by W. S. Fuller
Bernardo had hardly listened, and the new priest had now finished. But Bernardo was sure Father Cordoba had said that if he works hard and takes care of his family, and prays for the other campesinos and says his rosary and doesn’t listen to Satan and doesn’t sin, he will be saved and go to heaven.
As they approached the door of the church to leave, screams and cries suddenly sliced through the quiet, still morning. Bernardo raised his arm and told his wife and children to wait, then hurried outside to see what had happened. Skin-crawling, breath-stopping terror washed over him. On the lone, large tree in front of the church, hanging from the lowest limb, was a priest’s white robe. Drenched in blood. From the bottom of the robe two legs dangled, one with a foot, the other with only a bloody stump. The top of the robe was empty.
After they had eaten and said their evening prayers, Bernardo’s family went to bed. They would be up early the next morning to finish putting the leaves into bundles. He again had his wife, but it did not make him glad as it usually does. Even while he was inside her he thought of the robe.
The council had long ago made the necessary adjustments. I could now switch lens from one human to another, to another, back and forth, any number of times, any number of lenses, any number of humans, without any problem. All the thoughts and perceptions, so often distorted by the filters that form on each lens of each human, are transferred instantaneously, so that I have crystal clear access to it all. I, Luggalor.
Bernardo worked very hard the next morning preparing as many of the leaves as he could. His thoughts were focused on his work…except for the numerous times when the image of the hideous robe and Father Moldaro’s bloody stump returned. The truck arrived and the bundles of leaves were loaded. I decided to go to the lens of the driver as he started back down the rutted, dirt road. I, Luggalor.
“Adios, Bernardo, mi amigo” the driver shouted, his head poking through the window and looking back
Carlo, the driver, had discovered during the long morning that his partner for the day, the guard, didn’t like to talk.”Do you ever go to the Caballeros Club? There are many beautiful senoritas there,” said Carlo.
“I have been once. I do not like that kind of place.”
Well, if he does not like to talk I will not make him, thought Carlo.
There was no further conversation in the flatbed truck, piled high with dried coca leaves, as it rumbled through the valley. Carlo’s mind was curiously blank except for what it registered from the road as he drove, the guard’s not even that active. I could not recall having used the lens of a human before that produced so little thought. After I was certain there would be no interesting, illuminating thought from Carlo, I decided to assume my natural form and rest. It had been a long time since I had been in my natural form.
There was a river, with a narrow, grassy bank rising from the water’s edge that ended abruptly in a thick forest. I laid down in the grass, leaned against a stone, closed my single sight mechanism, and listened to the incredible cacophony of sounds coming from the multitude of insects, animals and birds around me, the wind’s gentle rustling of the plants, vines and trees, and the water moving in the river. The aromas of the grass and wood, especially the sweet fragrances of the many blooms and blossoms, gave me great joy.
Opening my sight mechanism to see the wonderful things I heard and smelled, I found a long narrow creature with a flat head staring intently at me. I wondered what the beings of this planet think as they see me in my normal form. Many of them have two sight mechanisms, as the humans do, rather than only one. Most appear to be fairly solid body forms with somewhat rigid, structured shapes. Quite a contrast to my non-solid, non-rigid, structure that can flow, change, disappear, and reappear.
I vanished and reappeared on another stone, on the other side of the creature. The dark head and two large sight mechanisms did not turn. I went to the lens of the creature and there was only recognition of what its sight mechanisms absorbed, no conscience or unconscious reaction unless its senses detected some external change. Not in a thinking way as with humans, but rather as a process that I sensed always functions the same. There was no reasoning or consideration of choices, just a consciousness waiting for something to occur that could be reacted to. Again I appeared on the first stone. As the creature’s sight mechanisms saw motion again, the head turned quickly, but only slightly, and again stared at me. Suddenly the mechanisms shifted and the creature began moving away, its long, sleek, black body a thing of beauty as it was propelled forward by an elegant swaying motion. I watched it disappear into the grass.
How marvelous this planet is, with its extraordinary diversity of living things, its stunning array of beautiful sights, sounds and smells. How uniquely constructed are the dominant species, the humans, with their abilities to reason, feel emotion, adapt and invent. There is such potential here for harmony among all life, but there is so much discord and violence that prevents it. I, Luggalor.
2000
PARIS, FRANCE
Huan excused himself, walked through the door of the Bateaux, and stood on the port side, leaning against the rail. This was his second trip at twilight on one of the large tour boats that cruise the Seine, and he was not about to miss the sight he knew was approaching. As they came alongside Ile de Cite the familiar shape of Notre Dame filled his view. The sky, brushed with cirrus and filmy mare’s tails, had turned brilliant shades of red, purple and orange overlaying pastels of salmon, pink and blue. As the cathedral slipped by, the magical moment arrived when the mighty buttresses were silhouetted against the celestial canvas. It was as stunning, awe-inspiring, perhaps even more so, than he remembered it. Could a heaven of anyone’s imagination be more beautiful. I love this city. The beauty, the history, the art, the people, the excitement...everything about it. I should go back inside now to my dinner. No, I will stay until the boat turns back. It will not be long and this is too magnificent a sight to leave. They are my friends, they will understand.
Thoughts of the months he had spent in Paris as a student filled Huan’s mind. He did not have the time to do so much sight seeing then, although he took every opportunity he had. After completing his third year at Harvard, he was selected to participate in a summer program in economics at the Sorbonne. That first visit to the Crazy Horse...remembering the evening brought an inward smile. Like the buttresses of a majestic cathedral silhouetted at sunset, the women of Paris never disappointed him with their beauty. His manners completely deserted him that first time, and he stared. The smile crept onto his face, and broadened, as he recalled that he stared again, just as shamelessly, last night.
“Huan, is something wrong?” It was Jon.
“No, nothing at all. I love the sight of Notre Dame at this time of the day and didn’t want to miss it. I was going to invite you to come with me, but you were so engaged in the conversation that I just slipped out.”
“Your food has been on the table for some time now and I am sure it is cold,” Jon said. “Mine was not very hot when they brought it. The taste is good but certainly nothing to compare with the dinner last night at La Tour D’Argent. I am sure that is the best meal I have ever had. But this boat is fantastic, with all of its lights and those along the banks.”
Sliding past one of the many barges moored along the river’s edge that serve as homes, the powerful spotlights from the Bateaux illuminated a couple sitting amidst geranium-laden flower boxes, drinks in hand, as if they were awaiting surgery in the garish candlepower of an operating room.
“What do you think, Jon? Do those people like the Bateaux Mouches and their lights?”
The answer came from the barge as the man and woman raised their glasses and smiled.
“Everyone in Paris is a little crazy, Huan, don’t you think.”
Huan stared at the shapes on the ceiling from his bed at the Hotel Concorde Lafayette later that night, unable to sleep. Glancing at the illuminated numbers on his bedside clock, he saw it was just past two a.m., got up and steppe
d to the window. Below him the city was still ablaze with light. His view was framed by the Arc d’ Triomphe to his left and the Eiffel Tower to his right, brilliant in its gold glow against the black of the night sky.
Tomorrow will be an interesting day. The first day of these conferences always is. It is ostensibly being held to contribute to the eradication of industrial pollution, but the tone is set by the sponsoring countries, in this case France and the United States, and it’s usually clear from the beginning how productive the discussions and proposals will be. If there is a great deal of posturing and preaching by the hosts and other industrialized nations, these affairs are essentially worthless. Except, of course, to the executives, politicians and scientists from those same nations who will reap the benefits of seeing their hypocritical, pious attitudes and statements in their country’s media.
Huan’s thoughts turned to his family, and how his selection to come to Paris was a normal progression in their history and tradition. Their evolution could be viewed as a microcosm of the participation in the world order of what were once strictly provincial societies. A fourth generation Malaysian, his family immigrated to that Asian melting pot after a tribal war in China. They escaped with some of their wealth, and assumed leadership roles in various levels of government and commerce almost from the beginning. Huan is the third member of his family to have been educated in the United States and Europe.
The problems are immense for everyone, to be sure, but the differences between the industrialized and emerging nations relevant to the issue of pollutants is a chasm, and must be recognized as such. Nations such as mine have as their primary obligation the feeding, clothing and housing of their people. The development of any profitable industries is the first priority in fulfilling this obligation. There is barely enough money for the first or second generation technology and equipment we must use; it is ludicrous to expect us to be able to purchase or develop the technology required to effectively control the emission of pollutants. Surely the bureaucrats, politicians and executives from the U.S. and the other powers must realize this. It is a starkly simple fact.
There are many leaders from other undeveloped countries who are as aware and concerned as I am about the danger to the planet of environmental abuses. And if it is a problem for the planet then it is, of course, a more immediate problem for our people since they live where the pollutants are highly concentrated. But is it better to have people go hungry and suffer all the disease, conflict, human misery and death that goes with poverty, or is it preferable to release carcinogens and other dangerous substances into the air and water that cause serious suffering, hardship, and more death in the future? The answer, of course, is to solve both these problems. I know this. But I also know we will need a great deal of help.
Huan took one last look at Paris at night and then walked back to his bed. This time sleep came easily.
Sitting in the hotel restaurant early the next morning, Huan was convinced he would never become comfortable with a five dollar cup of coffee. It is a habit he picked up as a student in the U.S. and has continued to hold onto, although he still enjoyed the more traditional cup of tea. The breakfast was excellent for a hotel restaurant, and then he remembered the old saying that you cannot have a bad meal in Paris. Then he thought of the dinner at the Moulin Rouge a couple of evenings ago. Beautiful, incredibly beautiful women, great acrobats, hilarious ventriloquist...but definitely a mediocre meal.
Delegations or representatives from over fifty nations filled the room. The chairs and desks, each with a microphone, were arranged in a crescent. Earpieces for translations hung on the back of each chair. Huan always thought of the United Nations when he was in a room set up like this. The decor of the hotel was even contemporary. He also always thought of the potential.
The conference started with the usual greetings and welcomes from the hosts and distinguished guests. Following were hours of statistical-laden reports from various research organizations whose job it is to document the wretched state of the world’s environment. And it seemed to Huan as if they were doing their job well, for wretched it sounded. There were some isolated bright spots. Acid rain content had declined significantly in certain areas of...he certainly could have guessed...France, Great Britain, Germany and the U.S.
They finally came around to specifics, and the first area of discussion was the release of chlorine and PCB’s into rivers and seas, primarily by the pulp and paper industries. Huan listened attentively. One of his uncles was involved in a large pulp mill outside Kuala Lumpur for a number of years, and he was very familiar with the problems of toxins released by the pulping process. The speaker, an American toxicologist, began to speak of a specific area of the Volga in Poland and its high levels of toxicity.
“This issue must be addressed and addressed now. We have known for years the danger of the release of PCB’s and chlorine, and steps have been taken in the U.S. and other countries to eliminate this problem that is so damaging to people, marine life, and entire ecosystems.”
As the speaker droned on, making anyone who condones in any way even the tiniest release of these chemicals sound like a reincarnation of Hitler, Huan decided that this man was well versed in toxicology but didn’t know a damn thing about world economics, political, or social systems. He patiently waited until questions could be asked.
“Surely you must realize that those of us in developing countries have known for a long time the facts and dangers you have so eloquently described.” Huan tried to keep his edge of sarcasm from appearing too obvious, but doubted he was succeeding.
“The problem is not so much with awareness or understanding, but rather economics. The developing nation’s first obligation is to develop industries that will feed our people and contribute to what is at least a functioning economy. This is not an easy task. We are poor and do not have the means to purchase or develop the technology needed to eliminate these toxic by-products of the limited industries we have. Instead, we are forced to rely on outdated, often antiquated processes and equipment that we purchase from countries such as yours that have tired of using them to contaminate your own waters, kill and injure your own marine life and people. Your country is one of the greatest polluters on earth. Your paper mills still spew out huge amounts of dioxides, methanol, chloroform, toluene and chloride dioxide. If your own industry, which definitely has the financial resources and technology necessary, will not comply with reasonable guidelines, what gives you the right to expect ours to? We welcome your advice, but not your hypocrisy, and we need to hear constructive proposals that address real solutions, which again, are primarily economic.”
After a long moment of complete silence, a number of delegates broke into applause. Huan felt the flush of still-pumping adrenaline as he sat down. When he finally reflected on something other than what he had just said, it occurred to him that he was glad the individual countries selected their own representatives for these meetings. If it were up to the hosts, he was quite sure he would not be on the invitation list for next year.
Highly developed, sophisticated minds in this group of humans. Much the same as with other humans attending other gatherings dealing with serious issues. But their thoughts are so at odds on critical issues, even though the physical properties of each mind appear essentially identical. Problematic. I, Luggalor.
2000
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
The living room was small, impeccably neat, everything in its own, special place. And there were scores of things - pictures, vases, figurines, paperweights, knickknacks of all types - all mementos of a lifetime of collecting and receiving, and each commemorating some special moment, or person, or place. They were everywhere - on tables, etageres, walls, the mantle. Above the Chippendale couch was a large painting, ornately framed, of the last supper. Under this prized possession sat Lila May Robertson.
Silver hair perfectly coifed, gold-rimmed glasses perched just below the sparkling green eyes on the broad face, bright yellow dres
s resplendent on her matronly figure, hands in her lap and feet demurely crossed, she waited and thought. Plastic slipcovers are put away in the closet and the doilies are on the arms. Silver coffee service is out in the dining room, with cups, saucers, spoons, sugar, cream. There’s at least twenty tea cakes out and more in the kitchen. Hard candy in the jars. I know everyone will agree with me...we just can’t let the good ole fashion values and traditions of our church and community go by the wayside. Mama never would have stood for it, neither would Aunt Lessie May. They would have got to the bottom of it, and would have been proud of me for doing it. Things shouldn’t have to change. The Bible’s teachings are the same now as they were back then, and just as right. There’s too many newfangled ideas, too much immoral behavior among young people that we must do something about. When we can...
