Free The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear Page B
Book: The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear Read Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Bear
poor sinning boy, she said, pulling me to her lilac bosom.
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* * * *
PETRA
God is dead, God is dead .
. . . Perdition! When God dies, youll know it.
-Confessions of St. Argentine
As near as I can discover, Mortdieu occurred seventy-seven years ago. Learned sons of pure flesh deny that magic was set loose, or even that the Alternate had gained supreme power. But few people could deny that God, as such, had died.
All the hinges of our once-great universe fell apart, the axis tilted, cosmic doors swung shut, and the rules of existence lost their foundations. I have heard wise men speak of the slow decline, have heard them speculate on the reasons, the process. Where human thought was strong, realitys sudden quaking was reduced to a tremor. Where human thought was weak, reality disappeared completely, swallowed by chaos.
With the passing of Gods watchful gaze, humankind had to reach out and grab hold of the unraveling fabric of the world. Those conscious beings left alive those who had had the wits to keep their bodies from falling apart with the end of the useful constants became the only cohesive force in the chaos. Imagine that time, if you will:
When every delusion became as real as solid matter. Blinding pain, flaming blood, bones breaking, flesh powdering, steel flowing like liquid, the sky raining amber. Crowds in the shifting streets, gathering at intersections, not knowing what to do, trapped by their own ignorance. Their weak minds could not grab hold. And where human thought gave way, gradually the ancient order of nature returned, with its own logic, its own way of adapting. People watched, horrified, as city blocks became forests. When they tried to stop the metamorphosis, their unorganized mentality only confused things further. With the first faint suspicion that they had all gone mad, the first crack in their all-too-weak reserves of will, they projected their nightmares. Prodigal crows perched atop the trees that had once been buildings. Pigs ran through the streets on their hind legs, pavement rushing to become soil behind them. The forest prevailed over most of the city.
Legend has it that it was the arch existentialist Jansard crucifier of the beloved St. Argentine-who, realizing his error, discovered that mind and thought could calm the foaming sea of reality.
Most humans were entirely too irrational to begin with. Whole nations vanished or were turned into incomprehensible whirlpools of misery and depravity.
It is said that certain universities, libraries, and museums survived, but to this day we have little contact with them.
Our Cathedral survived. Rationality in this neighborhood, however, had weakened some centuries before Mortdieu, replaced only by a kind of rote. The Cathedral suffered. Survivors-clergy and staff, worshipers seeking sanctuary-had wretched visions, dreamed wretched dreams. They saw the stone ornaments of the great church come alive. With someone to see and believe, in a universe lacking any other foundation, my ancestors shook off stone and became flesh. Centuries of rock celibacy weighed upon them. Forty-nine nuns who had sought shelter in the Cathedral were discovered and were not entirely loath, for (so the coarser versions of the tale go) Mortdieu had had a surprising aphrodisiacal effect on the faithful. Conjugation took place. No definite gestation period has been established, because at that time the great stone wheel had not been set twisting back and forth to count the days. Nor had Kronos been appointed to the chair, to watch over the wheel and provide a baseline for everyday activities. But flesh did not reject stone, and there came into being the sons and daughters of flesh and stone, including me. Those who had fornicated with the gargoyles and animals were cast out to raise their monstrous young in the highest hidden recesses. Those who had accepted the embraces of the stone saints and other human figures were less abused but were still banished to
<
* * * *
PETRA
God is dead, God is dead .
. . . Perdition! When God dies, youll know it.
-Confessions of St. Argentine
As near as I can discover, Mortdieu occurred seventy-seven years ago. Learned sons of pure flesh deny that magic was set loose, or even that the Alternate had gained supreme power. But few people could deny that God, as such, had died.
All the hinges of our once-great universe fell apart, the axis tilted, cosmic doors swung shut, and the rules of existence lost their foundations. I have heard wise men speak of the slow decline, have heard them speculate on the reasons, the process. Where human thought was strong, realitys sudden quaking was reduced to a tremor. Where human thought was weak, reality disappeared completely, swallowed by chaos.
With the passing of Gods watchful gaze, humankind had to reach out and grab hold of the unraveling fabric of the world. Those conscious beings left alive those who had had the wits to keep their bodies from falling apart with the end of the useful constants became the only cohesive force in the chaos. Imagine that time, if you will:
When every delusion became as real as solid matter. Blinding pain, flaming blood, bones breaking, flesh powdering, steel flowing like liquid, the sky raining amber. Crowds in the shifting streets, gathering at intersections, not knowing what to do, trapped by their own ignorance. Their weak minds could not grab hold. And where human thought gave way, gradually the ancient order of nature returned, with its own logic, its own way of adapting. People watched, horrified, as city blocks became forests. When they tried to stop the metamorphosis, their unorganized mentality only confused things further. With the first faint suspicion that they had all gone mad, the first crack in their all-too-weak reserves of will, they projected their nightmares. Prodigal crows perched atop the trees that had once been buildings. Pigs ran through the streets on their hind legs, pavement rushing to become soil behind them. The forest prevailed over most of the city.
Legend has it that it was the arch existentialist Jansard crucifier of the beloved St. Argentine-who, realizing his error, discovered that mind and thought could calm the foaming sea of reality.
Most humans were entirely too irrational to begin with. Whole nations vanished or were turned into incomprehensible whirlpools of misery and depravity.
It is said that certain universities, libraries, and museums survived, but to this day we have little contact with them.
Our Cathedral survived. Rationality in this neighborhood, however, had weakened some centuries before Mortdieu, replaced only by a kind of rote. The Cathedral suffered. Survivors-clergy and staff, worshipers seeking sanctuary-had wretched visions, dreamed wretched dreams. They saw the stone ornaments of the great church come alive. With someone to see and believe, in a universe lacking any other foundation, my ancestors shook off stone and became flesh. Centuries of rock celibacy weighed upon them. Forty-nine nuns who had sought shelter in the Cathedral were discovered and were not entirely loath, for (so the coarser versions of the tale go) Mortdieu had had a surprising aphrodisiacal effect on the faithful. Conjugation took place. No definite gestation period has been established, because at that time the great stone wheel had not been set twisting back and forth to count the days. Nor had Kronos been appointed to the chair, to watch over the wheel and provide a baseline for everyday activities. But flesh did not reject stone, and there came into being the sons and daughters of flesh and stone, including me. Those who had fornicated with the gargoyles and animals were cast out to raise their monstrous young in the highest hidden recesses. Those who had accepted the embraces of the stone saints and other human figures were less abused but were still banished to
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