Whatever Gods May Be
Read Whatever Gods May Be Online
Authors: George P. Saunders
WHATEVER GODS MAY BE
George P. Saunders
© 2012
Pu
blished by George P. Saunders. Copyright 2011 by George P. Saunders. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For one brief, shining moment…
Here in Camelot…
Lerner and Lowe - King Arthur
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOR BRUCE…AND KATHERINE…for being the first to read this so many years ago, and enjoying the adventure. May your adventures be as interesting, wherever you may be. And may your sense of style and talent for accessorizing never be absent in your life… thanks for the memories.
And special thanks to Lisa … and she knows why.
And of course, to Rose. All my love for making it possible.
PROLOGUE
It was a curious scene to behold. A visitor from another world would have been hard-pressed to guess what was to come next. The careful arrangement of the crosses on the hill of a place called
Golgotha
, the precise measuring and shaping of each of the three mens’ bodies against the planks, and the strange parade leading up these events moments earlier all seemed grossly insidious, with no foreseeable purpose in sight.
Only the aura of immense sadness and tragedy indicated a solemn ritual versus that of some grand, poorly played theatrical spectacle which held little promise for a happy ending.
A strange quiet descended across the land, broken occasionally by a cry or some other expression of grief from the crowd. Then it started: the sound of metal clashing against metal. And the sickening noise of flesh being punctured and bone cracking. Screams followed within seconds; tormented, searing wails of agony that defiled reason; the sounds -- the inhuman sounds associated with the grizzly practice of crucifixion.
Finally, the work was finished; and the crosses, now with the three men pinned to them by jagged, iron nails, like drying skins, were raised to a vertical position side by side.
Gradually, the crowd began to disperse. The sky had suddenly grown darker, forewarning a storm perhaps, and the general interest in the gruesome festivities was beginning to wane. Only a select minority of family and friends continued to linger near the crosses and the dying men thereon. Most members of the military rabble that had officiated over the executions were now drunk -- and were well on the way to getting drunker, as yet more casks of wine were produced, opened and consumed with deliberate abandon. The executioners had done their job -- yet it was evident that their performance was not one that favored a continued state of sobriety.
One last duty remained, though. And it was one that was welcomed by both executioner and condemned alike. A centurion, older, more haggard and a little less intoxicated than his compatriots, approached the crosses with a long, pointed lance. Experienced with such a duty, the centurion worked with accuracy. There were no cries this time as the spear did its mindless work of eviscerating its victims, thus bringing a speedy conclusion to the horrific proceedings. Suffocation and shock, coupled with this latest attack, promised only seconds of life remaining to the three hapless men who, even at this point, were able to engage in some kind of weak, disjointed conversation, audible only among themselves.
It was the young man on the center cross to whom the other two deferred. Following the lance's visitation to each of them, only a few more words were exchanged, and then silence. Two of the three prisoners were dead.
Now, for the first and only time, the young man, his mouth filling with blood, screamed out. His words were clear --frighteningly clear -- for one who had endured several hours of slow asphyxiation, blood loss and shock. Then he, too, died.
Those who had earlier decided to forego further involvement in this picnic of death, due to the weather, would later be accredited with a mild gift for prophecy; for with the final words of the young man, hailed as the King of the Jews, a great wind, laced with rock and ice, descended upon the land. The drunken soldiers and persistent entourage of mourners were quickly forced to seek shelter, leaving the three corpses to be ravaged by the elements.
The old man, known at one time as Rzzdik Zolan, was a time traveler from another planet and he did not move from his position, about fifty feet from the base of the entrenched crosses. He had been there for only a few minutes; but he had seen enough. The fierce winds and stinging rains did not seem to impress him much; because of his present vaporous state, he was not affected by the natural discourse of this primitive planet, where Man would not walk on his nearest satellite for two thousand years. His eyes did not leave those of the young man's, now dead and unseeing; they were eyes, the old man knew, that were from another world -- one far different than this place, or his home planet nearly a thousand light years across the galaxy.
The old man studied those eyes carefully. He would not forget them for the rest of his life. Bizarre circumstances of late had altered the course of his destiny; as he began to fade gradually, amidst the storm that raged on unabatingly, he knew he would remember what he had witnessed on this day for a very long time to come.
But for now, he was off again. Tossed about by the winds of fortune and time, Rzzdik Zolan continued on his way, within seconds spanning the epochal layers of centuries and space. His adventure was not over; perhaps, he mused, it would end in death.
Visions of the young man flooded his mind again. Yes, Rzzdik Zolan would remember this day very well.
Perhaps, one day, a long time from now, he would understand…
Here where the world is quiet;
Here where all trouble seems,
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot,
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping fold and sowing
For harvest-time and mowing
A sleepy world of streams.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
The Garden of Proserpine
ONE
The Future
The scene of Christ dying was one that Rzzdik Zolan replayed in his mind at least once a day. He had seen much in his time travels – and travels across the span of stars. But none had left him more profoundly moved. Even now – one million years in the future, on this barren world, the evocation of that day loomed large and poignant in his soul.
Perhaps on this day, it loomed more crystalline than ever, though Zolan was not sure exactly why.
And then another thought invaded his consciousness.
A prhase, a line of poetry from long, long ago…
Tis better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven
.
Zolan mulled over the verse and chuckled to himself. How naive that poor little Earth poet was! John Milton had obviously been possessed of a romantic whimsy when making such a statement; had he spent one day on this world, Zolan mused, a good chunk of poetry would have undergone considerable revision.
Zolan stared out at the desert and scowled. Even at night, it radiated ugliness. Here was a place that almost out-helled Hell; indeed, until the real thing came along, Zolan felt that this fetid wasteland would do nicely as a substitute. Harsh, treacherous and unforgiving, the desert was an entity that catered solely to the survivor, and then, only reluctantly. It possessed an undisputed mastery over the dead and buried -- for which the civilization of Man had served as a favorite subject for ten thousand centuries. Often, the desert had tried to coerce Zolan into joining its elite, and quite deceased, constituency of quiescent subjects.
Thus far it had failed in all attempts. It would not do so for much longer.
Zolan coughed painfully for a moment then sniffed the predawn air. He was very old and his senses were dulled, but even so handicapped, Zolan could see and hear things no other human could. The desert had taken much from him, but it had also been unusually generous as well; for now, it allowed him to understand its most intimate secrets. In a moment, Zolan could discern how hot it would be that day, how much moisture was in the air, or if a breeze would be forthcoming later in the morning. By remaining alive for so long, Zolan had achieved some triumph over the desert and like a woman partially seduced, it had capitulated to his will by teasing him with selective favors that would insure his persistence. Zolan had taken full advantage. And he had survived.
For a few moments, Zolan just sniffed and listened outside of his igloo-shaped shelter of baked clay. His home was perched aloft a mesa, some two hundred feet above the valley floor, but this did not hinder his ability to hear what, if anything, was transpiring in the desert around him. The mesa boasted sheer vertical cliffs that would have taken trained climbers an entire day to scale. Anything human attempting to pay him a visit would be immediately detected. Zolan smiled. Like some eccentric, private ruler, it gave him great pleasure to know that his small patch of ground was all but inaccessible to man and beast alike.
There was, however, one desert inhabitant that would have no difficulty in reaching Zolan's house, and fortunately for him, it was a friend. Zolan's eyes squinted suddenly as he spotted the massive cloud of dust swirling in the distance.
Thalick was on his way.
Zolan smiled again, then turned and walked towards the opposite cliff behind his house. He stopped at the edge near a large boulder and stared out at the valley and distant mountains. The scene was nothing short of spectacular, offering a visibility of fifty miles in all directions. But today, neither the picturesque view - nor the relentless cloud formation approaching behind him - occupied Zolan's interest for long. His eyes were fixed points of intensity staring at the dawn gleaming over the horizon. Watching the dawn was a ritual Zolan had not missed once since he had crashed to this world over five hundred years ago.
There was good reason; for the dawn in this place never arrived without a most unusual escort.
Slowly, the enormous sun swelled above the skyline, melting the desert floor into waves of ghostly mirage. Within seconds, beams of intense color and heat spoke out in all directions, twisting and distorting shapes into hazy, nondescript blurs of light and shadow. It was not the dawn of a million years ago; a bright, orange sun oozing gracefully upwards was the dawn of an alien place that this world might never see the likes of again. Instead, this sun, for this daybreak, seemed to struggle against the planet it promised to warm like some desperate creature agonizing in the labor of birth.