaled a cold breath of acidic air that burned down his constricted throat and enflamed his lungs.
“My love,” Rhea’s serene voice washed over him. He looked up into her smoothly carved beauty, saw the worry etched in her misty blue eyes and the lines marring her gentle features. She gave him a wan smile that drew him out of himself, making him realize that the room had gone silent around him.
Cronus gave her a small nod, suddenly conscious that he knew not how long he stared at the Box. He forced his unwilling hands to lift the lid, remove the ancient, carefully wrapped Book and lay it upon the table. He dropped heavily into his leather chair, the weight of his soul making him feel more like stone than a man. Cronus felt a choking cloud of tension permeating the chamber, dimming the room like a thick fog. His brothers and sisters leaned forward, their arms upon the great Table as if by getting closer their expectant eyes could read the hand-written words themselves.
Cronus looked into their anxious, anticipative faces seeing fear and apprehension, excitement and curiosity. All he could feel was a shivering sickness eating away at his bowels. He was terrified to speak aloud the horror he had read so many times as if hearing them would grant them a ghostly life of their own. Still, his mother’s voice called to him, calm yet commanding in a way he could not disobey, ‘Tell them.’ His hands trembled like small earthquakes, making unwrapping the ancient text slow and ponderous. Cronus ran his fingers over the cracked, hide-covered binding and, with great trepidation, opened the Book. His rich baritone voice quivered and cracked in the silent room, gaining strength and smoothness as he read.
The Diary of Iasion:
Year 2, AL (After Landing) - Terrain Scale
To my friends, Cronus and Rhea, and to all of the People: I have decided to keep this journal as a history. To tell you all what passes as you sleep. It is the least I can do for it is I, Iasion, who brought this upon the People. Yet I know that all will be well in time.
Time. Now there is the key word. How much time? In my arrogance and my pride, I believed that Terra would be ready for us upon our arrival. Yet the impact of the asteroid was far greater than I had imagined. Terra has not taken kindly to the intrusion. All around the globe there continues to be violent volcanic eruptions and great earthquakes. The air remains thick with dust and hot ashes and the land beneath our feet still shudders…
The bright yellow sun slipped behind the dark roiling clouds gathering at the peaks of the western mountains foretelling of a coming storm. The black and gray masses swept across the valley moaning and wailing like a million lost souls awaiting their turn to be sucked into a pit of despair. The winds screamed through the forests and across the meadows with such ferocity that saplings bent until their tops touched the ground. Tree limbs snapped and plummeted to the earth, impaling themselves on the flattened grass. The tall stalks of maize growing fresh in the plowed fields were leveled as if by the hand of the Creator, newly formed ears driven into the muddy dirt. The shutters of the Wind Song were forced to close so the rising cacophony of sound did not rip through the city streets and assail the ears.
Jagged bolts of bright white and blue lightning tore open the night, splitting trees and leaving large burnt patches where it seared the grasses. Fires ignited by the torches of electrified air were instantly quenched by heavy torrents of rain that accompanied booming explosions of rolling thunder. The tallest buildings in Atlantis shuttered under a barrage of fire bolts, the crystalline structures absorbing the expended energy and expelling it into shafts of borithium sunk deep into the earth.
The only thing that stood impervious to the raging fury of the violent thunderstorm was the One Tree, its thick boughs and wide, green leaves only swaying in the lashing of the wind. Angry, frustrated explosions of light clawed at the ancient edifice of wood like an incensed, infuriated beast outraged at its inability to do serious damage to its primordial adversary. The alien physiology of the One Tree withstood the onslaught, absorbing the fiery energy within the sinews of its limbs and using it to spur new growth. A brilliant, blue field of static discharge surrounded the One Tree in a shimmering halo of defiance to the storm.
All of this violence went unnoticed in the deathly still confines of the council chamber. The shocked members of the Table of Twelve uttered not a word to interrupt the enthralling, horrifying, oppressive, dispiriting narrative. Salty tears slid down the reddened cheeks of nearly everyone. Even normally loud and boisterous Hyperion sat in quiet contemplation, his carved marble face as still as a stone cliff side, streaked with ocean spray.
Cronus paused to quench his parched throat and to see the myriad range of expressions on the faces of those gathered around him. He saw their sorrow, their agony, their grief and their anger. He knew the torturous twisting gnawing at their fevered minds. He felt their shudders of revulsion reverberating through the soles of his booted feet. He suffered with all of these things and more, much, much more.
Taking a deep and painful breath, he continued…… Year 210 AL (Terrain Scale)
I am dying. And it is good. The dome that had been my home these vast lonely years failed five Terrain years ago. The silver suit that has been my prison no longer maintains my body heat or recycles my waste. The air it pumps into my lungs is stale and a little too warm.
My passing is not a bad thing. I serve no purpose except as an oddity. These new generations still sit with me at campfire. They listen to my poorly rendered stories time and again. I am The Ancestor to them; the ancient one from whom all the Clan was born. I have told them of my beloved Varua, of Mateus and Algonquin. I said there was Janus and Cleia. Yet these are only names to them. They see only me.
They take care of me, treating me with reverence and awe. They bring to me the tenderest cuts of meat, the sweetest of fruits, the freshest of spring water. They lay them before me with quiet ceremony. They ask my blessing of any union and beg luck from me before the hunt. I have long since given up on dissuading them.
I am not allowed to hunt with them. They say it would endanger me, but I know it is because I would only be in their way. These people are stronger than I. They are more fleet of foot. Their senses are sharper and their hunting skills incredible.
The younger generations even look different than I, Cronus. They are hardier, more robust. Thick cords of muscle encase their stocky frames. The constant, heavy gravity has made them more squat than I. The sun has grown hotter as we pushed northward and they have darkened in pigment to shield themselves from its rays. Body hair has increased over the generations, and their noses have flattened and widened to better circulate the humid air in their enlarged lungs.
The Clan is at home in this heated climate. As for me, I am once again trapped within a blackened cave. They find for me a cool, damp place, away from the oppressive heat where I can shed my suit for at least long enough to bathe or eat. They care for me as one would care for a new babe.
I am more alone now than ever, Cronus. The violence of the world has taken my sons from me and many of my grandchildren. In fact, none of the first children have survived to this day. I am not even sure if this new breed of man share with us our long life span. They still heal as we do and I have taught them to Lend, but a mistaken step, a vicious animal, or a hundred other accidents take them long before they reach old age.
We still gather for the evening meal before a crackling fire. They tell me of the day’s events and I share with them the stories of the past. I continue to press them with the Need to return to you. But am I getting through?
It is increasingly difficult to communicate with my children. Most words have been dropped from their vocabulary. What good is it to speak of music with nothing to play it on? Why talk of science with no equipment to work with? What good is philosophy when it matters not to survival? They have shortened their sentences, forgetting flowery description in favor of quick response. My name they have even abbreviated. They no longer call me Iasion. In the rare times, they refer to me as other than Ancestor, they simply call me Izon. They have even begun to call themselves Izon. Do they know it is only my name?
In the end, I suppose it matters not. My name is but part of a past life I can barely remember. Yet maybe, just maybe, if they incorporate some part of my name into their lives, they will remember to return to the continent where you rest. The will remember the Need to bring you and all the People back to life.
Yet do you still live, Friend Cronus? Is there still the incredibly slowed tick of your heart, brought to near stillness by those swirling gasses? Do those ancient machines continue to maintain your muscle tone? Or did the mountain that fell upon you crack the ships like an egg? Do you lie entombed in your borithium coffins, your bodies turned to dust over the ages we have roamed?
The Creator has seen fit to end my days with these questions unanswered. It is my penance for my crimes upon this world.
At least I have given something to this world in return. A new kind of life. No matter how changed they may be, our decedents do live here. The dream that brought the People across the dark reaches of space has been fulfilled. Our children do walk in the grass. They do feel the rain upon their skins. Wind does caress their bodies. They are free to roam in the sunlight. Even if you and I no longer breathe, the People shall continue. The Creator has not made all the People pay for my deeds. I am grateful.
I have one more duty to perform before I rest, Friend Cronus. One silver and gold borithium chest is all that remains of our equipment. Upon the lid, I have drawn a map of our travels. It points the way back to you where you rest. Inside I have wrapped the Key that unseals the ships and releases you. Tonight I shall place this journal in the Box along with the Key. I will encode the latch so none but the Clan can open it. I have chosen one as the Keeper and charged her with continuing the map and taking care of this Box.
In front of the night’s fire, I will at last shed this silver skin and don the furs of my children. The suit will join the Key and my journal to remind the children of their heritage. Then, as did Algonquin, I shall leave them and walk into the night. As did those on Atlan who grew weary, I will Return To The Creator. May he forgive me my sins.
Ah, to feel the wind in my hair! To breathe in the true scents of the flowers! To take a cold swim in the blue waters of a lake! I shall do these things, Friend Cronus. If only until the heat of the rising sun claims my body as this world has claimed my soul.
May your rest be peaceful, Friend Cronus, and your awakening be assured. I have done what I can. May the lovely Rhea awaken at your side as I know my beloved Varua awaits me at the right hand of the Creator. Goodbye.
No one had the power to speak as Cronus closed the Book. He said not a word as he re-wrapped the relic and placed it in its borithium tomb. He rose from his seat and walked slowly to the crystal windows overlooking Atlantis. He noticed for the first time the powerful, black storm pounding the city with blanketing sheets of heavy rain. Blueish spears of bent and twisted lightning tore through the dark cloud cover like the fire bolts of the Creator and rippled across the night sky. Cronus wondered if this vehement, unbridled thunderstorm of nature was just a despondent portent of a greater, more dangerous turbulence yet to come. It went unheeded when the Twelve silently left the chamber encumbered by their own private hells.
Chapter III
Guel squatted before the evening fire, his wide, thick hands held out to the warming flames. His mahogany eyes glittered like cold, polished obsidian beneath his heavy brow ridge as they stared into the glowing embers, red and yellow like the eyes of some feral beast. He did not hear the joyous banter or the sounds of happy laughter of the others gathered there nor could he see their friendly smiles. His broad nostrils, flaring with each breath into his massive chest, did not smell the scent of fresh, succulent venison, spiced with fine herbs, sizzling loudly as it roasted slowly on a turning spit. The mouth-watering aroma of green leaf wrapped vegetables smoldering in the hot cinders did not even moisten his thick lips, hidden in the forest of his wiry, black beard.
Guel was not hungry though he had eaten little in months. He was not thirsty, drinking only enough to meet his body’s demands. He was not buoyant with the return of the Clan rescued from the mountain pass. He was not filled with just pride at the growth of their settlement in the endless meadows surrounding the deep-water lake, which they simply called Home. Nothing could light the blackness of his empty soul. Nothing but the red-hot glow of burning hate.
“Guel. Guel,” he heard, a firm hand shaking his shoulder, “you must eat.”
Guel only nodded, rocking back to sit on the soft, grass-padded ground and taking the offered plate. He crossed his muscled legs and laid his hot meal upon his lap, looking up at the Keeper. He picked at the rich smelling food, putting small tidbits in to his mouth, as if it was a medicine he was loath to take.
Haleah stood over her friend for long moments, her long golden hair fanned by the warm evening breeze, waiting for an invitation to sit down. Her smooth, sun-tanned face was etched with fine lines of concern for him and her sky-blue eyes shimmered with uncried tears. Guel never raised his head from his food or spoke another single word. With a deep, worried sigh, she turned from him, finding her place on the flat-trimmed log next to Morpheus.
“How is he doing?” Morpheus stared across the flickering fire where Guel sat alone and silent. His ebony eyes glimmered like a thousand stars against the velvet blanket of the summer night. His midnight hair hung over his broad, square shoulder, cascading in waves down the back of his crimson leather, sleeveless vest to his narrow, tapered waist. A simple, lightly padded band of dark red hide held it away from his firm-jawed face, highlighting his high cheekbones and straight, thin nose. His tender, pink lips, normally cocked in a mischievous grin, were pinched and downturned at thoughts of Guel these past months.
“About the same,” Haleah sighed heavily, dropping like a stone beside him. “He speaks only when he has to and then gruffly as if the words tear at his throat. The warmth in him I always loved has now been replaced by a burning darkness.”
“What can we do for him?” Haleah asked, her soft voice quivering in sorrow. She leaned into Morpheus, laying her weary head upon his muscular chest. He p
laced his strong arm around her, cocooning her in the serenity of his loving embrace. Her long, blond hair fell across him, moistened by the tears she could hold back no more.
“I fear there is nothing. This is a journey Guel must make on his own.” Morpheus gently stroked Haleah’s head and shoulders, feeling her quiet weeping but saying nothing. “We can only be here for him whenever he needs us, letting him know he always has friends.”
They watched Guel as he rose from the fire, leaving his smooth stone plate lying on the ground, the meal only half eaten. He turned his back on the flickering flames and disappeared into the moonlit night, silently making his way to the small hide hut he had built far away from the others.
“Morpheus! Morpheus!” Captain Kaikinos called from the edge of the bonfire, his deep, baritone voice filled with wondrous joy. “Come here, my boy! You must try this tasty wine Shuk has made from wild, purple grapes! Of course, it is not as good as Atlantean wine,” he laughed, “but it is will do in a pinch.”
Morpheus grinned in his boyish way, rose gracefully from his log and reached out his hand for Haleah. “Come, my love,” he smiled. “Let us have a taste before the Captains drink it all up.”
Lelantos stood shirtless, his Enviro-Suit sheared off around his narrow waist, looking down at the cooling rods of borithium in the molds he created with a combination of crushed rock and the thick, red mud found near the base of the mountains. Sweat rolled down his immense, sun-darkened chest, his muscles tense and glistening as if covered with a thin sheen of oil. He poured another jug of water over the metal, pulling his head back as steam hissed in protest, sending over-heated clouds of white up toward the high ceiling. Lelantos waved away the mist, a small smile playing across a corner of his thin, pink lips. His greenish-hazel eyes gleamed brightly in the sun-filled room, pure pleasure flowing across his finely chiseled features.