Read This is the Way the World Ends Online
Authors: James Morrow
This is the Way the World Ends (39 page)
IN LOVING MEMORY
OF
PEOPLE
4,500,000
BC
–
AD
1995
THEY WERE BETTER THAN THEY KNEW
THEY NEVER FOUND OUT
WHAT THEY WERE DOING HERE
Later, as the old woman lay propped against a hummock, her voice fading, her flesh expiring, George asked, ‘Why did you entrap me?’
Nadine attempted to lever herself to her feet using her ice cane, thought better of the idea, settled back against the hummock. ‘If they hadn’t sent me to Wildgrove,’ she said softly, ‘they would have sent someone else. When I saw what name the McMurdo framers had picked, I volunteered.’ Mischief glinted in her eyes. ‘I wanted to see you as you were before the war. I had to meet you, George, touch you. And Holly.’ She moved her shriveled head toward him. ‘Look at me. Do you see it? My face, your face, my face . . .’
He did.
The old woman’s smile was a triumph of determination over materials. Missing teeth, weak face muscles, but still she beamed.
‘You’re my granddaughter, aren’t you?’ he said.
They fell into each other’s arms.
‘Holly was your mother,’ he said.
‘The only tolerable moments of my unadmittance came when I watched her at nursery school. I wish I’d gotten to baby-sit for her.’
‘And your father was . . . ?’
‘John Frostig’s youngest son.’
‘Rickie?’
‘Nickie.’
‘The hamster killer?’
‘He would have grown up.’
‘Just like Holly.’
‘You would have been proud of her, Grandfather.’
‘She always said she wanted to be an artist.’
‘She became a teacher. To the first graders she was Socrates and Mother Goose combined. There’s no way she could ever see all the good she did – more good than if she’d become an artist. She was better than she knew.’
‘I wonder if she ever got to see the Big Dipper.’
Nadine kissed his ragged beard. ‘I’m sure she would have.’
‘I’ll bet you’re a hell of a baby-sitter,’ he said.
‘A world beater.’
‘First grade?’ he said. ‘A worthy profession, don’t you think? Honorable. Challenging. Yes, that’s perfect. First grade . . . If you were to have an epitaph on your monument, what would it be?’
She coughed. ‘I don’t want an epitaph, or a monument either. We did not get in. Don’t pretend that we did.’
‘All right.’
They held hands, scopas glove pressed against scopas glove. Her rough and lovely cheek melted beneath his lips like butter. He saw her suit deflate slightly, felt tissues and bones leaving her glove. He stood up.
The MARCH Hare’s little missile clung parasitically to George’s waist. He unstrapped it. How did such things work? It needed a code – is that what the deputy prosecutor had said? – and a brass key.
Seizing the buckle, he whipped the belt around as if it were a sling. The bomb whistled. It struck the Scott Monument squarely. A stabilizer broke off, twirled away.
Again he smashed the weapon, and again he smashed it, and again – smashed it in the names of Morning Valcourt and Justine Paxton, smashed it while thinking of the nonexistent first-graders Holly had never taught – until the thing was nothing but springs, detonators, Styrofoam chunks, uranium-238 fragments, and deuterium core pieces strewn across the grave site, not much of a plowshare, but not much of a man-portable thermonuclear device either.
George looked at his granddaughter’s empty suit. He thought of Job. Satan lacked imagination. To crack a man’s faith, one need not resort to burning his flesh, ruining his finances, or any such obvious afflictions. One need only take a man’s species away from him.
There was laughter in Antarctica. Every ice crystal mocked him. The great crevasse of the Ross Ice Shelf spread through his mind. His granddaughter had wanted no monument. Very well, he thought, then I don’t want one either. The cold was like a disease. His bowels seemed frozen. There was frost on his bones, sleet in his lungs. He looked up. The sky was dark – dark as unadmitted blood, dark as the crevasse that was his destination – and then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw stars, not the Big Dipper but the crisp hot lights that men had named the Southern Cross.
He got in the Cat, turned on the engine, and started across the young, disarmed planet.
Salon-de-Provence, France, 1554
‘Is that all?’ Jacob asked.
‘What do you mean, “Is that all”?’ said Nostradamus. ‘How could there be
more
?’
The prophet opened the picture-cannon and blew on the oil lamp. As the tall flame leaned away from the lens, the projected crevasse became blurry and pale. The flame flew into the ether, and with it went the Ross Ice Shelf.
‘I thought there might be more,’ said the boy.
He marched across the room, pulled back the drapes.
‘You don’t
live
here,’ said Nostradamus.
‘Sorry, Monsieur.’
Sunshine pulsed through the window. The boy closed his eyes and felt the rays hitting his lids, turning the world orange-red.
The prophet slammed his palm against the sash, opened the window. They stood together, man and boy, devouring the air, surprisingly hot for so early in the morning. Strings of sweat sparkled on their faces. Finches hopped amid the cherry trees.
‘Why did George drive into the crevasse?’ asked Jacob.
‘Why do you think?’
‘I suppose he was getting too cold. Is this truly the way the world will end?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Then I’m glad I shall be dead first.’
A scream came through the floor. Jacob flinched.
‘Her pain will pass,’ said Nostradamus, squeezing the boy’s arm.
‘I know,’ Jacob gasped.
‘Concentrate on something else. The show – did you like it?’
‘Oh, yes, Monsieur.’
‘You truly liked it?’
‘Very much so.’
‘All of it?’
‘I might wish for fewer sad scenes, but—’
‘Listen to me,’ said the prophet quickly. ‘You must go downstairs.’ With his Malacca cane he pointed toward the door. ‘Find your mother. Hold her hand. Kiss her. Say, “I love you, Mother.” Say, “You will bring forth a child soon, and Dr Nostradamus has foreseen that it will be strong, and it will never get plague.” Say to your mother, “Somehow, with God’s help, we shall manage.” Tell her, “Spring is upon the earth, a fine time and place for a baby to disembark.” ’ Nostradamus winked. ‘When you have done this, return to me, and we shall talk. Are your shoulders strong?’
‘I think so.’
‘Strong enough to carry our picture-cannon from city to city, sometimes on an empty stomach, and in the rain?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And your wits – are they strong too? Strong enough to focus the cannon for me each evening and to project the paintings in the right order?’
‘Most certainly!’
‘Don’t ever get the order wrong.’
‘Not ever!’
‘God help you if you drop one. Your wage will be ten
écus
per week. I can envision nothing better at the moment. Naturally you will send them home.’
The boy ran to the picture-cannon, patted the chimney with his fingertips. Hot, but not enough to burn. He lifted the miracle machine off the writing desk, rested it on his shoulder.
‘It’s not heavy at all, Monsieur.’
A smile broke through the prophet’s beard. ‘You’ll think differently come winter. Remember – the order must always be right.’
The boy set down the machine and ran for the door, his mind aglow with visions of Paris and Toulon. Or, for that matter, he thought, why not Rome, Valencia, Augsburg, London, Athens, Alexandria, Kiev, St Petersburg? Why not any of the glorious, unburned cities of the earth? Why not the City of New York, wherever that was?
‘Oh – and one more thing, Jacob,’ said Nostradamus.
‘Yes, Monsieur?’
The prophet raised his Malacca cane and traced a Southern Cross in the air.
‘Tell your mother that it’s going to be a girl.’
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James Morrow
was born in Philadelphia in 1947. He spent much of his teenage life in Hillside Cemetery, where he entertained his passion for 8mm moviemaking by creating numerous short horror and fantasy films with his friends. Having received degrees from both the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard University, he then turned his creative urges to writing. Commonly in his works, Morrow satirises organised religion and elements of humanism and atheism. He is perhaps best known for the Godhead Trilogy, the first of which,
Towing Jehovah
, won the World Fantasy Award in 1995. He currently lives in Pennsylvania with his family.
NOVELS
The Wine of Violence (1981)
The Continent of Lies (1984)
This is the Way the World Ends (1986)
Only Begotten Daughter (1990)
Towing Jehovah (1994)
Blameless in Abaddon (1996)
The Eternal Footman (1999)
The Last Witchfinder (2006)
The Philosopher’s Apprentice (2008)
Shambling Towards Hiroshima (2009)
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Swatting at the Cosmos (1990)
Bible Stories for Adults (1996)
The Cat’s Pyjamas & Other Stories (2004)
A full list of SF Masterworks can be found at
A Gollancz eBook
Text copyright © James Morrow 1986
Introduction copyright © Justina Robson 2012
All rights reserved.
The right of James Morrow to be identified as the author of this work, and the right of Justina Robson to be identified as the author of the introduction, has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London,
WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN
978 0 575 08121 5
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.