He thought: I’m going to die. He would have no way now of extending his life; the forgotten village showed him that. Even if he found a stream and learned how to fish and hunt, he would die; he would age. It would never come to that; a disease would kill him first, or a wild beast. Blood rushed in his ears and his head throbbed while his heart beat a protest.
He saw the small hand holding the wand, raising it toward him. He had known it would happen and had not fought it; he had chosen his fate, expecting death. Eline had rendered justice, in her way, leaving him to see his legacy. Perhaps she, too, had eventually been judged. He left the roof and walked toward the forest.
The forest had grown dark; when Domingo looked up through the boughs, he saw heavy, gray clouds. He heard a distant trickle and hurried toward it, cracking twigs under his feet and stirring the leaves. The end of his shirt caught on a tree limb; he tore it away. Burrs stuck to his pants. He stumbled on until he reached the brook.
The water sang as it rushed over a pebbled bed and lapped against rocks. He scrambled down the mossy bank, crouched, and drank, lapping at the water.
He sat up when he was done, wondering now if he had been careless. But the water had tasted clean and fresh. He would have to find something to eat. The water had quieted his stomach, but he felt faint. Mushrooms grew under the trees nearby, but some might be poisonous. He thought of making a pole and line and trying to fish, and almost laughed out loud; he had no skill at that. Perhaps hunger would sharpen his wits and give him the skill.
The thought sobered him. He stood up and decided to follow the creek. He would have to make a weapon; perhaps he could find a sharp stone.
He heard thunder as he reached a bend in the creek. The rain dotted the silvery water and pattered against the rocks.
He tried to sleep under a tree. Its boughs sheltered him from the intermittent rain, but his hair and clothes were damp, and the air had grown colder. Leaves rustled; two bright eyes were watching him. He started up, and they vanished.
He dozed uncomfortably, hearing the pinging of the rain in the brook. A voice sang in the forest; a clap of thunder silenced it. A sheet of rain came down, wetting him as he clung to the tree. The rain subsided, and Domingo heard the high- pitched voice once more.
He could not see in the dark. He called out, but the voice did not answer. Bowing his head, he tried again to sleep. A dream came to him: A friend guarded him; he tried to see who it was, but the dark shape remained indistinct. He was safe. He slept.
By morning, Domingo was shaking; his teeth chattered. The rain had swelled the brook, which now covered much of the bank near him. Aching, he hung on to the tree as he stood; his knees wobbled.
He staggered as he began to walk, his shoes pinching his blistered feet. His legs carried him along, making him lurch. He shivered and stumbled on until his knees gave way and the ground rushed into his face.
He lay very still for a long time. His cheeks were burning; his face was hot under his beard and a weight seemed to press against his chest. Slowly he realized that it was growing dark. Someone was with him; he felt a presence. He cried out and thought he heard an answering sigh. The ground was soft and wet; its coolness soothed him. Then he began to shiver once more. He was ill; he could feel the fever drawing on his flesh, consuming him. The fever ebbed and flowed, coursing over him in waves.
Domingo heard the voices. The villagers were here in the forest. He listened to their whispers and the chatter of their voices, unable to make out the words. They were hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to die.
Someone touched his hand. He drew in his breath; his lungs burned. Strands of light fluttered near him as he heard a musical whine. Come with me. The voice was inside him. The shining streamers became a loop, then a helix. Come. The fire in his lungs subsided, and his head cleared. He got to his feet, feeling as though someone were lifting him. He was having delusions; the illness was affecting his mind. He tried to resist, but the invisible hands steadied him.
He walked among the trees, letting himself be guided by his unseen companion. He was traveling away from the brook and would soon be lost in the forest, yet the darkness calmed him and he felt no fear. The sounds of night were muffled; owls hooted and crickets chirped distantly. A dark shape rose before him, growled, and melted away.
The trees parted before him. He was at the edge of the forest, gazing over a black plain. The night hid the plain’s features; the starless sky was a void. Stay, the voice whispered.
Domingo sank to the ground. His fever returned. A light rain fell, sprinkling droplets on his upturned face. He would die in the open. He thought of the voices his villagers had heard inside themselves. Some part of himself had led him here.
He reached out and touched slender stems; he smelled the scent of wildflowers. He clutched at the blossoms, pressing them to his face, and then dropped into the fragrant bed.
The sun awoke him, its warmth penetrating his throbbing head. He brushed blue petals from his beard. His neck was stiff and his lungs were filled with fluid. He rasped as he breathed. He coughed, bringing up phlegm, and nearly choked.
He felt too weak to rise. He could no longer smell the flowers, and his pain had settled in his chest. Calmly he wondered how long he would live. He turned his head and gazed through slim stalks at the grassy green meadow. In the distance, a large white sail fluttered in the breeze.
Domingo forced his head up. The sail became a white pavilion supported by golden poles. He extended a hand. A robed figure left the pavilion and walked toward him slowly; he thought he saw two smaller figures behind it. The vision swam before him. Was it part of a last delusion? Was his mind only easing his death, or did others still live? He clung to the hope as his lungs flooded. The white-robed figure seemed to be running now. He fought for air, clawed at the flowers; a red mist covered his eyes, then turned black.
The stranger lay inside the transparent carapace, arms folded over his unmoving chest. The woman stood before him, then turned back to the pavilion. The girl and the boy had come back outside; their bare brown bodies gleamed with sweat as they raced around the carapace, then ran toward the woman. The boy threw himself on the ground; the girl settled slowly next to him, brushing a streak of dirt from her tiny breasts. The woman sat down, smoothing the folds of her white robe.
“Tell us another story,” the boy said.
The woman rested one hand on his black hair. “Which story?”
“About the dead worlds.”
“We’ve heard about them before,” the girl said. Her blond curls bounced as she shook her head.
“I want to hear about them again.”
“You can see them for yourselves,” the woman said. “Those worlds tell their own story. I saw it written on the faces of the dead and in their records. Those worlds will always circle ours, because we keep them in space as a warning. And what do they tell us?”
The boy shrugged. “Not to do what they did.”
“That isn’t it,” the girl answered. “Some of the worlds left, didn’t they? They wander through space and I’m sure they know everything there is to know. They’ll never come back here. Only the dead ones stayed.”
The woman smiled. The girl glanced at the stranger, then looked down. “Tell us about the labyrinth,” she said.
The boy frowned. “We know about that, too,” he protested. He raised his head. “Why’s it up there, anyway?” he asked.
“The labyrinth? We don’t really know. It was there when we first went to the moon. I suppose it was once only the hollowed-out caves and corridors made by the people who long ago lived there, but when you’re actually walking through it, you wonder if they meant it to be part of an elaborate game as well.”
“Where did they go?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know. They left nothing behind to tell us. No one did, except the dead worlds.”
“And the Guardians,” the boy said. The girl tilted her head and looked at him from the sides of her eyes.
> “The Guardians didn’t leave anything behind, either,” the woman said softly.
“They might have stayed themselves,” the boy said. “They might still be here.” He leaned forward. “I think one was here last night. I felt it. I woke up and felt someone near me, and heard a voice. It sounded like a song.”
The girl tossed her head. “There are no Guardians,” she replied. “You were dreaming.” The boy lowered his eyes. “It’s just a story, isn’t it?”
“It might be just a story,” the woman said gently. “But it’s a very persistent one, so it could hold a bit of truth. There’s so much we don’t know, you see. We know about the dead worlds, and we know from their records that there were others who lived on Earth and in space who left and never returned. We’ve found the walls and the bones of giants, but nothing telling us who they were. And we know nothing about the Guardians, only stories and myths and occasional feelings that they’re present, like yours.”
“You don’t believe me,” the boy said.
“I believe you.”
“I think you had a dream,” the girl murmured.
“But I was awake when I felt it. And then we found him.” He pointed at the stranger.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” the woman said. “But it’s only speculation, so it may be just a story, too. Some think that the old stories about the Guardians were just a way of explaining certain events, and a way of consoling ourselves as well. Life was once very hard, and people needed to believe in something. Invisible beings, existing in our world but not really part of it, were supposedly guiding us and protecting us, but actually all we were perceiving was something inside our minds. It was part of ourselves that spoke to us, and we personified it—we thought of it as something outside our minds. Do you understand?”
The children nodded.
“But I think it’s possible that the Guardians might have been real. We know that others, a very long time ago, changed themselves and lived in what we call the dead worlds. Why couldn’t others have chosen to shed their bodies and transform themselves into something immaterial—Guardians, for example?”
The girl shook her head. “How? And if you could see or hear them, they’d have to be made of something, and we could prove they’re real. And why don’t they come out and tell us about themselves if they’re real? Why would they hide?”
“I don’t know,” the woman answered. “Perhaps they revealed themselves only for as long as they thought they were needed. They might have tried to turn us from our crueler impulses. We don’t need them now. We have everything; we live as long as we wish. Maybe now they only watch us, knowing that we must make our own choices, or maybe they, too, have left Earth. Perhaps they were the ones who created us so long ago, if in fact we were made by those ancient people instead of being a group they somehow forgot.”
The girl sighed. The boy looked toward the man under the carapace. “I wonder who he is,” he murmured. “He looked so sick, so lost.”
“He must have had an accident,” the woman said. “It’s fortunate we were out here. We’ll take him with us and heal him. He’ll be well.” The man was still, suspended, at peace. “He’ll live, and maybe he’ll tell us his story.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The section entitled “The Renewal” was originally published in slightly different form in the anthology Immortal (Harper & Row). Copyright © 1978 by Jack Dann.
The section entitled “The Summer’s Dust” was originally published in slightly different form in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1981. Copyright © 1981 by Mercury Press, Inc.
The lines from “The Treasure” are reprinted by permission of Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright 1915 by Dodd, Mead and Company. Copyright renewed 1943 by Edward Marsh. Permission also granted by the Canadian publishers, McClelland and Stewart, Limited, Toronto.
Copyright © 1982 by Pamela Sargent
Cover design by Andy Ross
978-1-5040-1040-5
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Golden Space Page 31
