Man of the World by Robert Gibson

37:  the silver stain

                                        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