Bitter searing heat relentless
sun in a cloudless, dark blue sky. A thick brown air mass blanketed the megalopolitan
area as it had for weeks. The sun burned unprotected skin leaving the weakest-naked
to die horribly.
It could take days during which time the body would slowly
blister. Blisters burst. The exposed, moist flesh would then sizzle, searing the
victim. Hairline slits would spell imminency as precious bodily fluids evaporated
in the aridity.
Suspended toxins and dust particles formed in the broken epidermis
forming a toxic cement that would seal the inner cells of a body and slowly poison
them. Not soon enough. The victim's hair burning hot, as if on fire, splintered
under the force of unrelenting ultraviolet radiation. Toward the end, the body
attained a premature status of rigor mortis.
While the strong with garments
stepped on them, kicked them, urinated and defecated, and worst of all, spat.
On their chins. An inch or so away from their cemented mouths. To throw a precious
gift away in spite...
If they made it far enough, they would hallucinate for
the last hours. A gift from nature to ease the suffering during the last moments
of death.
A zoological society had made a documentary about the mirroring of
die-off of birds. Captive birds lost the will to live once birds in the wild disappeared
and took their songs with them. Budgerariars let their beaks grow. Picked at their
food rather than eat it. Stopped drinking water. The film closed with the favourite
of the lot, Biko, who had sung so joyously, taking his death flight, cloacoa voiding
for the last time, in the hand of the human companion who had loved him so.
Wildlife
die-off happened so rapidly, that it astonished the scientists who had been measuring
species decline. Domestic pets became permanently neurotic and anxious. Or vicious.
Pets had become the domain of the rich. Food and water were in too short suppy
for anyone but the wealthy to keep them.
And then the wealthy. Their lifestyle
continued unabated. They stayed indoors during daylight hours, and lived in enclaves
well away from the masses of decline. They knew that they were not immune from
the effects of the decline but sought to forestall. Their wealth allowed them
to lead comfortable, opulent lifestyles in fortified communities where intruders
were shot on sight.
They all drank technology derived designer water. They
were the first in line. Being wealthy, it was their due.
But they saw their
own faces in the mirror of the mess of ecological devastation. Du Pont was a derogatory
expression. But they had not contributed to the sheer numbers milling in the free
zones. Tit for tat perhaps?
Let as many people as possible live short horrible
lives before all death day? Perhaps Malthusian of the cosmos was having a good
laugh. His own personal test tube planet: Experiment progressing along predicted
lines. Billions of years of up, then poof, like a pack of cards crashing to the
ground.
And still, somewhere, developers sang. '...And we'll build a row of
identical boxes. Sell em all off at treble the profits. Demolition.' Articulated
trucks, some with four or five trailers. Raced on a mission? ...Down the highways
in designated lanes. Shipping from-to Never Stop! with suspension systems that
could absorb the shock of a body in its path. High security.
Water. Water.
Some found it hard to believe that just a century ago, there had been so many
fish in the oceans that to catch was to throw a net and pull full. It had been
said that such abundance disturbed some to such a degree that they had to conquer
the flourishment. Bigger nets. That had to be the answer.
So many fish. Sea
so big. More fish in the sea, you see. Had they cared not to notice? The fishies
flourished along the coasts like a gift from heaven. Easy to catch in small boats.
Since before time.
Fishes close to shore, waiting to be caught. Only the
big ones kept. The small ones were thown back in to swim some more and say to
their mates with their eyes abulging. 'I was caught. I was outside the world in
outer space for a few seconds. I saw the sun and some clouds. I couldn't breathe
but it was worth it.'
Subjected to the dragnet. Die in the nets under water.
An unnatural death. Gills flooding backward, fine nylon tearing at gills and fins.
How different from the natural death... Floating close to or on the surface of
the world. Seeing the outer space up, the inner space, with perhaps a few companions
milling, down. Bottom bed in view if lucky. That was death by nature for the fish.
Goodbye, fishies. Whispered the weeds.
Adios, adios. Bonjour la visite.
***
Old creeping habits formed his hands on the staff displaced.
Observing was a form of manipulating the relationship between motion time and
space time. He was passing mostly in the latter and forcing the former by looking
at motion. It was one way of staying alert.
Atrophied uniformly, he enjoyed
the convenience of a general degradation. Moving slowly but with perfect co-ordination
was better than having more-but-less.. balanced, power.
He had walked down
from the hall to the traffic. He was beyond caring. He lost his names along the
way. Some of the more posessed milled. Some watched half interestedly as the erect
form so fragile in appearance walked slowly across the busy highway. Unseeing.
One of the more posessed took a perceptible step closer to being interested.
Sweating in the rancid heat of the afternoon, he walked forward, helping the ancient
flesh over the curb.
"Why is it that you don't watch where you are going, my
friend?"
The old man looked down into the face of the NigerİMan.
"Am I?"
Quizzical. "Are you what?" Humoring.
"Your friend."
"Oh, that is an expression."
"Better be good stranger I think. Friendship is love. It takes longer. Someday
perhaps."
"I am Okon, good stranger."
Old man silent.
"Your name, good
stranger?"
The old face took on a look of quizzical concentration. "Third."
Okon placed his hand gently on the old man's forearm. "Is your name Third?"
Old smiled. "What a dillemma, between what I have and what I just want." Breeze
blew, body wavered. "No. My third name, yes that is it. Third." He straightŞened
his shoulders. "Eve. I can't remember. Forgive me, Okon."
"I shall call you
Yves, then. It is a good name. But why did you cross the road in the way that
you did? There were fast trucks. They have not stopped for old men before. Why
should they stop for you?"
Old started to sag. Okon caught a tighter hold.
"I walk down to the water. I follow my path."
"Where is your path? I do not
see a path."
"You stand on it but do not see it. No matter." The old man detached
himself, resuming his shuffling walk.
Okon took up the shallow pace. "You have
lived to a great age, Yves. Can you share with me some of your experiences?" Old
shuffled. Fingers trembled. Heat.
Muttered "waiting for the end."
"What
is to end. Do you wait for death?"
"Of the world as I know it not supposed
to be the time."
Noir stopped. Turning to face Okon he grasped his shoulders
with a force that frightened the younger man. Pointing to the useless garbage
filled, wasted strip of land leading to the Pacific. "I was once there, then.
And I saw the changes, mine in time and other things."
Okon defended. "How
do you mean? What other things?"
Old began to feel marginally more energetic.
His voice rose from low murmur to loud pitch. Octave dropped, he locked eyes and
held. "Other things. I was there," pointing to the strip of trash. "I saw it all."
Okon began to shake. "What is it. I wish to understand. Please, let go. You
are hurting me."
Grip relaxed slightly, Old snorted. Shook his head, concentrated.
Restated. Remarked in concession. "I suppose." Okon relaxed slightly. Old resumed.
"Waiting for the end of the world to begin again my eyes they see it changing.
My mind is quite clear, but my eyes are blinded, brilliant times do not become.
But I know the day. And the night. And I know that one thing I can never come
around to."
Okon was gaining in empathy. "What is that, Yves?"
"Be a realizing
fool to time and everyone knows in mind and I can see it clearly now it approaches
me. From the angles of my mind I see and not see and not quite feel anything but
pain and that affected me I know it." The grip loosened. Okon caught the faltering
Old.
"...Not my fault that I am strange."
Shaded by ordered wastes Old regained
the power to speak communicatively.
"Okon. Why are you here. This is not your
place."
"I am a student. This is where I study."
Old began to feel interest
in the other rising. He sat up. "What."
"Do I study?" Affirmative nod from
Old. Okon continued.
"I study the decline after the lost decade."
"Lost
decade. Was there only one?"
"We believe that the lost decade was the ninth
of the century past. In that decade, most of the positive steps that had been
taken in the eighth, to slow down simplification, were reversed."
Old wearied
but feigned interest. "And where is it that you study, Okon."
"I am presently
a student at Claes College, where I hope to soon gain my Doctor of Philosophy
in "Managing Organizational Redeployment."
"Claes. Claes. Never heard of it."
"It is a very small University; more like an Institute. It is dedicated to
the memory of the man who showed the future so clearly in his writings."
Old
felt a glimmer of interest. Talk took effort but questions were over. "Brunner."
Okon stated excitedly. "You know of this man?"
"Naturally. Claes must be
Precipice, north of here."
"It is!"
Old looked up. "I'm happy for you. Go
back to Precipice, Okon. You don't belong here."
"You are right, I do not.
It is a nasty place, this park." Okon gathered determination. "You do not belong
here either. Come to Precipice with me."
"No, Okon. This is my place. It always
has been. I cannot leave this path."
"But you will like it in Precipice. It
is very peaceful, and life still flourishes on the ground." Okon motioned. "Here,
there is only death. Come Yves. Come. Be with me."
Okon raised Old's chin.
Old noticed the nobility of the lines of the face. Okon, holder of a beautiful
soul. Old began shaking. The disinterested crowd came into his focus. They had
been milling aimlessly, for the whole...
No, it was territorial. They had purpose.
Three came forward to assist Okon in lifting Old to his feet. They formed a mass,
and walked to a waiting car. Midnight blue, hand painted. Used continuously for
a century. Crown Custom humming like a sewing machine, on moonshine.
She was
in the back seat. Old felt the deep set wash of love that he had not felt since...
He regained flashes of moments. ...Rachel. 'What will you dream of tonight,' he
would ask her.
"Evelyn."
"No. I am Blanche. Evelyn is my grandmother. I
am your nurse. But you will see Evelyn soon."
Old looked clouded. Remembering.
"You need rest, old man. You shouldn't go out into the sun without that old
rotten hat of yours. Do you remember who you are? Do you know what your name is?"
Oh yes. Remembering. Old. Old Rottenhat. That was Robert. Machine Molle? He defended.
"It's so easy to depend on a name."
Blanche responded. "It's a name caller's
game. I know the song, Bart."
"...We get so out of touch Words take the place
of meaning."
"No." Blanche took Old's head into her hands, caressing his temples.
"We touch. We never learned not to love."
"Where are you taking me?" Childlike
eyes.
"Somewhere quiet. You can rest."
Anxiously. "I can be with her?"
"For
a while. Grandmother is a very old woman. Like you, she is frail, and needs her
rest."
Noir gazed with silent despair into his companion's eyes. "Your grandmother
and I will be dying soon, you know that."
"We know."
weknow
©1994 (from
Zero She Flies)
