Light on shattered water, p.1
Light on Shattered Water, page 1
The Civilized World
Central Land-of-Water and environs
Foreword
You’ve found this journal. Now ask yourself if you really want to read it.
There’s a reason it’s written in English, just as there were some very good reasons I hid it away. If you’re lucky, those reasons are long in the past. If not, then again I’d ask you to think about whether you really want to learn what important people wanted buried and - not forgotten - but rather never known.
What’s related here is what really happened. I should know – I was there in the middle of it all. Hell, I caused a lot of it. Things were said and done and then the fact locked away and the key melted down, ostensibly to preserve the peace. It did, at the time, but the fact it happened is still there. Looking back at those years of turmoil, I’m surprised I’m still alive: there were times I know some influential people seriously debated getting rid of the source of some of their problems. But I survived. I became useful. Then I became indispensable. There was the point where removing me would cause more problems than it solved.
I’m starting this account at a beginning. Not THE beginning; not my beginning, but a beginning nevertheless. A point where a new life started for me, where what had been was gone forever and my path took me in a different direction, whether I liked it or not. I’m relating what happened to me, from my own eyes in the language I used at the time - still use in the privacy of my own mind. I was complicit in deeds I’m not proud of, but have had to bury and forget, both for my own sake and the sake of others. Sometimes for the sake of entire countries.
So, there’s still time to put this back where you found it. Bury it and forget it. But if you choose to continue, you may want to bear all that in mind. And if you’re a human, well then there’re more than a few lessons in here that might help you avoid the mistakes and misapprehensions I made. Smooth trails and good luck – you’re going to need it.
------v------
Light on Shattered Water
On that Indian summer afternoon the sun was riding high in an endless blue vault, heat shimmers rippled up from the dry hills and stones and earth, and I was utterly and completely lost.
My boots raised small clouds of dust as I followed the rutted and rocky little goat-trail up the hillside. Unseen insects chirped and swarmed through the sun-dried grasses and undergrowth, the razzing of cicadas a continuous chorus in the summer air. That stridulating and the occasional cry of a distant animal were the only sounds I’d heard for a long while. The heat and humidity were getting oppressive. Tickling rivulets of perspiration ran down my face sides as I worked my way around an outcropping of cracked sandstone rocks upon which a stunted little conifer had taken root and was putting up a valiant struggle against the elements. I wiped sweat off my forehead and slogged on up that trail that climbed the summer-shocked hillside toward the tree line. Something in my pack was digging into my back.
When I reached the welcome shade of the trees I stopped. The dusty ground was covered with a carpet of fallen needles and ancient-looking pines towered overhead, warding off the worst of the scorching sun. It was a welcome opportunity to catch my breath and fiddle with my pack until the load was seated more comfortably. Then I looked back at the path I’d come and forward at the path still to travel and sighed. It was a trail I was following, I was pretty sure of that. It was overgrown and eroded and more suited to mountain goats in places, but it was a trail. Perhaps it’d take me somewhere that had a phone I could use.
I’d been lost while hiking before, but never like this. I mean, there’d been times when I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, but there’d always been the GPS, or even a signpost or landmark or town where I could ask directions. Now, I’d been walking for days and I hadn’t seen so much as a road. My phone wasn’t getting any signal and neither was the wireless in my laptop, but there was always a chance I was outside the coverage. What was stranger was that the GPS in neither set was working, just spitting back a ‘no signal’ message, and that should’ve been impossible. On top of that, my maps - paper and digital - none of them made sense. They didn’t jive with the Vermont I was walking around in. The landscape simply didn’t match up: when I thought I’d matched a hill to one depicted on my map, a river turned up that shouldn’t be there or a road that should’ve been there was missing. I hadn’t seen anyone, not a person or a building or even a contrail from a plane, not after that. . . whatever it was that’d happened to me. Not a sign of civilization anywhere, and that was just one oddity amongst many.
On my second afternoon after waking on that hillside without the faintest idea where I was, I’d been following a ridgeline overlooking a steep little valley with a stream at the bottom. There was a family of bears down there, a large one with several cubs in tow splashing through the water. I went the other way; quickly. Later that day, I realized what I’d taken to be a black cloud was moving south, against the wind. Birds, a flock of birds. Millions upon uncountable millions of them flying south. I stripped off my sunglasses and just stood and stared slack-jawed at that unbelievable spectacle until the amorphous mass was lost into the red-streaked dusk sky.
At night I sat outside my little tent and stared up at countless stars in a perfectly clear sky. No matter how long I stared, nothing else moved up there. I was starting to feel more than a little bit nervous.
I was into my third day of fruitless wandering before I’d stumbled across this dirt track. It might’ve just been a game trail. Probably was: I couldn’t see any traces of footprints in the dried mud, but of hoof and paw prints there were plenty. Maybe I’d wandered into a private reserve somewhere, even though there weren’t any of those marked on my map and I hadn’t seen any signs or fences. I’d been following that track for hours and it still didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere, but at least it was something. I was already a day overdue at the meeting spot. Jackie would be trying to call my number, the hotel, family, work. How long before she did something like call the sheriff or Ranger service? At that moment I felt the worst thing about being hauled out by chopper would be the embarrassment.
Now the path was climbing the side of yet another hill. Further down it’d described a random, snakelike route through thick undergrowth and trees. Tough going: Rain had eroded it in places. Elsewhere I had to climb over exposed roots and rocks and fallen branches, push through bushes that scratched my arms and ripped my t-shirt. I could’ve worn my jacket, it was quite thorn-proof, but heatstroke would have been a bigger inconvenience. Anyway, toward the ridge the going got easier as the undergrowth thinned out, making way for the scrubs’ larger coniferous cousins. At the crest the trail circled a granite outcropping of huge, weather worn boulders where solid stone denied the trees a place to grow. A lookout across the broad valley below. And when I clambered up and stood there and saw what lay on the other side of the mountain my spirits soared.
Farmland. There were farms down there. At last some sign of civilization, however pastoral it might be. My fatigue evaporated into the bright sunlight and I gladly shrugged out of the pack then dropped down beside it and took my canteen from its clip, raising it in salute to the world before drinking. For a while I rested, just sitting there enjoying the scenery.
It was a broad shallow valley. Very picturesque, cupped between ranges of low forested hills on either side. What was either a small river or large stream sparkled and wound its way along the valley floor. Dotted along the banks were patchwork sections of farmland, sandwiched between the river and forest the butted right up against their flanks. And along with the fields there were buildings. Further up the valley lay a small town or village: a cluster of a few dozen buildings visible through the trees. It was calm and peaceful, but I couldn’t see any cars anywhere, or paved roads come to that, or phone lines, power lines. The settlement consisted almost entirely of buildings flanking a single main street with only a couple of smaller streets side streets with a spattering of buildings. I could see some of the larger buildings along the street done in what looked like a European Tudor style: whitewashed walls with black beams visible across the plaster. Other places were smaller and looked like they were made of unpainted wooden clapboard. Roofs. . . quite a few thatched roofs. I scratched my head. That’s illegal; firetraps like that are against building regulations in most states. Elsewhere across the valley were other isolated pockets of buildings tucked away in copses and in among sheltered hedgerows. Farms, by the rings of fields and pastures that surrounded them. It was an odd way of arranging a community, but I guessed they valued their privacy.
Nevertheless, the more I looked the more discrepancies I noticed. But there were people down there. Smoke was rising from chimneys and I could see a few distant stick-figures: walking, working in the fields. . . driving a team of animals pulling a wagon?
I shook my head in bewilderment, stood and stretched, then gathered up my pack. I’d find out what was going on when I got down there. Perhaps it was an Amish settlement, or one of those self-sufficient cadres I’d heard about; something like a kibbutz or ejido, or one of those back-to-nature societies who decide that ‘nature’ still necessitates building houses and farming and felling trees for polluting wood-burning fires. I’d heard there were some Quaker settlements in this region of Vermont, maybe I’d stumbled onto one of those. Perhaps it was a medieval role-playing festival: society for creative anachronisms, something of a similar ilk. Whatever or w
With a bit more purpose in life I set off down the path. That damned mystery object in my pack was digging into my back again.
------v------
The ‘trail’ curved down to emerge from the tree line, dropping down an eroded bank at the edge of an outlying field. The field was furrowed, ploughed, but nothing was growing, not at this time of year. Carefully I climbed over the rickety fence, just wooden poles loosely slung between uprights. No nails that I could see; cheap and simple. The wood looked like someone had gone to a lot of trouble cutting and treating it by hand, axe marks were quite visible where branches had been trimmed. They bounced and clattered as I clambered over them and dropped down onto soft loam. A gaggle of farm buildings nestled among a dense grove of low trees of some kind not too far off, so I headed toward it.
A brilliant day. A few clouds in the vault of the sky, the air uncharacteristically hot for the time of year. The deciduous trees were already a riot of color, turning the hills rusty-gold in patches while the evergreens formed their own enclaves. Winter was lurking just over the horizon. Further along there was another fence, this one with an unsecured gate opening onto a rutted track leading to the farm buildings. I turned up it.
Quiet though; unusually so. No sounds of animals, no engines. Even when I approached the buildings. Several different structures were arranged around a small dusty courtyard littered with animal droppings. The farmhouse itself: thick thatched roof, wooden weatherboard walls, tiny windows, small door, heavy wooden shutters and a stone chimney with a trickle of smoke showing there was someone home. There were no lights, no phone or power lines, no vehicles or old trucks or the usual debris you find around farms, not even a cigarette butt or recognizable piece of trash. A small rickety-looking building might have been a toolshed and another was probably a barn: larger than the house with big doors hanging ajar. No chickens or dogs. Why wasn’t there at least a dog barking? What farm didn’t have dogs?
“Hello?” I called, nervously. Something wasn’t quite right. . . Hell, something was way out of whack. “Hello? Anyone here?”
There was a pause before the barn doors pushed open. What stepped out wasn’t a person.
It took a second to register. I just blinked moronically at what was standing in the door, at first thinking costume, then for the first time in my life I knew what it feels like to have your heart miss a beat: realizing it couldn’t be a costume, realizing it was too goddamn REAL and then not believing what my own eyes were showing me: a monstrous jigsaw that refused to resolve. Catlike, but standing on two legs. . . a misshapen and distorted human with a cat head, clothing. No, not human. The way the muscles moved. . . it wasn’t human. An organic patchwork, Frankenstein’s creature. I remember. . . parts of it. Like a David Hockney work: a jumble of needle-sharp detail joined to make a whole. A feline head with wide copper eyes locked on me, a distorted furry hand with a chunky silver and greenstone bracelet dangling at the wrist holding the door, a stocky fawn-furred torso, baggy grey pants with flashes of gold, a twitching tail and inhuman, twisted legs and wide-splayed shaggy feet.
Then it opened its mouth and snarled. . . something. The way the noises flowed together, they didn’t sound like the noises an animal would make. Loudly. And several others appeared in the doorway behind it: multicolored fur, green and amber eyes, one holding something long and wooden that terminated in several sharp spikes. It snarled, then shifted its hold on the implement, pointing the tines toward me, others raised blunter instruments that were more familiar, stubby fingers cocking hammers.
I took several steps back, then turned and ran. Even with a twenty-odd kilo pack on my back I ran faster than I’ve ever run before. Howls sounded behind me. In the farmhouse doorway another creature appeared wearing something I had the insane impression was an apron. It squalled and dived back inside, slamming the door. I picked up speed, making for the trees, vaulting a fence, catching my foot and falling flat on my face with a jolt that knocked the wind out of me. I scrambled to my feet and risked a look behind me. One of the things was raising something to its shoulder. A dense puff of white smoke rose, followed by a dull flat-sounding crack and something whirred past. I automatically ducked, then ran again. Another bang and what could only be a bullet whipped past with a peculiar thhrrpping sound.
I hit the tree line and kept going, ducking and pushing my way through the undergrowth, clawing myself back up the hill I’d only just descended and down the other side. I kept going, running blindly through forest and scrub until a stitch cramped me up and I couldn’t take another step. I doubled over, then collapsed between the roots of a tree, sucking in lungfuls of air.
It wasn’t possible, the voice in my head kept repeating. It’s not possible. It can’t be possible. . . No.
But I’d seen it; I’d heard it; The buildings were there, the creatures were there. They shot at me. I looked back the way I’d come. There was no sign of them, but if they wanted to follow I’d left a trail like an epileptic rhino. I didn’t want to be here, not while they were still so close. Still shaking, I gathered up my gear and made my way further back into the hills, away from the town, this time taking care to cover my tracks.
------v------
That night I sat outside my two-person igloo, listened to the creek gurgling, swatted at bugs, and stared at the crescent of moon riding low over a distant hilltop. The moon. It was still there; it’d always been there. Eternal and unchanging. But now I stared at it and it just looked wrong. I opened my laptop and pulled up an encyclopedia entry and compared the picture with the real thing. The shapes of the seas were wrong. Where were Tycho and Copernicus? Tranquility? It was a moon, but it wasn’t the one I’d grown up with. The hollow feeling inside grew and the more I searched for answers, the more befuddled I became.
What had happened to me? Was I cracking up? Loosing my grip? Was it something else?
I preferred to think it was something else.
What?
A government project or experiment? I’ve seen internet files on some of the cutting edge in genetic engineering, and what I’d seen. . . we were nowhere near that.
The Rip Van Winkle syndrome: I’d fallen asleep under a tree for a hundred years and things had changed?
Alien invasion? Then why the crude architecture, why the lack of vehicles or any sign of industry? and that weapon had sounded like a musket. Surely they’d have something more advanced. Energy weapons, or at least automatic weapons.
Some sort of weird genetics experiment? Didn’t explain it either.
I picked up my small butane lamp and took out my Zippo. Ready to light the wick before I realized what might see it. I snapped the lighter shut and set it aside, suffered the evening darkness while I munched morosely on a sack of Trail Mix. Somewhere else. That accident at those high tension power lines when that isolator came down, that flash of light. It would explain why when I woke up the lines had vanished. I’d thought I’d been knocked on the head and wandered away from the site. I hadn’t wandered, but I’d gone further than I’d ever suspected. Or maybe I’d died and this was a weirder purgatory than Dante had ever dreamed of.
Now I was here, wherever here was, and whatever those things down in the town were, they weren’t human. I shuddered. How was I going to get away from here, how was I going to get home. Could I get home?
I looked back in the direction of the town, two insulating hills away. What if they came after me? What could I do? Run, I guess. Fight? I had some plastic cutlery and my Leatherman, nothing of much use against guns or even farm tools. Would they come after me?
Perhaps I should find out just what those things were, what they were doing there. It might help me find out where I was and just how I was supposed to find my way back home.
