Cronix (40 page)

The gods had seen fit to take both his parents: his father died in agony on his bed, his body livid with fever. His mother had simply seeped away shortly after her twelfth childbirth, of whom only four made it past infancy. Both parents were buried under the brick platform that supported the communal bed where the family slept. Sulili, being the eldest, slept closest to the door, in case wild beasts or other interlopers strayed in. The family’s goats and sheep were stabled on the other side of a low wall bisecting the hovel, keeping the house warm in winter but stinking it up in the hot summers. In any case, the vague scent of his parents decaying in their clay tomb underneath the communal bed lent the house a permanent odor of death, a reminder that man’s tenure on Earth was brief and only the gods lived forever.

In the summer of Sulili’s thirteenth year, the king ordered all men over the age of twelve to assemble in the square before the ziggurat. The king always wore a bronze ceremonial mask on public occasions, and this time he was dressed in a leather breastplate and helmet. He stood on the dais before the temple, telling his people that they were in dire peril and only their king and the god Aminu could save them. Lugalbanda, the king of the much larger town of Iahdun-Lim, had ordered him to submit to his power and pledge taxes and sacrifices to the god Erishum. But the proud city of Naram-Sin would not submit to blasphemy and extortion, the king said, they would fight and kill the men of Iahdun-Lim if they tried to invade this sacred land.

Sulili had heard of Iahdun-Lin, but had never been there, even though it was only four days' walk away. The occasional traveling peddler told of its magnificent stone walls, its huge marketplace and the wealth of goods to be had there. King Lugalbanda even had a war cart pulled by four oxen that he rode to battle in, and which he used to crush those who stood up to his might. The short speech by their king terrified the people of Naram-sin, and they rushed to offer extra bowls of barley mulch to their gods.

But it didn’t help. Before the next moon had grown full, a frightened farmer came running to the market place screaming that he had seen a dust cloud on the horizon. The host of Iahdun-Lin was on the march.

The battle was short and bloody. Lugalbanda, in his magnificent chariot of plodding, snorting war oxen, led his horde across the wheat-stubbled fields and into the heart of Naram-Sin, where the men and boys put up brief resistance before fleeing. The men of Iahdun-Lin, armed with flint-tipped staves and bronze axes, cut a rapid swathe through the farmers with their cudgels and slings, beating them to the ground and clubbing them like defenseless whelps. Sulili went out to fight with his wooden staff, but was confronted by a man much older and stronger, adept with his stone-axe. He landed a heavy blow on Sulili’s forearm as he clumsily lashed out with his stick. Sulili could feel the bone break and his arm numb into pain. His foe, a sweating, heavy set man, smiled with both relief and rising blood lust and was upon him, full of the rage and joy of a battle won. He was joined by another, and together they bludgeoned the boy until his teeth shot out of his head on strings of gummy blood and the corpuscles exploded in his eyes. The last thing Sulili could make out through his fading senses was his younger sister being hauled, screaming, into a nearby hut by a group of whooping, sweating men from Iahdun-Lin.

***

Darkness. A cool, refreshing curtain of black after the clamor of battle under the Mesopotamian sun.

Is this the afterlife?

Sulili had heard stories of the place, of the dark mudflats between the tides of time, where the souls of the dead washed around like fish stranded on a floodplain. It had always sounded a dour final destination, which was probably why he never really contemplated it, despite the ubiquity of death all around him.

The underworld was a murky, unformed place back in those days, yet to be embroidered by the millennia of theology and myth, he reflected.

An abstract thought.
It was as if something clicked deep within him. The first time he had had an abstract thought in…how long was it? Fourteen years. Was this a dream? No, something else. His mind groped for a second, unused to this process, before a huge wave of relief crashed over him and he realized he was not Sulili, dirt farmer turned militiaman and newly minted corpse, servant of Tira-Am, but Luis Oriente, the Missing Link, the Old Man of the Forest. He opened his eyes, instinctively whispering thanks to a god he had never believed in.

He immediately recognized the luxurious softness of the bed, the stylish décor of the room. The Hotel Revenant’s homey comforts, white sheets of Egyptian cotton, fresh sunflowers smiling in a vase by the windows. The elegant Ottoman that spoke of lazy afternoons of crisp white wine and dozing. He sat up, laughing with joy.

There was a perfectly tailored Prince of Wales worsted suit hanging in the wardrobe, together with a blue cotton shirt and comfortable brogues. He dressed and looked at himself in the mirror – he was once again recognizably the Luis Oriente who had lived in the woods for centuries -- before adding a stylish cravat to the ensemble. The hotel’s dresser was as impeccable as ever.

Downstairs, breakfast was being served by Patrick, the hotel’s loyal waiter. He greeted him with a bright ‘welcome back,’ before leading him through the French windows to the hibiscus-draped terrace on the cliff top. Oriente sat down with a fresh pot of coffee and lit a strong Turkish cigarette. He sighed with relief as he looked out over the islands to the distant mountains.

Alive, and himself again! How he longed suddenly to explore this beautiful land. And why not? Get a touring car – better still, a balloon! -- and off he would go. Literally anything was possible here.

Patrick put a large plate in front of him. Eggs Benedict with spinach and crispy bacon, served on butter-soft brioches and liberally sprinkled with ground pepper and flakes of purple Himalayan rock salt. He ate ravenously, taking an occasionally sip from the sparkling mimosa the waiter served brought out to the terrace.

“Your guide will be here around lunchtime. She sends her apologies. It seems she got held up with another client.” Patrick refilled his glass from a bottle of Krug and a jug of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “She said to keep these coming meantime, help you over the transition. She mentioned you might have had a rather tricky time of it.” He smiled understandingly, having no doubt seen countless war dead or plague victims stumble from the hotel’s luxury rooms.

Oriente took a deep swig of the chilled wine and simply nodded, his mouth being too full of poached egg to speak. He noticed now that his right hand was shaking slightly. Must be the shock, he thought: the shock of being clubbed to death, seeing his sister dragged off by armed men and then waking up in paradise to be told it was all just a dream. Yet he could not shake off the horror of what his sister might still be going through, right now. He had to remind himself that she, in fact, was just another Eternal, and would very soon wake up and find herself at a similar terrace, with a cold drink, and a counselor to talk her through the experience, an experience that would become an interesting anecdote at the endless dinner parties of eternity.

He finished his breakfast. After years of eating corn meal, the food was sublime. He smiled and raised his glass to the glittering horizon in a silent toast.

Patrick returned bearing a silver tray with several letters on it. “There are some messages for you, Mr Oriente. Shall I put them on the table?” He thanked the waiter, curious to know who might know he was here. Just an hour ago he had been dying in battle in ancient Mesopotamia.

The first message, written on headed paper, was a letter from the Decarnate Society, offering guidance and long-term counseling.

The second was from Judge Richard Kirsten, expressing the hope that there were should be no hard feelings and offering to take him yachting somewhere called the Dragon Islands. “Stunning fauna and flora, with one of the broadest varieties of dinosaur species in all the inner worlds,” explained the judge, whom Oriente assumed to have been the old man who had sentenced him to live and die in Mesopotamia fourteen years ago.

The third missive he picked up was in a thick, cream colored envelope with his name written in looping handwriting. As soon as he read it, he forgot all the other messages.

“If you want to meet with Lola on Earth, please call me.”

There was a number, but nothing more. Lola. A sudden guilt overtook him. The woman he'd fallen in love with, all but forgotten in the bizarre sweep of history. He tried to summon up the old feelings. So much had happened – Christ, he had been someone else for the past fourteen years – that it took him a minute to feel anything other than a mild sense of shame. No wonder the Eternals came across as so distant.

Oriente went to the lobby, where a young maid was arranging some irises in a Chinese vase.

“The phone? It’s over there, Mr Oriente,” she said, pointing to a wooden booth at the far end of the lounge. Oriente called the number and a woman’s voice greeted him before he could speak.

“Mr Oriente. So glad you called. It gives me great faith in love.”

“Who is this?” He frowned at the speaker in his hand.

“My name is Dulath. I am the personal assistant of Mr Shustra.”

The name rang a bell. Shustra, Shustra. He couldn’t place it.

“I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Shustra,” said the woman patiently. “Mr
Tilloch
Shustra.”

“Tilloch? Ah, the Tamagochi twin? The one who invented Nirvana.”

The woman laughed. “That’s the one, Mr Oriente. Mr Shustra would like to invite you to come visit on Five Islands. He’s been looking forwards to meeting you for a long time.”

“Five Islands? Where is that?” Oriente pulled a cigarette from the packet and lit it in the booth.

“It’s Mr Shustra’s private world. Quite stunning, I can assure you. He was concerned to invite you before the media descend on your hotel.”

“The media?” Oriente peered through the booth's glass door, half expecting paparazzi to be descending already. But the lounge was empty, quite aside from the maid dusting the modishly worn leather couches.

“Well, of course there's huge interest in your case, Mr Oriente. And I’m afraid Judge Karsten is quite the media whore. He’s friendly with any number of broadcast executives, and as a president of the court he was alerted of your release date.”

Oriente did not like the sound of this one bit. He’d had quite enough of telling his story down on Earth, and had no wish to repeat the whole shebang up here. He accepted the Tamagochiite’s invitation there and then.

“Great,” said the assistant. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

***

The woman arrived in a splendid black and grey Phantom coupe that scrunched over the gravel driveway and scattered white peacocks as it pulled up by the hotel's entrance. From the terrace, where he was sipping his fourth mimosa, Oriente watched the Tamagochiite’s assistant step elegantly out of the car.

She was a handsome young woman with a gash of scarlet lipstick on her porcelain white face. A spaniel was sitting on the bench seat, scrutinizing the world with a dog’s intensity. The woman told it to stay, then walked over and shook his hand firmly.

“Dulath Delaye,” she said. “But call me Dolly, please. A great pleasure Mr Oriente. Shall we go? Do you have any baggage?”

“Just this traveling bag,” he said. “But I should settle my bill…”

“Already taken care of.” She waved at Patrick the waiter, who came over and wished Oriente a pleasant journey.

“If you fancy another drink, there’s a minibar in the car.”

“I've probably had enough,” said Oriente, not sure if his dizziness was the drinks or the lingering effect of dying in battle just a few hours earlier. Hoping his speech wasn’t already fuzzy, he complimented the woman on her wheels.

“I got a Rolls especially for you. Thought it might make you feel at home.”

He was puzzled. “Why would a 1935 Rolls Royce make me feel at home?”

“Uh…. I just figured it might remind you of, you know, Earth? Back when you were on it.”

“I was there a long time after these beasts had gone out of production,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Guess I did my homework wrong, I thought it was from your historical period. Same century, more or less?”

“Miss Delaye, I’m guessing we were both on Earth around the same time. I was born – if you can call it that -- just a couple of decades before the Exodus.”

She turned on the ignition. “Dolly,” she corrected him. And I never was on Earth.”

Oriente was surprised. “What do you…wait. Are you a…”

She turned and smiled, a beautifully disarming smile. “Tilloch Shustra is my grandfather, in human terms. I changed my name when I got married. To an Eternal. I’m a Tamagochiite too. But the dog is real, as is my husband. We got him from Earth too. Boston.”

“You uploaded your dog? I didn't know that was possible.”

“Animal consciousness was a pet hobby of my great uncle Pegomas,” she said. She floored the gas and the car roared along the drive and out on to a country lane. Oriente gripped his seat, though he knew, rationally, nothing could hurt him now. She noticed his nervousness and nodded.