Whatever Gods May Be

by George P. Saunders

  Zolan's records would not be needed for several thousand years yet; when Man again possessed the powers of the atom, and again was in a position for self-destruction, Zolan's transcripts of the distant past would serve - hopefully - as a prophetic reminder to humanity of its ancient mistakes.

  Zolan stared at the cartons of paper, leaves and canvas against the rock wall. It had been a week since the Blue Star's appearance. In that time, he had drafted out an extensive summary and narrative of events leading up to and following the Rover's implosion, which in turn had caused the nova. He had reported all that he had seen as an observer, though his own theories were included throughout for the sake of future historians and scientists. He had also introduced himself most unforgivingly as the perpetrator of much of the disaster that had befallen Earth. Thus far, his reports had been churned out with cold, clear expository style, and he had avoided all personal interjections of any sort.

  But today, he would finish up his work with a last diary-like entry. Tomorrow, he would leave the tribe valley, along with the Birdog, her pups, and of course, Thalick. Together, they would make a new home away from the center of humanity; in this way, Man would begin to understand and appreciate independence once more.

  Zolan placed his torch between a crack in the wallface, then lowered himself down on a comfortable rock. The light in the cave was now warm and bright. A partially shattered ink pen was produced from his mauled tunic, and Zolan tested it carefully against the yellow-rimmed paper. Only a few sheets remained, so not a square inch could be wasted. Thank god Phillips had been able to preserve as much as he could for so long, Zolan marvelled. A strange, wistful smile passed over Zolan's transformed features. How fast everything seemed to have happened! And how little time there had been to give thanks.

  Zolan sighed heavily and began to write.

  This is my final insert.

  Tomorrow, the Stingers leave us, except for Thalick. I have been told that they refuse to stay longer. I cannot blame them; they have remained on Earth now for over twelve thousand years, according to Thalick's best estimates. Green Belly and One Claw have been buried -- a custom the Thelericks did not fully understand, but which they did not object to at my request.

  I do not further wallow in self-pity when I say that I amaze myself continually with how much damage I had caused when evoking the Hall prematurely. I have no place for self-recrimination --only restitution. Yet, it boggles the mind to consider how one weak and foolish man could have influenced the destinies of so many in such a short amount of time. Twelve thousand years! I hope the Stingers have forgiven me -- though I suspect that had I made such a request, they would have been mystified. Ageless creatures that they are, time holds a very different significance for them. Perhaps, they would have regarded me somewhat ridiculously.

  In any case, they leave our world at dawn. I have instructed the tribe to observe their departure, though I'm sure none within understand the meaning of such a ceremony. Perhaps it will dawn on the men of this world later, that the Thelericks who had protected them for so long would never come back in their lifetime. Perhaps, at that later date, there would be remorse.

  I, too, leave tomorrow, though my journeys will not be as great as the Stingers', nor as permanent. Thalick and I have decided that it would be best to isolate ourselves away from the tribe, in order for it to acquire the newfound taste of independence. Besides, they no longer need us. The adobe-hut program I initiated last week is well underway, and those I appointed to hold authority over its completion have expanded their duties to include a loose kind of government over all tribe affairs. It will take some practice to live without guidance, but they will adapt, as humanity always has.

  As I indicated earlier in my texts, the overnight transformation of everything on Earth from an ecological standpoint also included an eerie kind of metamorphosis among all tribe survivors. Sickness due to Hall-related infection has vanished. Based on what I have seen within the past few days on the progress of their learning capacity, I cannot help but conclude that the Hall was also responsible for a kind of retardation syndrome within the tribe. I would hazard a guess that the Hall, or rather, its by product, the Dark, had managed to disease the very brain itself, and only with its destruction, was all influence eradicated as well. Their grasp of language has improved one hundred percent, and their talent for organization grows stronger every day.

  Within a year, I predict, the city of New Phillips will be completed. Thalick and I will stop in once a week or so for medical examinations, as well as to provide semblance of a supreme authority that all must answer to, but aside from this, we will be totally out of the picture. While it is tempting to set up my own kind of society, complete with original legislation and government, I realize how unfair this would be to the people of Earth. They must learn the bulk of existence and survival on their own. They must choose their own governments and lifestyles. They must make their own laws, and find their own ways of enforcing them. All Thalick and I can do is to provide instruction and choices for them to make. You the readers of tomorrow must decide if I was wise in my judgment. I hope at least, you will consider me fair, if nothing else.

  Throughout my narrative, I have launched into long, perhaps somewhat pedantic diatribe and exposition to describe what has happened on Earth. I have done this only to supply the most amount of information possible for the sake of future conjecture and refute. You now have some idea of what the Dark and the Hall were, where the cannibalistic Redeye originated, and how the Blue Star was created, with the help of my own Rover Starglide. The aforementioned texts have been cloaked in scientific rhetoric, and elaborate hypothesis -- along with, I suppose, wishful thinking and a few wild guesses. I hope you will find it all useful, all believable, and all amazing. None of it you will find as intriguing - or incredible - as what I have yet to note.

  Forgive me, if I expound on these latest developments in the simplest of terms. I have no scientific verbiage that can explain what has happened on a more profound level in the world. I shall allow this task to be undertaken by the genius of a later age - or the divinely enlightened who perhaps will speak as I do now.

  The morning after the Little One brought with it a miracle. Flowers and trees, birds and animals appeared across the land, in the mountains and deserts alike. Species of mammal and reptile that had been extinct for a million years could be seen in great profundancy. Where did they come from, you ask?

  I don't know, I shall answer; but they returned to the world nevertheless. It was as if nature had been set free again. This same miracle as I shall refer to it hereafter must be applied to the inexplicable reformation of the mutated tribesman. Attribute these awesome manifestations if you will to some sort of bizarre process of spontaneous generation, or to a mutation factor that has yet to be mentioned. I can do neither. I have my own personal convictions on how so much could have been accomplished -- against all the odds and laws of physical and natural science. I can only hope that what I am about to put down on paper will not invalidate my previous transcripts and their contents, by portraying me as a deranged psychopath. It is for you, the hopefully wise of a later age, to determine how mad - or inspired - I really am.

  In a single night, Earth became changed. Dramatically and beneficially. The vampires have been all but destroyed, or at least rendered harmless. The Resistor - whatever it was, or however future analysts will care to label it - was wiped clean of the planet. And the Hall - a product of my own damnable engineering - was flushed out of the atmosphere within seconds by the Rover Starglide's noble sacrifice. In short, Earth was saved in a period of several minutes.

  I confess now for all posterity that there is much that still eludes me in the way of understanding. I never met Valry Phillips, at least in a way that would be tangibly recognizable for fellow human beings. I don't know what or who she was. Yet, I can say for sure that her existence -- and I believe her will -- affected the destiny of our world Earth for the next million years. And I think we, a
s fragile and error-filled mortals, must begin to recognize forever the existence of powers more sublime in the universe than we can imagine, as having a direct bearing on the course of our respective fates and futures. In short, I believe that the miracles perpetrated last week, culminating in the restoration of the planet and revitalization of the human race, must be attributed to the actions of a higher intelligence; one, I must emphasize, that perhaps was responsible for all creation itself, and for lack of a better word, is known as God.

  As I have emphasized, I know little of what kind of creature Valry Phillips was. I do know this, and I record it now for the future generations of mankind: she was more than human, and yet totally human. And I loved her unreservedly. If I have offended a power higher than myself with my errors, then I pray now that I will be in a position to make amends for the rest of my life. I believe that I am in that position; for as I conclude these writings, I am now able to offer a warning to you.

  Abandon your wars, your hatred, and your ambition. Learn from this ancient lesson -- and salvation; understand that your ancestors endured great punishment at their ancestors' hands, and that you might well produce greater agonies for your descendants if you follow in the old ways of hostility and evil. Tame your great powers, and direct them to programs and projects of fruition. Control the atom, and let it hurl you towards the stars, perhaps one day to meet up again with the great Thelericks, instead of allowing its destructive forces throttle you for a millennium.

  I give you, people of Earth, freedom of choice. Decide wisely and humane for the next time, you may not have another chance.

  As for myself, I finish now my notes to you. I shall leave New Phillips and watch your progress from afar. And I will wait. I shall wait for your maturity, and for more answers. I will wait, also, for the return of Valry Phillips.

  Go with God.

  * * *

  Once again, a very itchy Birdog ear was receiving notable and grateful attention from Zolan's hand. Together, they watched silently from the mountain ledge that had once saved the tribe only a week before, the departure of the nine Thelerick Stingers. In the valley, the tribe huddled together and waved, as each Stinger launched himself into the sky, to disappear a moment later into the dark blue hue of the dawn. Thalick was nowhere to be found, though Zolan suspected that he had made his farewells to his comrades some time earlier. For reasons of his own, he had decided against seeing them off now for the last time. The last Thelerick vanished just as the giant sun sparkled over the horizon to blind the world with light.

  "Well, now, scratchy ear," Zolan said fondly to his furry companion, "I think it's time we make our own farewells."

  The Birdog barked, then lumbered down the slope ahead of Zolan.

  Zolan took a deep breath and watched the sky grow blue. Somewhere behind him a bird chirped loudly, while near his feet in some shrubbery, a noisy cicada sang an eerie tune for the morning.

  A moment later, hammering could be heard in the valley, along with shouts, and the sounds of work. The new day started just like any other, though this time it would be marked as the first without Thelerick assistance.

  When Zolan came down the mountain, Thalick was waiting for him near the desert border, along with the mother Birdog, and her four pups curled on her back. Three or four strong tribesman were also nearby, packed up with all the equipment and wares Zolan had ordered to go with him. He had not insisted on a grand ceremony to wish him farewell, as he had done for the Stingers, and when he turned his back on the tribe and headed for the desert, the people in the valley were hardly aware of his departure.

  By midday, they had come to the spot Thalick had chosen for them. It was a large plateau, with a spring geysering at the top. A few small trees were in the first stages of growth; within a year these would provide substantial shade to whatever Zolan wished to build on top.

  Zolan nodded his approval.

  "It's a good place, Thalick. We'll stay." Hours later, after Thalick had taken the tribesman who had helped them travel back to the valley, both he and Zolan, along with the tired Birdog waited for the Blue Star to appear for its nightly visitation. As it did, a thought occurred to Zolan that he had not previously considered.

  "You know," he said, almost ashamedly, "we've never given it a name."

  Thalick hissed and thought back to the not so distant past. Wasn't it Valry, also, who had given so much importance to the naming of things -- including himself and the other Stingers? Was this a trait, the Stinger wondered, peculiar to all men?

  "What shall we call it?" Zolan asked in solemn wonder. Thalick undulated uncomfortably. He was forced to admit that he had little imagination for such problems. The giving of labels was a definitely human superiority which he did not possess.

  YOU CHOOSE NAME FOR LITTLE ONE he responded carelessly, inadvertently addressing the star above by Valry's pet name.

  Zolan rubbed his chin. And then he smiled. He was quiet for several moments, his eyes simply staring in private contemplation. Thalick noticed the strange water appear on the man's cheek -- didn't Valry also produce this same substance during extreme moments of emotion non-control?

  "Little One," Zolan tasted the words carefully, turning back around to stare at the star now fully visible above the sands. "Yes, I think so, Thalick. Our Little One. Do you agree?"

  Thalick clipped his claws together in the closest expression of joy a Thelerick Stinger could ever muster.

  GOOD NAME, ZOLAN. LITTLE ONE

  "Dalka," the Birdog concurred, licking Zolan's hand.

  Far above, the Little One began to twinkle brighter than ever before.

  From too much love of living,

  From hope and fear set free,

  We thank with brief thanksgiving

  Whatever gods may be

  That no life lives forever;

  That dead men rise up never;

  That even the weariest river

  Winds somewhere safe to sea.

  EPILOGUE

  The pain had returned.

  Zolan breathed heavily, smacking his lips, and trying not to grimace too obviously. He had not stopped talking for the past hour. Tom had been a good listener; he stared now in expectation, waiting for more, waiting for -- for what? The denouement? The climax? Zolan wondered vaguely. What more was there to tell? The past five centuries since the Little One's birth had been peaceful times, for the most part; times of watching and teaching. Mankind was thriving again; in another few centuries, industry would begin to flourish and in less than a millennia, the stars above would begin to haunt the eyes of humanity -- as well as the inevitable sword of self-destruction once more. Thalick would no doubt still be here, this time around, forestalling any possible catastrophe.

  Perhaps, this time around, on this world, Man would make it to the stars at last.

  Zolan hoped so.

  No, Tom, my young friend, there is nothing more for me to tell. I shall leave that job up to you -- and to your children. Let my history, and Thalick's, be yours.

  A slice of agony ripped through his chest, and he doubled over.

  Thalick bristled immediately. Yet the Stinger sensed this time that that there was nothing more to be done. Zolan puffed, then straightened, as the pain subsided for the moment -- and he began to feel a warm glow around him.

  The night had disappeared.

  Slowly, Zolan, Tom and Thalick raised their eyes to the Little One's pervasive presence overhead. The oasis had suddenly become bathed in a hue of blue and green colors that was only tainted with a smidgeon of warmth. Zolan raised his hand unconsciously over his head; the sun looked so close now that it was almost touchable.

  Tom was equally mesmerized, but only Thalick regarded the little sun with a mixture of suspicion and apprehension. Throughout Zolan's narrative, the Stinger had involved himself in the analyses of all his compiled data concerning the oasis, Tom and Zolan's fantastic premonitions of his own death. He had failed in coming to satisfactory resolutions to the many dilemmas of t
he day and he was now prepared to accept a gut-level hunch as to what was about to transpire.

  Perhaps, Thalick admitted in stunned silence, Zolan was right... Zolan brought his face away from the Little One and looked fondly at the boy next to him. Tom was still open-mouthed gazing at the star. He had seen it a thousand times before, but like Zolan and the Stinger, he somehow thought that tonight it looked different.

  "It is time," Zolan spoke quietly, breaking the eerie silence that hovered around them. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the claw he had been leaning against and stood on two shaky legs. Thalick hissed sharply, which made Tom jump with surprise.

  "Are you leaving, Master Grizz?" the boy asked innocently.

  Zolan walked a few feet away from both Thalick and Tom before turning around to answer.

  "Yes, Tom, I am."

  The boy walked over to where Zolan was and reached out a shy hand. Zolan took it as the boy spoke.

  "Can I come with you, Grizz?" he asked.

  Zolan smiled gently, then layed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "No, Tom, you have to go back with the Guardian. Now listen carefully to what I want you to do."

  Tom straightened up and blinked two attentive eyes at Zolan. "This is my last command ever, and it is a special one for you. Do you promise to carry it out for me?"

  Tom nodded solemnly that he would.