We’d passed through plenty of ruins. A few things made this one different. First, it was a single house, disconnected from any town, and although part of the roof had fallen in, what remained wasn’t unsalvageable. Second, the occupants, though long dead, were still inside. We found their skeletons lying side by side on the remnants of a mattress. I don’t know how the couple had come to pass away in the same bed, or if someone else had arranged them there afterwards, but I like to think they died old and happy, free from the wars and diseases and troubles of more “civilized” areas.
Lastly, I found a book in the house.
It was in a cache beneath a broken floorboard, along with a rusty rifle, a pair of antlers, a necklace, and a number of gold and copper coins. The tome was black and leather-bound, with an aura of age and weight. I have it to this day. Across the front, it reads:
The Complete Works of Robert E. Howard
Every Conan story ever written. They may not be in graphic form, but the images in my head are rich with detail. If I ever get back to Franklin the Ferryman, I’ll have to show him. When I saw that some of the old coppers in the cache were similar to the oversized cents Jarvis was fond of–well, that was the chocolate on the cookie, as my grandfather used to say. As far I’m concerned, the universe couldn’t have been sending us a clearer signal: this was where we’d make our home.
There was another factor I haven’t mentioned yet, not a sign but a need for urgency–Echo was pregnant. Granted, it was a dangerous choice to have the baby so far from anyone with medical knowledge, but we were young and stupid, and we believed in ourselves far more than we trusted strangers. We also caught a lucky break. A middle-aged couple had settled in a cabin six miles around the curve of the lake, and I befriended them while ranging for game one day. They’d lost two children and a third had gone west, so the woman, Kerra, was a great help when she agreed to assist with the birth. By “assist” I mean “took over entirely and kicked me out of the house.”
Jarvis II was born in the spring, and he was an energetic explorer from the start. He’s so far shown no interest in electronics. Animals and plants are his thing. He watches them for hours, imitates them, talks to them. A child of nature. We appended the “II” so that we’d always remember–and he’d always know–that there had been a first, even if the original Jarvis had been no blood relative.
As for Annabel Lee (who lived by New Sea), she made her peace with the past, or at least moved so far beyond it that it disappeared from view. Soon after we arrived, while I was still repairing the roof, she stood on our porch looking out into the forest and said, “I like when you call me Annabel.”
I never called her Echo again.
After the birth of our son, Annabel swore off kids, but life had other plans. Life doesn’t give a shit who does and doesn’t want kids. It throws them like candy to a crowd–and some in the crowd rejoice, while others cry out in terror and regret. In my opinion, no sane person would want the responsibility, the worry, the sacrifice … which is exactly why evolution all but removed the choice, hiding their creation in an almost irresistible act, leaving things to the more certain hands of Nature.
Jarvis II was followed by Layla, a small squalling girl who nearly killed her mother upon arrival. That was another terrible night, though it turned out all right in the end. Afterwards, Annabel swore off kids again, more adamantly than ever, and I thought: we’re definitely done now. For a few hours I had been facing the possibility of caring for a newborn while grieving for the girl I loved, and I never wanted to be in that situation again.
But once more, life stepped on our desires with an elephant’s uncaring foot; Annabel is now six months pregnant with our third child. Am I worried? Of course. Sometimes I look at her and wonder if she’ll only be a memory this time next year; if this is the thing that will finally kill her, coming like clockwork, the days ticking away. But what can I do? Annabel tells me not to worry so much. I don’t tell her my fears, but she takes one look and knows. Since Layla, she’s been more philosophical. More relaxed. Less afraid. Recently she told me:
“We’re all going to die someday, Tristan. A day, a year, a decade. It doesn’t matter. When it happens, it will be now. What’s the point of living at all if we spend all our time being afraid of what’s to come?”
In quiet moments in the forest, on the slopes the mountain, by the calm waters of the lake, I know what she means. The fear fades away, and the world seems less like something one has to struggle against and more like something to be experienced and cherished. Still, my paranoia creeps in to whisper otherwise. It’s a constant practice, keeping the fear at bay. Living in the world–instead of my head.
It was in a fearful moment that I considered moving everyone to Apolis. Annabel was four months pregnant and I wanted access to doctors and better medicine. Plus, we’d been saying for years we’d go back to visit Octavia. The road is unpredictable and dangerous, however. Even capable, well-armed travelers could disappear between here and Apolis; two children and a pregnant woman made less than ideal travelers. Still, I brought up the idea. Annabel’s reaction was immediate.
“We’re not dragging Jarvis and Layla all the way to Apolis to have this baby. Apolis is not our home, Tristan. This is our home.”
She’s right, of course. We’ve put our stake in the ground. We’ve made a life here. She did make one compromise, however. When I’d stocked enough rations to last Annabel and the kids, I spent two weeks on a trip to Redtree, the nearest village of any consequence. I expected to trade for relevant herbs and medical supplies. What I did not expect was to see someone I know. Someone I hadn’t seen in a lifetime.
“Yow show tchi!”
The words came at me across a cobblestone road as I headed for an apothecary. For a moment I couldn’t place them … Then Toyota was there with a big smile on his face, wearing the same round goggles and weather-beaten poncho. He’d just stepped down from a solar-electric vehicle. I hesitate to call it a “wagon;” it was more like a small tank. It even had a turret on top.
Toyota was clapping me on the back before I could even recover enough to speak. Someone else was there too: his eldest son. He’d finally let the boy come along. It was a joyous reunion. Even though I’d only seen Toyota two or three times a year, those brief visits had meant a lot to me–not only in practical terms, by providing new goods, but in mental terms, by providing something to look forward to. I may have been just one more stop in his travels, but he was like an old and cherished friend. Meeting him out here, far north of z-line, was like coming full circle. The three of us sat together in a local eatery. I insisted on buying them dinner. I told Toyota how much Volume Seven had meant to me, how I’d been taken captive by Foundry’s scouts that same night.
“Find something good, I see you next time!”
Those had been his last words back in the ruins. I hadn’t found anything to match Volume Seven, but I’d wanted to give him something unique. Luckily, I had just the thing. As he boarded the vehicle with his son again, I threw him the little leather pouch I’d found the morning of the Grass Man’s ambush. The ancient black dice were still inside. The dice were valuable, but I’d grown attached to them and never found the right trade. Seeing how Toyota had always called me some variant of “Little Luck,” I figured he would appreciate the gift.
“You make your own luck now,” I told him.
As he shook the odd dice out of the bag, his face lit up. He promised to visit Redtree on his next trip north and agreed to bring Wade and Franklin word of our health.
On the way back to Annabel, I thought a lot about the Library. Seeing Toyota again had put it all in perspective. Also, in Redtree, I’d discovered a book. Not an old book. A new one. The biography of a woman out west, from someplace called New Cali. The book had been reprinted in Cove. The name “Cove” still brings up bad feelings, and New Cali is a long way off, but those can’t be the only two printing presses in the New World–can they?
In the Library, I
’d read a book by a soldier named Xenophon. He’d written it more than two thousand years ago, in a time as harsh as this one. I’d also read more modern novels, from people who’d lived only decades before the Fall. The latter focused on technology, social issues, careers I could barely fathom. There was roughly a two-century window in which life on Earth–or at least the wealthier parts–was almost alien to everything that existed outside that era. The people worried about missiles hitting them from halfway around the world, yet never bandits or rogue armies showing up at their doorstep. In cities like Scargo, they’d had endless crowds to feed, yet dietary books spoke of an “obesity epidemic.” Believe it or not, these books were written for people to lose weight, as if food had been so abundant that everyone couldn’t help but stuff themselves.
I’ve tried to imagine what that must’ve been like. I’ve wondered if we’ll ever reach such astonishing heights–or lows?–again, or if the Cyberians or Synth-Z or some newer atrocity will triumph. Who can say? What I do know is that everyone from Xenophon to those anonymous nutritional experts succeeded in adding their voice to the larger world. Taken together, one might see them as a kind of running inner dialogue, the ongoing stream of humanity’s collective consciousness. Looked at this way, I suppose we, as individuals, would compose the cells of a planetary being too vast to perceive–eons old, yet not eternal–as it struggles to comprehend its place in the cosmos, circling and circling a burning mote in a sea of darkness.
One might think a single voice in so vast a dialogue would be meaningless, lost as a drop in a river–yet voices which seemed tiny have become giants over time, building as a pebble into a mountain, defining the route of all who climbed over. Some of those voices were extraordinary from the start. Their bearers did extraordinary things. Yet others were just ordinary people opening a window on their world.
As I trekked back to our home in the forest, I thought: who will speak for my age? Who will speak for I and Annabel? For Wade the Desert Scorpion and Franklin the Ferryman? For Jarvis and Starbucks? And also: who will remember Farmington? That, in the end, is the question that needled me most. My grandfather Bacchus, my best friends Crispin and Berkley, the injustice of what Cove’s soldiers had done–it all may mean nothing to you, but it meant a hell of a lot to me, and I would have the world whisper their names a little longer.
I hadn’t thought of writing anything myself, but when I talked to Annabel, she led me to the natural conclusion. She often knows what I want before I do, and she’ll take my hand and lead me toward it even while I doubt her. We fight now and then, Annabel and I, and a third of the time I think she’s literally insane, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything.
So here I sit, quill in hand, Conan’s leather-bound tome on my right. Annabel is downstairs with Layla, and through the window I can see our son gathering wood beneath the softly-shifting leaves of the forest, framed in an endless blue sky. Life hasn’t been what I expected. It’s been much worse. It’s been much better. Soon the baby will come and things will change again–for good or bad, I know not. But here my voice must go silent. The names are spoken; the window is closing. If you’re down the road a bit and the world has changed again, raise a glass and take a moment to remember those that came before, all who struggled and suffered and drowned in the river of time, and live this day for them, for us, one moment at a time…
And maybe one day the angels will come, or the demons from under the sea;
maybe they’ll covet all that I have and rip it away from me.
But I’ll no longer fear the loss of what’s dear, in our kingdom by the sea;
for we’ll laugh and we’ll cry, we’ll love and we’ll die, I and my Annabel Lee.
END
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Coming December 2015:
The Last Plutarch
In the city of Panchaea, society’s elite are given godlike powers by a “fog” of microscopic machines. Instead of using the Fog to benefit mankind, however, the Plutarchs only reinforce their own positions. The Plebians under their rule, ignorant of the Fog’s true nature, are bred to believe in the Divinity of their masters … until the most loyal Plebian of all undergoes a life-changing journey, which not only opens his eyes but gives him the one tool necessary to fight back.
More sci-fi coming soon; for updates, see:
http://www.thescifiguy.com
Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Page 27
