Pym couldn’t let a mystery lie. What if the stranger had gotten past the Keeper? The boy waited until dusk. His mom would think he was still at his friend’s house. When it was dark, he slipped silently into the temple and hid behind a bench. He was as stealthy as the shadows. The Keeper was never supposed to leave his post, but Pym knew it happened. No one ever tried to enter the hill anyway. It was more of a ceremonial position.
For more than an hour, Pym crouched in the shadows, excited. Fear kept him attentive–he’d get a dozen good hits with a switch if caught. Finally the Keeper yawned, sighed, and went outside to relieve his bladder. Pym slipped silently forward and ducked into the darkness of the Hollow Hill…
…and almost fell dead a big square pit. Gripping a metal pole to catch himself, he pressed a button by accident. Something rumbled in the pit, began moving up toward him. Pym froze in terror. Maybe he should’ve left things alone. It had been fun until now. Still, he was too curious for his own good. He stayed, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of what was coming before he fled.
Pym was staring at the metal platform in the near-total darkness when he heard a shuffling toward the temple’s entrance–the Keeper was coming back! He couldn’t just stand there. Without a second thought, he stepped onto the platform and pressed the button again, praying the Keeper wouldn’t hear. The platform descended.
At the bottom of the shaft was a light. Pym was staring down a long corridor. He was just old enough to know the old stories were made up, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure. A dull vibration was coming up through the floor. He was more scared than he’d ever been in his life, yet more curious too. Going back up would mean a switching. He’d have to make the trip worthwhile. He could go a little further in.
At the end of the corridor was another world.
A world filled with mist and looming gray giants. Pym was terrified; he’d entered a demonic realm. But the giants weren’t moving, not even to breathe. They were statues. He took two cautious steps into the seemingly endless mist.
“What were you hoping to find?”
Pym almost leapt out of his skin. A man was standing on a column of smoke. The boy gaped for an instant–and ran. Into a wall. It had materialized over the entrance. He backed away in terror. There was nowhere to go. He’d taken things too far. Why did he never listen to his cousin Halley? She’d always told him he was too curious. He’d never believed his uncle Caliver’s stories about a fallen god that lived beneath the temple either. Now he knew it was all true. Pym looked up, on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Well?” the figure asked.
It was the stranger from the temple. His voice was deep and calm. Pym steeled his courage. He balled his fists and stood taller.
“Are you the fallen god?”
The stranger gave a faint laugh.
“Look for God in the trees and the dirt and the sun. Look for Her in the smiles of your loved ones, not the mistakes of your ancestors.”
The stranger floated to the ground.
“You’re a sorcerer then,” Pym said, wide-eyed.
The Foglord from the stories, he thought.
The stranger sighed.
“A sorcerer is just someone who knows more than you,” he said.
“Do you know how to turn people into worms?” Pym asked, swallowing.
One side of the stranger’s mouth twitched upward.
“Such knowledge is beyond even me.”
Pym let out a vast breath.
“Good. Can you tell me how to fly?” the boy asked.
The stranger’s eyebrows went up.
“I could tell you how I fly, but it would do you no good. I suppose I should amend my statement: sorcery is knowledge you don’t have, applied in ways you don’t understand. Don’t look so disappointed. Flying is just a trick. Things are less impressive when their secrets are laid bare.”
“It must be fun though,” Pym said, forgetting some of his fear.
“It is certainly that.”
There was a momentary silence.
“Are you … are you going to keep me down here?” Pym asked in a small voice.
“I haven’t decided yet. It’s rude to intrude, you know. Perhaps I’ll turn you into a statue.”
Pym’s eyes went wide again.
“You said you couldn’t turn people into things,” the boy accused.
“I said I couldn’t turn you into a worm. A statue though…”
“Is that what you did to them?” Pym whispered, waving vaguely at the giants.
The stranger sighed at the nearest statue.
“No. I shaped them from the Fog,” he said.
He moved closer to the nearest statue, making a solemn examination.
“I can never get her quite right,” he said quietly.
Looking at the others, Pym noticed they were all women. All the same woman.
“You think there are some things you’ll never forget,” the stranger said, almost to himself. “But all things fade with time. Even your most cherished memories. For years, I told myself not to think of her. I let go of the past–as much as I could. But I suppose old feelings come back sometimes, even ones you thought long gone. Shadows of them, at least. Like echoes in time.”
“Who is she?” Pym asked.
The Foglord was quiet so long that Pym thought he wouldn’t answer.
“An aspect of the Goddess,” he said finally.
The stranger shut his eyes a moment, opened them, and looked up.
“No. This is all wrong,” he said, and with a wave of his hand, the enormous statue burst into dust. Pym stepped back, startled. The stranger walked through the settling dust, deeper into the mist. With the door blocked behind him, the boy had no choice but to follow. Further into the gray expanse, they came to a series of stone slabs etched with thousands of tiny runes. Pym mouthed some of the ones he recognized:
“S … C … I …”
“You can read letters,” the Foglord said, impressed.
“My uncle’s teaching me runes. He learned from the Foreigner.”
The Foreigner had another name, but it was seldom used. He was a strange old man who’d come with a caravan from some distant tribe years earlier. He taught the ancient runes–and other things–to any who had the will and the knack for it.
“Learn well from this man. Reading is a rare skill,” the Foglord said. “I myself travelled very far before I found one who could teach me. Since then I’ve discovered much.”
“Is that how you learned to fly?” Pym asked.
“No. I told you, flying is just a trick. There are more important things.”
Pym frowned in disagreement.
“Like what?” he asked.
The Foglord gave him an amused look.
“Like this. Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked, indicating a stone tablet.
Pym shook his head.
“This is the history of a people whose civilization goes back ten thousand years. Our people. Yours and mine. They had cities across the earth. They even flew in great ships beyond the sky. I’ve travelled thousands of kilometers to read the runes they left behind. And this is all I’ve learned.”
Pym looked at the tablets.
“You made this … so we could be like them?” he asked, picturing ships flying to impossible realms.
“No. I made this so we could avoid their mistakes,” the Foglord said.
“If they knew so much, how could they make mistakes?” Pym asked, looking doubtful.
“They had clever tricks, but there is something more important than knowledge.”
“What?” Pym asked.
The Foglord’s blue eyes seemed to look right through him.
“Wisdom,” he said.
Pym had no reply to that.
“Your timing is fortuitous. Perhaps the Goddess intended it so,” the Foglord said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to deliver this to our people. My work is complete. And not a day t
oo soon. The Fog has been dying a long time, but I think its end approaches at last. The power failures are more frequent. Soon Ozymand will go dark and silent for good. I’ve made two copies of these tablets. One set will remain here. Bring the other up to the temple, and let the Foreigner and the elders come. Let them learn from it and spread it among the People. But tell them not to seek me here. They will not find me. I will be in the sacred places.”
“Like the temple?” Pym asked.
“Every tree is a temple. Every rock is an altar. This is only dust.”
“I can’t carry–”
Pym stopped and gaped, seeing the tablets float onto a wheeled cart. When it was loaded, the cart moved toward the corridor. The boy looked back at the Foglord, but he was already ascending, disappearing into the haze above. His voice boomed through the mist, magnified by his sorcery.
“Go now, boy–the way is opened. And give your grandmother a kiss. I knew her in another life.”
Pym followed the cart. Statues crumbled around him. He heard the Foglord’s voice a final time as he moved into the corridor.
“The day has been too long. At dawn, man had no words, and God was known. By noon, words flourished, but meaning was lost. At dusk, man made a god of himself and presumed the wisdom of one. Now night has come, and all the gods have fallen.”
Author’s Note:
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Coming 2016:
Spin
The Ship: Wheelworld, a massive Stanford Torus attached to an interstellar drive on a journey to the stars.
The Problem: the journey has lasted centuries, and those who rule Wheelworld no longer want to colonize a new planet.
The Boy: nearly deaf and on the autistic spectrum, Gavin dwells in the overcrowded slums of Wheelworld’s outer layer. His penchant for unravelling impossible knots is about to lead him on an unexpected journey through Wheelworld’s seven layers, ultimately determining the future of everyone aboard.
The Last Plutarch Page 35