'From on high four horseman came
Black, white, red, ash, with manes of flame
No time for cry, remorse, or shame
Teeth did gnash, we were all to blame'
Black, white, red, ash, with manes of flame
No time for cry, remorse, or shame
Teeth did gnash, we were all to blame'
Intro
California, 2015
My local newspaper said, 'Families downwind of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant can pick up free doses of Potassium Iodide’. They were giving away a product called Thyro-Safe. But I never feel safe when thinking about my Thyroid.
It was just another feeble attempt at public relations by those in the mushroom cloud business. And what a difficult job they have, trying to put a smiley face on the most poisonous substance known in the Universe- plutonium that stays dangerous for a half-million years. Harder still, is trying to convince people there will be a government agency around to oversee it in AD 502015.
California, 2015
My local newspaper said, 'Families downwind of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant can pick up free doses of Potassium Iodide’. They were giving away a product called Thyro-Safe. But I never feel safe when thinking about my Thyroid.
It was just another feeble attempt at public relations by those in the mushroom cloud business. And what a difficult job they have, trying to put a smiley face on the most poisonous substance known in the Universe- plutonium that stays dangerous for a half-million years. Harder still, is trying to convince people there will be a government agency around to oversee it in AD 502015.
Chapter One
Elements of Survival
New York, June, 2185
Our jeans were soaked from crawling in the wet grass of Central Park, but we were close now and had to keep low. In the dense overgrowth, it was hard to tell anymore where the park ended and the city ruins started. A small band of third-generation survivors living a Spartan existence in the post apocalypse, we had come in search of food, water, and clean element.
Environmental contamination left from the industrial age had poisoned the air and water so badly that filters on our backs were the only thing between us and death. Those filters needed a fresh element every few months, along with a water filter we each took turns carrying. Sometimes we just washed our element, but that caused a mental slowdown that could get you killed. When your element got dirty, it endangered everyone.
Manhattan Island hadn't seen grid electricity in over 100 years, but stubborn radiation levels still had the LED lights glowing and they looked like kaleidoscopes in the moist evening air. This wasn't my first trip to New York, but it was for the others.
What was left of the Big Apple was now known as the Core, and traveling there was always a dangerous proposition. A bloody moon had begun to rise over the fog when someone on point held a flat hand aloft, the universal signal for shut up. There were voices up ahead, the first other than our own we’d heard for almost a year.
In this place and time, voices could either mean help, or spell trouble, so with an abundance of caution, we kept our approach low, slow, and silent.
Elements of Survival
New York, June, 2185
Our jeans were soaked from crawling in the wet grass of Central Park, but we were close now and had to keep low. In the dense overgrowth, it was hard to tell anymore where the park ended and the city ruins started. A small band of third-generation survivors living a Spartan existence in the post apocalypse, we had come in search of food, water, and clean element.
Environmental contamination left from the industrial age had poisoned the air and water so badly that filters on our backs were the only thing between us and death. Those filters needed a fresh element every few months, along with a water filter we each took turns carrying. Sometimes we just washed our element, but that caused a mental slowdown that could get you killed. When your element got dirty, it endangered everyone.
Manhattan Island hadn't seen grid electricity in over 100 years, but stubborn radiation levels still had the LED lights glowing and they looked like kaleidoscopes in the moist evening air. This wasn't my first trip to New York, but it was for the others.
What was left of the Big Apple was now known as the Core, and traveling there was always a dangerous proposition. A bloody moon had begun to rise over the fog when someone on point held a flat hand aloft, the universal signal for shut up. There were voices up ahead, the first other than our own we’d heard for almost a year.
In this place and time, voices could either mean help, or spell trouble, so with an abundance of caution, we kept our approach low, slow, and silent.
Chapter Two
The Right Moves
California, 2015
I have a hard time getting excited for world conferences on climate anymore. The U.S. President has told Americans not to expect a binding agreement among nations. Even the 'Cap and Trade' ruse wouldn't slow the climate change locomotive anyway. People jump into a Prius and become full of themselves, believing they have done their part. A not-so-fun fact of life is that even if all cars were electric and all power plants stopped burning fossil fuels, it would only account for a scant 23% of emissions we desperately need to cut.
It's not as if all the signs aren't here- alarms are ringing, lights are flashing and red flags are waving! In the 18 years since the 1997 climate talks at Kyoto, oceans have risen, droughts and fires are unprecedented, and everything from bears to butterflies to pine forests are in precipitous decline. The last ten years have all been the hottest in recorded history, each one hotter than the last.
And yet, for all the conclusive science, we remain stuck in traffic behind an oil-guzzling system of government, inextricably interwoven with fossil fuel mega-corporations, leaving us with no political recourse to avoid an onrushing oblivion. With all signs pointing toward doomsday, it occurs to me we can't wait for our leaders to take the dynamic actions that might save us. We as individuals have to make all the right moves, right now. If that sounds far-fetched to you, try this- we change, or we die.
Manhattan, 2185
Confirming our location as Old Central Park, a rusty sign jutted from the grass, gasping ‘71st Street’ with its last dying breath. Stealthy as tigers, we peered from the underbrush onto a surreal scene of people in tattered clothes gathered ‘round a circular monument. We were about to reveal ourselves when shots rang out in the distance, bringing an end to the ritual. The tattered people scurried into the brush and disappeared in the direction of the commotion.
We emerged from our hiding places for a closer look at the monument, which stood in a clearing, basking in the glow of candles. The word ‘imagine’ was scrawled across it in Old American English. But none of us could imagine much more than gathering the canned goods left strewn about and staying alive in the Post Apocalyptic World. We snuffed all the candles but one, and retreated back to the cover of the underbrush.
The Right Moves
California, 2015
I have a hard time getting excited for world conferences on climate anymore. The U.S. President has told Americans not to expect a binding agreement among nations. Even the 'Cap and Trade' ruse wouldn't slow the climate change locomotive anyway. People jump into a Prius and become full of themselves, believing they have done their part. A not-so-fun fact of life is that even if all cars were electric and all power plants stopped burning fossil fuels, it would only account for a scant 23% of emissions we desperately need to cut.
It's not as if all the signs aren't here- alarms are ringing, lights are flashing and red flags are waving! In the 18 years since the 1997 climate talks at Kyoto, oceans have risen, droughts and fires are unprecedented, and everything from bears to butterflies to pine forests are in precipitous decline. The last ten years have all been the hottest in recorded history, each one hotter than the last.
And yet, for all the conclusive science, we remain stuck in traffic behind an oil-guzzling system of government, inextricably interwoven with fossil fuel mega-corporations, leaving us with no political recourse to avoid an onrushing oblivion. With all signs pointing toward doomsday, it occurs to me we can't wait for our leaders to take the dynamic actions that might save us. We as individuals have to make all the right moves, right now. If that sounds far-fetched to you, try this- we change, or we die.
Manhattan, 2185
Confirming our location as Old Central Park, a rusty sign jutted from the grass, gasping ‘71st Street’ with its last dying breath. Stealthy as tigers, we peered from the underbrush onto a surreal scene of people in tattered clothes gathered ‘round a circular monument. We were about to reveal ourselves when shots rang out in the distance, bringing an end to the ritual. The tattered people scurried into the brush and disappeared in the direction of the commotion.
We emerged from our hiding places for a closer look at the monument, which stood in a clearing, basking in the glow of candles. The word ‘imagine’ was scrawled across it in Old American English. But none of us could imagine much more than gathering the canned goods left strewn about and staying alive in the Post Apocalyptic World. We snuffed all the candles but one, and retreated back to the cover of the underbrush.
Chapter Three
Imagine
California, 2015
In a classic case of not learning from the past and being doomed to repeat it, we are developing new green technologies, designed to save us from the destruction being wrought by our old technologies. For instance, fake trees are being manufactured to sequester CO2 from the atmosphere. Notice the lack of will to focus on slowing or stopping the generation of CO2, and instead trying to mitigate its effects through sequestration.
Another bad example is so-called ‘clean coal’ where coal-fired power plants are built that still generate air pollution, but somehow capture and sequester it underground. Why pump it into the ground instead of simply leaving it in the ground in the first place?
The whole idea of portraying industrial technology as green is silly. You can’t build new homes and call them green, even if they use solar energy, have gray water irrigation systems and flush low-flow toilets. There is nothing green about new development because it will always destroy wild habitat, stick another straw into an overburdened aquifer, and all so municipalities –funded by development fees- can continue operations.
We never got to see our land the way Daniel Boone did, which had a profound effect on society. A lack of nature has bred such ills as school shootings, child-on-child violence and torture. Now imagine a future where kids see fake trees as the norm. One design looks like the arm of a giant egg beater. They may sequester CO2, but Bluebirds won’t nest in them, and I wouldn’t want to read a book under one of them.
Imagine
California, 2015
In a classic case of not learning from the past and being doomed to repeat it, we are developing new green technologies, designed to save us from the destruction being wrought by our old technologies. For instance, fake trees are being manufactured to sequester CO2 from the atmosphere. Notice the lack of will to focus on slowing or stopping the generation of CO2, and instead trying to mitigate its effects through sequestration.
Another bad example is so-called ‘clean coal’ where coal-fired power plants are built that still generate air pollution, but somehow capture and sequester it underground. Why pump it into the ground instead of simply leaving it in the ground in the first place?
The whole idea of portraying industrial technology as green is silly. You can’t build new homes and call them green, even if they use solar energy, have gray water irrigation systems and flush low-flow toilets. There is nothing green about new development because it will always destroy wild habitat, stick another straw into an overburdened aquifer, and all so municipalities –funded by development fees- can continue operations.
We never got to see our land the way Daniel Boone did, which had a profound effect on society. A lack of nature has bred such ills as school shootings, child-on-child violence and torture. Now imagine a future where kids see fake trees as the norm. One design looks like the arm of a giant egg beater. They may sequester CO2, but Bluebirds won’t nest in them, and I wouldn’t want to read a book under one of them.
Chapter Four
Roots
Manhattan, 2185
Traveling by cover of night, we crossed into the once bustling metropolis of New York City. Verdant streets led us to the industrial district, where old growth trees of unknown species grew thick and tall. Faded graffiti covered a crumbling red brick wall, where someone long ago had scrawled, ‘Roots will crack the concrete Earth’. It turned out to have been quite prophetic, as rampant vegetation had indeed cracked through the asphalt.
Seeds became plants, and plants became trees, revealing the secret to the success of local post-apocalyptic survivors. The cracked pavement revealed fertile, uncontaminated soils long hidden beneath, rich in humus and now nurturing hidden gardens that lay cultivated between the trees. We helped ourselves, filling our pockets with late-season squash, kale and corn, making sure to leave room for the precious element we had come to find.
We searched amid the rows of Brownstones and strip-mall ruins, and one contained what we had come for. High above the rubble and still clinging to life by a single rusted chain, a sign said, ‘Best-pirator Corp.’.
With two guards posted outside, I led the scouts in. Precious minutes passed waiting for our eyes to adjust. Crouching silently in the inky blackness, blood pounded in my temples like the war drums of Armageddon. Soon, we could make out the torpedo shapes of Element, strewn wildly about.
Dropping to one knee, I made a quick, on-the-spot first change. With a single breath, my mind cleared and my night vision sharpened. All followed suit. We took what we could carry to the guards outside, and went back for more. By the time we emerged, the guards had changed their elements and were working on our water tank. After a quick gulp of fresh water, we made for the brush. Locals wouldn’t take kindly to competition, and with the human gene pool dangerously thin, we didn’t want to kill anyone.
Having gotten what we came for, it was time to move south- deep south.
Roots
Manhattan, 2185
Traveling by cover of night, we crossed into the once bustling metropolis of New York City. Verdant streets led us to the industrial district, where old growth trees of unknown species grew thick and tall. Faded graffiti covered a crumbling red brick wall, where someone long ago had scrawled, ‘Roots will crack the concrete Earth’. It turned out to have been quite prophetic, as rampant vegetation had indeed cracked through the asphalt.
Seeds became plants, and plants became trees, revealing the secret to the success of local post-apocalyptic survivors. The cracked pavement revealed fertile, uncontaminated soils long hidden beneath, rich in humus and now nurturing hidden gardens that lay cultivated between the trees. We helped ourselves, filling our pockets with late-season squash, kale and corn, making sure to leave room for the precious element we had come to find.
We searched amid the rows of Brownstones and strip-mall ruins, and one contained what we had come for. High above the rubble and still clinging to life by a single rusted chain, a sign said, ‘Best-pirator Corp.’.
With two guards posted outside, I led the scouts in. Precious minutes passed waiting for our eyes to adjust. Crouching silently in the inky blackness, blood pounded in my temples like the war drums of Armageddon. Soon, we could make out the torpedo shapes of Element, strewn wildly about.
Dropping to one knee, I made a quick, on-the-spot first change. With a single breath, my mind cleared and my night vision sharpened. All followed suit. We took what we could carry to the guards outside, and went back for more. By the time we emerged, the guards had changed their elements and were working on our water tank. After a quick gulp of fresh water, we made for the brush. Locals wouldn’t take kindly to competition, and with the human gene pool dangerously thin, we didn’t want to kill anyone.
Having gotten what we came for, it was time to move south- deep south.
Chapter Five
Dangerous Legacy
California, 2015
America is a land of legacy. One legacy is the Star Spangled Banner, written by Francis Scott Key, inspired by a giant American flag at Fort McHenry in Baltimore after a night of being bombarded by the British in 1812. By the dawns early light, our flag was still there, and so was the American dream of freedom.
Another legacy is the long-lasting environmental damage from the cold war. Decades of mindless paranoia, nuclear testing, and defense industry profits left a radioactive mess, staggering in scope, deep beneath the majestic landscape of Nevada.
By U.S. Energy Department estimates, 921 nuclear tests over a 41-year period ending in 1992, contaminated 1.6 trillion gallons of water with 300 million curies of radiation. That is enough radioactive water to fill a lake 25 feet deep, a mile wide and 300 miles long. Because the test site was on higher ground than surrounding areas, the water is migrating about 18 feet per year, and withdrawing groundwater from surrounding areas will increase that speed. With development rampant and water at a premium, that is sure to happen.
Russia didn’t get us, but the radioactivity might. In any case, the Energy Department says there are no plans for a cleanup.
Dangerous Legacy
California, 2015
America is a land of legacy. One legacy is the Star Spangled Banner, written by Francis Scott Key, inspired by a giant American flag at Fort McHenry in Baltimore after a night of being bombarded by the British in 1812. By the dawns early light, our flag was still there, and so was the American dream of freedom.
Another legacy is the long-lasting environmental damage from the cold war. Decades of mindless paranoia, nuclear testing, and defense industry profits left a radioactive mess, staggering in scope, deep beneath the majestic landscape of Nevada.
By U.S. Energy Department estimates, 921 nuclear tests over a 41-year period ending in 1992, contaminated 1.6 trillion gallons of water with 300 million curies of radiation. That is enough radioactive water to fill a lake 25 feet deep, a mile wide and 300 miles long. Because the test site was on higher ground than surrounding areas, the water is migrating about 18 feet per year, and withdrawing groundwater from surrounding areas will increase that speed. With development rampant and water at a premium, that is sure to happen.
Russia didn’t get us, but the radioactivity might. In any case, the Energy Department says there are no plans for a cleanup.
Chapter Six
The Primitive Future
New Jersey, 2185
We knew where we were headed, but argued over the best way to get there. The scouts wanted to go on foot, the guards wanted to take a boat south along the coast, and I suggested travelling west into Ohio, then rafting the river southward. Entering Georgia from the Northwest would get us close to our final destination, which was a hilltop in the Northeast corner of Georgia.
Rafting meant having to first cross the state on foot, dealing with Radigators, Sandsnakes, and other mutant species. Sandsnakes were poisonous, and concealed their approach by traveling under the soil, but they were good to eat. The only good thing about Radigators was that they glowed, and were easy to see. They were at the top of the food chain, and carried enormous amounts of radiation, so you couldn’t eat them, but they could still eat you.
In the end, we went south on foot, using an old Indian trail. It afforded a straight shot through heavy forest and took us as far as D.C. The coast would have been too dangerous, where warm ocean waters often triggered lightning. It was always best to travel inland and only when the weather was cold. High summer temperatures brought heat lightning that set off light-storms.
Light-storms were another legacy of global warming. Rising temperatures eventually reached a threshold that caused methane gas to be released from the sea floor, where large quantities of it had long been held captive. Upwellings transported the gas to the surface, where it lay as mist on the water. Occasionally, lightning strikes ignited the methane, like the fuel-air explosives of the 21st Century. Everything for miles around was incinerated, and not a bug, not one blade of grass would survive.
We had the exact coordinates of our destination; 34.2 degrees North latitude, 82.9 degrees West longitude. That information had come from a mysterious fellow we met at a shelter in the Appalachians during the last light-storm. Up until then, we really had held out no hope for the future. Then he walked right in out of the light-storm, saying he was some kind of a priest.
The Primitive Future
New Jersey, 2185
We knew where we were headed, but argued over the best way to get there. The scouts wanted to go on foot, the guards wanted to take a boat south along the coast, and I suggested travelling west into Ohio, then rafting the river southward. Entering Georgia from the Northwest would get us close to our final destination, which was a hilltop in the Northeast corner of Georgia.
Rafting meant having to first cross the state on foot, dealing with Radigators, Sandsnakes, and other mutant species. Sandsnakes were poisonous, and concealed their approach by traveling under the soil, but they were good to eat. The only good thing about Radigators was that they glowed, and were easy to see. They were at the top of the food chain, and carried enormous amounts of radiation, so you couldn’t eat them, but they could still eat you.
In the end, we went south on foot, using an old Indian trail. It afforded a straight shot through heavy forest and took us as far as D.C. The coast would have been too dangerous, where warm ocean waters often triggered lightning. It was always best to travel inland and only when the weather was cold. High summer temperatures brought heat lightning that set off light-storms.
Light-storms were another legacy of global warming. Rising temperatures eventually reached a threshold that caused methane gas to be released from the sea floor, where large quantities of it had long been held captive. Upwellings transported the gas to the surface, where it lay as mist on the water. Occasionally, lightning strikes ignited the methane, like the fuel-air explosives of the 21st Century. Everything for miles around was incinerated, and not a bug, not one blade of grass would survive.
We had the exact coordinates of our destination; 34.2 degrees North latitude, 82.9 degrees West longitude. That information had come from a mysterious fellow we met at a shelter in the Appalachians during the last light-storm. Up until then, we really had held out no hope for the future. Then he walked right in out of the light-storm, saying he was some kind of a priest.
Chapter Seven
A Path Through the Woods
California, 2015
The President has expressed frustration with Iran’s nuclear program. The United States speaks with some authority, being the only nation ever to use nuclear weapons on another country, and having done so twice.
Maryland, 2185
The blood of our scouts helped us pick up the Indian trail along a dry creek bed in the Prince George’s region of Maryland. That was Indian blood of course, and it ran through their veins. They were both descended from the Delaware, who lived along the shores of the Delaware River in New Jersey. They still spoke a form of Algonquian, but communicated only by sign language. Their scouting skills were second to none, they were expert trackers, and we counted on them to help us avoid trouble.
The trail was clear and fast, the forest floor padded and silent. We whispered through the woods like elves, breaking no branches and making no sounds.
There was a delicious irony in the Post Apocalyptic World men had created. The trees were many and diverse, the deer large and abundant. From our verdant footpath, we saw the area much as it had been a thousand years before, when men killed only to live, rather than living only to kill. The trees were flush with apples, the bushes wore a riot of berries, and the forest floor was a carpet of purple sorrel.
We ate while on the move, never stopped for long, and barely ever even slowed down. This was the land of the Pascataway, the original tribe of the Chesapeake who left their ancestral hunting grounds rather than convert to Christianity when Lord Calvert landed in 1634.
They had used this trail for hundreds of years, for the same reason the deer did- it was fast, safe, and a secret way to travel from one side of the region to the other. We emerged into bright sunshine, on a sand dune overlooking Chesapeake Bay. Sloshing through brackish water had made the going slower, but the view was worth it.
We stood on the shore of the Potomac, amid the ruins of America’s former capitol, where a symmetrical stone poked from the hard mud about knee-high. I hacked away thick, stubborn vines, and emancipated the stone from its long, sandy incarceration. We had stumbled upon the Franklin Delano Roosevelt National Monument, a relic of yet another self-important empire crumpled to dust amid a backdrop of stars. The words of the 32nd President of the United States chiseled into the stone were testament to a moment of lucidity during an age of madness:
MEN AND NATURE MUST WORK HAND IN HAND. THE THROWING OUT OF BALANCE OF THE RESOURCES OF NATURE THROWS OUT OF BALANCE ALSO THE LIVES OF MEN.
We took it under advisement over glowing embers and an iron pot of hot broth.
A Path Through the Woods
California, 2015
The President has expressed frustration with Iran’s nuclear program. The United States speaks with some authority, being the only nation ever to use nuclear weapons on another country, and having done so twice.
Maryland, 2185
The blood of our scouts helped us pick up the Indian trail along a dry creek bed in the Prince George’s region of Maryland. That was Indian blood of course, and it ran through their veins. They were both descended from the Delaware, who lived along the shores of the Delaware River in New Jersey. They still spoke a form of Algonquian, but communicated only by sign language. Their scouting skills were second to none, they were expert trackers, and we counted on them to help us avoid trouble.
The trail was clear and fast, the forest floor padded and silent. We whispered through the woods like elves, breaking no branches and making no sounds.
There was a delicious irony in the Post Apocalyptic World men had created. The trees were many and diverse, the deer large and abundant. From our verdant footpath, we saw the area much as it had been a thousand years before, when men killed only to live, rather than living only to kill. The trees were flush with apples, the bushes wore a riot of berries, and the forest floor was a carpet of purple sorrel.
We ate while on the move, never stopped for long, and barely ever even slowed down. This was the land of the Pascataway, the original tribe of the Chesapeake who left their ancestral hunting grounds rather than convert to Christianity when Lord Calvert landed in 1634.
They had used this trail for hundreds of years, for the same reason the deer did- it was fast, safe, and a secret way to travel from one side of the region to the other. We emerged into bright sunshine, on a sand dune overlooking Chesapeake Bay. Sloshing through brackish water had made the going slower, but the view was worth it.
We stood on the shore of the Potomac, amid the ruins of America’s former capitol, where a symmetrical stone poked from the hard mud about knee-high. I hacked away thick, stubborn vines, and emancipated the stone from its long, sandy incarceration. We had stumbled upon the Franklin Delano Roosevelt National Monument, a relic of yet another self-important empire crumpled to dust amid a backdrop of stars. The words of the 32nd President of the United States chiseled into the stone were testament to a moment of lucidity during an age of madness:
MEN AND NATURE MUST WORK HAND IN HAND. THE THROWING OUT OF BALANCE OF THE RESOURCES OF NATURE THROWS OUT OF BALANCE ALSO THE LIVES OF MEN.
We took it under advisement over glowing embers and an iron pot of hot broth.
Chapter Eight
Flashback
Appalachia, 2183
Two Years Earlier
A searing wind howled beyond the shelter doors, whistling through the lifeless canyons. Flashes of light were visible through lead walls three feet thick, underscoring the severity of the light-storm raging outside. What should have been a brief respite was nothing less than sheer terror; the temperature outside was two thousand degrees with higher spikes. The Appalachian ridge lines were holding methane mist the way a canyon traps fireplace smoke.
The lightning struck only occasionally, and several times we thought it was over. An impatient few carelessly left the shelter too soon, saving their families the trouble and expense of cremation.
Thirty of us lay prone on the floor of the ancient one-room fallout shelter, built just prior to the final act of the industrial revolution. Legend says it all came down to a glitch on a NORAD computer screen, and the rest is post-history. Once a light-storm began, occupants didn’t open the door except to let some poor soul out. There were plenty of filters inside, but little food or water, and everyone stayed quiet and still to conserve energy.
Very few maps existed in the Post Apocalyptic World showing the location of these shelters, and they were strewn far and wide. Most were destroyed by wanderers who committed them to memory. I only learned about them through a chance meeting with an extraordinary stranger.
It seemed such a bleak existence for so once-great a race.
We dressed in gray to blend with the terrain. When we weren’t hiding from other travelers, we were dodging horrific post-natural weather events, hoarding supplies and scrounging for more. Our breathing and drinking was limited to what could be had through a filter. And there were no children. Our bodies were so saturated with emergent contaminants that babies born alive were almost always badly deformed.
And just when we thought it was the end, this strange traveler arrived to say it was only the beginning.
Lightning hadn’t struck for over an hour, and somebody thought they’d heard the sound of geese passing high above.
“Let me out,” shouted a man brandishing some sort of explosive device, “Let me out-now!”
He got no argument and the heavy doors were rolled aside, revealing a barren world where heated rocks shimmered on the horizon. The man exited without a backward glance, and the doors were rolled back into place. At the last instant, they slammed on the end of a walking pole someone had thrust between them.
“Hold,” a voice came from outside.
The doors automatically bounced back open, and the man who had left came stumbling back in, helped by the dusty jack-boot of a tall stranger.
“Close!” he shouted after entry, and the mighty doors rolled closed again, this time tightly.
“Who dares?” growled the stumbling man.
“I dare!” returned the stranger, motioning him to be seated.
Angry at his forced return, the man snarled, tossed his explosives aside, and went for the stranger’s throat. Then from outside, came a flash of lightning, rumbling of thunder, and the loud report of another light-storm. The man released his grip and slid down to his knees.
“You saved my life,” he whispered.
“Rise,” said the stranger.
Through the darkness, the lights of doom flashed outside, as the stench of burning gases wafted throughout the shelter. The tall man stood before us, staff in hand, and began relating a fantastic story that brought laughter, disbelief, and to five of us, hope.
His name was Robert C. Christian, and he called himself a priest, last of an order of Time-guides known as the Avatale. With one foot in Earth’s far future and one in its remote past, Avatale were like custodians, charged with keeping a planet’s flow moving toward the balance sought by the Universe. They did so by burrowing through space time, avoiding the restrictions of causality.
“Avatale behave like subatomic particles,” he said.
Most of the occupants had written the stranger off as a travel weary madman with a messiah complex, but five of us sat close, cross legged and hungry for a glimmer of hope. After all, who among us wasn’t a travel weary madman?
“Why have you come?” asked a member of our small group.
“I have come to bring a message,” answered the Avatale.
“What is your message?” asked another of our small band of travelers.
“That you are not meant to be roaches, living in darkness and scattering in light. You are the stuff of stars, your every thought, a quasar, your every heartbeat in rhythm with the pulsars.”
I looked at the floor, trying to feel more like a star and less like a refugee-in-rags. “Where did-“
“Where did it all go wrong?” he finished for me. “In your search for a heaven, you trampled one beneath your feet. You gazed outward for answers, when meaning resides within. Your search for perfection was futile, for there you always did dwell.”
The simple explanation the Avatale offered up resonated with our small group, even if the majority lay deaf blind and mute. We asked what such a small number of people could do to heal the world.
“It is not for you to heal a planet,” answered the tall stranger. “There are more waters than you could swim, and more ground than you could stride. Yours is to mend a relationship with the planet. Then you may build a new society on a different path with a higher purpose.”
“But how do we rebuild without following our forefathers over a precipice?” I asked.
The Avatale considered me at length, pools of wisdom in his sullen eyes.
“Journey ye south, to the land of rocks. At 34.2 degrees north latitude, 82.9 degrees west longitude, granite walls on a hilltop capped with stone are guides to the new world you seek.”
That was the last time we ever saw the Avatale, but our band of adventurers was born, and we had a mission, coordinates, -and hope.
Flashback
Appalachia, 2183
Two Years Earlier
A searing wind howled beyond the shelter doors, whistling through the lifeless canyons. Flashes of light were visible through lead walls three feet thick, underscoring the severity of the light-storm raging outside. What should have been a brief respite was nothing less than sheer terror; the temperature outside was two thousand degrees with higher spikes. The Appalachian ridge lines were holding methane mist the way a canyon traps fireplace smoke.
The lightning struck only occasionally, and several times we thought it was over. An impatient few carelessly left the shelter too soon, saving their families the trouble and expense of cremation.
Thirty of us lay prone on the floor of the ancient one-room fallout shelter, built just prior to the final act of the industrial revolution. Legend says it all came down to a glitch on a NORAD computer screen, and the rest is post-history. Once a light-storm began, occupants didn’t open the door except to let some poor soul out. There were plenty of filters inside, but little food or water, and everyone stayed quiet and still to conserve energy.
Very few maps existed in the Post Apocalyptic World showing the location of these shelters, and they were strewn far and wide. Most were destroyed by wanderers who committed them to memory. I only learned about them through a chance meeting with an extraordinary stranger.
It seemed such a bleak existence for so once-great a race.
We dressed in gray to blend with the terrain. When we weren’t hiding from other travelers, we were dodging horrific post-natural weather events, hoarding supplies and scrounging for more. Our breathing and drinking was limited to what could be had through a filter. And there were no children. Our bodies were so saturated with emergent contaminants that babies born alive were almost always badly deformed.
And just when we thought it was the end, this strange traveler arrived to say it was only the beginning.
Lightning hadn’t struck for over an hour, and somebody thought they’d heard the sound of geese passing high above.
“Let me out,” shouted a man brandishing some sort of explosive device, “Let me out-now!”
He got no argument and the heavy doors were rolled aside, revealing a barren world where heated rocks shimmered on the horizon. The man exited without a backward glance, and the doors were rolled back into place. At the last instant, they slammed on the end of a walking pole someone had thrust between them.
“Hold,” a voice came from outside.
The doors automatically bounced back open, and the man who had left came stumbling back in, helped by the dusty jack-boot of a tall stranger.
“Close!” he shouted after entry, and the mighty doors rolled closed again, this time tightly.
“Who dares?” growled the stumbling man.
“I dare!” returned the stranger, motioning him to be seated.
Angry at his forced return, the man snarled, tossed his explosives aside, and went for the stranger’s throat. Then from outside, came a flash of lightning, rumbling of thunder, and the loud report of another light-storm. The man released his grip and slid down to his knees.
“You saved my life,” he whispered.
“Rise,” said the stranger.
Through the darkness, the lights of doom flashed outside, as the stench of burning gases wafted throughout the shelter. The tall man stood before us, staff in hand, and began relating a fantastic story that brought laughter, disbelief, and to five of us, hope.
His name was Robert C. Christian, and he called himself a priest, last of an order of Time-guides known as the Avatale. With one foot in Earth’s far future and one in its remote past, Avatale were like custodians, charged with keeping a planet’s flow moving toward the balance sought by the Universe. They did so by burrowing through space time, avoiding the restrictions of causality.
“Avatale behave like subatomic particles,” he said.
Most of the occupants had written the stranger off as a travel weary madman with a messiah complex, but five of us sat close, cross legged and hungry for a glimmer of hope. After all, who among us wasn’t a travel weary madman?
“Why have you come?” asked a member of our small group.
“I have come to bring a message,” answered the Avatale.
“What is your message?” asked another of our small band of travelers.
“That you are not meant to be roaches, living in darkness and scattering in light. You are the stuff of stars, your every thought, a quasar, your every heartbeat in rhythm with the pulsars.”
I looked at the floor, trying to feel more like a star and less like a refugee-in-rags. “Where did-“
“Where did it all go wrong?” he finished for me. “In your search for a heaven, you trampled one beneath your feet. You gazed outward for answers, when meaning resides within. Your search for perfection was futile, for there you always did dwell.”
The simple explanation the Avatale offered up resonated with our small group, even if the majority lay deaf blind and mute. We asked what such a small number of people could do to heal the world.
“It is not for you to heal a planet,” answered the tall stranger. “There are more waters than you could swim, and more ground than you could stride. Yours is to mend a relationship with the planet. Then you may build a new society on a different path with a higher purpose.”
“But how do we rebuild without following our forefathers over a precipice?” I asked.
The Avatale considered me at length, pools of wisdom in his sullen eyes.
“Journey ye south, to the land of rocks. At 34.2 degrees north latitude, 82.9 degrees west longitude, granite walls on a hilltop capped with stone are guides to the new world you seek.”
That was the last time we ever saw the Avatale, but our band of adventurers was born, and we had a mission, coordinates, -and hope.
Chapter Nine
End of the Beginning
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, 2185
‘Great birds fly over Chesapeake Bay
A new world dawns every month of May
Five brave men in two canoes
Which tomorrow will they choose?
To read the wisdom in the stones
That rise above your fathers bones
A sacred journey you must make
Where Savannah River meets Keeowee Lake’
We stood on the shore of the Potomac and gazed out over Chesapeake Bay. From this point on, travel was best done by river. I was sure FDR would understand if we felled one of the tall White Birches standing guard over his monument for a good cause. And rebuilding a world was good cause. We lay the tree down like an Indian bride, and removed her bark the same way. The scouts performed an age-old magic show, turning the white bark inside out, lacing it up with sweet grass and patching the rough spots with pitch. In a day, we had two Birch Bark Algonquin canoes. They were laced up tight, like a skillfully crafted pair of moccasins.
At sunrise, we loaded supplies and walked the canoes to deeper water. By the time the sun was straight overhead, we were 4 miles offshore on either side, with no ripples on the water. The quiet was only broken by the occasional call of a big bird overhead, or the splash of a fish in the estuary. This was the way to travel.
The Chesapeake system finally left us on the front porch of the Atlantic Ocean, like babes in a basket. Many times at night we came ashore with backs aching, to steal a bit of slumber uninterrupted by salt water mosquitoes and rolling water. Because light-storms were a constant threat, we often navigated inland on nameless waterways, where Spanish moss and Sandsnakes decorated the overhanging limbs.
A hundred times we ran out of creek and stumbled ashore, wearing the canoes like long hats as we searched through thickets for the next waterway. We came upon a great inland expanse of water, and could tell it was not of nature, but a thing of man. An army of trees pressed to the edge of the waters wide expanse, with nary a reed, sedge, bamboo or papyrus at the shore. This was a reservoir, fed by rivers whose swollen confluence lay deep below.
But those submerged rivers were only side streets that merged with the main highway. We had found her- the Savannah River.
End of the Beginning
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, 2185
‘Great birds fly over Chesapeake Bay
A new world dawns every month of May
Five brave men in two canoes
Which tomorrow will they choose?
To read the wisdom in the stones
That rise above your fathers bones
A sacred journey you must make
Where Savannah River meets Keeowee Lake’
We stood on the shore of the Potomac and gazed out over Chesapeake Bay. From this point on, travel was best done by river. I was sure FDR would understand if we felled one of the tall White Birches standing guard over his monument for a good cause. And rebuilding a world was good cause. We lay the tree down like an Indian bride, and removed her bark the same way. The scouts performed an age-old magic show, turning the white bark inside out, lacing it up with sweet grass and patching the rough spots with pitch. In a day, we had two Birch Bark Algonquin canoes. They were laced up tight, like a skillfully crafted pair of moccasins.
At sunrise, we loaded supplies and walked the canoes to deeper water. By the time the sun was straight overhead, we were 4 miles offshore on either side, with no ripples on the water. The quiet was only broken by the occasional call of a big bird overhead, or the splash of a fish in the estuary. This was the way to travel.
The Chesapeake system finally left us on the front porch of the Atlantic Ocean, like babes in a basket. Many times at night we came ashore with backs aching, to steal a bit of slumber uninterrupted by salt water mosquitoes and rolling water. Because light-storms were a constant threat, we often navigated inland on nameless waterways, where Spanish moss and Sandsnakes decorated the overhanging limbs.
A hundred times we ran out of creek and stumbled ashore, wearing the canoes like long hats as we searched through thickets for the next waterway. We came upon a great inland expanse of water, and could tell it was not of nature, but a thing of man. An army of trees pressed to the edge of the waters wide expanse, with nary a reed, sedge, bamboo or papyrus at the shore. This was a reservoir, fed by rivers whose swollen confluence lay deep below.
But those submerged rivers were only side streets that merged with the main highway. We had found her- the Savannah River.
Chapter Ten
The Savannah River
South Carolina, 2186
Our canoes cut swiftly and quietly through the clear moving waters of the Savannah River. Her banks were lined with cypress and willow, and she wore a bright blue sky above. The scouts rowed with their heads down, speaking back in Algonquin to the Cherokee spirits they heard calling from the banks. We were being warned of the great fireflies living beneath the water. These fireflies grew angry in the summer months when the river was at her lowest level and we might know the angry beasts when we came between two white waters.
I took their warning seriously, and decided that we would portage if we saw a second set of rapids. I cupped my hands and blew the call of the owl to the guards up ahead, who were already entering white water. They looked back and nodded, signaling they understood danger may be about. We kept one eye ahead, and one eye on the swift water.
An hour later all turbulence subsided as we came upon the confluence of two more ancient rivers, drowned far below. The sky painted the river a late-afternoon turquoise, creating a lovely, but opaque surface. Dusk rode in on a chilly breeze, and though white water could not be seen ahead, it could be heard. We stopped rowing and sat up alert. Without turning, the forward scout held up a hand, signaling to us about strange submarine lights flashing below.
As I peered hard through the water, I felt the canoe vibrate and saw fear in my own reflection. This was where the Keeowee and Little Rivers met, and the Oconee Nuclear Power Station was directly beneath us, several hundred feet below. A pulsating red light accompanied the hum of its three atomic reactors, still running after two hundred years because no one had ever shut them down!
Keeping our paddles tilted upward, we let the fast moving water carry us over the ethereal maelstrom that was surely releasing radiation. Vast schools of fish were visible, illuminated as they moved through broad beams of light emanating from the deep. The entire lake pulsated to the soulless rhythm of a doomsday machine, a satanic concert in a watery hell, being conducted by long dead energy industry officials, still assuring the ghosts of a drowned city that everything was under control, and going to be fine.
The deep, clear water was hot to the touch, and many strange life forms darted about, most notably a large Octofish that swam up alongside the canoe. Octofish were an example of mutants common to the new American southeast, most being large predators. A descendant of the sturgeon, these animals were as intelligent as they were dangerous, and used bioluminescence to communicate in a complex language of lights and colors.
Each canoe was 9 feet long, and the Octofish was longer still, sizing us up with bowling ball eyes. Backlit from below, it switched off for a moment, allowing itself to become a long-tentacled silhouette. It faded back in as golden, its transparent body causing the internal organs to look like bugs trapped in amber. Then in a mesmerizing display, it turned a rich blue, then green, and when the canoe did not respond in kind, a menacing red.
Feeling an attack was imminent, we began to poke at it with our paddles. It was like attacking a dragon with a fly swatter. Then a second creature joined in and was attacked by the first, allowing us time to put our paddles to better use. Aided by the breeze at our backs, we were soon across the lake and the otherworldly humming faded into the distance. Paddling in unison, we reached the second rapids, which led us around a bend and back onto the Savannah River.
The Savannah River
South Carolina, 2186
Our canoes cut swiftly and quietly through the clear moving waters of the Savannah River. Her banks were lined with cypress and willow, and she wore a bright blue sky above. The scouts rowed with their heads down, speaking back in Algonquin to the Cherokee spirits they heard calling from the banks. We were being warned of the great fireflies living beneath the water. These fireflies grew angry in the summer months when the river was at her lowest level and we might know the angry beasts when we came between two white waters.
I took their warning seriously, and decided that we would portage if we saw a second set of rapids. I cupped my hands and blew the call of the owl to the guards up ahead, who were already entering white water. They looked back and nodded, signaling they understood danger may be about. We kept one eye ahead, and one eye on the swift water.
An hour later all turbulence subsided as we came upon the confluence of two more ancient rivers, drowned far below. The sky painted the river a late-afternoon turquoise, creating a lovely, but opaque surface. Dusk rode in on a chilly breeze, and though white water could not be seen ahead, it could be heard. We stopped rowing and sat up alert. Without turning, the forward scout held up a hand, signaling to us about strange submarine lights flashing below.
As I peered hard through the water, I felt the canoe vibrate and saw fear in my own reflection. This was where the Keeowee and Little Rivers met, and the Oconee Nuclear Power Station was directly beneath us, several hundred feet below. A pulsating red light accompanied the hum of its three atomic reactors, still running after two hundred years because no one had ever shut them down!
Keeping our paddles tilted upward, we let the fast moving water carry us over the ethereal maelstrom that was surely releasing radiation. Vast schools of fish were visible, illuminated as they moved through broad beams of light emanating from the deep. The entire lake pulsated to the soulless rhythm of a doomsday machine, a satanic concert in a watery hell, being conducted by long dead energy industry officials, still assuring the ghosts of a drowned city that everything was under control, and going to be fine.
The deep, clear water was hot to the touch, and many strange life forms darted about, most notably a large Octofish that swam up alongside the canoe. Octofish were an example of mutants common to the new American southeast, most being large predators. A descendant of the sturgeon, these animals were as intelligent as they were dangerous, and used bioluminescence to communicate in a complex language of lights and colors.
Each canoe was 9 feet long, and the Octofish was longer still, sizing us up with bowling ball eyes. Backlit from below, it switched off for a moment, allowing itself to become a long-tentacled silhouette. It faded back in as golden, its transparent body causing the internal organs to look like bugs trapped in amber. Then in a mesmerizing display, it turned a rich blue, then green, and when the canoe did not respond in kind, a menacing red.
Feeling an attack was imminent, we began to poke at it with our paddles. It was like attacking a dragon with a fly swatter. Then a second creature joined in and was attacked by the first, allowing us time to put our paddles to better use. Aided by the breeze at our backs, we were soon across the lake and the otherworldly humming faded into the distance. Paddling in unison, we reached the second rapids, which led us around a bend and back onto the Savannah River.
Chapter Eleven
Lost and Found
Huntington Beach, California, 1997
I parked the old motor home in front of the Post Office long enough to run in and get my mail. Before leaving, I decided to also grab a cup of coffee on Main Street. Returning to the RV, I fumbled through my pockets for my keys. I searched the Post Office, under the seats of the rig, and even went across the street to Starbucks, but never did find those keys. I called a locksmith who charged me an arm and a leg for a whole new set of keys and a whole new ignition. I was getting coffee the next morning when someone handed me the old set, found during an after-hours mopping. I must have dropped them and kicked them under the counter.
Savannah, Georgia, 1958
On a February evening in 1958, Major Howard Richardson was piloting a B-47 Stratojet Bomber off the coast of Georgia at 36,000 feet. The jet was carrying an MK-15 Thermonuclear Hydrogen Bomb, 100 times more powerful than the A-Bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. What was supposed to be a routine night-training mission turned anomalous when the bomber collided with an F-86 Saberjet, destroying the fighter plane, and damaging the wing of the B-47.
Major Richardson radioed for instructions and was told to jettison the H-Bomb before attempting an emergency landing. The pilot did as he was told, releasing the bomb into the shallow waters off the coast of near the Savannah River. A massive search was undertaken but they never did find that Hydrogen bomb.
It’s still sitting out there somewhere, perhaps one day to be found by a man in headphones scanning the beach with his metal detector.
Lost and Found
Huntington Beach, California, 1997
I parked the old motor home in front of the Post Office long enough to run in and get my mail. Before leaving, I decided to also grab a cup of coffee on Main Street. Returning to the RV, I fumbled through my pockets for my keys. I searched the Post Office, under the seats of the rig, and even went across the street to Starbucks, but never did find those keys. I called a locksmith who charged me an arm and a leg for a whole new set of keys and a whole new ignition. I was getting coffee the next morning when someone handed me the old set, found during an after-hours mopping. I must have dropped them and kicked them under the counter.
Savannah, Georgia, 1958
On a February evening in 1958, Major Howard Richardson was piloting a B-47 Stratojet Bomber off the coast of Georgia at 36,000 feet. The jet was carrying an MK-15 Thermonuclear Hydrogen Bomb, 100 times more powerful than the A-Bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. What was supposed to be a routine night-training mission turned anomalous when the bomber collided with an F-86 Saberjet, destroying the fighter plane, and damaging the wing of the B-47.
Major Richardson radioed for instructions and was told to jettison the H-Bomb before attempting an emergency landing. The pilot did as he was told, releasing the bomb into the shallow waters off the coast of near the Savannah River. A massive search was undertaken but they never did find that Hydrogen bomb.
It’s still sitting out there somewhere, perhaps one day to be found by a man in headphones scanning the beach with his metal detector.
Chapter Twelve
Apocalypse, Conclusion
Elberton, Georgia, 2186-
On the Georgia bank of the Savannah River, logs were visible strewn all along the shoreline. Some were quite large and carried a strange glow. These began entering the river, and it dawned on us that these weren’t logs, they were Radigators- mutatant carnivores inviting us to dinner as guests of honor. Not like your pet Caiman or Monitor lizard, these were mature Georgia ‘gators turned radioactive, likely by living in the river of haunted fireflies.
The fifteen-foot long, two thousand pound glowing behemoths came straight for us as we approached. We decided to feign lethargy, using one of their own tactics against them. We paddled in slowly, and before they reached us, accelerated past them. Having caught them off guard, we made it ashore and grabbed our gear while still dragging the canoes. After hauling the birch barks clear of the water, we pulled them in even further, knowing that the Savannah River this far south was tidal.
We hiked a mile inland and pitched camp beneath a canopy of Cypress, the tree that defined the Georgia swamp. Even a mile inland, we had to stoke our campfire with wood. If allowed to burn down to glowing embers, it could attract curious Radigators, seeking out their own. And we apparently weren’t the only ones who knew it; several other campfires burned brightly in the distance. We wondered who they could be.
There was an undercurrent of excitement in knowing we were close to our destination in the land of stones. Taking turns on watch, we slept well for the first time in weeks.
Apocalypse, Conclusion
Elberton, Georgia, 2186-
On the Georgia bank of the Savannah River, logs were visible strewn all along the shoreline. Some were quite large and carried a strange glow. These began entering the river, and it dawned on us that these weren’t logs, they were Radigators- mutatant carnivores inviting us to dinner as guests of honor. Not like your pet Caiman or Monitor lizard, these were mature Georgia ‘gators turned radioactive, likely by living in the river of haunted fireflies.
The fifteen-foot long, two thousand pound glowing behemoths came straight for us as we approached. We decided to feign lethargy, using one of their own tactics against them. We paddled in slowly, and before they reached us, accelerated past them. Having caught them off guard, we made it ashore and grabbed our gear while still dragging the canoes. After hauling the birch barks clear of the water, we pulled them in even further, knowing that the Savannah River this far south was tidal.
We hiked a mile inland and pitched camp beneath a canopy of Cypress, the tree that defined the Georgia swamp. Even a mile inland, we had to stoke our campfire with wood. If allowed to burn down to glowing embers, it could attract curious Radigators, seeking out their own. And we apparently weren’t the only ones who knew it; several other campfires burned brightly in the distance. We wondered who they could be.
There was an undercurrent of excitement in knowing we were close to our destination in the land of stones. Taking turns on watch, we slept well for the first time in weeks.
Chapter Thirteen
A New Dawn
The sun shone brightly on tree tops that hosted a cacophony of birdsong. Smoke rose from many freshly doused fires, and there was an audible sound of muffled conversation. We buried our campfire with heaps of sand, sending a plume of smoke skyward that mingled with others. The sound of crashing in the woods turned out to be a young woman carrying an armful of water jugs, headed to the river. She was dressed in tight-fitting animal skins; her own skin was painted in bright predatory colors. We wondered if she was from a tribe of local indigenous people. Not wanting to spook her, we averted our gazes to show we meant no harm. She nodded in our direction and continued on her way.
By now, we were packed and ready to continue. The guards looked over the coordinates, and our compass showed we were headed in the right direction, so we began the final steps of a harrowing journey. Again, someone was crashing through the woods. This time two men appeared at the edge of the clearing. They had dark skin, and wore white flowing robes, with head pieces to match. Their hats wore tails that covered their necks, and it was obvious to me they were from somewhere else. One carried a machete, the other jugs for water, and again, they seemed headed for the river. Our guards reflexively brandished their swords, but I raised a hand to stop them. The foreign traveler in white robes held his machete high and, in an exaggerated motion, dropped it to the ground, smiling. The guards looked to me, and when I nodded back to them, they let fall the two large swords, that clanged together on the ground.
The painted woman came walking back through our camp, handed us each a jug of water, and motioned for us to follow her. I produced the papyrus, and showed them all the coordinates scribbled on the paper by the Avatale. This started them talking in several languages. When I joined in with yet another, the woman held up her hand, and we all fell silent. She then pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on her ankle, causing us to step back. She sliced away her deer skin sleeve, and showed us a faded tattoo that read, 34N 89W. The men in white robes nodded and began chattering excitedly. She turned into the woods and we all followed single file.
Once called Elberton County, the area had been known in previous centuries for its plentiful mineral deposits, most notably for having the highest quality Blue Granite in the entire world. Considering the longevity of such stone, it came as no surprise that we were walking through a countryside scattered with all manner of monuments, some educational, others simply tributes to good men, women, deeds, events and organizations.
There were polished stones telling of Revolutionary war heroes, Native American tribes, parks, riverways, villages, and even the dams that drowned them. When we paused a moment to drink it all in, I found myself leaning on a polished granite stone etched with the words, ‘Thanking all the heroes of all the wars’. It went on to list the Revolutionary War, the Spanish American War, the Civil War, Korean War, World War One, World War Two, the Vietnam War, the First War in Iraq, the Second War in Iraq, the War in Afghanistan, and World War Three. But of course, the big one was conspicuously absent, there having been no person, agency or organization left to carve a monument.
I shook my head at what we had found.
It was safe to say I was dumbfounded by the dumb we had founded.
How many lives, families, potential cures, kids and Kings had we snuffed beneath the futility of war? It could be read on the walls of canyons and the inscriptions in Blue Granite, In the days of man, we had gone from clubbing each other with Mammoth bones to clubbing each other with Hydrogen Bombs, but it was really the same thing.
We weren’t sure why we had come, but we were certain it was not to rebuild a society that resumes clubbing.
As we padded through the grassy countryside, our diverse group grew ever larger. People in all forms of dress, speaking languages we’d never heard before, joined in the single-file procession. According to our sextant and last night’s stars, we were close, confirmed when the painted woman leading the procession turned and thrust a hand high in the air. She whispered into the ear of another brightly painted woman standing beside her. The woman translated, saying, “Halt,” and then repeated the word in 7 more languages. Our procession shuffled to a stop.
She whispered again to her translator, who repeated, “We are here.”
Seeing nothing, a clamor arose made of many angry voices. But the painted women turned away and climbed over a last rise, motioning us to follow. As we crested the final hill, we came upon a small group of strangely clad men, of different races. They stood together on a large flat granite slab, each dressed in the different holy garb of their tribes. The tallest was a Nubian Chief. He stood beside a wrinkled red man wearing a headpiece that trailed Eagle feathers to the granite below. All stood with an arm outstretched, pointing away into the distance.
And there on the next hilltop, worn from the weather, light-storms, and centuries, stood the Georgia Guide Stones. The procession was no longer single file or orderly, but there was no stampede. We walked through a small dip and came up the hillside toward the 20 foot tall blocks of polished Blue Granite that carried, in many languages, ten guiding principles that might lead to a better world for all of us.
Many tribes from far flung lands sat in groups, dotting the hills surrounding the Guide Stones, reading, translating and discussing the wisdom behind each word. An enormous line of abalone shells encircled the monument, some smoking with burning sage, others with sacred cedar, and still others smelling of all the ancient spices and incense of a world gone by –and the one yet to come.
Peace pipes filled with sacred tobacco were passed from hand to hand, as elderly she-shaman spread cornmeal at the feet of new arrivals. Marijuana, frankincense, cypress, rosemary, every treat for the senses wafted in and around the gathering throngs, here not only to mark the beginning of a new world, but the peaceful, spiritual conclusion of an old one.
The celebration continued until high noon, when solsticial sunbeams pierced a hole in the gargantuan capstone, striking a precise mark within the Guide Stones. In the distance, a single gong sounded, sustaining for a long, meditative moment.
On the next hilltop, the collected tribal chiefs spoke to the painted translator, who repeated their words in seven languages. In English, she said, “Only the bold, only the strong, have made this journey. Some died along the way. But a new world begins as the sun strikes its mark through the stone. Now take the words from these stones, and etch them forever onto the stone that beats in your chest.
As the gathered masses considered the ten Guides in the stones, they also considered each other. Each face searched every other, each smile waited for another. Spirits rose along with the sweet scent of burning, smoky medicine. And when each hand had reached out and was taken, hope spread like the seeds of a dandelion to the four corners of the Earth, from a Blue Granite miracle that had withstood an age of madness, and ushered in an age of reason.
The End
A New Dawn
The sun shone brightly on tree tops that hosted a cacophony of birdsong. Smoke rose from many freshly doused fires, and there was an audible sound of muffled conversation. We buried our campfire with heaps of sand, sending a plume of smoke skyward that mingled with others. The sound of crashing in the woods turned out to be a young woman carrying an armful of water jugs, headed to the river. She was dressed in tight-fitting animal skins; her own skin was painted in bright predatory colors. We wondered if she was from a tribe of local indigenous people. Not wanting to spook her, we averted our gazes to show we meant no harm. She nodded in our direction and continued on her way.
By now, we were packed and ready to continue. The guards looked over the coordinates, and our compass showed we were headed in the right direction, so we began the final steps of a harrowing journey. Again, someone was crashing through the woods. This time two men appeared at the edge of the clearing. They had dark skin, and wore white flowing robes, with head pieces to match. Their hats wore tails that covered their necks, and it was obvious to me they were from somewhere else. One carried a machete, the other jugs for water, and again, they seemed headed for the river. Our guards reflexively brandished their swords, but I raised a hand to stop them. The foreign traveler in white robes held his machete high and, in an exaggerated motion, dropped it to the ground, smiling. The guards looked to me, and when I nodded back to them, they let fall the two large swords, that clanged together on the ground.
The painted woman came walking back through our camp, handed us each a jug of water, and motioned for us to follow her. I produced the papyrus, and showed them all the coordinates scribbled on the paper by the Avatale. This started them talking in several languages. When I joined in with yet another, the woman held up her hand, and we all fell silent. She then pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on her ankle, causing us to step back. She sliced away her deer skin sleeve, and showed us a faded tattoo that read, 34N 89W. The men in white robes nodded and began chattering excitedly. She turned into the woods and we all followed single file.
Once called Elberton County, the area had been known in previous centuries for its plentiful mineral deposits, most notably for having the highest quality Blue Granite in the entire world. Considering the longevity of such stone, it came as no surprise that we were walking through a countryside scattered with all manner of monuments, some educational, others simply tributes to good men, women, deeds, events and organizations.
There were polished stones telling of Revolutionary war heroes, Native American tribes, parks, riverways, villages, and even the dams that drowned them. When we paused a moment to drink it all in, I found myself leaning on a polished granite stone etched with the words, ‘Thanking all the heroes of all the wars’. It went on to list the Revolutionary War, the Spanish American War, the Civil War, Korean War, World War One, World War Two, the Vietnam War, the First War in Iraq, the Second War in Iraq, the War in Afghanistan, and World War Three. But of course, the big one was conspicuously absent, there having been no person, agency or organization left to carve a monument.
I shook my head at what we had found.
It was safe to say I was dumbfounded by the dumb we had founded.
How many lives, families, potential cures, kids and Kings had we snuffed beneath the futility of war? It could be read on the walls of canyons and the inscriptions in Blue Granite, In the days of man, we had gone from clubbing each other with Mammoth bones to clubbing each other with Hydrogen Bombs, but it was really the same thing.
We weren’t sure why we had come, but we were certain it was not to rebuild a society that resumes clubbing.
As we padded through the grassy countryside, our diverse group grew ever larger. People in all forms of dress, speaking languages we’d never heard before, joined in the single-file procession. According to our sextant and last night’s stars, we were close, confirmed when the painted woman leading the procession turned and thrust a hand high in the air. She whispered into the ear of another brightly painted woman standing beside her. The woman translated, saying, “Halt,” and then repeated the word in 7 more languages. Our procession shuffled to a stop.
She whispered again to her translator, who repeated, “We are here.”
Seeing nothing, a clamor arose made of many angry voices. But the painted women turned away and climbed over a last rise, motioning us to follow. As we crested the final hill, we came upon a small group of strangely clad men, of different races. They stood together on a large flat granite slab, each dressed in the different holy garb of their tribes. The tallest was a Nubian Chief. He stood beside a wrinkled red man wearing a headpiece that trailed Eagle feathers to the granite below. All stood with an arm outstretched, pointing away into the distance.
And there on the next hilltop, worn from the weather, light-storms, and centuries, stood the Georgia Guide Stones. The procession was no longer single file or orderly, but there was no stampede. We walked through a small dip and came up the hillside toward the 20 foot tall blocks of polished Blue Granite that carried, in many languages, ten guiding principles that might lead to a better world for all of us.
Many tribes from far flung lands sat in groups, dotting the hills surrounding the Guide Stones, reading, translating and discussing the wisdom behind each word. An enormous line of abalone shells encircled the monument, some smoking with burning sage, others with sacred cedar, and still others smelling of all the ancient spices and incense of a world gone by –and the one yet to come.
Peace pipes filled with sacred tobacco were passed from hand to hand, as elderly she-shaman spread cornmeal at the feet of new arrivals. Marijuana, frankincense, cypress, rosemary, every treat for the senses wafted in and around the gathering throngs, here not only to mark the beginning of a new world, but the peaceful, spiritual conclusion of an old one.
The celebration continued until high noon, when solsticial sunbeams pierced a hole in the gargantuan capstone, striking a precise mark within the Guide Stones. In the distance, a single gong sounded, sustaining for a long, meditative moment.
On the next hilltop, the collected tribal chiefs spoke to the painted translator, who repeated their words in seven languages. In English, she said, “Only the bold, only the strong, have made this journey. Some died along the way. But a new world begins as the sun strikes its mark through the stone. Now take the words from these stones, and etch them forever onto the stone that beats in your chest.
As the gathered masses considered the ten Guides in the stones, they also considered each other. Each face searched every other, each smile waited for another. Spirits rose along with the sweet scent of burning, smoky medicine. And when each hand had reached out and was taken, hope spread like the seeds of a dandelion to the four corners of the Earth, from a Blue Granite miracle that had withstood an age of madness, and ushered in an age of reason.
The End
