Aeon Eleven

by Aeon Authors

  Wonder comes from science—of course it does. But science is not the sole proprietor of it. Wonder is a broad treasure chest of things. Wonder is finding some of my childhood memories hidden away in rusty coffee cans. Surveying deep stretches of stars and knowing someone is dreaming back. A praying mantis looking over its shoulder and staring me in the eyes. Wonder is a baby gorilla spread prone and lightly snoring against my chest. If you know how to quantize these things, please don’t tell me; I don’t want to know. I want to keep them just as they are.

  It’s a wonder that we can wonder at all. And perhaps the very thing that ultimately makes us human. Is it an appreciation of magic? Or is it the desperate need to understand a fundamentally incomprehensible reality? In the end it may simply be my own awareness of what I am, awash in an endless sea of what I am not. We can grab Descartes by his ruffled collar and dismember “Je pense, donc je suis,” “I think, therefore I am,” with laser scalpels all day long and still not get close to the real meaning behind those words. Even treating this statement as syllogism one might argue that the finer points risk pointless burial beneath scrutiny and dialogue. Really, it is preamble, argument and conclusion all in one well-packaged phrase. Read Discourse on Method for your pleasure if you will, but know that his idea as stated above was his only irrefutable conclusion, tightly wrapped in its own verisimilitude.

  An earlier philosopher, Plato, discussed paideia, the physical, mental and spiritual progress of all individuals, who are born already with knowledge. So each of us is dealt a hand with which we begin a marvelous journey. From his own base Plato asked epistemological questions about the world and about illusion and how we see a difference, if there is a difference. For him knowledge of reality itself was not a universal concept, but a shifty shadow-image laced together from “individual” and “out world” experiences, filtered through our private senses.

  Given that, of course we cannot really know what’s what between us. If reality is an amalgam agreement between “out there” and inside, then it meanders about on infinitesimally unique pathways. Your own private pathways. Lucid and individual, we really do exist in nested universes, each of us both god and tourist in our own space.

  So how about you? Do you know where you came from? What you are? How much of you is traceable along 10,000 years of human civilization? Back when, remember, the world was filled only with a few scattered campfires around which your great great to the nth grandparents listened rapt to gesticulating shamans and storytellers? So much, my friends, so very much.

  I are human and so am you. Unique and separate, social and collective, a myriad of things we cannot know and yet deeply understand. Walking paradoxes of baffling potential presenting face and words to convey the chaotic storms of emotion and mystery within. Simply human.

  As I have quoted before we are the universe trying to figure itself out, so maybe we shouldn’t rely on a single set of tools to do that. It shouldn’t all be calculus and figures, machines, cold equations and stochastic functions. And certainly not oscilloscopes. No, not oscilloscopes, because there is so very much more. More than particles, more than valence electrons, more than instincts and numbers. More than anything you can count and measure.

  I want to be able to lie on my back, look to the heavens and have the stars carry messages for me; I don’t want my imagination stifled. I don’t want empirical blockades always springing up in the middle of my garden path; I want to close my eyes and fly to a private garden for secret rendezvous. I want to experience the love of a woman, and not have her emotions reduced to evolutionary origins. Because that’s not what it is. It’s a feeling, a gift, a treasure of boundless value. Don’t dissect it. You don’t have to scrutinize it. Enjoy it. It’s amazing. And without it, nothing else really matters.

  —Fin—

  The Cathedral of the Never-Was

  Mikal Trimm

  It sits upon the lip of the volcano, and

  The virgins, consumed

  By native prejudice and

  Godly appetite, dance

  On slender toes, ever tempting

  The precipice, enticing

  The coming harvest with

  The boiling of their blood.

  Their skin is smooth obsidian, their blood

  Magma-rich, and their children,

  The seed of Fire within them, flow

  From their boundless loins

  With molten abandon.

  And the Cathedral of the Never-Was,

  Looking down upon its congregation,

  Constructs itself with the skeletons

  Of the cold, dead offspring of

  The daughters of Man, while

  The sons of the Gods are immortalized,

  Their images painted in shadow-colors

  On its walls, their fused bones rising, statues of grief,

  From its floor.

  The Hanging of the Greens

  John A. Pitts

  “I first wrote ‘The Hanging of the Greens’ as a try-out piece for the Fairwood Writers group. I wrote three stories in three weeks; each had Green as a theme. This was the fantasy piece. ‘Green at Any Speed’ is science fiction and ‘The Boy Who Would Be Green’ is mainstream.

  This is a tale of intersections. What happens when purveyors of that old time religion brush up against an even older faith?”

  LEGATE ATTICUS SPURRED his horse forward through the thickening snow. The expectancy of combat pulsed through him as the air hummed with the foul taint of magic. Once again the Gauls called upon the Fey to assist them.

  At the top of the ridge, above the tents, he stopped to survey the troops as they prepared for the day’s battle. The left wing moved into position—three cohorts strong. The center had been in place since sunup. He grimaced at the ragtag formation of the four cohorts on the right. Their skirmish line spread across the field like a ragged scar. The new recruits needed discipline.

  “Damn this winter.” He spat onto the frigid ground. “It takes a heavy toll on Caesar’s best.”

  Several of the men blamed the Gauls for the harshness of the weather. Frigid nights concerned Atticus less than Caesar’s inattention. How many cohorts had Caesar lost since fall? Twelve? Fifteen? Caesar mourned the losses in his family, haunting Rome in his anguish, allowing the front to languish. But the deaths of ten thousand or more solid legionnaires due in no small part to an inexcusable lack of attentiveness spoke ill for the coming campaign. Rumor abounded of the Gauls’ victories over the past seasons. No few of them mentioned the druids and their allies, the Fey. Atticus had witnessed the woods working against Caesar and his men. When they crossed the Meuse into Belgae, huge trees had flung themselves into the river and carried many good men to a watery grave.

  His horse moved restlessly beneath him, anxious for battle, no doubt. Atticus watched the woods in front of him, watched the snow falling from the gray sky. This winter, we will crush them, he swore to whatever gods cared to listen. In response, the snowfall thickened around him, muffling the sounds of the men and horses. The curses and mutterings faded along with the clinking of armor and weapons. Atticus shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

  A thick blanket of new winter snow covered the hollows for miles around Hindman, Kentucky. Schools had been closed for a week and a festive mood crept along the back roads and trailer parks like a hunting beast. Once again, the warm glow of Christmas graced the little country church deep in Tadpole Hollow.

  The women of the church bustled around the hall. A fire burned merrily in the huge fireplace along the eastern wall, filling the hall with warmth. Children played with the wooden nativity set. Christmas music droned in the background, adding a nice undertone to the quiet, eager exchanges between the parishioners. Excitement reached a tight pitch as the festival preparations began to finish up.

  This was a most special celebration, for two of their own had returned from exile. The women-folk orbited around Sally Preston and her young daughter Candace. Beauty Queen Sally had left Tadpol
e Hallow after high school, following a charismatic preacher-man she’d met during a tent revival. Anyone could have told her that the hell-fire-and-brimstone preaching wouldn’t stop at the tent, but she didn’t see it. After six years of broken dreams and broken bones, Sally had left the Right Reverend Winston and returned to her home, a skittish woman whose beauty had been marred by too many bruises and too little hope.

  Junie Stimpleton, once Sally Preston’s best friend, passed through the meeting hall wielding her two-quart jar of eggnog like a weapon—parrying and thrusting, darting and dancing around the crowd of old and young alike. She watched Sally like a hawk, protective and distant at the same time. Every time the jar emptied, she swung back to the kitchen to report to Mabel.

  Mabel Carpenter puttered in the small kitchen, putting the final touches on a tray of warm, doughy Christmas trees. Sprinkles of green sugar added the coup de grace.

  The final cohort moved into place. The creak and groan of the war machines gave Atticus a warm feeling of confidence. The time for the dance was upon them. Experienced troops manned the scorpions, moving about the machinery with ease, loading the bolts with precision and care. The ballista units, however, had suffered heavy casualties in the last battle and the newly conscripted crews handled the stones and counter-weights with all the discipline of geese. Atticus watched the men as they moved about the bulky war machines. He was struck by the whiteness of their breath and wondered how many of them would fall steaming onto the cold packed earth before this day was through.

  Reverend Thomas E. Sykes held court with the local men folk. Tonight they would enter the wild woods and gather the raiment for the celebration of winter’s promise of resurrection.

  “This year, we’re taking three vehicles. Bobby Stinnet will drive his new pickup and take the Farley brothers. Now, Bobby, you watch out for those two—never saw a pair of twins that wasn’t up to some form of mischief.”

  The tall, fair-skinned boys grinned at the reverend, nudging and jostling each other when they thought he wasn’t looking.

  “Ed will take Michael and Kyle in his Blazer. And I’ll drive up with Deacon Smith in his Lincoln.”

  The other men sniggered. Deacon Smith hiked up his britches and glared at the others.

  “Ridin’ in style won’t do you no good, Reverend,” said Kyle Pruitt. “That sled won’t make it anywhere near Dwarf or Rowdy.”

  “I got the trunk loaded down with twenty-pound bags of cement,” Deacon Smith said. “You just make sure you boys don’t get lost. If I recall, we pulled you and Mikey out of the ditch over by two-nineteen last year.”

  “Black ice, that’s what it was,” Michael said. “Ain’t cause I’m a bad driver. I got a C-plus in Drivers Ed.”

  “All right, boys,” Reverend Sykes said. “We know you’re an excellent driver, Michael. We all run afoul of black ice in our lives, now, don’t we, fellas?”

  All the men nodded and answered in a chorus of “Uh huhs.”

  “Now,” the reverend continued, “we once again honor an ancient tradition of rebirth and immortality. We pay homage to the good Lord and honor his commitment to the everlasting life that is our right when we accept him into our hearts.”

  “Amen,” they chorused.

  “And in keeping with the traditions of this glorious season, we once again take up sickle and saw, knife and hatchet to harvest the bounty of the forest in the service of our Lord.”

  “Amen.”

  “I been watching that stand of oak out on the Mercer place,” said Tim Farley. “Me and Jim climbed up there around Thanksgiving and checked on the mistletoe. Looks like a good crop this year.”

  “That’s good news, boys. And Kyle—you and Michael are in charge of holly this year. Make sure you get plenty, and try to get some with berries if you can.”

  “Aw, Reverend. Them holly bushes got prickers,” Michael said.

  “Wear gloves, idjit,” Deacon Smith said, tapping his fingers on his can of pomade. “You were supposed to get the holly last year when you conveniently got stuck in that ditch.”

  “Remember, Michael,” said the reverend. “You are in the service of the Lord. Surely you can’t think that taking a few holly boughs could be any harder than wearing that crown of thorns. You didn’t hear Christ Almighty whining about the prickers, now did you?”

  “No sir, Reverend.”

  “Good. Now men, don’t let the mistletoe hit the ground. Can’t have it tainted. And Deacon, I want to harvest some laurel if we got the time.”

  “Oh, we’ll make time, Reverend,” Deacon Smith said with a broad smile. “We’ll do it up like the old days.”

  “Let’s be careful,” Reverend Sykes said. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “Gram tells about a fellah getting killed bringing in the greens,” Michael said. “Musta been forty years ago.”

  The men looked from one to another.

  “Thirty-seven,” Reverend Sykes said. “Old Mabel’s first husband, God rest his soul.” He looked at each of them, holding eye-contact for a brief moment. “No accidents. What say you?”

  “Amen,” said the men.

  Atticus watched the Gauls move in and out of the shadowed wood, many howling along with their huge hounds.

  He waved the emissaries out across the left wing. The men hesitated, looking around in dismay. The last three engagements had seen the emissaries returned without their heads. Why Caesar insisted on giving these barbarians a chance to surrender this late in the campaign he just couldn’t understand. This spoke of a weakness that could very well prove to be Caesar’s greatest flaw. Strike first, Atticus believed. Let the gods sort the innocent from the guilty.

  “What are the men doing, Momma?” Candace Preston asked, twisting her left foot back and forth as if she were putting out a cigarette. She tugged at one straw-blonde pigtail.

  For a moment, no one said anything. Sally Preston put down her cross-stitch and looked at her daughter thoughtfully.

  “They’re bringing in the greens,” Mabel Carpenter said before Sally could respond.

  Candace stared at the old woman. She looked about four days older than dirt and had a disposition to match any of the snakes the men folk would be passing around later as they sang hymns.

  “What for?” Candace asked.

  “Child, didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Mabel asked. “They’re gathering the laurel and holly, pine and mistletoe, to decorate the church and celebrate the season of renewal.”

  “But why do we do that? Hang the greens, I mean?”

  Mabel shot Sally Preston a narrow-eyed glare. Sally wouldn’t meet it. “Well,” Mabel began, “the greenery represents everlasting life.”

  “You mean like in Heaven?”

  “Yes, honey,” Sally said.

  Candace grimaced as old miss Mabel glared at her momma again. “How long you going to be telling that child such fabrications?”

  Candace looked around the room. Many of the women looked away. Her momma’s eyes grew large. “She’s only a child,” her mother said. “She ain’t ready to hear that sort of wives’ tale.”

  “Wives’ tale?” Mabel growled. “There are few tales told in this church, young lady. You should know better than that.”

  Her momma hung her head and stroked Candace’s hair quietly. Around the room the other women worked with bowed heads. The whisper of thread being pulled through linen slithered through the silence.

  “You come over here, little’un, and I’ll tell you the real story.” Mabel held her hands out to Candace, who looked back and forth between her mother and the old woman.

  “Calliope,” she called over. “You take the young ones upstairs and sing carols while we have a talk.”

  “Yes’m,” Calliope Smith said with a nod.

  The riotous noise of a dozen children scampering up to the sanctuary echoed through the hall.

  As the last child vanished Mabel smiled sweetly and held out her arms. “Come on, honey,” she crooned. �
��Let old Granny tell you a little story.”

  Atticus and his men huddled in a defensive formation, panting from the most recent skirmish. Blood dripped from his torn scalp, a present from a thick oaken cudgel. The fever of battle faded as the dead steamed at their feet. This was nothing compared to the engagement just days before. That fight had been swift and merciless. Of the seven cohorts under Atticus’ command, two of the more experienced had held the skirmish line, protecting the baggage and siege engines. The new cohorts had fallen, breaking under the fierce barbarian onslaught, and now were sport for the crows. Of the remaining cohort, two centuries of battle-hardened legionnaires remained. They hunted the Gauls, if one could call two hundred men hacking and burning their way deep into the primal forests a hunt.