Prometheus Road

Prometheus Road Balfour, Bruce

WITH
the dying of the light comes the birth of darkness. The shattered dreams of the day are welcomed into the flowing embrace of the night, re-formed at the violet hour to face a new dawn. Memory is mixed with desire, reducing fear to a handful of dust.

He welcomes the darkness.

HIS body floated twenty feet above the bottom, facedown in the clear water, his arms angled out from his sides in a relaxed pose beneath a blanket of predawn darkness. The temperature of the water was almost the same as that of his body, minimizing his sense of gravity. The skintight kept his torso dry and regulated his core temperature, while the marsh grass that stuck to his back helped to disguise his human shape. The high salt content of the water made him bob on the surface like a cork, his long hair drifting around his skull like a halo of brown seaweed. His fingertips wrinkled into what his mother called “finger raisins.” His eyes saw nothing, his ears heard nothing, his tongue tasted only the tang of metal from the mouthpiece that supplied his oxygen. His body drifted with the currents, heading southwest, while his mind drifted elsewhere, heading deeper into his inner sea.

During the first thirty minutes, as usual, his mind rejected the black silence, tossing images and thoughts around in his head, the flotsam and jetsam of his overactive neurons jostling for attention. His body twitched randomly as his muscles relaxed. Excessive movement could attract the wards on the shore, so he had to be careful. Odd fears pecked at his mind: What if he drifted too far out? What if he fell asleep and drowned? What if some horrible sea creature was searching for a bite to eat? His eyelids flickered, ready for a reassuring peek at his surroundings, but the contact patches kept them closed. His heart beat faster, then slowed again when he took a deep breath. The warm water melted his fears. There were no threats here. He had done this many times, sneaking away from his village to float, drifting far from the sensors onshore but fully aware that the watchers could track him from the sky—or so it was said. No matter how far he drifted, his body would not be lost. The key to this liquid journey was his absence of directed motion, relaxation, and his intent not to look like a swimming human trying to escape.

In the external world, there was no escape, but his internal world was another matter.

His five-year-old sister, Weed, had spotted him sneaking out into the light pipe with their little dog in the middle of the night. The glass-walled light pipe provided secondary access to their underground home, with a narrow metal ladder clinging to its side. A precocious little girl, Weed had sensed that silence was appropriate, possibly motivated by the fact that she was also supposed to be in bed instead of watching the bright full moon casting its silver beams into the middle rooms of the house. Helix nuzzled her hand and she scratched the short brown fur between the perky ears that looked so enormous on his small Chihuahua/terrier head. To reward Weed’s silence, Tom paused to fetch her a mug of warm milk, knowing she wanted it because he had enjoyed the same thing when he was her age—up in the middle of the night watching the moon’s passage overhead. Tom had thought he was getting away with something for many years until he began to suspect that his mother, Luna, tolerated this little eccentricity. After all, Luna’s parents had named her after the same celestial object that fascinated her children. Perhaps she was still humoring Tom, pretending not to notice his nightly excursions. His younger brother, Zeke, was the only deep sleeper among his siblings, unaffected by the magnetic pull of the orb that ruled the night sky. Tom thought that Zeke had no imagination, but he could also see the practical benefit of being a good sleeper. Everyone had their special talents.

Of course, the moon and the sea weren’t the only reasons Tom went out at night. On rare occasions, Tempest would also be out there waiting for him, his dark companion, her eyes glowing with a soft radiance whenever she saw him. Helix growled softly whenever Tom and Tempest entered each other’s arms, but not because he didn’t trust her—he simply didn’t want to be left out. They’d known each other since they were tots, playing together whenever they could, growing together and enjoying each other’s lives. Then, just over a year ago, Tempest had whispered to Tom that he was her chosen one, hoping they would someday find a way to make their relationship public, hoping the rules could be broken just this once so they could be together forever. Tom liked the idea, and the thought of her kept him warm on cold nights.

The current shifted around his body, spinning him in a lazy circle, much as the rest of his life spun around in a gentle dance going nowhere. Twenty years old, with another eighty years or so ahead of him, Tom had no idea of how he wanted to spend that time; all he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to be a farmer. He honored his responsibilities on the farm where he lived—digging ditches, tending the crops, and all the other boring minutiae of a daily life nurturing the land—but he had to force himself to do it. He didn’t have the natural affinity for farming that was so evident in his father and his brother. Where they saw dark, rich soil waiting to be plowed and planted, Tom saw only dirt, and lots of it. There was too much of a world outside the confines of their patch of land, and he had seen very little of its secrets. Tom saw the same discontent with farm life in Weed’s young eyes as she waited in the silvery light for the moon to take her away. Perhaps one day they would both leave on a moonbeam, but where would they go?

In any case, it was pointless to think about leaving, because the gods wanted Tom Eliot to remain near the village of Marinwood, plowing his life into the ground on the family farm. And their choice was final.

“ELDER Ukiah! Good morn!”

Ukiah looked up from his digging in the irrigation ditch and nodded his mud-spattered face at the tall man in the long black coat and flat-brimmed hat. “Elder Memphis. Good morn to you.” Ukiah glanced at the back of his fourteen-year-old son, knee deep in the mud, oblivious to his surroundings as he continued to dig. “Zeke?”

Zeke jumped when he heard his name. He turned and touched his hand to his forehead, dripping brown water on his face. “Sorry, Father. I was concentrating.” When he saw Memphis looming over them like a specter on the embankment, his eyes widened, and he touched his forehead again. “Elder Memphis. I am not worthy.”

“Youth,” Memphis said, “is a blight we all grow out of eventually. Continue your work, young Ezekiel.”

Zeke returned to his digging, relieved that he wouldn’t have to participate in the rest of the conversation. Ukiah studied the elder above him, whose wiry white hair looked like it was trying to escape from under the black hat. “What brings you to our home, elder?”

Memphis gave him a disapproving stare. “Your offspring, of course. Why else do I ever walk all the way out to your farm? Do you know where your son is now?”

Ukiah glanced at Zeke, but Memphis shook his head. “The other one.”

Ukiah shrugged. “I’m sure Tom is around somewhere. He has his chores, and he is dutiful about them.”

“Is that truth?” Memphis crossed his arms. “I think not. Young Tom is out taunting the gods once again. He was spotted on his way to the shore.”

“Odd. May I ask who reported this?”

“A reliable source. My own good son, Humboldt.”

Ukiah sighed. He’d warned Tom about the ocean many times, but the boy was hard to correct once he got an idea into his head. Ukiah would not question Humboldt’s report in front of Memphis, but he knew the lad was overly protective about his sister. Tom and Tempest were fond of each other, and that made him Humboldt’s sworn enemy. “Hard to refute, elder. I will speak with my son.”

Memphis shook his head. “You need do more than speak to him, Ukiah. If you are unable to change his miscreant ways, he’ll end up rooting for grubs in the desert like crazy old Magnus—or worse. Have you communed with the Oracle in recent days?”

“I can correct my own,” Ukiah said, gritting his teeth. “And the Oracle has not mentioned my son. There is no need to worry yourself.”

“I must worry for us all. That is my sacred duty as Elder Councilman. The deeds of your offspring must not bring down the wrath of the gods on this community. Their tolerance is limited. If necessary, I will send word to Telemachus.”

“Thank you for your concern, elder. Telemachus is wise, but we need not disturb him with petty issues. I will deal with this in a harsh manner.”

“See that you do. If the gods are offended, they will strike with swift certainty. Good day, elder,” Memphis said, turning on his heel to stride across the field.

“Good day, elder,” Ukiah mumbled. He climbed up the embankment so that he could scan the horizon, but Tom was nowhere in sight. A light fog hugged the fields. The boy was old enough to face the consequences of his own actions, but Ukiah wanted to warn him and give him another chance. He considered himself one of the open-minded elders, but he could not stand alone against extreme conservatives such as Memphis when the community might be endangered. Tom was bright enough to understand the hazards of the situation, so he would simply have to listen to reason and stop venturing into the sea. Ukiah had no idea how the lad avoided the wards on the shoreline, and he secretly admired Tom’s cleverness, but the laws were clear—the ocean, the bay, and the mountain of the gods were forbidden zones.

Ukiah leaned on his shovel and filled his lungs with the clean, salty air. His eyes caressed the gently rolling hills of rich earth that belied the violence lurking below. They never had to worry about frost or snow here because the ground was too warm. Even now, the soles of his boots subtly vibrated in sympathy with the harmonics transmitted through thousands of feet of rock and soil, reminding Ukiah that he was not the complete master of his domain. A great power slept beneath his feet. The fog only enhanced the sense of waiting and suffocation that wafted up out of the ground through the occasional steam vents that dotted his fields, mere shadows of the howling cracks that had suddenly appeared over sixty years ago. It had been as if the planet would no longer tolerate the presence of humans, sending massive columns of smoke into the sky, raining down later in clouds of choking ash as his family stumbled through sudden lakes of bubbling mud between glowing rivers of red fire. Clutching his mother’s leg while his older brother stood behind him, Ukiah watched the death of the great city as it slid into the sea, shoved aside by a sudden upward thrust of the vast shelf of rock known as Nova Olympus—the defiant fist of the gods. Ukiah had witnessed the dawn of a new age, born in fire to destroy the evils of men and scour the human plague from the surface of the world.

When the fires subsided, the wasteland became the mother once more, its fertile soil nourishing the crops so that the humans who remained could survive. Such was the price of prosperity under the watchful eyes of the gods who protected and governed them.

THE fog shrouding the village of Marinwood had broken by midmorning to reveal a crystal blue sky like the inside of a child’s marble. The usual damp and musty smell of the narrow cobblestone streets was swept up in the weekly parade of commerce spread on broad tables and tilted carts strewn haphazardly outside the shops and humble homes. Reeking cheeses vied with ginger, peppercorns, cinnamon, and other spices for supremacy of the air. Garlic and onions fought with cooked tomatoes and cornfruit to grab the attention of potential customers strolling past. The rickety stalls of the merchants, islands of commerce breaking the tide of humanity, groaned under mounds of garish fabrics imported from the east, the glitter of shiny objects found among the ruins and polished for display, the gleam of hand-rubbed wood worked by local artisans. A tumult of voices rose and fell in waves as hucksters shouted, onlookers hooted, sellers whined, and buyers argued. Arms and hands bobbed above the mercantile sea: Fists clenched, fingers beckoned, and open palms chopped the air. Children hurtled beneath tables and dodged around adult legs as they played games of spot-the-bot or dodge-the-nanoborg. The noise and color of the bazaar splashed across the village like a spilled can of paint, bringing life to the normally dignified surroundings. By sunset, the stalls would vanish, the tables would withdraw under leafy canopies, the carts would depart for their return to the fields. The human tide would recede along the winding paths, leaving only the golden glow from the occasional window as evidence that anyone remained behind. The low earthen fronts of the subterranean houses and shops, their sloping roofs covered in the sod that made Marinwood blend in with the surrounding terrain, would face empty streets as the moon passed overhead.

Only the tiny nanoforms ventured out in the darkness, cleaning, rebuilding, and maintaining the village. The curfew wasn’t formally enforced by the gods; but the last person to remain outside after sunset had been Old Newt, facedown in a gutter after swilling too much homebrew, who was disassembled and reconstituted as part of a bench in front of the library. It was often said that Newt made more of a contribution to the community as a library bench than he had as a shoemaker, and that his bench was more comfortable than the shoes that he had made. The gods were wise.

For now, awash in brilliant daylight, the streets were full of life. And part of that life was five-year-old Weed, being towed in her mother’s wake as she plowed through the crowded streets. As usual, Luna had tied a short length of rope around both of their waists so that Weed wouldn’t get lost among all the distractions of the marketplace. This tether seemed to have a life of its own, tugging at her whenever she stopped long enough to admire a shiny toy or a colorful bottle on one of the tables. But Weed didn’t mind; she enjoyed the activity, the noise, and the feeling of adventure that accompanied their weekly outing to the village. She followed Luna without complaint as her mother darted from place to place, squeezing an oog fruit here, tapping a watermelon there, and ignoring the mysterious pieces of broken machinery arrayed on tables attended by dusty young men with shifty eyes. Weed remembered that Tom had told her about the scavengers who sneaked into the ruins to pick up old things and sell them at the market, but she didn’t really understand what he meant by scavengers or ruins. She had an unusually good vocabulary for her age, and she liked the sound of those words, so she had filed them away in her head until she could learn their definitions. Perhaps when Tom got home. Tom was always willing to teach her things. Luna was already teaching her how to read, but she still liked it best when Tom told her stories about distant places, magical kingdoms, and beautiful young princesses named Weed who always lived happily ever after. Luna preferred to tell her stories about women doing good for their communities, working on farms, and raising families; but they just didn’t hold her interest the way Tom’s stories did. She felt guilty about that, especially because her mother tried so hard to make her stories interesting.