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Authors: Eliot Pattison
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steps and
stopped as the wind renewed, carrying other voices toward them. Lined
up on the ridge at the far side of the ravine, far from their reach,
were at least fifty more of the bone-thin exiles, many with hoods
covering their ravaged features, singing the eulogy for beloved
Jonah, the last real human on earth.
CHAPTER Three
the
cabin tucked between
two steep ridges sat as it had for over a century, flowering vines
creeping up its stone walls, touched by nature but not by the ruin of
man. A sense of melancholy overtook Hadrian as he approached it along
the well-worn path. In his fatigue he saw Jonah waiting for him,
inviting him to sniff the fresh herbs in the kitchen garden before
gesturing him inside. In recent years Jonah had spent most of his
days, and many nights, in his library workshop, but this had been his
home, and the birthplace of the colony.
Hadrian
paused, wiped at the moisture in his eyes, then looked back up the
path. The plainclothes policeman had reappeared when he had walked
into town from the cemetery, lingering half a block away whenever
Hadrian stopped, once conferring with another man in casual clothes.
He had ducked down several alleys and doubled back before slipping
into the trees on the far side of the ridge. The path behind him now
was empty. With a sigh of relief he opened the door and froze.
The
ruin of man had reached the cabin after all. The floors were covered
with debris thrown from shelves and drawers, much of the furniture in
splinters. The kitchen, the sitting room, the bedrooms had all been
ravaged. He righted a ladder-back chair and collapsed onto it, his
head in his hands. Here had been his one possible sanctuary, here he
had expected to feel the restorative presence of his friend again.
Instead it felt as if he had stumbled upon a continuation of Jonah's
murder. It was as if the killers hadn't only wanted the old scientist
dead and buried, they wished his very existence pounded into dust and
cast into the wind.
For
a moment he was back at the grave, to which he had returned an hour
after the burial, sinking in grief to his knees. He had wanted to
apologize somehow. For the colony's parting message to Jonah had been
the senseless beating and arrest of the two exiles, one of them an
old friend of theirs. Hadrian had found himself thrusting his fingers
into the freshly turned earth as if reaching for his lost friend when
his fingers unexpectedly touched something that didn't belong,
something dull grey and plastic. The object was so alien he simply
stared at it in confusion after bringing it to the surface. He was
holding a small phone, a model that would have been old even at the
time the world shifted. Someone had secretly buried a cell phone with
Jonah. Yet he had watched the grave from a distance as the crowd
thinned and had not seen anyone bury anything.
Hadrian
did not know how long he sat in Jonah's house, the memory of the
phone only adding to his despair. Eventually he became aware of the
lengthening shadows and the chill in the sitting room. He lit a
candle, then a fire in the stone fireplace, and began to clean the
cabin.
He
lost himself in the task, carrying what he swept up outside to a pile
at the edge of the garden. Not stopping at righting the work of the
killers, he filled a bucket from the hand pump in the kitchen sink,
collected rags and soap, and scrubbed, feverishly cleaning windows.
As tears welled again in his eyes, he worked even harder, losing
himself in memories of earlier days there.
Emptying
his bucket near the little herb garden, he paused, seeing again in
his mind's eye the reverse writing on the desk in the library. Quaere
verum imprimis. Seek
the truth among the first things, in the first things. His
interpretation may have been wrong. Perhaps it referred to a
location. He dropped the bucket and ran to the fireplace, running his
fingers over the stones along the side of the chimney until he found
the loose one he sought, pried it away, and
stopped as the wind renewed, carrying other voices toward them. Lined
up on the ridge at the far side of the ravine, far from their reach,
were at least fifty more of the bone-thin exiles, many with hoods
covering their ravaged features, singing the eulogy for beloved
Jonah, the last real human on earth.
CHAPTER Three
the
cabin tucked between
two steep ridges sat as it had for over a century, flowering vines
creeping up its stone walls, touched by nature but not by the ruin of
man. A sense of melancholy overtook Hadrian as he approached it along
the well-worn path. In his fatigue he saw Jonah waiting for him,
inviting him to sniff the fresh herbs in the kitchen garden before
gesturing him inside. In recent years Jonah had spent most of his
days, and many nights, in his library workshop, but this had been his
home, and the birthplace of the colony.
Hadrian
paused, wiped at the moisture in his eyes, then looked back up the
path. The plainclothes policeman had reappeared when he had walked
into town from the cemetery, lingering half a block away whenever
Hadrian stopped, once conferring with another man in casual clothes.
He had ducked down several alleys and doubled back before slipping
into the trees on the far side of the ridge. The path behind him now
was empty. With a sigh of relief he opened the door and froze.
The
ruin of man had reached the cabin after all. The floors were covered
with debris thrown from shelves and drawers, much of the furniture in
splinters. The kitchen, the sitting room, the bedrooms had all been
ravaged. He righted a ladder-back chair and collapsed onto it, his
head in his hands. Here had been his one possible sanctuary, here he
had expected to feel the restorative presence of his friend again.
Instead it felt as if he had stumbled upon a continuation of Jonah's
murder. It was as if the killers hadn't only wanted the old scientist
dead and buried, they wished his very existence pounded into dust and
cast into the wind.
For
a moment he was back at the grave, to which he had returned an hour
after the burial, sinking in grief to his knees. He had wanted to
apologize somehow. For the colony's parting message to Jonah had been
the senseless beating and arrest of the two exiles, one of them an
old friend of theirs. Hadrian had found himself thrusting his fingers
into the freshly turned earth as if reaching for his lost friend when
his fingers unexpectedly touched something that didn't belong,
something dull grey and plastic. The object was so alien he simply
stared at it in confusion after bringing it to the surface. He was
holding a small phone, a model that would have been old even at the
time the world shifted. Someone had secretly buried a cell phone with
Jonah. Yet he had watched the grave from a distance as the crowd
thinned and had not seen anyone bury anything.
Hadrian
did not know how long he sat in Jonah's house, the memory of the
phone only adding to his despair. Eventually he became aware of the
lengthening shadows and the chill in the sitting room. He lit a
candle, then a fire in the stone fireplace, and began to clean the
cabin.
He
lost himself in the task, carrying what he swept up outside to a pile
at the edge of the garden. Not stopping at righting the work of the
killers, he filled a bucket from the hand pump in the kitchen sink,
collected rags and soap, and scrubbed, feverishly cleaning windows.
As tears welled again in his eyes, he worked even harder, losing
himself in memories of earlier days there.
Emptying
his bucket near the little herb garden, he paused, seeing again in
his mind's eye the reverse writing on the desk in the library. Quaere
verum imprimis. Seek
the truth among the first things, in the first things. His
interpretation may have been wrong. Perhaps it referred to a
location. He dropped the bucket and ran to the fireplace, running his
fingers over the stones along the side of the chimney until he found
the loose one he sought, pried it away, and
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