Tomorrow Happens (29 page)

My point? Well, LOTR is obviously an account written after the Ring War ended, long ago. Right?

So how do we know that Sauron did have red-glowing eyes
?

Isn't some of that over-the-top description just the sort of thing that royal families used to promote, casting exaggerated aspersions on their vanquished foes, in order to reinforce their own divine right to rule? Next time you re-read LOTR, count the number of examples . . . then unleash your imagination to take the story a bit farther. Have fun!

Ask yourself—"What might '
really
' have happened?"

Then ponder something that comes through even the party-line demonization of a crushed enemy. This clear-cut and undeniable fact.
Sauron's army was the one that included every species and race on Middle Earth
, including all the despised colors of humanity, and all the lower classes.

Hm. Did they all leave their homes and march to war thinking "Oh, goody, let's go serve an evil dark lord"? Or might they instead have thought
they
were the "good guys," with a justifiable grievance worth fighting for? Like maybe "rebelling against an ancient, rigid, pyramid-shaped hierarchy topped by invader-alien elfs and their Numenorean-royalist-colonialist human lackeys"?

Here's the mild sub-scenario. Those orcs and low-elves and dwarves and dark-skinned or proletarian men who fought for the Ringlord were
fooled
by Sauron's propaganda.

Fair enough! Even that slight variation adds flavor to an already-great tale, making you pity Sauron's dupes a little, even though you still cheer as they're slaughtered down to the last corporal and private.

Want a scenario that's even more daring? Picture, for a moment,
Sauron the Eternal Rebel-Champion
, relentlessly maligned by the victors of the Ring War who control all the bards and scribes (and moviemakers) and never let the people hear the truth. Sauron, champion of the common Middle-Earther! Vanquished but still revered by the innumerable poor and oppressed who sit in their squalid huts, wary of the royal secret police with their magical spy-eyes, yet continuing to whisper stories, secretly dreaming and hoping that someday
he
will return . . . bringing more rings.
²

Naw . . . I'm not being serious. (Though
one
novel or satirical short along this theme would be cool!)

No, my real point is much more general.

It's this—don't just
receive
your adventures. Toy with them! Remold them in your mind!

It's how you get practice not just being a passive consumer, or critic, but a creative storyteller in your own right!

And remember this too—enlightenment, science, democracy and equal opportunity are still the true rebels, reigning for just a few generations in just one or two corners of the Earth—a few bare moments amid all the elite chiefdoms and romantic magicians that dominated our ancestors for half a million years.

Don't you think a little pride in that rebellion might be in order? A radical revolution-in-progress. One that (among many other things) taught born-peasants like you to read so you can enjoy epic books. One that makes vivid movies that cater to your taste for adventure. One that offers you choices.

One that gave you a chance.

Self-critical almost to a fault, this culture may not be as romantic as those old kingdoms . . . but isn't it
better
?

You are heirs of the world's first true civilization, arising out of the first true revolution. A revolution of enlightenment. Take some pride in it.

Let's keep kings and wizards where they belong. Where they can do little harm.

Where they entertain us.

In fantasies.

¹
It happens even in democracies, e.g., the Gulf of Tonkin "incident" and some of what we see in the headlines today!
^BACK
2
Note how it's easier to imagine an alternative to red-glowing eyes if you've read about them in a book. But after viewing a movie, it's almost impossible! Your brain feels that it's witnessed real events, even though you know it's just a version chosen by the director. Interesting . . .
^BACK

"Deserts grow.

"The sky glowers with deadly rays and the seas grow poisonous.

"Today I have come to tell you of our decision. You will get your way. Our people have no choice but to depart with the rest of you. To flee this unhappy, cursed world."

Head bowed, calloused hands clasped before him, Mas Wathengria spoke from the High Council's circle of deliberation, his voice heavy with age and defeat.

"North Glacier Clan submits to majority will," he concluded. "We will join the exodus."

The other members of the Council shared looks of astonishment, having grown accustomed to decades of righteous northern stubbornness. At last, Keliangeli, the Grand Das of Farfields Clan, thumped the stone floor with her staff, and exclaimed.

"We are united, then! All can join now, without bitterness or anguish over leaving kinfolk behind."

Wathengria answered with an acquiescent drooping of his ear-fringes. "No clan or colony will stay on Bharis, Das Keliangeli," he agreed. "My people will participate in the abandonment of our mother world, but only because it is too late to turn back."

The stooped, gray-fringed Das appeared not to hear him, so excited was she. "With the resources of North Glacier no longer wasted, we can push the schedule forward two years, and leave before another famine comes!"

Mas Wathengria nodded gravely. It would be rude, having submitted, to voice recriminations. Anyway, he was too tired. Keliangeli called it "waste" to set aside some of the last arable land on Bharis, sparing it the kind of intense overuse that had ruined most of a once-beautiful planet. Starvation and pestilence had twisted judgment and reason. The Das and her followers were desperate enough to try anything, even use up what was left of this world in order to flee toward a distant star. North Glacier, with its fresh water and abundant ores, had long held out. But the siren song of a robot, circling a faraway globe, now beckoned with lush green hints of fecundity. Wathengria had lately begun to sense his leadership slipping away. As shipbuilding became a planetwide mania, heedless of new damage brought on by the reckless pace, even his own clan's blessed isolation offered no protection.

"My ecologists tell me that once the ships are built, and the exodus prepared, little more than seven hundredths of the land on Bharis will remain suitable to support life in any decency. You, all of you, have thrown our lives like dice into the wind. They tumble even now, up in the sky." He pointed to the Fleet, which glittered like gems in early evening, crossing the heavens much swifter than the stars. "North Glacier cannot but join the cast."

"We are overjoyed to have you with us, Mas Wathengria," the Bas of Sheltered Oasis cried out, oblivious to Wathengria's irony. "Oh, yes!" Das Keliangeli added. "On our new home, you will help teach us how to keep and preserve it against the sorts of mischief our ancestors unleashed on Bharis. You will be our conscience."

Wathengria suppressed a hot response. True, their ancient forebears had done the worst harm, with their wars, noxious pollution and mismanagement. But today's folk were multiplying the damage, even as they sought to flee. "My specialists will accompany you to the new world. Perhaps you will learn from them, although I doubt it. As for myself, I plan to stay and take the Lesser Death, in stasis within the hall of my progenitors. One of our race should remain to explain this wasteland, should the ancient gods of myth ever return to look in dismay upon poor, ruined Bharis."

The Mas coursed his eyes around the circle. On a few faces, he noted signs of shame. But within moments of turning and departing the hall, he heard their voices rise again behind him, the moment forgotten amid new, excited plans.
I notice no one even protested my personal decision to stay
, he thought.
Probably, they're all relieved to hear the last of my carping. My caustic criticism
.

From his transport, Mas Wathengria looked down on the valley of Lansenil. The Council Chambers stood next to one of the few remaining sites of untarnished beauty on Bharis. If they had chosen a more desolate and representative place, Mas Wathengria might have been more optimistic for his race.

Forested slopes gave way to the paler shades of crops and pocket gardens, and then the harbor spires of Sea Haven, one of three remaining cities. Haven was not yet a desert of wind-blown dust. Still, Mas Wathengria tried not to look closely as his machine passed over cracked marble monuments, stained by ancient pollution and more recent, inexorable decay. Squinting past the fuming shipworks, he peered instead with his mind's inner eye toward the better days of his youth. Longingly, he filled his mind with remembered beauty to take with him to an icy tomb.

One compensation. The animals and plants that remain will have peace at last. We "thinking creatures" will no longer be a menace
.

Too late, alas. Much, much too late
.

Sounds of celebration continued even after the airlock sealed, cutting off the noise of continuing revelry aboard the mother ship. The crew on Ras Gafengria's exploration craft were on duty and free of intoxicants, but that did not make them sober. They went grinning to their tasks, babbling excitedly, drunk on the tincture of hope.

It was tempting to give in to the contagious happiness. Who wouldn't feel joy at the prospect of landing on a beautiful world after half an aeon of cold sleep! Orbital surveys had already confirmed what the robot probes earlier promised. More than twice as much of this planet's surface area supported life as tired old Bharis. Green regions ran like thick veins across every continent. As for the oceans—no one living had ever seen so much good water. The cartographer kept muttering happily, over and over—seas covered nearly a third of the globe!

Ras Gafengria wanted to share the others' covetous triumph. She could appreciate the wonder of this place. After all, here was an entire ecosystem to study . . . and perhaps take better care of, if she and others like her had their way.

But the message
, she thought.
It's hard to take pleasure in any of this, after seeing my father's message
.

The pilots banked the boat into an aerodynamic braking dive to save fuel. Soon they were passing high over an ocean. Instruments detected planktonic life, something they could not have done an equal distance above old Bharis. Amazing. Yet, Gafengria's thoughts kept pulling back to the image in the viewing tank of the mother ship . . . an image of Mas Wathengria, the old man's face almost unchanged from when she had seen it last, impassively watching his people march into the ships. Leaving him behind. Alone.

The Council had not wanted to distract from the joy of a million and a half newly awakened exiles. So the leaders only invited a few to come see the strange message that had caught up with their fleet while passengers and crew slept. Patient computers had stored the transmission until arrival, when the officers and councilors wakened to view it.

The first thing Gafengria had noticed was the date—five hundred and forty turns after Departure! So, the old man's stasis unit had held, even without anyone around to perform routine maintenance.

She had expected words, but what happened next was far more startling. Her father's wrinkled sardonic visage shrank as he stepped back from the camera, and . . . into the holo tank next to him appeared the image of an alien creature!

The figure was tall, bipedal and slender, with dark cranial filaments that lay motionless atop its scalp. The narrow, fleshy face was inset with two small but penetrating eyes, above and on both sides of a fleshy, protruding nose.

Wathengria remained silent for a long interval, as if knowing the effect this scene would have on those later to view it. Only when the shock had abated slightly did his speech begin.

"
My dear, departed people
," the Mas had said. "
I hope your new world is everything you prayed for. If indeed, you've learned a lesson, perhaps you will take better care of it than you did our poor beloved Bharis. You'll notice, though, I haven't held my breath
!"

The message went on. "
By the time you see this, another several hundred years will have passed. Nevertheless, I'm giving in to a little hastiness, rushing to transmit so you can be introduced to Bharis's new tenants
.

"
They're really very nice people. The Mhenn, as they're called, seem to adore our tired old world! They've settled into Sea Haven now, and they want you to know
. . ."

The chief pilot interrupted Gafengria's recollection. "We're approaching the coast now, noble Ras," he said. A collective sigh filled the cabin as the shoreline neared. Scattered vegetation grew upon the dun slopes, left and right as far as the eye could see, even from this great height. None of the people had ever encountered such a sight.

"Over there!" One of the pilots pointed to the eastern horizon. "One of the anomaly clusters! Shall we fly closer?"

Gafengria assented and they adjusted course toward an elevated clump of brown and tan shapes, shinier than the surrounding dunes. From space, the regular, geometric features had caused some to speculate that they might be cities. The prospect of inhabitants with prior claims to this planet disturbed the Council . . . though such a rich world surely had room enough for two races.

The youngest pilot gasped. "They
are
habitations!"

The chief pilot magnified the screen. "Perhaps, once. But they look long abandoned."

The ship cautiously slowed, skirting some distance from the rounded stone shapes. The extent of the constructions soon left no doubt this had been a great city, indeed. Giant, spidery bridges and archways still connected many of the concave structures, whose blank, oval windows stared empty, like the eye sockets in a skull. The alienness of the architecture was almost as eerie as was the desolate loneliness of total abandonment.