I
Midax
stood in the gentle dip of ground, the twilit dell into which he and other
leaders had shepherded the world’s folk. So,
he thought, my job done, my mission
accomplished, here I finally am, in… what was the name? It
had a name, this scene! Where the end of days was meant to happen, and had
happened. His lips pursed, he sought the datum in his memory. At length he managed to murmur, “The Vale of Zednas.” That was the historic name. The effort
it cost him to recall it showed that it had spent its force: legend now fulfilled, “Zednasvale” during the past few hours had faded
from the language, to be replaced by a starker term:
“The
Glimmer-Place”.
That more aptly signified the
last pool of light in the known universe.
A shrinking pool. Each hour that passed decreased the level of
illumination to perhaps ninety-five percent of what it had been an hour before. The
ever slower dimming gave human eyes some allowance of time in which to adjust, and right now it
was still light enough to walk without stumbling, and to recognize faces; no colour remained, however, except for dull red.
By
the residual glow of this final evening Midax contemplated the nineteen hundred
or so recumbent forms around him. Here lay most of humanity. The people whose
multiple reflections had filled the world of Life with their millions were here and now
reduced to one small-town’s worth of real individuals, brought to drowse in the
Glimmer-Place as refugees from universal darkness.
Not quite everyone dozed. Scattered
amongst them were a dozen wakeful forms: the exceptions, like Midax
himself, blessed or cursed with an extra store of life-energy. Such was the legacy of
birth close to the Fount or of some other twist of fate. Evidently this select
few were able to retain full personal complexity even while the Winter of
Simplicity tightened its grip.
How
long their animation might outlast the Fount’s ebb, none knew. Nor how, in the long run, it could possibly profit them. Midax was
inclined in his bleaker moments to guess that the curse of such survival outweighed the
blessing. A scary whiff of Time’s enormity hinted to his
brain that trillions of hours might
have to pass before his own energy trickled away sufficiently to equalize him
with the somnolent majority of humankind. No records of precedents existed; no
scrap of knowledge gave any clue as to how long he might have to wait for oblivion or, alternatively, for a rebirth of the Fount and the dawn of a new
world.
At
any rate, he told himself, I have the other Wakefuls to talk to. I can approach them when I get
desperate. We
few must support each other through the aeons.
As
yet he made no such approach. An instinctive solemnity restrained him: respect
for the awe that the other conscious few must likewise feel. They, like he,
must be overwhelmed by Reality’s hush; they must be sorting themselves out the
same as he. Leave them to it for a while, he told himself; there’d be time
enough to confer; indeed, over-plentiful time.
Meanwhile
he began to step between the
recumbent forms, and as he wove his way he fought down a growing envy. They
were the well-adapted ones; why was he denied their peace? Purpose! his inner voice cried. I
must believe that some reason exists for my wakeful continuation! Even here in
this dim finality, surely something constructive remains to be done. Some plan
or ideal to which I can devote myself. A meaning to give colour to the victory
of darkness.
It
was hard, though, to think constructive thoughts in this Winter of Being, hard
to provide one’s own brightness of purpose and meaning when the world had none left to give. The only source
of colourful brightness that remained was personal memory – so thank goodness his mind’s
eye was not dimmed, thank goodness it could open a window for him to look back on the
course of his life, to keep his feelings in touch with blue skies, lively
faces, sunsets, green fields… all the bright past which the dark future could not wipe from the record. Futures can only succeed pasts, not obliterate them. Page
succeeds page in time’s book - but the reader can flip back through the pages.
However,
his mind’s eye did more than gaze pastwards: it also roved in the
present. Beyond the circle of the Glimmer-Place, his attention probed into the dark surround.
He
imagined, though he could not see, the north wall of the glass box-world maybe
a hundred and fifty yards from where he stood, and the western wall with its
Portal a somewhat greater distance away, and the other walls, and the glass
roof of the great enclosure. And outside the Luminarium altogether there brooded the
silenced city Serenth with its stilled Fount, he knew; and he knew of the entire land of Sycrest that was now strewn with melted-down shapes, humpy in the dark, the blurred and stubby
effects of the Winter of Simplicity. He
jerked his head to shake off the direness of that vision. Here in the
Glimmer-Place, what was left wasn’t much, but it was better than that…
Here after all some wan glow remained, and by it he could see the remainder of life. So
infinitely precious, his few fellow watchers and the drowsing multitude! And
just then, right next to him on the ground at his feet he saw a curled form
which he recognized.
It
was a woman, and his heart gave a special tug, not because she was the destined
One, but because she wasn’t. Admiration,
with a contradictory mix of pity and envy, stirred Midax to the depths as he
gazed down at Mezyf Tand. The poor dear thing – the lucky thing! Her eyes were
slightly open slits; he wondered if she would blink if he waved a hand in front
of them. He did not try. Elegant, stockinged calves which gleamed in the
twilight, ended in the crude work-shoes with which she had tramped across Zanep
to this resting-place. He thought: Mezyf never stopped trying, never gave up on
the job. I wish… What in the world
did he wish, could he wish, now?
He
left her lying there and continued to move, to search – he now knew it was a
purposeful search he was carrying out; and he wasn’t the only one; some of the
other watchers were likewise shuffling and stooping around to identify their
loved ones among the drowsers.
When at last he found Pjerl Lhared, he crouched on the
ground beside her and stared at her for a long stretch of time. As with Mezyf,
he noted her slit-open eyes and slow tranced breathing, but Pjerl had not drawn
up her knees – instead she lolled: as was her wont, remembered Midax with a
momentary flash of humour that went out like a spark. Would she loll for ever
from now on, in this rag-doll style? Careless though never vulgar, she had
somehow ensured that she was elegantly draped on the mossy rocks, with her face
tilted quizzically up at the sky… her lips parted as if she were about to formulate some question.
Midax sat to contemplate the woman who had done so much
to shape his life. Tenaciously his thoughts went round, and round, and round. Why
wasn’t Pjerl awake? She’d been a Splasher, like he himself, had she not? Ah,
but probably not really one of the gang. Probably not born close enough to the
Fount. But she had been so much an individual… so vivid… Yes, but for that
matter even President Waretik Thanth himself, having finished his last task,
had lain down and drowsed…
An
indeterminate period later, he noticed that one of his fellow Wakefuls had
approached him. An aged figure who lowered himself to the moss on the other
side of Pjerl. For yet a while, both men sat in silence with the sprawled woman
in between.
At
length, Midax said:
“Well,
you were right. You were absolutely spot-on right; full marks for all that
stuff about the one and only Other Half whom one knew Before Life and would
know again After. You hit the mark, Boalo.” And having said that, Midax looked
up and glared. “Only – so what?”
“So
nothing,” the ancient philosopher retorted. “I simply uttered the facts. Proceed
thence as you wish.”
Midax’s
face fell. He gave a slow nod:
“I
reckon my next step will be to look for what’s beyond the beyond.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Can’t
you guess? You’re the philosopher!”
“A
very old, out-of-date philosopher, but even if I were the sharpest thinker in
history I could not think my way out of Sparseworld.”
A
period of silence followed this retort.
Midax
next remarked in a softer murmur:
“They
called me Discoverer – and I haven’t finished.”
Boalo
emitted a kind of flat, appreciative hiss. “I like your spirit. But – there’s
nowhere to go.”
Midax
heaved himself upright. He looked down upon the lolling Pjerl and the seated
Boalo. “Yet more goodbyes,” he muttered. “If light ever returns, I may choose a
different Other Half next time.” He glanced back over his shoulder… and then he
added more loudly, “But never mind that now. The thing to do is to avoid being
crushed by the weight of the wait. Understand me? Some sort of action is
required.”
Boalo’s
old head bobbed in the dimness.
“Good,”
said Midax. “You’re not trying to argue.” And he began to step away among the
bodies. Now he gazed with more concentration, aiming to approach and identify
the other eleven Wakefuls.
He
must not hurry, though. He must not antagonize anybody. Something in the quiet
air, and in the imperceptibly dying light, forbade the notion of hurry – made
it offensive. Besides, there was no need. The great thing – the treasure beyond
price – was to have something to do. A plan. And he had a plan. Or at least the
shred of one. A word to hang on to. The word was “discovery”. It was in his
nature, and it was all he had left.
PART II TO FOLLOW