Time's Ark

Greetings, if you've landed here by some chance, this story has now been published.  As such, I'd like to offer respect to my publisher by doing that thing that Amazon does where you can read the first little bit, but to read the whole story, you've got to go buy it.  So, without further ado, here's the first little bit.  To read the whole thing, please buy issue 2 of Into the Ruins.  Thanks!  ~ Jay

 Azra moved slowly and deliberately to the stately display table where three seemingly unrelated objects rested next to one another with ceremonial intentionality. The room, it's slowfan turning listlessly above smooth, time-polished wooden desks, began to fill with a wide variety of people representing great diversity. This gathering was unique. Invited were top scholars from most circles, but also students and apprentices, some quite young. Mixed in were members of the trades—mostly builders and inventors. A few continuity elders edged their way into the back rows. Azra's own most senior apprentice, Kori, sat quietly to the side of an imposing lectern, in front of a covered easel.

The chatter and greetings of fellows too long separated, now well met, died down after a time. People took seats and found comfortable spots to stand around the back wall. Attention turned to the front of the room. Azra never used the lectern, it's sides polished and worn from generations of nervous hands grasping for safety. Instead, he forced himself out in front of it, to stand in full view of his audience. Even after all these years, this was an effort. He much preferred the cordiality and cooperation of a small group. Yet, he knew this type of presentation was an important tool that he must use, however uncomfortable he might be.

Without thinking, he picked up the potted plant. “Welcome,” he began, and waited respectfully for the echoed welcoming response from his audience. There, in the back, he caught a glimpse of Shakre. Good. She's come. The real meeting will be later with her and . . . He didn't know how to finish that thought.

“Thank you for coming,” he continued. “You will no doubt be wondering why I have invited such a . . . hmm . . . diverse mix of people to come listen to an old man teach.” Azra accepted a small wave of lighthearted laughter. His audience knew without questioning that if he called a meeting for a lesson, anyone invited would stop what they were doing and make the journey.

“I haven't taught a lesson in quite some time. My apprentices and contemporaries are quite capable of carrying on the Subjects.” He paused and glanced at Kori, who smiled back at him. “They are really quite remarkable, these fellows I have had the privilege to work with these long years. Our future seems to be in good hands.

“But I am not here to speak of the future, fascinating and beguiling though the future may be.” He set the potted plant down, and picked up the folded piece of parchment that lay next to it. “I am here to speak on the subject of the past.” He opened the letter and scanned it for a moment. “This, you may know, is a seed letter. You have all written them, and you know them to be an important part of our continuity.” In the back of the crowd, one or two of the continuity elders nodded in assent.

“This happens to be my letter.” Azra smiled wide and the crowd laughed with him. “My letter, like yours, I suspect, shows me . . . no, demonstrates to me the need for continuity elders and their wisdom. Among other dangers and pitfalls, without this wisdom, we are likely to mistake the hasty truths of youth for the guiding and eternal truths of Natural Law.” He paused. “Embarrassing though they may be.” Again, the crowd broke into a respectful laughter.

“But I'm not here to lecture on continuity either. Rather, I'd like for you to look at this seed letter as a metaphor. We write them when we are young. The continuity elders keep them safe until we have reached an age where we have power and capability, but need the wisdom of perspective in order to use that capability to bring the Web a vigorous and healthy today, and an excellent foundation for tomorrow, within the bounds of Natural Law.

“They are, in a sense, an ark that travels along the river of time. What is necessary for them to successfully navigate that river is a safe haven from the ravages of this river: time. Surely, some letters are lost to accident or some such, but as a small but important part of their work, the elders do a generally good job of providing these arks with the means to get from one moment in time, to a much later moment in time.”

Azra could sense the continuity elders hovering somewhere between pleased and cautious. From their perspective, Azra's profession was a necessary evil. He didn't think a little flattery would hurt, but he was under no illusions that it would help them accept his work with any kind of charity or support.

“Now imagine—could we write a seed letter to our children? Actually, I know some that do. It's not the prerogative of the elders to facilitate this sort of communication, but I'm sure they'd approve. I myself, as a young man, wrote a seed letter to my grandchildren. I think that was before I was handfasted, even. Now that's confidence.” He smiled and again the audience greeted him with a respectful, quiet laughter.

“What if you wanted to write a seed letter to your great-great grandchildren? Now you start running into practical difficulties. Who will keep this letter? For surely, you will perish before it's intended recipients are even born. And what will you write it on? Our best parchment, kept dry and safe from accident or even sunlight, might last this long. Now what if you wished to send a seed letter to your great-great-great-great-great grandchildren?” Azra paused and spread his hands wide, inviting comment.

A young man in the front raised his hand, palm open. Azra nodded to him. He rose and spoke with surprising confidence to the group. “I am Jaqar, a seventh student in this, the Central circle.” Azra nodded again for him to continue. “Perhaps, teacher, a person might carve a stone into a statue, with a message—written or pictorial.”

“Yes,” said Azra, simply—without the exaggerated praise in his voice another teacher might reserve for so young a student. “This is so. We have many such objects, and we make many such objects. As you all know, the Central Stone is fifteen generations old, and while we have made many conventions and refinements to our way of living, the basic tenants that protect and guide us are written there. And we hope that this stone will still be right where it is now for fifteen more generations, and fifteen after that.

“But we know from the work of our continuity elders, that time does not allow for stillness. It is Natural Law—all things are born, they live, then they die. That this is true for me, means it is true for you. It is true for all things. Even stones.” There was more nodding from the elders in the back, but one elder in particular was scowling. Azra smiled in his direction.

“But because we have these two examples, the paper and the stone, we can see that different things succumb to the ravages of time at different rates. Indeed, the artifacts we still sometimes discover from the world before are a testament to the longevity of some materials resting in particular environments.

“I will simplify, and propose the following: If you wish to maximize the longevity of an object, then make it from materials of extremely high durability, like a very durable stone, or the metals of antiquity, and place it in a highly stable, secure environment—somewhere dry where thieves would not plunder.” Again Azra opened his hands palm out, but he didn't really expect anyone to disagree. These were, he thought, facts even young school children could grasp.

“Now,” he said. At this, the audience leaned in just a little. “We know the Ancients were powerful—very powerful, but also careless. We have few messages from them, and really our only evidence that they walked the earth at all is the very fact of the longevity of some of the materials they created. Our brightest minds and most skilled metallurgists cannot replicate many of the materials they have left us. Our very best estimates are that the Ancients passed from this world more than fifty generations ago.” Azra stopped to let this sink in. These figures were not a secret, but neither were they settled. Many scholars would not accept that a culture could have existed so long ago that was as powerful as the few objects they left behind suggested. Nevertheless, Azra pushed on.

“I said a moment ago, the Ancients were careless. We assume they must have been. How could a civilization with so much power and so much knowledge allow itself to burn brightly and then fade, as we see the barbarians beyond our most distant walls do so very often?” Azra looked around the room, but did not signal for commentary, instead leaving his question to hang in the air. He carefully set the letter down and picked up the hammer that lay on the table next to it.

“This hammer was my father's hammer. He was a builder, a great one. Many of our best structures in Central circle have his sweat and love in them. He gave this hammer to me when I came to fifth year. It could be that, deep down, he wished I would have become a builder as well—this despite what we know to be true of Natural Law, that each person is charged with forging their own path.” Azra stopped to remember the man for just a moment, bringing the truth of feeling to his speech. “I believe he loved me unconditionally. Still, good men make mistakes. Like my father, we are human, and make human errors—each according to their peculiar flaws. Therefore, if we can say anything about humans as a group, it is that while we share similarities, we are all very different from one another, capable of great kindness, great sorrow, and all things between. Can it be that every Ancient was uniformly careless? By this logic, that must be impossible. What if there were some who saw the error that ended their power?” Azra set down the hammer, but did not invite comment.

“Imagine a boat which springs a leak. You start to bail the water out, but you see that this is futile. Around you is only open ocean, and it is clear that if you bail water, you might slow the descent of your craft, but you see that it will eventually fail no matter what you do. There is no land near enough to swim to, and no other boats on the water. Your fate is to drown. How will you spend your last moments? Will you bail water hopelessly? Will you meditate in prayer to prepare yourself for what comes after we die?

“Surely there were Ancients who saw the end coming and tried each of these. But there is one small possibility that I would like to discuss. If you had a pen, some paper, and a bottle, you might write a note, say something true about your life. You might write a story or a poem, an explanation, or an apology, something to communicate with the future, your predicament, your hopes, your fears. Something meaningful to pass along. You might write that note, pop it into the bottle, and throw it over the side as your ship slipped below the waves and you breathed your last few breaths in this life.” Azra mimed putting a cork into a bottle and tossing it to those students in the first rows before him.

“If you were an Ancient, and you could see the end of your civilization coming, would you reach for that pen? Maybe just one or two might. But you might also grasp the length of night coming upon the world. What material would you use? Where would you put that message? What could possibly expect to survive fifty or more generations?” Azra opened his palms wide, suggesting a broad call for input.

A tall, middle-aged woman stood. “I am Rakell, from Third circle east over the mountains. I am a scholar of three degrees. I would put my message, whatever the material, in strong desert rock. Perhaps the red rocks of the Nikal deserts.” Azra nodded, but said nothing. Another young man stood. “I am Tokal from the Second circle west of the Singing lakes. I am a master in the building trades. I would build a great ark for my message to sit within, to protect it from time and thievery.” Again Azra nodded but didn't say anything. At last a continuity elder raised his hand. Azra was surprised; they usually spoke very little. He stood. “I am Jindall. I am a Third level continuity elder in this Central circle. I would make it from as large a block of the metal that does not rust as I possibly could.”

“All good arguments,” said Azra. “Each with a weakness. Deserts shift and change. What was once desert might, in the course of two hundred and fifty generations, become a lake bed or river way. Great arks are no less subject to the vagaries of time than the objects which reside within, and would so perish over time. A great mass of the metal which does not rust would be a very tempting target for looters and thieves.”

The audience fell silent. Azra again picked up the potted plant. “This,” he said slowly, “is an Althea plant. It's a shrub, actually. It thrives in dry, desert environments. Its life cycle is very interesting. Can anyone tell us how it reproduces?” He paused. “No? Hmm, I'll have to have a talk with our botany scholars . . .” This time, no one laughed at his joke.

“In the desert from which this plant comes, rain sometimes doesn't come at all. For years at a time. In order to survive and reproduce, when it does rain, this shrub very quickly creates tiny spores. They look like seeds, and there are seeds inside. But what we see when we look at the spores are actually very resilient shells. The seeds inside may lay dormant for years, even generations. When just the right conditions reappear, the spore opens, and the plant seed takes root.

Azra looked around the room at the many silent faces. “Before I go on, I would ask that you ponder the following question: If the Ancients were able to leave us a seed letter or an ark of sorts, what would be in it?” He stood silently, watching students and masters alike shift nervously for a moment. “What would they say to us?”

Finally, into the silence that followed, Azra spoke. “I have brought these three items here to demonstrate the vastly different possibilities. The letter, a symbol of wisdom and advice. The hammer, a symbol of hopes and dreams for the future. The plant, a symbol of passing on heritage—a way of perpetuating a culture. There are doubtless other possibilities, and I grant”—he paused, looking several of his audience members directly in the eye—“I grant that this conversation might be better presented as a thought experiment on a cold day over a warm cup of tea. Except.” He motioned to his most senior apprentice. She stood and went to an easel covered in cloth behind the lectern, bringing it out and uncovering it. “Except, that we have found just such an ark.”

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To read the rest, please purchase issue 2 of Into the Ruins.  Thanks!!