Three Days in April

by Edward Ashton

  “Yes,” she says. “The Great Leap Forward. The Great Leap Forward was the faith.”

  “The faith was born in the Summer of Burning. That winter, the mother-­of-­all waited for the rains, but the rains did not come. For many years, the mother-­of-­all had lived with her ­people on the shores of a great lake. The lake gave fish and fresh water, and the forest gave roots and nuts, and the odd carcass if the spirits were generous. As the dry winter wore on, though, the great lake retreated, and the streams that fed it shrank and died. Then the winter ended, and the tall runners came in the night. They drove the ­people out of their homes and away from the lake, away from the forest—­away from all that they had known.

  “The mother-­of-­all led her ­people out onto the plains, away from the tall runners, and into the lands of the lion and the baboon. Without the great lake, it was hard for the ­people to find water, and when they did, there were hyenas and great cats and crocodiles to torment them. The summer turned toward fall, and still the rains did not come. Clouds brought lightning without rain, and the lightning set the plains afire.

  “The flames drove the ­people out of the plains and into the mountains of the east. The higher slopes of the mountains were safe from the fire, and the streams still ran there, but the air was cold at night, and there was little to eat. The ­people spent their days searching fruitlessly for food, and their nights hugging their empty bellies and moaning.

  “The mother-­of-­all looked out over her ­people and saw that they were dying. She went to the eldest and said ‘What shall I do? My ­people are dying. We have not the claws of the lion, nor the jaws of the hyena. We have not the strength of the ­people of the north, nor the tireless speed of the tall runners. How are we to live?’

  “The eldest pointed to the snows that capped the mountain, and said, ‘Go seek the sleeping place of the Spirit of the Moon. Tell him that your children are dying. Perhaps he will take pity on us, and gift you with a way to save your ­people.’

  “And so, the mother-­of-­all climbed the mountain. For two days, she climbed through grass and trees. For two days, she climbed over bare rocks. For two days, she climbed through ice and snow. She ate insects, and drank snow that she melted in her hands. Her belly shrank as she climbed, her cheeks hollowed, and her eyes sank deep into her face. The hairs fell from her head, and her teeth grew loose in her jaws and bloody. Finally, on the seventh night, she reached the cave at the top of the mountain where the Spirit of the Moon slept through the day. She remembered what the eldest had instructed her to do, but she was too proud to beg a gift of the Spirit of the Moon. She hid herself inside the entrance to the cave, and waited for him to arrive.

  “That morning, when the Spirit of the Moon returned to his cave to sleep, the mother-­of-­all pounced on his back. She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and her skinny legs around his waist, and drove him to the ground. ‘Stop!’ cried the Spirit of the Moon. ‘Mother-­of-­all, why are you hurting me?’ The mother-­of-­all twisted her arms tighter, and bit down on the Spirit of the Moon’s ear. ‘My ­people are dying,’ she hissed. ‘You must gift me with a way to save them.’

  “The Spirit of the Moon was afraid, because he knew that there is nothing fiercer than a mother who sees her children about to die. But he was also angry that she had come into his house, and that she had come as a thief in the night rather than as a beggar. So he said to the mother-­of-­all, ‘I can indeed gift you something that will save your children. But once I have given it to you, it cannot be given back.’

  “The mother-­of-­all bit down harder on his ear, and said, ‘Give it to me. Give me what I need to save my children, and I shall never give it back.’ So the Spirit of the Moon reached into his purse and pulled out a certain mushroom. ‘Eat this,’ he said. ‘Eat this, and you will see things as they truly are, not as you wish them to be. Then you will know what you must do to save your children.’

  “The mother-­of-­all took the mushroom and ate it, but she did not release the Spirit of the Moon from her grip. ‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘I have given you what you demanded.’ But the mother-­of-­all would not let him go until she knew how she would save her children. Her stomach burned, and she thought that the Spirit of the Moon had poisoned her. She squeezed his neck with all her strength, determined that they should die together. But then she cried out, and her eyes were opened, and for the first time she saw the world as it truly was.

  “She saw the world laid out before her, both inside and out. She saw the world as it was, as it had been, and as it would be. She saw the path that each of her children would walk. She saw each of her sons gasp out his first breath in fear, and she saw each of her sons gasp out his last breath in agony. She saw her own death growing inside her belly, and she saw how and when it would find her.

  “To the Spirit of the Moon she said, ‘You have tricked me! You promised me a way to save my children from dying!’ But the Spirit of the Moon said, ‘Can you not see now, mother-­of-­all? There is no way to save your children from dying. They are already dead, and always have been. If you go on as you are, their dying will be over in a few short generations, and you will be at peace. But look on, mother-­of-­all, and you will see how you can make their dying last for many thousands of generations. Your children will drive out the tall runners, and they will drive out the ­people of the north, until they fill up every corner of the Earth. And I will watch over you, and laugh at your misery for all the ages of the world.’

  “And so the mother-­of-­all looked out again over the world. She saw a wild olive tree, but rather than the sweet fruit, she saw how a branch could be cut and carved just so, and another could be carved to fit against the first to allow a man to throw a spear with the strength of a giant. She saw a bed of reeds, and saw how they could be woven together and lined with bark, and used to carry her children to the far side of the great lake. She saw her children being born in greater and greater numbers.

  “And then, she saw each of her children dying in agony, while the Spirit of the Moon looked on, and laughed.”

  “That’s a nice story,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Garden of Eden, right? Tree of knowledge? A lot of cultures have stories like this. What makes this one special?”

  “True,” says Aaliyah. “Many cultures have stories like mine. Many cultures also have stories of a great flood, like that of Noah. Do you know why that is?”

  I shrug.

  “I guess one builds off of the other. Someone makes up the first story, someone else hears it and adapts it to their own circumstances . . .”

  She shakes her head.

  “Many cultures have stories of a catastrophic flood, because many of the cultures in today’s world were born in a time of catastrophic floods. At the end of the last cold time, the melting of the great ice sheets raised the level of the seas by hundreds of feet. In some places, the bursting of ice dams released oceans of water in a day and a night. What is now the Mediterranean Sea was once fertile land. Imagine leaving your village to hunt in the hills, and returning that evening to find an ocean. This is a story you would remember, and tell to your children.”

  The wind is rising now, steady from the west. Thunder rumbles closer, and a chill runs from the base of my spine to the back of my neck.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But your story isn’t about a flood. Are you saying that there really was a tree of knowledge?”

  “No,” she says. “The story you read in your Bible is many, many thousands of years removed from the truth. There was no tree of knowledge.”

  I look over at her. She’s grinning.

  “So what’s the point?” I ask.

  “My point is this,” Aaliyah says. “The story I have told you is not thousands of years removed from the truth. I learned it first in the mother tongue. The story I have told you is the truth.”

  The storm announces itself with a cra
ck of thunder and a wave of wind-­driven hail that slants in under the porch roof and clatters at our feet. Aaliyah has to shout to be heard over the burst of noise.

  “I believe that it is time to return to the sitting room.”

  She stands and holds the door for me, then closes it behind us. The sudden silence as the door latches leaves my ears ringing.

  “Be seated,” she says. “I will join you in a moment.”

  I step into the sitting room, push a cushion against the wall and sit. I’m adjusting slowly to life with Aaliyah, but I do very deeply miss chairs.

  The cushions are orange, yellow and red today. The colors make a cheery contrast to the weather. I pick up my phone from the table. I have no idea why I keep carrying it around with me. It hasn’t worked since Tariq brought me here. This reminds me that I also have no idea what’s been happening in the world for the past two days. I want to talk to Terry. I want to talk to Tariq.

  “You must not,” says Aaliyah.

  I look up. She’s seated across from me, with a pot of tea in her hands. Two cups sit on the table beside her.

  “How do you do that?”

  She smiles.

  “Perhaps you will learn. This is what we must discuss now. But first, you must put aside any thought of leaving my home with that device in your hand.”

  I look down at the phone. No ser­vice. It’s mocking me.

  “Would it really be so bad?” I ask. “I just want to check the news, and maybe talk to my sister.”

  “Well,” she says. “You know more of these things than I. Tariq tells me that there is an excellent chance that NatSec is trying to locate you right now. How long would it take them to do so once your phone returned to the network?”

  And she’s right. I do know this.

  “You have no idea what it’s like,” I say, “being cut off like this.”

  “You are like an addict denied her drugs, are you not?”

  I slide the phone across the table.

  “It’s probably best if you hold onto this.”

  She picks it up, and slips it into a pocket.

  “So,” she says. “I must ask you a question now. When you came here, I asked Tariq if you would convert. He forbade me to ask again. But he is not here, and I am not one to be forbidden. I have told you many truths today. I have taught you much about the world, and much about the faith. So now, I ask again. Will you convert?”

  Her face is blank, but there’s a tension in her fingers where they grip the teapot that I haven’t seen before. I look down, then back up into her eyes.

  “What would Tariq say?” I ask. “He’s told me that he abandoned the faith. If I were to convert, would he abandon me?”

  “No,” she says. “Tariq has not abandoned the faith. This is something you must understand before deciding. Once the faith has been embraced, it cannot be abandoned, any more than a bell can be un-­rung. This is as true for us now as it was for the mother-­of-­all. Tariq would no doubt be furious to know that we are speaking of this, but he will not leave you, no matter what you decide.

  Her eyes are half closed now, and her finger traces tiny circles on the teapot’s side.

  “What would it take?” I ask after a long silence. “Are there rites and rituals? Is there a catechism to be learned?”

  Aaliyah smiles.

  “No,” she says. “No robes, no rituals, no ceremonies. No tattoos or brands or sacrificing of animals.”

  She lifts the lid from the teapot, and carefully fills both cups to the rims. She slides one of them across the table.

  “All you need do, is to accept the Gift of the Moon.”

  I reach out, and wrap my hand around the teacup. A wave of nausea rolls over me.

  “Decide now,” says Aaliyah. She lifts her cup to her lips, and drinks it down.

  I lift the cup. The tea is thick and dark as molasses. It smells of an alkaline something, strong enough to sting my nose.

  “You say this bell can’t be unrung,” I say. “But if it were possible to set the faith aside, would you do it?”

  Aaliyah shrugs.

  “You say your dog Ajax was happy. Would you trade the life you have now for his?”

  I bring the cup to my lips, and drink.

  First comes pain, a twisting knife in my gut that doubles me over. I clutch at my belly and gasp for air as my eyes lose focus and a rising roar fills my ears. This lasts for what seems like hours, like days, until the pain fades, and an electric tingle runs up my spine, then down my arms and legs and back again. I slowly push myself upright. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and from the spreading warmth in my crotch I’m guessing that either I’m bleeding out or I’ve wet myself.

  I look down at my hands. They’re strangely out of focus. I rub the tears from my eyes, blink them clear and look up at Aaliyah. She’s smiling.

  And then, like Saul on the road to Damascus, the scales fall away, and I see. I see the city laid out below me from ten thousand feet. At the same time, I see individual ­people going about their days, walking and talking and sitting and sleeping in parks and cars and offices and homes. All of this is background, but with a thought I focus in on one bit of imagery—­a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, huddled in the doorway of a building on Light Street, waiting for the rain to ease up. And still, I can see Aaliyah watching me with a widening grin on her face.

  I’m trying to understand how I’m processing all of that when what looks like a chat box on my phone pops up, floating in the air beside Aaliyah’s head. At first it’s just a blank white rectangle, but after a moment a message appears:

  Sauron’s Eye:

  13. GARY

  Charity is, as it turns out—­aside from being a bar floozie who will traipse home after any idiot who happens to save her from a deranged gunman—­a woman of refinement and good taste. She takes to SpaceLab like a booze hound to beer nuts, laughing at all the right places, and never giving me that ‘what the hell are you watching’ look that I’ve come to know so well.

  Tariq, on the other hand, is a philistine. He perches on the edge of the couch and fidgets through the first three clips, never laughing, and occasionally trying to interrupt. I studiously ignore him.

  Terry has been gone now for almost an hour. I’m honestly not sure what’s going on with Anders. For the last year and a half at least, he’s been in a committed relationship with his right hand. Now the world is ending, and suddenly he’s got one woman in his bedroom and another who apparently would have been if he were slightly less of an idiot.

  Not that I’m bitter, mind you.

  The clip we’re watching is a classic. The captain and Science Officer Scott spend the entire episode on the bridge, debating the pros and cons of being absorbed into a tentacled hive mind that’s attached itself to the station. On the plus side, the captain points out that the hive mind takes care of all your excretory needs, and also that the only attractive woman on the station has already been absorbed. Science Officer Scott concedes the points, but counters that the hive mind handles excretions by recycling them back into your mouth, and that Communications Officer Keiko is much less attractive with a tentacle coming out of her ass. In the end, of course, both arguments are moot, because the captain puts his drink down on the self-­destruct button and blows up the station.

  “Wow,” says Charity. “Where has this been my whole life?”

  “SpaceLab is like the Grand Canyon, or the Mona Lisa,” I say. “It’s always been there, just waiting for you to discover it.”

  She giggles. I’m not ordinarily a fan of giggling, but Charity giggles with panache.

  “Charity,” says Tariq. “Perhaps now you might give us some privacy? Gary and I have important matters to discuss.”

  She breaks into a full laugh now, and I join in. Tariq looks back and forth between us.
His jaw is clenched, and if he were really an evil wizard, I’m pretty sure we’d both be toads.

  “Gary,” he says. “Please. Time is running short, and there is danger for you as well.”

  Charity looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Is this guy serious? Am I interrupting a secret mission?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “He wants me to break into NatSec’s servers, and delete a video of his girlfriend being carried out of Hagerstown on the back of a giant bat.”

  “Gary—­” says Tariq.

  “Oh, cram it,” I say. “We’re not gonna do it, because, as I have already explained several times, it can’t be done. Anyway, Charity’s not NatSec. And even if she was, they can’t drop a crowbar on you for fantasizing. Although, now that I think about it, they probably can drop a crowbar on you for knowing that your girlfriend got out of Hagerstown alive. Charity—­you’re not NatSec, are you?”

  She laughs again. Her giggle is sweet, but she laughs like a hyena. I find it doesn’t bother me, though, as long as I stay focused on what it does to her breasts.

  “No,” she says. “I’m not NatSec. I used to date a NatSec guy, though. Maybe he could help?”

  “I do not think your ex-­boyfriend will help us,” says Tariq. “I suspect he might call in the crowbar Gary is so concerned about.”

  “You’re probably right,” she says. “He does love his crowbars. So I guess it’s just us, huh?”

  “Us?” I say.

  “Sure. You let me in on your secret plans. Now you’ve got to let me help. Otherwise, I’ll go tell my ex.”

  She’s kidding. I think.

  “Look,” I say. “There are no plans here. For the third time, there is no way to do what Tariq wants to have done.”

  “Why not?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Start with the fact that he wants to crack NatSec in the first place. Their budget is bigger than the GDP of Norway, and a big part of it goes to dataspace security.”

  “Pffft,” says Charity. “That’s just money. You’re brilliant, right?”