Cronix (2 page)

It was in this building that the tourists slept, in rickety rooms with four-poster beds teeming with dust mites, an ‘authentic’ experience they were willing to pay top dollar for.

The Dianite cult had originated with a small group of depressed Immortals who found themselves, after centuries in paradise, disillusioned and rather bored with eternity. They returned to Earth to found a community that actually reveled in the brevity of life. Their spiritual tracts, written haphazardly over generations by the occasional philosopher for whom hunting and fishing and drunkenly gazing on nature’s manifold beauties were not quite enough, celebrated the fact that mankind’s fleeting consciousness was meant to be the universe’s way of appreciating its own beauty and complexity: it should not be allowed to become jaded by an infinity of diversions and distractions, up there in heaven.

And for many in those epic, hard times, when storms towered into the troposphere and monsters prowled the old-growth forests, life had proven all too short. They had to fight to survive in this wilderness, pitting themselves against a climate in chaos and beasts genetically resurrected to dissuade the crumbling planet’s population from tarrying too long. As time passed, they adopted the Greek goddess of hunting as their patron and raised her statue on the village green. Now, with the monsters all but gone and The Age of Storms a heroic memory, Diana presided over cricket games on long, slanting summer evenings, looking on as old men sipped their pints and watched from the seats outside the pub on the green.

Guld's house was modest for a village elder, but warm and inviting. The smell of roasting meat enveloped him as soon as the hunter entered the low-beamed front room, rubbing his hands in front of the fire. On the wall hung a framed verse, embroidered on time-yellowed cotton: 
If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which has been shown!

"Hullo?" he called. "Anyone home?"

The village elder bustled out the kitchen, a blue apron round his waist and a meatloaf between his oven mitts. Like most of the Dorking residents, he was lean and leathery, with chapped hands and a hunter’s squint.

"Blimey," he beamed. He gingerly set down the roasting tray on the flagstones by the fire. "Luis Oriente! What the devil brings you down from the hill? Run out of hooch already? And it’s barely spring yet."

The two men shook hands warmly. Guld was in his fifties, his silt-brown hair frosted with silver. Broken veins spidered his bulbous nose and stubbled cheeks, the result of a lifetime of exposure to the elements, beer and wood smoke. He took in his visitor with a long look.

“Still looking good, I see,” he said with a sly grin. Although Oriente was infinitely older than Guld, he'd had Ma Gurfinkel build in all sorts of genetic advantages over the years to ensure he aged more slowly than these mortals. As a result, Oriente looked at least fifteen years younger than Guld. He simply flashed him a dashing smile full of white teeth.

Guld lifted a pot of steaming coffee off the range and offered his guest a chair by the stove. The hunter gratefully wrapped his hands around his mug.

"Out hunting, I see," Guld said, nodding at the hunter's shotgun.

"Wolf," the hunter said. "I think."

"What d'ye mean, you think? D'ye see a wolf or not?" Guld sounded keen, a hunter pricking up his ears at talk of the chase. Something in his curiosity made the old man cautious, however.

“Have you seen anything else up there?” Guld asked. The hunter sipped his coffee, avoiding his host’s eye. He did not want to share the strange visions: the hermit’s fear of hallucinations, of being left alone too long. He shook his head, unsure if Guld was convinced.

“You see,” the village elder said, blowing on his steaming cup, “Wendell Merson was up on the Downs this past week, hunting boar, and saw something strange. Said it looked like Immortals, but dressed in strange costumes, all in black, with hats and thick beards, nothing he’d ever seen before. When he went closer, the whole group, more than twenty of them, just vanished. Poof, into thin air.” He threw his hands up in imitation of a conjurer’s vanishing act.

The hunter shook his head. "What I saw was a wolf, alright. Not like anything I've laid eyes on before though. The size of it...it was more like a bear."

Guld frowned. "Could be then it's one of their abominations. They're forever crossin' and messin' with what our Lady ordained.”

The hunter nodded. "Maybe, though why they'd still be wanting to create beasts that size and have them running around the woods, I don't know. It’s been a long time since they needed such creatures to patrol the land."

"Our population's been rising these past few years. It's possible they're sending us a message. They have no fear of death, that's their problem. Their curse disguised as a blessing," Guld pronounced in his best village elder tone. "Their perversions are all one of and the same to them, and every one a sin in Her eyes," he muttered.

"D'you not recall the pestilence they unleashed on the world?” Guld went on. “Terrible, truly terrible. And the monsters they set upon the land to ‘encourage’ the people to leave and abide with them up there.” He pointed at the ceiling, though the hunter knew he was actually gesturing into space. “I'm not saying they're bad people, mind, just misguided. Thinkin' they're living out all eternity up there, when what they don't realize is, they're all actually dead."

His speech about the dead -- not an unfamiliar topic when one graced the dinner table of an elder in this Earth-loving sect -- reminded the hunter of the ghosts. He wiped his mouth. "I think the wolf was headed to London."

Guld raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Then for sure it's one of theirs," he said. "A soulless beast returning to his dearly departed masters."

The hunter smiled playfully. "And do those soulless masters still pay through the nose for their little holidays here in Dorking?"

Guld was about to look offended, but caught the teasing note in his voice. "Oh they do, Oriente, indeed they pay very nicely. And thank the Lady, otherwise I’d have none of this excellent coffee to share with you.” The two men laughed. “In fact, we have some coming down this afternoon for a pig slaughterin,’ if you’d care to hang around. We’ll be organizing a feast, plenty of ale and good food to go round. The new moon festival starts in two days, and some Eternals want to hang out with us poor doomed yokels.”

The hunter laughed, but also felt a twinge of guilt. Here he was mocking Guld for trading with the air-siders, yet he too had shied from the grave so many times. Of course, the people of the village knew it, whatever myths they dressed him up in: their last six generations had come and gone, and the hunter had always been out there in the woods, alone and mysterious.

"That’s very kind, my friend, but I have to press on,” the hunter said, though the idea of a boozy afternoon was always tempting after months of solitude up in the woods. “Tell me, can I get a tracker from the village? I'll be gone several days."

Guld crinkled his brows. "Timing’s not good. Like I said, new moon festival falls in three days, no one's goin’ to want to be away for that. But maybe in Little Dorking. There's a scold living down there at the moment, one of the rare ones you can work with, they say. Couple of Cronix down there too, so watch yourself. Too many around at the moment, to tell the truth. Don’t know where they’re all coming from these days. We may have to organize a cull soon, though I don’t like to shoot a human, no matter how soulless. But take the scold, they say she’s good, and you’ll be helping us out as well as yerself. Be careful, mind, you never know with these creatures…"

The hunter patted his gun. "If I spot any Cronix, I’ll take care of them for you. I don’t have scruples on that count. What’s this scold like?"

"Haven’t seen her, but from what I hear she seems relatively compos mentis. What she lacks up here -- " he tapped his forehead -- "she makes up for on the trail. They say she can smell a deer a mile off. She’ll track your wolf-bear monstrosity for you."

"Thanks. One more thing," he said, pulling on his coat. "I've not been to London in donkeys’ years. Is the old path still there? Or is all overgrown now?"

A look of disdain came over his host's creased face. "It's still there, the Lady have mercy on us all. The path to perdition. It's only the young ones who take it though." A look of regret crept over Guld’s face, either for the young ones lured off by the temptations of eternity, or for the fact that he had vowed long ago to spurn the route. The hunter could never tell with these people who chose to number their days and pass into oblivion. But if so many of their young folks weren’t drawn to London, the village population would quickly swell beyond the carrying capacity of the game in the forest. It was another natural cycle they just had to live with.

The hunter stepped to the door. "Thank you, as ever, for your hospitality, my friend. I think my wolf took that route. I intend to follow it."

Guld chewed on a strand of his grey beard and nodded slowly. "Tis surely not one of our Lady's creatures, so there's no harm in killing it. If you need purification afterwards, come by the Temple. Our doors are always open to you, sir."

As the hunter ducked under the stone lintel, Guld called out after him. "And Oriente, be careful down there. Those Cronix can be mean to a man on his own."

The hunter lifted his shotgun in salute, then stepped out into the cold bright morning.

***

Unlike the neat lanes of the main village, Little Dorking was a warren of tiny shacks erupting out of the settlement's southern wall. In its ramshackle lanes and wicker stalls, the poorer folk kept their livestock in winter. The animals’ eyes shone yellow as the hunter swung his torch through the dark openings of the crofts. Behind the animals, in some of the sagging structures, were darker openings that led to the jerry-built hovels where the fugitives hid.

The hunter pushed through a knot of goats and approached the entrance of one of these tiny extensions.

His torch raked the filthy interior, picking out a pale figure curled fetally in a far corner. It was a man, covered in grime. The blank stare and expressionless face -- once beautiful, now hollowed out by cold and hunger – instantly told the hunter it was a Cronix. The unfeeling eyes stared, unblinking, into the bright beam of the torch. It made an incoherent noise, like the babble of a baby, only in a man’s voice. “Bah bah-bah abbba,” it said.

The hunter lurched back as the creature leapt to its haunches. He backed quickly out, banging his head on a beam. The creature remained within.

The next stable was larger, its walls cobbled together from heavy stones topped by wattle and daub. The hunter cautiously pushed the gate open and pointed his torch through the room, his dogs on a tight leash.

There were three people sitting inside, two of them men in various states of undress. What coverings they had were a mixture of clothes stolen from the villagers' washing lines and uncured animals skins, greasy and rotten. All three had the faded, hunted beauty of Cronixes. One of the men’s faces looked familiar to the hunter: an actor from long ago whose name escaped him now. His mind momentarily wandered off after the missing name. Red Butler, was that it? Something like that, but was that the actor’s name, or the character he played? Of course, this one didn't have the jug ears he remembered, but then the Immortals almost always removed imperfections before they returned to Earth.

“Durbble daa,” the creature said, trying to articulate some ungraspable thought.

To the right sat a woman in dirty wool trousers and a fisherman's sweater. She was clutching a large knife. Her eyes darted around the place, from the male Cronixes -- one of whom was masturbating, while the other nursed an ugly gash on his upper arm -- to the hunter. She had thick brown hair, huge almond eyes and hard, muscular hands. The hunter was momentarily transfixed by her beauty: for years, his only female contact had been the worn faces of the village women.

The woman stared back defiantly, her eyes flitting to the slouching men around her.

"Scold?" the hunter.

She stared a long time without answering. Probably she had no idea what he was saying, or just didn't trust him. He should have come down here with someone who knew these creatures, but in his hurry had not bothered asking around.

"Outside?" The hunter pointed to the door. He stepped out and tethered the dogs to a birch. A minute later the woman slipped through the door, keeping an eye both on the Cronixes behind and the intruder waiting in the grass. She still held the knife, which he now noticed had a serrated edge for gutting. He thought of the deep slash on the Cronix's arm and guessed he had tried to mount her. Little surprise, then, that the other Cronix had restricted himself to auto-stimulation. They may be empty vessels, but they’re not dumb. Despite the nervous flutter in his gut, the hunter smiled at her.

"Pretty handy with a knife, huh?"

The woman silently closed the stable door and walked to a clump of pine saplings. She pulled down her trousers and squatted to piss.

"You understand me?" the hunter asked, speaking slowly. She shrugged. Not much, but it was a start. He relaxed slightly.

"My name is Oriente," he said, without holding out his hand or approaching her in any way. "Do you have a name?" She pursed her wide mouth for a moment: she really was stunning, the hunter thought, marveling at the vanity of the air-siders. The woman shook her head, no. No name.