Free Glass by Stephen Palmer

returned his gaze to the scribes. Around a mound of mud they were pacing, chanting, lunar symbols in their hands. Dwllis looked up to see an almost full moon hazy behind city dust, and he could see that it had lost its circular shape. Two lumps were forming at opposite ends, and the body as a whole seemed to be extending.
    ‘Yes,’ said the druid, ‘Selene is transforming again.’
    ‘Again?’ Dwllis asked.
    ‘Many centuries ago Earth possessed a different moon, and that also transformed itself. History is repeating itself.’
    Dwllis was stunned by these simple words. Sensitised to historical niceties, he immediately saw their significance. The other Cray that he believed had once stood on this land must somehow be exerting an influence over current events, like the spirit of a dead leader hanging over a congregation.
    He asked the druid, ‘How do you know all this?’
    ‘Centuries ago my kin lived amidst the Archive of Gaya,’ came the reply. ‘Although we have split, our tribal memories recall some old stories that the Archives conceal. Do you not see a balance in Cray, city-man? Three Archives support it: that of Selene who is tied to the Earth, that of Gaya, who is but an incarnation of the Earth, and that of Noct, who represents the night that blankets the Earth. A cosmic decision is approaching. Selene transforms and change is mooted, while the people of the Earth fall under a transforming pressure. Truly one will have to stand forth to lead the leaderless.’
    These words, spoken in tones ever more doomy, made Dwllis shiver. This druid was no fool. Though isolated from Cray, he possessed vision: he saw, and he thought about what he saw.
    ‘Look now,’ said the druid. ‘The ritual climaxes.’
    Dwllis looked down again. All the scribes were staring into the Swamps mist, as if waiting for a sign.
    ‘What’s happening, sir?’ Coelendwia asked, his voice tremulous.
    ‘They have twisted the electronic substrate,’ answered the druid, ‘in an attempt to see images of its interior. The aliens interfere with the realm of the dead. See! The lens appears.’
    From the Swamps – not far off – the lens appeared, drifting towards them, then making towards the southern wall of the Cemetery.
    ‘Does it always come from the Swamps?’ Dwllis asked.
    ‘Always. It is an object of that place. But few can see the deathly images it focuses.’
    Dwllis grimaced. ‘I can. Perhaps I should journey into the Swamps to find and understand this lens.’
    The druid glanced at him. ‘No. Many dangerous folk have their abode there–’
    ‘The Swamps are lifeless,’ Dwllis claimed.
    ‘Outsider, they are not. Where the river makes a bend there lies the Isle. I myself have not visited the Isle, but others of my dear kin have. The Swamps themselves are a shifting morass of biochemical traces and self-generating information packages, all set in gel. It is thought by some older druids that the whole area is a pyuter of unimaginable compass. Think on that if you will. Now do you see the depths you so heartily wish to explore?’
    ‘I did not wish to insult you,’ Dwllis said, ‘but I am thinking that this lens shows great interest in my tower.’
    ‘What then is inside your tower?’
    Dwllis chuckled. ‘Memories. Nothing but memories.’
    The druid considered this for some minutes, while below, the scribes, having peered into the lens and then banished it, wandered away from the site.
    ‘What do they do that for, sir?’ Coelendwia asked.
    ‘I understand little of their ritual,’ the druid replied, ‘but it seems to me that they seek guidance from the denizens of the lens. Oddly, they do not fear it.’
    ‘Who are these denizens?’ asked Dwllis.
    ‘I have seen but three. One is a grotesque creature of black with a bag body and chin tentacles like those of the gnosticians, while the other two are human, or almost so.’
    ‘Do the denizens say anything?’
    ‘No. Come, you have seen the origin of the lens. It is