by Jack Doe
"In his lust for more, man found that he needed more and more to keep what he had. While he could tend a plot of land by himself, it took many men to tend a river valley. Many men...or many centaurs." Muted images of their ancestors talking with mankind's chieftains flashed into view.
"We were happy to work the fields of our neighbors at first," Ing'ma said. "Man was grateful for our help and expertise." An image of a centaur and a man hoeing a field together, smiling and talking drifted across the room. "At first we helped, and then he left the work to us to do alone." The image of the man faded out, and the centaur's smiling face smiled a bit less.
"At first we came inside together, prepared meals together, and dined together." An image of bountiful feasting, drinking, and merriment with centaurs and humans replaced the image of the lone centaur in the field. "And then he prepared his meals alone and dined without us." The centaurs disappeared from the image, and man feasted with his brethren alone.
"Then he asked us for a little bit of our lands; there were things that he needed to grow that he just didn't have the space for." A map appeared, showing the division between man's land and the centaurs' land. The land was initially equally divided, but slowly the dividing line swallowed up the centaurs' land.
"But the final straw was when our ancestors realized that we were serving him and had barely enough to eat of their own. While they still sang songs, many became sad." Mournful chants, songs the audience had never heard before, echoed throughout the ship, and the ship itself seemed to groan in empathy.
"All over the world, it was the same. It seemed not to matter where our ancestors lived, be it in De'ru, De'ne, or De'bar: inevitably, the humans enslaved us. Our ancestors had remained in touch with each other over the centuries, and they all sent delegates to De'ru to discuss what to do." Centaurs appeared in the darkness, illuminated only by moonlight as they exchanged back-strokes, their expressions grave.
"Ten thousand years ago, our ancestors collectively told mankind that we would no longer serve them, that their greed had taken away our happiness, that we chose no longer to live that way." A red pall came over the room as the centaurs vanished, their eye sockets lingering the longest.
"Mankind refused to accept our position, and taking up weapons we taught them to make, they began to attack us. With clubs they beat our ancestors, and with arrows they shot us." The streams turned red. The audience cringed, and some of the foals ran to be with their mentors.
Ing'ma's voice turned grave and hollow. "We struck back," he said flatly, his face pained with ancient grief, "and we annihilated anyone who attacked us." The color of the water darkened to be almost black, but still the red tainted it. Some of the foals were crying as their mentors held and soothed them.
Darkness crept over the room, and Ing'ma's voice, once proud and jovial, echoed coldly in the room. "In grief over what we had to do, our ancestors fled. We retreated to the mountains of Alt'udia." The world-sphere appeared again, and the area of northern India expanded to show the exiled centaurs making their way over the mountains and hiding in caves, out of sight, away from the grass and sun and trees they loved so much. Images of young centaurs were swiftly herded back into the caves by their furtive-looking parents and mentors before they could be seen.
"We knew this was not the life for us," Ing'ma said, a hint of hopefulness coloring his speech. "Hidden inside the mountains, we developed transportation to get us off the planet, where mankind could not follow us." An enormous cavern appeared, and inside it many centaurs working to build a large, cigar-shaped spacecraft.
"It took our ancestors centuries to design it, build it, and get it ready to depart." Images flashed of the spacecraft slowly coming together, of stallions, mares, and foals boarding it and taking a last look at the planet, of the door closing.
"We didn't know where to go," Ing'ma said as the engines of the spacecraft fired up, "but we knew that we couldn't stay." The scaffolding on the ship was released, and the ship dropped hundreds of feet into a vast body of water below it. On striking the water, the engines blasted the ship through the water, tilted it skyward, and rocketed it off the planet from the present-day Arabian Sea. The world-sphere shrank before the spectators' eyes and became small. Other celestial bodies crossed the audience's view: the sun, some of the planets, and eventually stars.
"Our technology was primitive back then," Ing'ma said. "We had been working on it off and on for millennia, but as the humans' need for our labor increased, our freedom to pursue our own interests dwindled. As a result, the engines that carried our ancestors' ship took five hundred years to get them to our galaxy. Imagine our ancestors' joy upon seeing our planet for the first time!" Light appeared on one side of the courtyard as two spheres of light slowly faded into view, growing brighter before disappearing, as if the observers had traveled towards and then passed them. A small, red, moon-sized sphere glided silently by, and then it appeared: the familiar image of home, a sight they had not seen in person in ten years. The spectators viewed it with relief, and then wistfully, some feeling suddenly homesick.
Eve'gil, their home planet, shone like a beacon of hope in front of them, and Ing'ma's voice registered the sense of hope, wonder, and excitement that their ancestors must have felt. "Eight thousand years ago, our ancestors gazed on a sight just like this and approached the planet, hoping that it could become their new home." The planet enlarged in front of them, but it was unfamiliar: it was not the green, lush planet they knew. Barren and forbidding, it seemed that it would crush the hopes of even their optimistic ancestors.
"There was water on the planet," Ing'ma said, "and there was oxygen. Not a whole lot, but it was there." The planet revolved to show its patchwork of oceans and land, lakes, rivers, and hills. "There were no trees, and the ground was barren, yet our ancestors were hopeful that they could bring the fertile planet to life. As they had taught mankind to do millennia before, they planted trees and grasses, nurtured them and were careful not to harvest too soon. For several years, they let everything go to seed, and they lived off the food that the ship could provide. The crops grew and flourished, spreading out and distributing the seeds all over the planet." The planet slowly morphed as green spread over the brown land like algae on a wet rock. "This is Eve'gil today." The audience collectively sighed happily, thinking of home.
The image of Eve'gil faded, and the roof of the courtyard slowly grew transparent, revealing multitudes of stars.
"Ever since our ancestors first left their home," Ing'ma said somberly, "we have dreamt of returning. Ever since that day eight millennia ago, we have yearned to be amongst the humans again. We know what they became then, but we have had faith that they would eventually see the error of their ways, that they would eventually welcome us back as brothers, as equals. It has been, for some of us, a single-minded obsession that we cannot escape." He made eye contact with Anul'thek, who nodded quietly: Ing'ma really did know how he felt, then. "While we have cherished our lives and have lived them to the fullest, done our duties during planting and harvesting, and have explored the arts, sciences, and physical activities, the desire to return home has remained our focus. Our best scientists have worked long and hard, applying what we know about mankind and what we know of our early development to try to predict when that day would come, that day when we could go home. We started this journey ten years ago, and in twenty more years, we will finally be able to set hooves on Earth again. The audience stirred as a sense of hope and anticipation for fulfillment of generations of yearning washed across the centaurs.
"We must remember, though, the lessons we learned, the lessons that shaped our society," Ing'ma said in conclusion. "Each centaur does his part during planting and harvesting. Happiness comes from within. More does not make you happy; it only complicates your life." The audience murmured agreement. "And isn't life joyful enough!" A cheer rose from the audience as the lights returned to the room, and everybody burst out into songs of joy, songs of hope and anticipation, songs of home
coming.
Ing'ma smiled to himself and went to join Anul'thek beneath a tree. The two sat down and shared its fruits, drinking in the flavors of their food and the joy of each other's company.
Chapter 5
"Will there be anything else?" Bryce asked as he handed the customer his receipt.
"No, that'll do. Good day." The customer left, and Bryce sighed. The clock said 2:00. One more hour, and then he could go home. He glanced over his shoulder into the manager's office. His boss, a middle-aged man, tall, slightly heavy, and bald, save for little ribbons of gray hair on the sides, was looking over last week's sales, preparing this week's order. The store was deserted, and Bryce slipped a set of headphones out of his pocket and inserted one of them into his right ear, out of sight of either his manager or any customers who might come in the front door. He started the music on his iPhone and stood at the counter, drumming softly with his thumbs.
At nineteen, Bryce was restless. He felt as though there was something he needed to be doing, yet he didn't know what. And it was something beyond the confines of this tiny store: the shelves were stocked; the floor was clean, and unless the customer he'd just checked had made a mess of the restroom—which Bryce thought unlikely, since he'd watched the man's every move out of boredom—it was still clean from when he'd attended it a couple of hours ago. No, there was absolutely nothing to be done here, and he had a similar feeling about his life in general: there was something missing, but he knew not what.
When he wasn't at the university, he lived with his grandfather at his cabin a few miles away and rode his bicycle across the countryside. Money was tight, and there wasn't money for him to drive his grandfather's car to his job. Besides, the bike ride was much shorter: taking the dirt roads into town meant going completely out of his way and lengthening his trip by fifteen miles. If he rode cross-country, the distance was fewer than six miles. And the exercise was good for him. He hated it when it rained, though, and it seemed like it always rained, even though it didn't. At least the terrain was pretty.
His grandfather had never spoken about the centaurs again, and even at nine, he'd thought that his grandfather was pulling his leg. Yet his grandfather had planted a quiet, lingering yearning that had been with him ever since. A noble race of wise, intelligent creatures? He'd searched the Internet high and low for information on them, but the knowledge that came up was always the same: the same tired Greek tales and a few records from ancient cultures in India. He'd read the Greek tales over and over throughout the years, and he knew them backward and forward. He'd tried his hand at drawing them without much success. He'd tried writing stories about them, but he inevitably couldn't make it past the first paragraph. He felt a deep-seated urge to create something in their honor, to set the record straight—at least as he knew it—to somehow summon them. He hated to admit it to anyone, least of all his grandpa, but it had become a bit of an obsession.
"Jamming out?"
Bryce snatched the headphone from his ear and thrust it into his pocket as he whirled to face his manager, who was standing directly behind him.
"I—er..." Bryce stammered.
His manager shrugged. "There's nobody here but us. Care to share?"
The knot that had developed in Bryce's gut softened a bit. He took his iPhone out and put it on the counter next to the cash register. When he unplugged his headphones, tribal drumming and chanting poured out of the headphones.
"That's some strange stuff you listen to," his manager said, frowning. Bryce made to turn it off, but his manager put his hand on Bryce's, stopping him. "Let it go," his manager said as he began gently bobbing his head in time to the syncopated rhythms. He raised his eyebrows. "That's not bad!" he said with a grin.
Bryce looked relieved. It was uncommon, he knew, for anybody his age to be listening to anything but music glorifying prostitution and drugs or lamenting some love gone wrong. His manager wandered back into his office, and Bryce went back to drumming on the counter.
"Bryce," his manager called after a while. Bryce shut off the music and pocketed his phone as he went into his manager's office.
"Pay day," his manager said, handing him an envelope. Was it Friday already?
"Thanks, Dennis," he said, sliding his finger under the top flap and deftly ripping it open. Bryce endorsed his check and handed it back to Dennis, who went to a second register, opened it with his key, and counted out the money. He handed it to Bryce, who pocketed it and thanked him again. Dennis nodded and went back to his office.
The clock on the wall ticked jeeringly. It was 2:15. Bryce pushed the No Sale button on his register and looked for bills to straighten. They were already all straightened. The change was stocked. He put his hands over his face in boredom and closed the drawer, then went to the shelf where the last customer had taken a packet of Beecham's powder and attempted to front the little packets, without any effect. He looked at the clock again. It was 2:16.
He returned to his register. There had to be more than this.
"Hey there, Bryce!" a familiar voice said as the bell on the door tinkled. Bryce looked over. It was Clarissa, a classmate from the university.
"Clarissa! What are you doing here?" Bryce asked, brightening but surprised. Clarissa lived near the university, about fifty miles away.
"I took a trip to go see Stonehenge," she replied, pushing her raven hair back behind her ear. "Needed petrol."
"You like Stonehenge?" Bryce asked, his interest piqued. If there was anything that rivaled centaurs for his attention, it was Stonehenge. He'd been there many times.
"I've never been, and it seemed like something to do on a sunny day," Clarissa replied, glancing casually around the shop.
"What'd you think?" Bryce prodded.
Clarissa shrugged. "It was okay. I mean, it's a bunch of big rocks," she said, making a face. Bryce bit his tongue: she was a customer.
"So this is where you work, huh?" Clarissa asked, changing the subject.
"Yeah," Bryce said. "It pays the bills."
Clarissa nodded. "What do you recommend for the munchies?" she asked, giving him an earnest look, as if asking a doctor for a diagnosis.
Bryce pursed his lips, sizing her up. "Peanuts," he said with finality.
"Peanuts?" Clarissa asked, arching her brow.
"Yup, peanuts," Bryce repeated, and pointed to a display of pre-shelled peanut packages.
Clarissa gave him a look like he was weird, but as she walked towards the display, her step grew quicker and more purposeful. By the time she returned, her expression registered appreciation.
"Great idea, Bryce," she said. "What made you think of peanuts?"
Bryce shrugged. "I dunno; they're pretty healthy, taste good, give you that full feeling."
"What if I was allergic to nuts?" Clarissa challenged.
"Then I'd have given you some terrible advice!" Bryce replied, grinning. He stopped abruptly and frowned, concerned. "You're not allergic to nuts, are you?"
Clarissa chuckled. "Nope." Bryce looked relieved and rang up the peanuts.
Clarissa paid. "See you at school," she said as she left. Bryce waved, the bell tinkled, and she was gone. The clock said 2:20. Well, at least that was a pleasant use of four minutes.
Finally 3:00 came, and Bryce closed out his register, gave his total to his manager, and pulled his bicycle from the back room. Donning his helmet, he pushed his bicycle through the door. It was Friday afternoon; the sun was shining, and Clarissa was right: it was a great day to go see Stonehenge. He hopped on his bike and headed that way.
The wind whistled across his forehead, and the sun beat down as he rode along the quiet street. The tourists generally didn't make it this far from the monument, and it made riding nice. Although the countryside was scarred by the road he traveled, it was mostly undisturbed otherwise, save for the occasional house here and there, and the green of the grass contrasted pleasantly with the blue of the sky. Light puffs of clouds drifted by lazily. He turned off the road and started r
iding across the fields, exerting himself to overcome the pull of the grass and soft soil on his tires. As he came to the outskirts of Larkhill, he turned onto Willoughby briefly before switching back to cross-country and parking his bike at the visitor's center of Stonehenge. He checked his watch. It was 3:45. He'd made better time before, but he didn't care. It was a beautiful day.
"Back again?" the woman behind the ticket counter asked, smiling. Her light brown hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her head, and her green eyes sparkled with mirth out of her plump and friendly face.
"You bet!" Bryce replied. The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You'll set a record for most visits before long," she said as she punched his ticket and handed it back to him.
He glanced at the ticket and handed her some money from his wages. "Better get another one," he said. The ticket was a season pass that allowed several uses, and he had only one visit left. In the month and a half since he'd returned to his grandfather's home for summer holiday, he'd used nine visits already.
"You really ought to consider becoming a member," the woman advised him, holding his money. "£12 more would give you all the Stonehenge you can stand for a year."