Yngve, AR - Darc Ages Read online

  A river glittered in the distance to the east. Lush forests grew along its edges - but no signs of cultivation or plowed fields - nor a single boat in sight. A single bird flew by, far away. The only bird David had seen today. There were no pigeons to be seen in the city, almost as if they had been... exterminated. No, that was impossible.

  David tapped his fingers against the parapet. As his health improved, his limbs tingled with restlessness. He had so much to do, and he was tired of the damned walkingstick. He dropped the stick, took a few uncertain steps - and laughed as he found he didn't need it anymore. Bor and Librian were going to be surprised at his quick recovery! He heard a knock at the door inside, and stumbled to the room's only mirror to check his appearance.

  He looked into the tall mirror. The man in the reflection was lean and tall, but not thin. His thick, bushy hair and eyebrows were still prematurely white - a maid had offered to dye them in their original hue, but David had refused such vanity. His sharp face and it's Caesaresque nose had remained the same, though. The tanned skin was crisper and had acquired a few wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but was vigorous enough. His green eyes had not lost their almost wickedly playful sparkle, and his front teeth were all in place - and white. He felt great, he told himself, and ready to take on the world.

  David adjusted the soft, stuffed high collar of his modest brown jacket - he wore the tight-fitting, bright synthetic pants of the nobility, though he'd rather prefer a pair of comfy slacks - and brushed off his leather shoes. There was a new knocking at the door, more anxious this time.

  "When in Rome, do as the Romans," he said to his image in the mirror. Humming the old Popeye tune, David went over to the door and opened it.

  "Librian! Bor! Please come in and have a drink!"

  David greeted them in English; he was far from mastering their language yet. Librian entered, as always wearing his threadbare robe with its many pockets. In David's eyes, Librian appeared to be in his early seventies - a balding, sunken man with very pale skin and kind, sad eyes. David had learned that the name Librian was actually a title, meaning "keeper of records" or "historian". He had not yet asked for Librian's real name.

  Behind the older man came Bor, leaving Surabot to guard the door from the outside. Bor Damon had very soon impressed David with his charismatic authority - one could see that people trusted and listened to this man, though he was often harsh and remote. In David's time, Bor might have been a very tough business executive - instead of the petty local strongman he appeared to be. Bor was now dressed in what was obviously his casual spring clothes, made of rough blue and white linen. The blue-red-black family emblem was sewn onto his chest with gold threads.

  "Good morning, Darc!" Librian said in English and smiled.

  Bor grunted something that might have been the same words; he could only muster a few English phrases. Librian bowed and held out his palms, but did not shake hands - it was the custom greeting among all people who were not close family members. Darc bowed in return at first Librian, then Bor Damon. Bor gave him a slight nod - and caught sight of the open balcony. He immediately marched across the room and pulled the heavy double doors shut.

  Turning to Librian, Bor asked: "Has Darc spoken to any man from that balcony?"

  Librian translated the question to Darc, who smiled in surprise and replied: "How could I talk to people on the ground, from up here? I shouted hello a few times, but..."

  He watched attentively as Librian mumbled the translation in Bor's ear.

  Bor grunted and addressed Darc directly, while Librian translated: "Darc, it is good to see that you are recovering so soon."

  "It is only thanks to you, and the good care of your staff," Darc answered politely.

  "Darc, I shall not question that you are curious of why you must have stayed in your room for this whole month," Bor said - only the vaguest hint of a personal excuse. "But the matter of your presence in my city is... delicate. I have even kept you from my own family members, so as not to upset you in advance."

  David didn't quite understand what Bor meant, and his irritation began to grow. He had been close to death, and then revived in a future of talking robots, nuclear-powered cities, and cures for cancer. Nothing in this world appeared too outlandish for him to handle - in fact, he had expected much more dramatic differences. Where were the spaceships? The TV sets? The stereo music players? Why were there robots, but not a single computer in sight? Or any photographs? His head was brimming with questions, and he wanted answers. At once.

  "Bor - spit it out, for Christ's sake." (He noted that his hosts seemed to wince at the mere mentioning of Christ. Were they Moslems or what?) "What is it I shouldn't be able to handle? Is my company bankrupt? Is my ex-wife dead? Are the kids -"

  David swallowed, fighting back a sudden surge of emotion. He had managed to deny the thought until now - but the gravity of the moment was overwhelming. He steeled himself for the worst.

  Bor said: "Librian, explain to him. You are better suited for it than me."

  Bor looked away, as if he was embarrassed by the intensity in David's questioning eyes. Librian sighed, and took David by the shoulder.

  "Come with us to the library," he said in English. "You will find your answers there."

  The castle library was not merely large; it was immense.

  Located on the floor above the great hall of the fortress, the library stretched through two connected arched halls, measuring thirty meters in length and nearly twelve meters in height. Along the walls ran four separate levels of bookcases, accessible via narrow balconies and stairs. The ceiling lamps were deliberately subdued, as to avoid damaging the innumerable fragile volumes collected from nine centuries. There were electrical reading-lamps available at the tables on the stone floor; when the three men entered through the high portal, they could see a handful of people sitting reading at the tables.

  One of the seated men was obviously at work copying a manuscript. He fitted tiny die-cast letter-types into a blackened box, for use in some primitive printing press in another part of town. David stared up at the rows of books, and gaped. It was so old, everything. How could it be so old? His mind staggered, refused to grasp the inescapable answer. Bor had a quick glance around, but showed little interest - he had seen it all his life.

  Librian, on the other hand, seemed at home in this dusty, dry environment. With soft, swift steps he walked over to a round-faced young man, who sat dreaming over some restored pictures of lush, naked women. He wore a robe dress similar to Librian's, and reminded David of a monk. The old librarian snapped impatiently with his fingers - the chubby young man looked up and blushed, covering the book-pages with the wide sleeves of his robe.

  "Master Librian, I -" stuttered the embarrassed apprentice.

  "Hush!" Librian whispered. "How many times have I told you to keep your voice down? The spirits of ancient writers will haunt you if their sleep is disturbed!" The apprentice's eyes widened fearfully, and Librian commanded: "Now go get me the oldest world map, and the copy of Al-Masur's History. Quickly, Lord Damon is waiting!"

  The apprentice librarian hurried away, his soft shoes shuffling against the floor mosaic. While they waited, Darc stepped forward and surveyed the mosaic under his feet: it was worn and faded, and must have been as old as the castle. Its tiles mostly formed patterns which might be inspired by Arabic carpets - but some of the patterns were utterly strange. Small yellow circles split by black lines... white parallel lines over a green background, converging in black rectangles - where had he seen them before? Circuit boards? He hadn't seen a single circuit board in the castle. The central symbol was about three meters wide, and consisted of a big golden circle cut through by a thick, black stripe. It reminded him of the head of a screw. An absurd idea entered David's mind, that a circuit board design had been used as an abstract pattern...

  He looked up again as he heard the apprentice return, carrying a book under one arm, and a tube the size of a rolled-up carpet in both his hand
s. The pudgy apprentice went to the widest table and opened the tube, then carefully pulled out and unfolded a huge roll of parchment. Librian, Bor, and David moved closer. And for the first time, David saw the map of the world as it now was. The date at the top read, in hand-lettered calligraphy:

  719 Aw Monro

  Seven-hundred-and-nineteen years after Monro... Monroe! At the middle bottom of the map, among much text, was drawn a small picture of a voluptuous blond female figure - surrounded by a round halo. The figure held out its arms in a gesture that was both an invitation and a blessing. The dreamy smile and the half-shut eyes, though heavily stylized, were instantly recognizable. David made an ugly grimace.

  The accompanying picture at the top of the map was even more absurd - an Elvis lookalike, stylized almost beyond recognition. The microphone he should have been holding, had been changed into a phallic sceptre. The absurdity of the moment - finding classic pop stars as icons on a withered map scroll - would have been funny, if it wasn't so terrifying.

  David's horror grew, even as he refused to accept what the map clearly displayed: The British Isles were gone. As were most of Scandinavia, Siberia, and Canada. A symbolic, cracked icecap was covering almost all land down to Belgium. There were no longer any nations, only continental regions such as Juro, Awrica, Amreca, Arba, Azja, Artica, Awstrala, and Atartica. The huge Antarctic and Arctic ice-continents seemed uninhabited.

  And the cities? Most of them vanished, too. Paris, Madrid, Rome, Moscow, New York, Tokyo, Beijing and Buenos Aires were missing from the map - in many cases replaced by a tiny symbol for nuclear radiation. North America was not hit so hard by the radiation symbols - but a sizeable chunk of the Californian coastline seemed to have vanished into the sea. There were very few cities on the map, and most of them seemingly small, like Damon City... there it was, just north of where Madrid should have been:

  Daamon Zateli

  Australia was mostly uninhabited - or uncharted, it was impossible to tell how accurate the map was outside of Europe. One city's name and location remained nearly unchanged:

  Zidnii Zateli

  Sydney. Of course. The place where David's cryonic freeze-capsule was supposed to have rested from the start. So it had been moved by unknown hands across the world, to gather dust... where?

  "Where exactly did you find me?" David asked Librian, his eyes fixed on the map before him.

  "In the Madrivalo ruins, I gather it was in an old crypt under a temple ruin."

  "And... what year is it," David asked in an odd, soft voice.

  The old scholar consulted a small almanac: "It is day fourteen in the month Arial , the year nine-hundred and forty After Monro Our Goddess. In the old calendar, that would be approximately the year two-thousand nine-hundred After Chri - Forgive me, Goddess..."

  Librian made a quick gesture: his palm went from his heart to his lips to his eyes, as if crossing himself.

  David turned away from the map, feeling the impact coming hard.

  "Nine hundred years," he mumbled.

  The young apprentice stared curiously at the white-haired stranger who stumbled past the rows of aged books. The stranger's language was alien to him.

  "I didn't want to understand that I'd been away for too long..." David gave the other people a strange, excusing smile. "Y'see, I was supposed to be awakened in the year 2010 or something. When they had learned to cure my cancer. When I was almost dead, they froze me and put the capsule in a storage-bunker in Sydney."

  David pulled out a random volume from the bookcases, and flipped through the pages. The letters were right, but the words seemed warped. He stopped at a faded color picture: a reproduction of an old photograph, picturing a futuristic city of skyscrapers. Towers glittering with lights, against a sky illuminated by artificial images. The future. His future was already in the past.

  His voice cracked as he shouted: "And now they're all dead!! "

  David hurled the precious book through the air. The apprentice librarian gasped, and dived for the book as it hit the floor. David started rambling across the library, his eyes frantically searching the bookcases for something... a message from his own time.

  "Somewhere here there must be a piece of them... a letter... anything!! "

  His fingers groped at the books, as if trying to pull out his lost loved ones.

  He began to rave like a lunatic as he searched: "Please help me find them, the names, their names. Eileen and Powers . She is six years old, green eyes like me, blond hair. She loves books, she wants to become a writer.

  "Powers is eight years old, brown hair, gray eyes. He plays videogames all day, but he can draw and play basketball. There must be something left... but... if... nothing..."

  David would have welcomed madness, but the escape into insanity never came. He sank down on the floor, his back against the wall of books, and cried without shame. The others stared silently at him for several minutes. Librian walked over to the sitting figure, kneeled down beside him, and put his hand on David's shoulder.

  Through his tears, David noticed the compassion in the old scholar's voice: "Forgive me for keeping the whole truth from you," he said softly. "We had to be sure you were strong enough. After all our efforts to bring you back to the world of the living, we did not wish to lose you again. Can you forgive me?"

  "Yes," David sobbed without hesitation. "But... I'm alone now, so alone. My kids, my ex-wife, my friends, my world... all gone..."

  Librian answered: "I understand your grief, but you are not alone. I may not be like the people of your Golden Age, but I truly want to help. I wish to call you my friend, and I want you to live and tell us more about your time. Please do not give up now."

  "But..." David sat catching his breath for a moment, looking before him. "What can I do? Start a new life here? I'm thirty-six years old..."

  Librian grew more enthusiastic: "Yes, you can! You have spirit, as my lord said. You survived the Eternal Ice, the two Great Wars, the Plague. There is a purpose to your being here. I know there must be."

  David sighed, wiping his face on his sleeve. He immediately accepted the facts, as he had always done in his previous life. He told himself: Always accept the facts. Then use them to your advantage. It helped me build a life, and it will build me another life. I still feel miserable, but I won't give up. Ever. I'm sorry, Eileen. I really tried to keep my promise. I really tried. But now it's too late. I still have this stupid drive that keeps me going. I yam what I yam and that's all I yam.

  David Archibald stood up, bracing himself. He faced Librian, touched his shoulder, nodded.

  "A new life," he confirmed in a steady voice. "Okay. The first thing I'll do, is to get rid of my old name. You call me 'Darc,' and from now on I will use it as my name."

  He took a deep breath, walked closer to Bor Damon and greeted him in the customary way; bowing with his palms held out.

  "Nomme es Darc, Seo Damon. Tom kesse oré," he said in the local tongue. Meaning: "My name is Darc, Lord Damon. Your honored guest".

  That much he had learned. Bor nodded in reply, almost smiling. By now, the young apprentice librarian had realized who the stranger was - he had heard about Lord Damon's mysterious guest, but had refused to believe the rumors until now.

  He approached the stranger cautiously, and mumbled: "Nomme es Awonso, masim Darc. Tom servat obé." Meaning: My name is Awonso, master Darc. Your humble servant."

  Awonso bowed respectfully. The white-haired guest bowed his head in reply. Librian handed Darc the volume that Awonso had fetched.

  "What's this?" Darc asked in English.

  "It is a copy of Al-Masur's History. It contains the oldest written records of history before the coming of the 'Toutim Ais' , the Eternal Ice . The historian from the south of Arba, Al-Masur, lived four hundred years ago. He spent all his life collecting and translating fragments of old texts; many of them survived well in the dry desert climate of Arba. Al-Masur gave us the first whole picture of the Golden Age, and what happened in the fo
llowing years - the Eternal Ice, the Two Great Wars, the Plague... you must read our history, in order to understand our time. I and young Awonso will be here in the library, to teach you more of our language. In time, you will read the book without my help."

  Darc thanked the old scholar, who ordered Awonso to bring them food and drink. It was going to be a long day and night in the library. Bor was relieved to bid the company goodbye and return to more urgent affairs of state. Be patient, Bor told himself. In time, Darc will be ready. And then I will see what use can be made of him. He is but a man, after all - no ghost, and not nearly man enough to pose a threat to us. Perhaps he can tell me, if any of the artefacts in the catacombs might still be useful.

  Chapter 6

  Darc's English Diary, June (Iunna) 21st, 2897 AD (940 Aw Monro):

  I've finally gotten the hang of the Castilians' blasted grammar. I guess the way they construct sentences is a product of the great migrations that followed upon the Ice Age; I've found traces of Chinese, Russian, and lots of plain old English in their language. One thing worries me: not many people around for conversation in my old language. When I get tired of writing a diary, my English will deteriorate...

  Last night I managed to get through the last of Al-Masur's History... strange reading indeed. It's rather obvious the poor man mixed up fact and fiction - but who can blame him? There was nobody around to help him sort out between old novels and genuine historical records. No film, no disk drives - Bor's cellar is full of ancient CD-ROM discs, and I can't read a single bloody one! Besides, I think they're too scratched to play even if I had a CD player.

  The History of the World According to Al-Masur, and this age, can be summed up as follows:

  First, there was the Green Age - the "immeasurably long time of standstill between the Earlier Ice and the Eternal Ice," as Al-Masur puts it. "The Earth was green and fertile. The people were simple farmers living off the wild crops and half-wild cattle. They were heathens, worshipping innumerable pagan gods such as Christos, Butta, and the many-armed Konshivius."