Time of the Stones

by Fred Rothganger

  Contents

  Cover

  Contents

  New Dawn

  Antikva

  Down the River

  Chefurbo

  Ancient Weapons

  Unleashed

  Healing

  Unfinished Business

  Journey East

  Sanat

  Sacred Cylinders

  Erik

  Journey South

  Journey North

  Infiltration

  Devolution of Power

  One Night with the King

  Queen Susan

  Royal Family

  Swarm Food

  Expansion

  Khaldun

  Hammer of God

  Shatter

  Epilogue

  Links

  New Dawn Horology

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  New Dawn

  Year 0

  Alechjo hid in the undergrowth and waited for sunlight to strike the Stone. Watching it come alive each day was like gazing into the face of God. Other ruins were only crumbling rocks lost in the forest. Here the fire of the Ancients still burned.

  The stories told of spirits that lived in the Stone. Their wrath would come upon any who disturbed the sacred place. But why would the Ancients create such a beautiful thing, then forbid their children to look on it? Perhaps it had some greater purpose, long ago forgotten.

  The first rays of morning swept down the towering mountains, past jagged peaks, past the edge of lush green forest, past glades of brilliant yellow and purple wildflowers. These rain-soaked slopes gathered into streams and joined the Long River beyond the mesa.

  Stonehill rose like a knife’s edge from the valley floor and split the waters. Its top was a rocky glade, swept clean by the blast of wind and rain. Trees grew up the sides, offering limited cover. Alechjo did not dare step into the open. Even as he watched, he felt a greater Intelligence watching him.

  His tribe started coming to this valley two years ago. Being close to the Stone gave them some safety from their enemies, a delicate balance between two fears. Alechjo was perhaps a fool. Like hiding to watch young women bathe in the river, he wanted to see forbidden things. Hunting alone in the forest, he climbed this hill and peeked through the foliage.

  The Stone stood somewhat taller than a man, its three sides perfectly triangular, clear as crystal. Dawn gleamed on the point and spread down its face. Submerged beneath the surface, a layer black as night sucked in the light. A few minutes passed, then light erupted from the core in a myriad of dancing colors. Rainbows wove tightly among each other in unfathomably complex patterns.

  Dawn was the best time to see the Stone. That was how he first discovered that it woke with the sun. The beauty put him into a trance, like watching the sparkle of water in a bowl or the flicker of fire at night.

  Today the rainbows danced faster than ever before, then something new happened. The colors faded and the core became transparent. There appeared a strange sort of stool, long and narrow. On it slept a woman.

  His blood ran cold. A goddess lived in the Stone, and she had chosen to reveal herself.

  He sat quietly for a time, waiting to see what would happen. She slept on her side, hands under her head, one leg straight and the other bent a little. She never moved except to breathe. Somewhere in the back of Alechojo’s mind a voice shouted that this was a trap. He would pay for curiosity with his very soul.

  But the front of his mind considered that nonsense. More often than not, curiosity had paid him back with useful new tools. What harm would come from understanding the world better?

  He could no longer endure it. Against better judgment he stepped forward to explore. Like stalking a wild animal he approached the Stone without a sound.

  Her white garment was much finer than the animal skins his people wore. It had no sleeves. The collar fit her neck closely but had no fold. The hem of the skirt draped around her knees, revealing dark brown skin. Long red hair flowed down her side and spilled onto the ground. A flower adorned her ear.

  He reached a quivering hand toward the surface of the Stone. She stirred! He fled the glade in terror.

  But he could not resist going back. Next morning the sleeping goddess appeared again. She didn’t kill him last time. Maybe she really was dormant.

  He approached the Stone and waited, but nothing happened. Eventually it got too late in the day to be idling, so he resumed his hunting. He visited the Stone every morning and saw the same vision each time. He grew more confident and walked to the woman without hesitation.

  Then one morning the woman appeared upright, sitting with eyes averted. Her face was ageless. Full cheeks and a broad delicate nose led to an even broader pair of lips, succulent and thick. Smooth lids and long lashes framed her eyes. They were large and soft, yet full of wisdom. This must be how the Mother of All appeared on the day she was created.

  Approach or run? She was baiting him like a wild animal. Only a fool would walk into that trap ... But strong young men face their fears in order to know the truth. He stepped out onto the glade and thought with fatalistic humor, May the gods accept this sacrifice.

  She lowered her head as he got closer, avoiding eye contact. This goddess seemed a bit shy—not that he had any other examples to compare. He got down on one knee and said, “Bonan matenon.”

  She said, “Hi.”

  He asked, “Vi estas unu el la Antikvuloy?”

  She opened her lips to speak but closed them again. Her eyes studied the ground more intently.

  He said, “Mi nomo estas Alechjo.”

  She showed no comprehension.

  He patted his chest. “Alechjo.”

  Her eyes brightened with understanding. “Ah, Alechjo.” She imitated his gesture. “Susan.” She looked around for a moment, then made the same gesture toward the object she was sitting on, waving her hand in circular motions over its surface.

  He guessed that she might be asking another name. He stood and gestured toward it. “Benko.”

  She rose with regal grace. Her face seemed only a hand-breadth from him, yet the peak of the Stone was well beyond his reach. How could this be?

  The top of her head barely came to his chin. And the hair! It flowed all the way to the ground. She made some hand gestures, then darted away. He fully expected to see her running on the glade. Instead the vision vanished at the edge of the Stone as if he were looking through a triangular window. Alechjo felt disoriented.

  He stared for a while in the direction she had gone. The encounter must be over. He walked toward the edge of the glade to resume his hunting. As he entered the woods, a voice called, “Alechjo, please don’t go.”

  He walked back to the Stone. Susan stood inside, seeming every bit as solid as before. Behind her was a wall of white. She waved for his attention, then took something like a short rod and moved it across the wall. Marks appeared: a stick-figure man. She patted it and looked at him, those great pools begging for knowledge.

  He said, “Viro.”

  She detained him for another hour, sketching common objects and learning the word for each one. She pantomimed and sketched actions. Several weeks passed like this, until she could speak his language.

  He asked, “Are you one of the Ancients?”

  She furrowed her brows. “Yes, I suppose ...”

  “We tell stories about the Ancients, how they lived together in vast villages and had powerful magic. We know the stories are true because in our wandering we find parts of the villages in the forest. Your people must have been very wise.”

  “My people were not wise at all. And if you’re willing, I can teach you all their secrets.”

  Hi
s eyes widened in awe and dread. The only thing that made such a blasphemy tolerable was that the Ancient One herself said it. He bowed his head. “If it is your will to teach me, then I will listen.”

  Her smile revealed a full set of perfect teeth. “Excellent.” She turned to the wall. “The first thing you need to know is math ...”

  He already had a basic understanding of numbers and arithmetic. It was a natural part of his language, perhaps an echo from an earlier age when every child knew how to add. What he lacked were written symbols. Each morning they spent an hour together. He feared any more would rouse the suspicion of his fellow villagers.

  He slipped furtive glances whenever she turned to write on the wall. He tried desperately to stop himself, lest she notice and vaporize him. But how could he keep his eyes off such a creature? She was a being of pure light, the perfection of eternal beauty. He could never have her, but no mortal woman would ever capture his eyes again.

  She told him, “About four hundred years ago some people found the Stone. I was so desperate for human contact that I came upon them like an overeager puppy.”

  “Puh-pi?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know the word in Baseno. It means the child of a ...” She sketched a four-legged creature on the wall.

  “Oh, dog. I love dog. Delicious stuffed with boiled grain and herbs.”

  “The people ran screaming. Four hundred years—a high price to pay for one little mistake. I watched you for a long time before I dared to show myself. That day you ran away, I felt doomed to fail. But you came again the next morning.”

  He bowed his head. “I’m glad that I can bring joy to Antikva.”

  “Please don’t call me that. My name is Susan.”

  “Yes Antik ... I mean, Susan.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “My people wish to be free, so we left the River. The villages there are growing large. A few men want to rule everyone and tell us how to think. They force people to farm and build, but only for the pride of the Big Man.”

  “Why this valley?”

  “The stories tell of powerful spirits that live in the Stone. The Big Man of the River is afraid, so we are safe.”

  Susan laughed. “I’m not a spirit, not the way you think of it.”

  He stammered. “Then, what are you?”

  “I don’t know if you have a word for it. I am ... thought without body.”

  “Spirit!”

  “If spirit is thought, how can rocks or trees have spirits?”

  “I know stones have spirits because I am talking with you.”

  She smacked a palm to her forehead. “The Stone is not like an ordinary rock.”

  “Yes, it has Ancient magic.”

  “The Ancient word for it is technology. They knew how to weave rocks into tools that think. Their art was so great that some thought-tools could even feel and experience the world, just like you do.”

  “The Ancients called spirits to live in the tools?”

  “No. That’s the problem with your idea of spirit. You believe that thought and feeling come from some mysterious other place. The feelings of thought-tools were not in the rocks, nor did they come from an invisible world. Their feelings came from the weaving itself.”

  He furrowed his brows in concentration. “I don’t understand.”

  Susan smiled wearily and put a weightless hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alechjo. I’m asking you to come too far too soon. Even the Ancients believed as you do. Very few understood the art of weaving thought.”

  “They must have been the wisest of all shamans.”

  “Yes ...” She looked sad and distant. “Yes, they were. My dear friends, long gone.” She raised her eyes to him again. “I want to meet your whole village. Can you bring them here?”

  He turned away to hide his fear.

  “What is it, my friend?”

  “This is a forbidden place. My people don’t know I come here. They will be angry if they learn of this, and they will be too afraid to come themselves.”

  “Would a gesture of goodwill help?”

  “Can you heal?”

  “All I can do is offer knowledge, but maybe you can heal.”

  He described the symptoms of several different people in the village, while she took notes. The next day she showed him some plants to find, how to prepare them, when and how much to give.

  Even Kantisto the village shaman didn’t know these formulations. They did exactly as she said, and the people got better. Then the truth came out. Alechjo stood before the whole village and confessed his sin of going to the secret place. He told them Antikva was really a nice person who just wanted some friends.

  The elders discussed this for a full day. They took into account the fact that Alechjo was still alive—no small miracle—and that only good had come from the Stone. In a narrow decision, they came down on the side that maybe Antikva was safe.

  That evening most of the village climbed the hill, about 150 people. She stood in the Stone waiting for them, hands clasped together in expectation. They got down on their hands and knees and bowed their heads to the ground.

  She also prostrated herself. “Don’t worship me! I’m only a servant.”

  Pliajo, eldest of the elders, saw what she did. He struggled to his feet again. Slowly those around him stood, and finally Susan herself. She held her arms out wide with palms and face to the sky. Tears streamed down her face.

  Pliajo said, “Servant of the Stone, what do you wish to tell us?”

  She answered, “You are the children of the Ancients. This place belongs to you.”

  “Do you have a message from the Ancients?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “We’re sorry for what we did to your world. Please learn from us, and build a better world for your children.”

  Antikva

  At dawn the villagers began moving their camp onto the glade. Pliajo walked up and greeted Susan. “We would like to put the fire next to the Stone.”

  “I don’t know how much heat the Stone can take. Just to be safe, don’t put me closer to the fire than you normally sit. And make sure your tents don’t cast a shadow on the Stone. Its power comes from the sun.”

  As the day wore on, the village slowly took shape. Children ran and played, while women prepared their homes and worked their crafts. The tents were conical, made with a circle of long poles supporting a sewn-hide covering. From time to time Alechjo appeared among the bustle. He slipped furtive glances at her, then whisked away with the labor of carrying tools and bedding.

  He was infatuated with her, that much was clear. For the gift of reconnecting with humans, Susan would gladly have slept with him the rest of his life. If only she could re-embody herself ...

  No! That technology could destroy all life on Earth. The sheer power—no one could wield it safely.

  She stepped away from the Stone. Its edges appeared as thin red beams hovering a few centimeters above the ground. Each triangle framed a window through which people could see into her world.

  She walked over to the console. The tablet was about a meter wide and 60 centimeters tall, tilted at a comfortable height on an elegant metallic stand. Several paces beyond stood her beloved old farmhouse, a large single-story home with a steep roof and rooms in the attic. A tent had gone up half inside the building, covering the front door. Probably there were a couple of others poking up in inconvenient places. The villagers could not see or feel the house, but the obstacles were real for her.

  People were turning the front yard into a disaster zone. But people were good. Better to have friends than a nice yard. She tapped some new coordinates into the console and shifted the house into the woods.

  She walked to it, weaving among tents and trees. Inside, narrow wood stairs led to a pair of attic bedrooms. One of the doors opened into Susan’s inner sanctum, a place filled with memories. Pushed against the near wall was the bed Anand had shared with her for so many years. On the far wall, a gable window let in the aft
ernoon sun.

  An open closet held dresses. There was the translucent nightgown she wore on her first night with Anand. Next to it, the traditional mandarin gown that Mother had given to celebrate the day her body changed. But most beloved of all was the dress she had on, a simple white cocktail gown from the day Anand pledged his love.

  Opposite the closet stood his sister’s antique dresser, decorated with glitter and stickers, topped with an oval mirror set in scrolled woodwork. There, Anand’s serene face gazed at Susan through a picture frame.

  All a computer simulation, carefully constructed from their shared recollections.

  Light from the window fell on a metal briefcase in the middle of the floor. The case lay open, with a screen set in the lid. The bottom held an old-fashioned keyboard, a big red button and some cables. In Ancient times, every robot like her had one of these control consoles.

  A white envelope rested on the keyboard. She had read every message from Anand a hundred times, but this last precious letter remained sealed. On it he had scrawled, “Do Not Open This, EVER!!!”

  Time was a matter of perspective. To her, little more than a year had passed since he died, at her side but beyond reach. To anyone else, the period of mourning ended over a thousand years ago. His ashes spread from the glade into the surrounding soil. His atoms were in the living wood of the trees. If there were such a thing as spirit, he was there with her always.

  She pulled his picture off the dresser, clutched it to her bosom, curled on their bed and drifted to sleep ...

  A voice wafted from the Stone, “Antikva.”

  She grabbed Anand’s pillow, covered her head and moaned. The late night and the early morning were taking their toll.

  “Antikva.”

  She sat up and put the picture back on the dresser. You got the better deal, my love.

  She walked back to the Stone and found a man dressed in feathers dancing around, thumping a skin drum with a stick. She stepped into the center and waited. He seemed not to notice. After a few more laps, she waved her hands. “Hey, I’m right here.”

  People around them chuckled. The longer the shaman danced the harder they laughed.

  The sound broke his trance. He stopped dancing and focused on her. He raised a stick decorated with feathers and shook it, producing a rattle.