MOLLY FYDE AND THE BLOOD OF BILLIONS
The Bern Saga: Book 3
by Hugh Howey
The Song of Sorrow
Prologue: The Land of Light
“Only time—that plodding mute—will tell.
And only the blind will see it coming.”
0
The cabin is small and old, a hasty jumble of overlapping wood planks rattling on rusty nails. It appears more outpost than residence, like a shelter built for a specific purpose in a rugged land, then abandoned and forgotten. Something itinerant hunters might squat in for a night or two, but certainly not what it actually is: a permanent home.
The poor structure bucks and sways as it races along at the edge of time. Now and then, it shudders mightily, responding to some major happening in the universe. Oh, and the noises it makes! Below the rotting joists, a dozen axles grind, groan, and wail in their ungreased housings. The overall effect is a symphony of decrepit sounds—decay and dilapidation in aural motion. It sings the song of things built long ago and in dire need of upkeep; it’s the peal and complaint of a slow dying, like an orchestra of the ancient. And it’s all paced by its perpetual rhythm section: the steady patter of rain beating on dented tin.
A sheet of the simple metal covers the cabin’s forward wall as well as its roof. Forward is where the rain comes from. It doesn’t fall; it flies in with the eternal stream of photons parallel to the ground, hammering the thin metal incessantly. Coupled with the sound of the jostling, the groaning axles, and the creaking boards, the pounding rain allows sleep to come easily and linger a while. For the cabin’s sole occupant, it makes getting up a daily measure of her will. But the good thing—perhaps the only benefit that comes with living on the edge of time—is that one can never be considered “late” to anything. The lady inside the cabin stirs when she feels like it, which always makes it just the right time:
Morning.
And the start of her routine.
First comes the pointless blinking, followed by some stretching as old joints pop and creak in time with the loose flooring. Eventually, she peels her single bed sheet back like the skin of an overripe pod, revealing the shriveled bean of a woman within.
Legs, thin as saplings yet rough like old wood, swing out. They find the floor and test it. They test themselves. The woman rests her reedy hands on her sharp knees and somehow by pushing down on one part of her body, she helps raise the rest.
Groaning, her back full of aches no stretching nor rubbing could ever reach, she staggers toward the sound of water drip-dripping in a nearby barrel. The cabin sways slightly, and the woman’s hands fly out for balance. Old knees bend and hips shift as she dances alone to gravity’s tune. It feels like a fast day outside, which means a lot is happening in the universe. Still, there isn’t any rush. Things will occur whether or not she’s there to witness them.
The old woman shuffles to the barrel and grasps its rim to steady herself. A collection of hoses lead back from the forward gutters to keep the container full, enough so that another series of tubes can take the overflow and deliver it to the animals out back. Feeling for the ladle hooked to one side, she brings a few deep gulps to her lips and then wipes her narrow chin. With another dip, she fills a shallow pan and rubs some of the cool wetness on her face, refreshing herself and waking up just a tiny bit more.
The woman next moves to the sagging pantry and considers its contents. Suddenly, the shack sways to one side. A hammock of fruit loses its tempo and swings wildly, one of the brass hooks it hangs from squealing against the wood. The old lady clutches the counter and waits for the occurrence to recede into the past, further up the surface of her cone-shaped land.
As she stands there, some old memory brushes against her. It elicits a smile, even as she gropes for the details. But the recollection escapes, losing itself among countless others. It becomes a part of the faceless crowd that haunts her: another ephemeral ghost of some past adventure on a distant planet whose name she has long forgotten.
She isn’t senile. Not yet. She’s just bumped against the capacity of the human brain to remember. So many years have passed and so much has been seen that not all of it can fit. As the new and more recent come in, the old memories are pushed down, compacted away somewhere deep, somewhere she can’t reach. But they can still reach her, sparking emotions devoid of details.
Such moments seem to occur more regularly of late and always without warning. It feels invasive, as though bad things creep into her mind unannounced. She thinks of them as these twin burglars: Déjà-Vu and Nostalgia, who steal through her thoughts, rummage through her old memories, and leave behind a mess of feelings.
Sometimes, rare though it may be, they even uncover good ones. They somehow stir up a pleasant sensation amid the clutter, freeing it to swirl up into her consciousness. Such as this one: a recollection warm and dry with a hint of companionship. Someone laughing, perhaps. Possibly even her—
It passes and her smile fades; all traces of the event recede with whatever triggered the feeling, chased back into the past where it was made and still belongs.
The woman sighs and reaches for her mixing bowl. With a heavy heart, she taps in some flour ground from a mixture of alien grasses. A buttery paste is cut in next, then one of the fruits from the hammock, finely diced. Strapping her iron skillet above the hole in the counter, she bends down and fiddles with the lens below.
Through a small glass window in the tin wall—low down and behind the counter—a violent stream of photons enters the cabin. The rays of harsh light pass through a series of filters before slamming into the bulging lenses. They bend through them, curving and condensing, sliding and squeezing together before mirrors divert them up toward the hole in the counter. There, the powerful and focused beam of light strikes the bottom of the iron skillet with all the force of a laser, and the cabin fills with the aroma of hot oil.
The concoction goes from the mixing bowl to the skillet, and old hands work fast, stirring it to heat evenly. When it smells just right, she blocks off the light and spoons the mixture onto the counter. It’s still piping hot, but her old hands hardly notice; what nerves remain have become calloused with more time and tragedy than they were built for. Now they’re lucky to feel anything, even a burn.
While she shapes the treats with her palms, she listens to the rain ahead of her pepper the tin, roaring in occasional, thick sheets. The density of the sound makes her anxious to get out there and see what’s going on. Something about the day feels unusual. Momentous. She pops one of the plump morsels in her mouth, preferring them fresh and hot, and chews while her curiosity swells. She puts the rest of the dumplings in her old basket and hangs its woven handle in the crook of her arm. Turning, she moves to the solitary door at the rear of the shack, pushes it open, and steps out onto the small porch beyond. As she shuts the door, her home hits another large happening, and everything lurches to one side. Steadying herself, she cringes at the sound of things rustling and banging together inside her tiny home. When things move too far, it takes her a good while to find them again.