Undermind: Nine Stories (18 page)

Happy people living in a beautiful world. Who
could complain, right? I suspect that when we get TV and sports
back, they won’t be as popular as they were before. Although our
formal education hasn’t started yet, we’ve been given informal
lessons via radio, and people are actually tuning in. At first, it
was only out of curiosity, but then people started talking about
the lessons with their families and friends and neighbors. And
nothing they’re teaching us is any kind of wacked-out alien
philosophy either. It’s mainly things we either already knew, or
should have known, but we just didn’t pay attention to what was
important.

Now that people are actually having
conversations that the Guardians say are more than just mindless
babble for the sake of babbling and avoiding silence, it seems like
people are becoming smarter in a way. They’re thinking about who
they are and why they do what they do, and apparently they’re
becoming better people. The P.G. said we’re taking baby steps
toward real progress and advancement, but unlike our advances in
technology and greedy exploitation of everything on earth - this is
something we can truly be proud of.

With the world rapidly transforming into a kind
of utopia that few people ever thought would be possible, there’s
still a sad undercurrent running through the invisible lines that
connect us all. We’re not morose exactly, but every once in a
while, you feel it briefly, or you see it on someone’s face when
they’re deep in thought. No one really talks about it though.
Despite the advanced aliens who are the smartest people on the
planet telling us that we should be proud of ourselves, we’re still
not entirely happy.

There’s not really any problems left to be fixed
that aren’t already well underway – not even in ourselves. But it’s
our past that we can’t escape. Now that we are living examples of
how wonderful life is and always could have been, we can’t
understand how and why we were so messed up before. It didn’t even
require the superior intelligence of the Guardians to implement all
of the solutions that they did. As they pointed out, a child could
have thought of them. But a child didn’t nor did an adult. Not
anyone we ever listened to anyway.

And that’s what I think makes us sad at times.
We could have changed our world at any time with no more
intelligence than we already had. But we didn’t. We had to be
ordered to do all of the things that needed to be done. We were
like a bunch of drug-addicts in need of intervention. Like
mentally-ill people who hadn’t been taking our meds. We became so
universally insane, that insanity became the new normal.

It didn’t have to be that way, and no matter how
much we claim that we did the best we could, we all know we could
have done better. A
lot
better. All along, we were capable
of turning our beautiful planet into an incredible place to live,
and loving ourselves and our families and our neighbors and taking
our minds to new heights that could’ve gone far beyond the mundane
levels we were fixated on.

But we were always focused on our personal
desires. We wanted to have whatever we wanted, and we wanted it
now. So we all ran around in mindless, meaningless circles, as if
we were in a cotton-candy eating contest where the grand prize was
getting kicked in the face. We were oblivious to everything around
us that no truly sane person would ever tolerate. And we needed
someone else to tell us to stop it.

For the most part, people are happy with the way
everything is changed; they’re just not happy about how it was
done. I’ve heard that an underground resistance is forming to take
back our freedom. I don’t think it’s at all possible to fight the
Guardians, and I’m fairly sure that any effort to do so is doomed
to failure. But I understand the reasoning for a rebel
movement.

No one objects now to the way things are. We
just want to prove that we can continue doing well on our own,
without supervision. We need to prove to them and to ourselves that
we’re a better people now. That’s something that might even be
worth fighting for, even if we don’t have a chance of winning.

###

The storyteller awoke before dawn. He opened his
eyes and saw just a little less black than when he was looking at
the back of his eyelids before he had opened them. Off in the
distance was the fire. He saw the orange glow peripherally and did
not turn to look at it directly. It occurred to him that it would
be good to look over there and confirm that the firekeeper was
still awake, but he wanted to utilize the darkness and the
not-quite-awake state of mind that he awoke in.

He used this time to practice the art of
perception. What could he sense right now without his eyes? He
smelled the musty, tangy odor of the animal skin he used as a
blanket. Of course he could smell the fire. It almost went
unnoticed because it was always there and it was usually only
noticeable upon re-entry from outside. But he could smell it now
because he was focusing his mind on everything he could possibly
smell.

He could smell the remains of the charred meat
from last night’s meal. It was barely there since it emanated from
the sticks that were held over the fire to cook the meat, but it
was definitely there. Noticing it made him hungry for the first
meal. He tried to ignore that feeling and return his focus to what
else he could perceive.

He could smell the people. That was another odor
that was always present and then faded out due to its constant
presence. He could smell their old sweat. It wasn’t the same as it
was just after they had labored. It was strong at those times and
assaulted the senses. Now it was the way they smelled some time
later after they’d relaxed and it had dried.

His sleeping place was far from where the little
ones slept, but still, he could smell that some had released their
waste during the night and needed to be cleaned. This was the worst
of the smells, and it was strong, even way back here. He was sure
that the wind carried it all the way to where he slept.

He thought he detected a trace of the much nicer
smell of the women, some of whom rubbed the pleasant scent of
flowers on their skin, but the nice scent was overwhelmed by the
odor of waste from the babies. He would like to be alone with a
flower-smelling woman and have the opportunity to fully enjoy that
pleasant smell untainted by all of the others. But so far, that was
just a wish.

Among the people, he was almost as revered as
their leader. He had a special duty, and because of his high status
, women did not approach him and speak to him as they did the other
men. When he spoke to them, they smiled and looked away. They
enjoyed his attention but none could return it as his equal. His
status was too high, and so they adored him, but feared him at the
same time. It was a sad irony. He was gifted with the adoration of
everyone, and yet he was equal to none, and therefore, he was set
apart, excluded from so much that was a normal part of life with
the people. He had never coupled with a woman. The desire to do so
grew stronger every day. Perhaps he should discuss this with the
leader. He was wise and could probably offer a solution. But no, he
knew what he would be advised: Take one when you need one. He
could, and he
should
do that, but for some reason, he only
wanted one who wanted to be taken by him.

Just as he was about to shift his focus to
sounds to see if he could detect anything behind the chorus of
respiration between his place and the entrance, the wail of a baby
who had just woken filled the cave. Most of the clan would wake
now. The normal sounds of the day would take over as the people got
up and performed their morning tasks and started a new day. The
time for practice was over.

He shifted his focus from what he could perceive
around him to thoughts of the day that awaited him. He stretched
out on his fur and yawned. He looked forward to the day and the
excitement it promised. The hunters were going out. He and one
woman would accompany them. Their responsibilities were no less
important than that of the hunters.

Before he rose, he mentally expressed a wish.
May the hunters find food quickly and safely, and may the medicine
woman heal any who become injured; and may his mind be sharp enough
to bring the story back to the people well enough so that they
could feel the excitement of what it was like to have been there.
He added one more secret desire. May the hunt and the story of the
hunt be good enough (and told well enough) that the leader would
command that it be added to the cave wall.

Such a story would outlive him and it would be
there for those not yet born to be read and enjoyed long after he
was gone.

***

The storyteller placed the wedge on the table
alongside all of the other wedges. He was relieved that his work
was complete. It was tedious, boring, and in his opinion, barely
useful. Maybe someday people would actually want to read about the
daily activities of the king, but not every day included anything
worth writing, or reading. He wished some days could be skipped, or
that he could at least be able to write, “Nothing important
happened today.“

But how would he even write that? Maybe he could
write the words for rising sun, the king, and then the rising moon.
With nothing in between, maybe people would understand that the
king was simply king for another day, and the absence of anything
else would be the clue that there was nothing significant to write
that day.

Although his job was often tedious and boring -
chronicling every day in the King’s life - he was well aware that
it was a far better job than his fellow scribes had. Most of them
worked for merchants and they toiled day after day, recording
transactions. He thanked the gods he didn’t have to write receipts
each day. Being the King’s scribe was certainly a better post in
life. But it wasn’t one filled with glory and prestige as his
merchant scribe friends assumed it was. It was often as dull and
routine as their own jobs.

He cleaned up his work area for the night,
wrapping his wedges in a long piece of leather and tying it off
before placing it at the edge of his table. He carefully moved the
tablets one at a time over to the drying rack. He returned to the
table and used his hands to sweep the clay debris into one spot on
the table then carefully brushed it with one hand toward another
hand pressed against the edge of the table. He dropped the small
pile into a basket to be given later to a vegetable grower who used
the small dried pieces to throw at birds who descended on his
fledgling crops.

After cleaning his work area, he returned to his
room and lay down, letting his mind wander. He was still thinking
of his friend the farmer and he imagined a bird like none in
existence coming down to steal a tomato. He imagined this bird
being so huge that it was undeterred by the pebbles hurled at it by
Ur-enki. He watched the story play out in his mind.

The giant bird of the air took one tomato after
another into his mouth, swallowing them whole. He suddenly becomes
aware of Ur-enki and the steady barrage of pebbles pelting his left
wing and turns to look at Ur-enki with eyes that reveal no emotion
or soul. They are cold and unfeeling, but alive and glaring.
Suddenly the bird hops toward the man who is attempting to assault
him, flapping his wings just a little to aid in his forward
progress, but not enough to take to the air.

Ur-enki jumps up and runs, at first not knowing
where he is going. His only thought is to run away; to reach safety
and escape the pursuing bird. Then he thinks in terms of fighting
this beast. If he doesn’t, it will eat his entire crop and Ur-enki
will become a beggar. He turns and runs toward his farming tools.
He spots the best possible weapon which he hasn’t used since the
beginning of spring. He reaches the row of farming tools and grabs
his harvesting sickle. He turns and braces himself for
confrontation with the beast-bird.

The bird is undeterred by the sight of the
harvesting sickle and charges Ur-enki, bending his long neck and
leaning forward, his snapping beak coming in for the kill. Ur-enki
swings the sickle, embedding it in the large bird’s neck. The bird
screams out an awful squawk as it falters, turning its eyes upward
to look at Ur-enki as it falls to the ground. Ur-enki then imagines
the king and his guests having a feast with the bird as the main
course. It’s delicious and everyone praises the unlikely hunter who
provided this remarkable and rare feast.

Late that night, Ur-enki sneaks into his
workroom, walking slowly and concentrating to keep from spilling
the oil in his lamp. He fetches his tools, then goes down into the
cool room and takes some clay. He is aware that this would count as
stealing since what he is about to write does not involve any
activities of the king, and even worse, this is nothing but the
product of his imagination. How could he justify the waste of
materials for a story that has no truth? It is like scribing a
dream. He laughs. He’s about to scribe the dream of a scribe.

He quickly imprints his story on tablets and
places them in the window to dry quickly. The idea thrills him
despite his fear; to tell a tale that never even happened, and to
do so just for entertainment. Maybe one day he will be bold and
offer it to the king as a gift. He might be applauded and gain
status for this rebellious act. Or he might lose his head.

***

Stephen finished reading the latest edition of
Malory’s
Le Morte d'Arthur
and
extinguished his lamp. As he lay in bed with his mind swirling with
thoughts of Arthur and Merlyn, he wondered if he could pen his own
ideas someday, and then somehow find a way to get them printed.
Maybe he would be lucky enough to have occasion to drive for the
passenger he had driven earlier today; a man by the name of
Gutenberg who talked about an invention of his that would
revolutionize printing forever.