Much of the material the marchers carry was freely contributed, mostly by disgruntled members of congregations, some of it given by disaffected clergymen themselves. The other objects come mostly from churches or museums plundered during the civil disturbances. But the Discerners have done no plundering of their own; they have merely accepted donations and picked up some artifacts that rioters had scattered in the streets. On this point Gifford was most strict: acquisition of material. by force was prohibited. Thus the robes and emblems of the newly founded creeds are seen but sparsely today, since Awaiters and Propitiators Propritiators and their like would hardly have been inclined to contribute to Gifford’s festival of destruction.
They have reached the municipal dump now. It is a vast fiat wasteland, surprisingly aseptic-looking: there are large areas of meadow, and the unreclaimed regions of the dump have been neatly graded and mulched, in readiness for the scheduled autumn planting of grass. The marchers put down their burdens and the chief Discerners come forward to take spades and shovels from a truck that has accompanied them. Gifford looks up; helicopters hover and television cameras bristle in the sky. This event will have extensive coverage. He turns to face the others and intones, “Let this ceremony mark the end of all ceremonies. Let this rite usher in a time without rites. Let reason rule forevermore.”
Gifford lifts the first shovelful of soil himself. Now the rest of the diggers set to work, preparing a trench three feet deep, ten to twelve feet wide. The topsoil comes off easily, revealing strata of cans, broken toys, discarded television sets, automobile tires, and garden rakes. A mound of debris begins to grow as the digging team does its task; soon a shallow opening gapes. Though it is now late afternoon, the heat has not diminished, and those who dig stream with sweat. They rest frequently, panting, leaning on their tools. Meanwhile those who are not digging stand quietly, not putting down that which they carry.
Twilight is near before Gifford decides that the trench is adequate. Again he looks up at the cameras, again he turns to face his followers.
He says, “On this day we bury a hundred thousand years of superstition. We lay to rest the old idols, the old fantasies, the old errors, the old lies. The time of faith is over and done with; the era of certainty opens. No longer do we need theologians to speculate on the proper way of worshiping the Lord; no longer do we need priests to mediate between ourselves and Him; no longer do we need man-made scriptures that pretend to interpret His nature. We have all of us felt His hand upon our world, and the time has come to approach Him with clear eyes, with an alert, open mind. Hence we give to the earth these relics of bygone epochs, and we call upon discerning men and women everywhere to join us in this ceremony of renunciation.”
He signals. One by one the Discerners advance to the edge of the pit. One by one they cast their burdens in: albs, chasubles, copes, miters, Korans, Upanishads, yarmulkes, crucifixes. No one hurries; the Burial of Faith is serious business. As it proceeds, a drum roll of dull distant thunder reverberates along the horizon. A storm on the way? Just heat lightning, perhaps, Gifford decides. The ceremony continues. In with the maniple. In with the shofar. In with the cassock. Thunder again: louder, more distinct. The sky darkens. Gifford attempts to hasten the tempo of the ceremony, beckoning the Discerners forward to drop their booty. A blade of lightning slices the heavens and this time the answering thunderclap comes almost instantaneously, ka-thock. A few drops of rain. The forecast had been in error. A nuisance, but no real harm. Another flash of lightning. A tremendous crash. That one must have struck only a few hundred yards away. There is some nervous laughter. “We’ve annoyed Zeus,” someone says. “He’s throwing thunderbolts.” Gifford is not amused; he enjoys ironies, but not now, not now. And he realizes that he has become just credulous enough, since the sixth of June, to be at least marginally worried that the Almighty might indeed be about to punish this sacrilegious band of Discerners. A flash again. Ka-thock! The clouds now split asunder and torrents of rain abruptly descend. In moments, shirts are pasted to skins, the floor of the pit turns to mud, rivulets begin to stream across the dump.
And then, as though they had scheduled the storm for their own purposes, a mob of fierce-faced people in gaudy robes burst into view. They wield clubs, pitchforks, rake handles, cleavers, and other improvised weapons; they scream incoherent, unintelligible slogans; and they rush into the midst of the Discerners, laying about them vigorously. “Death to the godless blasphemers!” is what they are shrieking, and similar phrases. Who are they, Gifford wonders? Awaiters. Propitiators. Diabolists. Apocalyptists. Perhaps a coalition of all cultists. The television helicopters descend to get a better view of the melee, and hang just out of reach, twenty or thirty feet above the struggle. Their powerful floodlights provide apocalyptic illumination. Gifford finds hands at his throat: a crazed woman, howling, grotesque. He pushes her away and she tumbles into the pit, landing on a stack of mud-crusted Bibles. A frantic stampede has begun; his people are rushing in all directions, followed by the vengeful servants of the Lord, who wield their weapons with vindictive glee. Gifford sees his friends fall, wounded, badly hurt, perhaps slain. Where are the police? Why are they giving no protection? “Kill all the blasphemers!” a maniac voice shrills near him. He whirls, ready to defend himself. A pitchfork. He feels a strange cold clarity of thought and moves swiftly in, feinting, seizing the handle of the pitchfork, wresting it from his adversary. The rain redoubles its force; a sheet of water comes between Gifford and the other, and when he can see again, he is alone at the edge of the pit. He hurls the pitchfork into the pit and instantly wishes he had kept it, for three of the robed ones are coming toward him. He breaks into a cautious trot, tries to move past them, puts on a sudden spurt of speed, and slips in the mud. He lands in a puddle; the taste of mud is in his mouth; he is breathless, terrified, unable to rise. They fling themselves upon him. “Wait,” he says. “This is madness!” One of them has a club. “No,” Gifford mutters. “No. No. No. No.”
Fourteen
The Seventh Seal
1. And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.
2. And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets.
3. And another angel came and stood at the altar, having a golden censer; and there was given unto him much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne.
4. And the smoke of the incense, which came with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel’s hand.
5. And the angel took the censer, and filled it with fire of the altar, and cast it into the earth: and there were voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake.
6. And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.
7. The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.
8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the third part of the sea became blood;
9. And the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.
10. And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters;
11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.
12. And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.
13. And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with
a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound!
Fifteen
The Flight of the Prophet
All, all over. Thomas weeps. The cities burn. The very lakes are afire. So many thousands dead. The Apocalyptists dance, for though the year is not yet sped the end seems plainly in view. The Church of Rome has pronounced anathema on Thomas, denying his miracle: he is the Antichrist, the Pope has said. Signs and portents are seen everywhere. This is the season of two-headed calves and dogs with cats’ faces. New prophets have arisen. God may shortly return, or He may not; revelations differ. Many people now pray for an end to all such visitations and miracles. The Awaiters no longer Await, but now ask that we be spared from His next coming; even the Diabolists and the Propitiators cry, Come not, Lucifer. Those who begged a Sign from God in June would be content now only with God’s renewed and prolonged absence. Let Him neglect us; let Him dismiss us from His mind. It is a time of torches and hymns. Rumors of barbaric warfare come from distant continents. They say the neutron bomb has been used in Bolivia. Thomas’ last few followers have asked him to speak with God once more, in the hope that things can still be set to rights, but Thomas refuses. The lines of communication to the Deity are closed. He dares not reopen them: see, see how many plagues and evils he has let loose as it is! He renounces his prophethood. Others may dabble in charismatic mysticism if they so please. Others may kneel before the burning bush or sweat in the glare of the pillar of fire. Not Thomas. Thomas’ vocation is gone. All over. All, all, all over.
He hopes to slip into anonymity. He shaves his beard and docks his hair; he obtains a new wardrobe, bland and undistinguished; he alters the color of his eyes; he practices walking in a slouch to lessen his great height. Perhaps he has not lost his pocket-picking skills. He will go silently into the cities, head down, fingers on the ready, and thus he will make his way. It will be a quieter life.
Disguised, alone, Thomas goes forth. He wanders unmolested from place to place, sleeping in odd corners, eating in dim rooms. He is in Chicago for the Long Sabbath, and he is in Milwaukee for the Night of Blood, and he is in St. Louis for the Invocation of Flame. These events leave him unaffected. He moves on. The year is ebbing. The leaves have fallen. If the Apocalyptists tell us true, mankind has but a few weeks left. God’s wrath, or Satan’s, will blaze over the land as the year 2000 sweeps in on December’s heels. Thomas scarcely minds. Let him go unnoticed and he will not mind if the universe tumbles about him.
“What do you think?” he is asked on a street corner in Los Angeles. “Will God come back on New Year’s Day?”
A few idle loungers, killing time. Thomas slouches among them. They do not recognize him, he is sure. But they want an answer. “Well? What do you say?”
Thomas makes his voice furry and thick, and mumbles, “No, not a chance. He’s never going to mess with us again. He gave us a miracle and look what we made out of it.”
“That so? You really think so?”
Thomas nods. “God’s turned His back on us. He said, Here, I give you proof of My existence, now pull yourselves together and get somewhere. And instead we fell apart all the faster. So that’s it. We’ve had it. The end is coming.”
“Hey, you might be right!” Grins. Winks.
This conversation makes Thomas uncomfortable. He starts to edge away, elbows out, head bobbing clumsily, shoulders hunched. His new walk, his camouflage.
“Wait,” one of them says. “Stick around. Let’s talk a little.”
Thomas hesitates.
“You know, I think you’re right, fellow. We made a royal mess. I tell you something else: we never should have started all that stuff. Asking for a Sign. Stopping the Earth. Would have been a lot better off if that Thomas had stuck to picking pockets, let me tell you.”
“I agree three hundred percent,” Thomas says, flashing a quick smile, on-off. “If you’ll excuse me—”
Again he starts to shuffle away. Ten paces. An office building’s door opens. A short, slender man steps out. Oh, God! Saul! Thomas covers his face with his hand and turns away. Too late. No use. Kraft recognizes him through all the alterations. His eyes gleam. “Thomas!” he gasps.
“No. You’re mistaken. My name is—”
“Where have you been?” Kraft demands. “Everyone’s searching for you, Thomas. Oh, it was wicked of you to run away, to shirk your responsibilities. You dumped everything into our hands, didn’t you? But you were the only one with the strength to lead people. You were the only one who—”
“Keep your voice down,” Thomas says hoarsely. No use pretending. “For the love of God, Saul, stop yelling at me! Stop saying my name! Do you want everyone to know that I’m—”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Kraft says. By now a fair crowd has gathered, ten people, a dozen. Kraft points. “Don’t you know him? That’s Thomas the Proclaimer! He’s shaved and cut his hair, but can’t you see his face all the same? There’s your prophet! There’s the thief who talked with God!”
“No, Saul!”
“Thomas?” someone says. And they all begin to mutter it. “Thomas? Thomas? Thomas?” They nod heads, point, rub chins, nod heads again. “Thomas? Thomas?”
Surrounding him. Staring. Touching him. He tries to push them away. Too many of them, and no apostles, now. Kraft is at the edge of the crowd, smiling, the little Judas! “Keep back,” Thomas says. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m not Thomas. I’d like to get my hands on him myself. I-I-” Judas! Judas! “Saul!” he screams. And then they swarm over him.
When We Went to See the End of the World
As I indicated in the introductions to “In Entropy’s Jaws” and “Good News from the Vatican,” the early 1970s was a time when I was beginning to ask myself whether there was any point to writing science fiction at all, even as I was reaching my own peak of creativity in the field. Looking back now on that period, I see my attitudes then as analogous to that of the baseball player who, after devoting most of his life to attaining and sustaining a major-league career, suddenly begins wondering whether it really made any sense for a grown man to spend his days swinging a wooden stick at a small horsehide-covered ball. It was a phase I was going through, born, I suppose, out of the weariness that the fire in my house in 1968 had engendered in me, out of the different sort of weariness brought about by having written so many million words of fiction over so many years, and, also, by the fact that I was entering my dangerous midlife years at a time when all of American society seemed to be questioning the fundamental assumptions of our entire political and cultural system.
For those and perhaps other reasons, I found myself writing stories in which, one by one, the basic themes of science fiction were called up and looked at with a jaundiced eye, and then turned into sly, subversive, tongue-in-cheek stories that plainly indicated I could no longer take those themes seriously as a platform for fiction. “Good News from the Vatican” is a case in point: I scarcely expected that a day would actually come when a robot would be elected Pope, nor did I think my readers would put any literal credence in that story’s playful theme. Another good example of this deliberately flip, even nihilistic, mode is this one, written in June of 1971, once again for Terry Carr’s Universe and published in the second issue of that distinguished anthology series.
~
Nick and Jane were glad that they had gone to see the end of the world, because it gave them something special to talk about at Mike and Ruby’s party. One always likes to come to a party armed with a little conversation. Mike and Ruby give marvelous parties.
Their home is superb, one of the finest in the neighborhood. It is truly a home for all seasons, all moods. Their very special corner of the world. With more space indoors and out…more wide-open freedom. The living room with its exposed ceiling beams is a natural focal point for entertaining. Custom-finished, with a conversation pit and fireplace. There’s also a family room with beamed c
eiling and wood paneling…plus a study. And a magnificent master suite with twelve-foot dressing room and private bath. Solidly impressive exterior design. Sheltered courtyard. Beautifully wooded ⅓-acre grounds. Their parties are highlights of any month. Nick and Jane waited until they thought enough people had arrived. Then Jane nudged Nick and Nick said gaily, “You know what we did last week? Hey, we went to see the end of the world!”
“The end of the world?” Henry asked.
“You went to see it?” said Henry’s wife Cynthia.
“How did you manage that?” Paula wanted to know.
“It’s been available since March,” Stan told her. “I think a division of American Express runs it.”
Nick was put out to discover that Stan already knew. Quickly, before Stan could say anything more, Nick said, “Yes, it’s just started. Our travel agent found out for us. What they do is they put you in this machine, it looks like a tiny teeny submarine, you know, with dials and levers up front behind a plastic wall to keep you from touching anything, and they send you into the future. You can charge it with any of the regular credit cards.”
“It must be very expensive,” Marcia said.
“They’re bringing the costs down rapidly,” Jane said. “Last year only millionaires could afford it. Really, haven’t you heard about it before?”
“What did you see?” Henry asked.
“For a while, just greyness outside the porthole,” said Nick. “And a kind of flickering effect.” Everybody was looking at him. He enjoyed the attention. Jane wore a rapt, loving expression. “Then the haze cleared and a voice said over a loudspeaker that we had now reached the very end of time, when life had become impossible on Earth. Of course, we were sealed into the submarine thing. Only looking out. On this beach, this empty beach. The water a funny grey color with a pink sheen. And then the sun came up. It was red like it sometimes is at sunrise, only it stayed red as it got to the middle of the sky, and it looked lumpy and saggy at the edges. Like a few of us, hah hah. Lumpy and sagging at the edges. A cold wind blowing across the beach.”
Something Wild is Loose: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Three Page 27
