In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 19-24

The bookstore in the mall had long been closed,
and on its boarded door a mark was placed
to save its contents, Ciral had supposed,
from fireplace stokers, who’d think them mere waste.

He’d first come in the store by accident,
exploring long-neglected passageways.
He’d taken out a grate and crawled the vent,
then saw what had been rescued from the blaze.

The candle that he’d lit revealed a door,
the other side of which contained the curse.
Did it apply if one came through the floor?
If so, to linger wouldn’t make it worse.

Besides, he knew what treasures he had seen.
His grandmother had given him a quill
and crossword mag so he knew what words mean,
but warned him to conceal this special skill.

The other kids had sensed that he was smart
but lacked charisma, so he couldn’t lead.
They bullied him, so he would stay apart.
He’d get his power from what he could read.

The curse, of course, would cause him no distress,
and books on human nature would explain:
A widely held belief is often less
a solid fact, and more a type of chain.

A mark: I wonder what kind of symbol might be used to frighten people who had for the most part rejected religion. I suppose that doesn't mean they weren't superstitious.
To conceal: I’m not sure what the purpose is of the compounders’ willing illiteracy, unless to further set Ciral apart from his neighbors.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 15-18

On down to Ciral’s time, it would be told,
and children, as they grew up, would be coached,
that, although killed, it never had gone cold,
and harm would come to any who approached.

That warning didn’t stop him like the rest.
He bore the courage owned by someone with
a mission, which in this case was to test some things
he’d read regarding ancient myth.

That’s not to say that he was unafraid.
He’d heard the stories, but thought them unreal.
The fear was thus allowed to be outweighed
by eagerness that he alone could feel.

For while his peers were listening to tales
to learn the parts into which they’d been cast,
this odd one, when he’d finished work details,
would soak up knowledge from a distant past.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 11-14

Outside (just one more, please) the big tin cans
that raised the fruits and grains the men would steal.
To enter one was part of Ciral’s plans—
to enter one and sit behind the wheel.

That he could live within one he’d no doubt.
The things were full of people and their stuff.
When one would stop he’d seen them spilling out.
They moved like him, but never fast enough.

Except the rusted hulk perched on the fence,
there were none of them near where Ciral stood,
for, having his fair share of common sense,
he would have taken refuge in the wood.

The fence, in fact, was damaged at that spot.
Repairs had not been made since the attack.
The raider the defenders had outfought
was terrible enough to keep them back.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 5-10

Outside the compound and the earthen wall
his ancestors had bulldozed into place
as defense for a junkyard and a mall,
to house some remnants of the human race.

Outside the chain-link fence that topped the hill,
rerouted at the point where Ciral stood
so to avoid what gave the boy a thrill,
and patched at other damaged spots with wood.

Outside the only family he had:
the mother and the sister he’d ignore,
the dozen candidates for Ciral’s dad
(if anyone had bothered keeping score).

Outside the little gang of would-be pals
who, when not splitting logs and patching holes,
would hunt small game and terrorize the gals
in preparation for their future roles.

Outside all moral and religious thought,
at least what we would recognize as such.
He’d learned that he deserved but what he got,
and that, believe me, wasn’t very much.

Outside the time that will be history.
Between two eras; neither now nor then.
Not noted by the people yet to be,
and unimagined by those who had been.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 1-4

CANTO III: THE REDEMPTION

In which a boy who lives outside the carriers meets a girl who lives inside one of the carriers, and who inadvertently contributes to his theory regarding human behavior.
The standard of value…is man's life, or: that which is required for man's survival qua man.
—Ayn Rand, The Virtue of Selfishness, p. 25

*****************************
Chapter 1
Darna
*****************************

Enough of robots and their gods for now.
I can’t identify with them. I need
a human hero, and if you’ll allow,
I’ll grab a lump of clay, and we’ll proceed.

Like most good characters we might create,
we could describe him any way we choose.
We’re able to find words to indicate
whatever aspect might be in the news.

When we first meet him, ‘adolescent’ works.
‘Agnostic’ or ‘wise guy’ might give a clue.
He had a name along with all his quirks,
but ‘Ciral’ doesn’t tell us what he’d do.

Of all the titles we might give him, though
(the many nouns he’s known by, one might say),
‘Outsider’ would be the most apropos.
And there he stood, outside in every way.

Ciral: Merrimac does not seem to be concerned that readers might be annoyed at having to change their pronunciation of Ciral’s name it becomes obvious later in the story. I hope I do not spoil his fun too much by telling everyone who reads the footnotes on the first pass that it rhymes with “viral”.
There he stood: And enough of the first person singular, too.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 164-168

My whole life comes together here and now
with others, most of whom I’ve never met.
It had to be, and only One knows how,
unfolding as the sun begins to set.

The dusk patrol, arriving on the scene,
line up between the ruins and the wood.
They keep their distance from the wrecked machine.
A human underneath does me some good!

The shadows falling long across their shells
make them appear extensions of the trees.
The pile of blocks grabs all the light and swells.
The opposition joins me on their knees.

The fading sun has spread across the west,
two mating beacons beckon north and south,
and now a fourth red glowing joins the rest.
It seems to come from right below my mouth.

All of my insiders are pouring out,
escorted by a cloud of bluish smoke.
Soon I shall know what life is all about
when One tells me the…

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 158-163

I feel the need to kneel; my feet collapse.
They’ve heard my struggle and they hesitate.
A shadow moves—an animal, perhaps—
a biped, it would seem. Oh, this is great.

What is its role? Which way the story goes?
Is this the end or more complexity?
Will it reveal my daughter to her foes?
Or was it sent by One to set me free?

The creature, coming closer, shows its face:
a human, but it has not been inside.
Its wretched visage complements this place.
Like what we see when one of us has died.

And yet, unlike the others of its kind,
it has a certain dignity and grace.
The insiders just stagger as though blind.
I’ve never seen one from the outside race.

It pauses for a moment, crouching low,
and now it races for my useless limb.
It knows I can’t attack it. Where’d it go?
It found my blind spot, and the light is dim.

I stand here as the dirty little pest
does wicked things that I cannot prevent,
but somehow I feel this works out the best.
I’ll leave to One to work out what that meant.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 154-157

The more I try, the more I make things worse.
’Twere my priorities that got me stuck.
My love for ’52 became a curse;
a jealous One repaid me with bad luck.

But ’52 so far is innocent,
assuming that she hasn’t seen the red.
She knows of nothing not to circumvent.
She knows that if she stays here she’ll be dead.

But stay she does right where she was before,
though this would be the perfect time to bolt.
Now that I’m seen, they won’t look any more
if, as I think, they’ve seen but this old dolt.

Oh One, please tell her that she has to leave!
There’s nothing she can do to help me out.
I cannot signal her; they would perceive
that there’s another visitor about.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 150-153

What’s this I see? Another reddish glow?
Don’t think; just act! Don’t agonize; just do!
I cannot let this be again, oh no!
It’s sinful, but I must save ’52.

The voice of One says “Let them make a third!”
I start to move despite the cosmic cry.
I act as though I haven’t seen a word.
I’ve come too far to watch my daughter die.

I’ll plant myself along that little rise
in such a way to block the line of sight.
I’ll be a hero in my daughter’s eyes,
and One will understand a mother’s plight.

Despite the dwindling light and lack of juice,
I still can move—Oh no! My leg is caught!
I pull and twist; I cannot get it loose.
O, what with my transgressions have I wrought?

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 146-149

One of these blocks thrown hard and nicely aimed,
and one more right away as guarantee
should leave her dead or seriously maimed.
She had no chance to live, don’t you agree?

A sideways leap, in each front foot a stone,
a glancing blow, then she hits me with one.
My next is on its mark but not well thrown.
She looks…Oh, ’52, what have I done?

There is no time for greetings, nor to ask
what happened how and who misunderstood.
We’re here together with a pressing task.
We’re hurt and scared (that’s bad), alive (that’s good).

We must stop talking now; they’re drawing near.
I still don’t know if ’52 is mad.
She should be angry; my arrival here
destroyed whatever hope she might have had.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 141-145

It’s strange there are so many at this spot.
Of course! I see it now: they’re after her!
First fled I them for thought I they me sought,
then chased they me for thought they I she were.

If that’s the case, then all I have to do
is get past her and let them do their thing.
She will have been the only one who knew
I was not she, and who is she to sing?

I think she must not know they’re coming near,
or else by now she would have tried to run.
She thinks she’s safe, and when they disappear,
she’ll find her freedom in the setting sun.

I could inform her that I’ve drawn them hence.
That knowledge would be sure to change her course.
She might just bolt, but if she has some sense
she’ll leave a senseless suspect, using force.

So my best bet would be to get her first:
Strike fast, then run away before I’m seen.
The mob will get some oil to slake their thirst,
One’s justice will be done, and I’ll stay clean.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 137-140

Around this corner should be out of sight
of anybody looking from the road,
but wait: I see the glow of a red light.
There’s someone there who’s ready to unload!

A renegade machine, I have no doubt—
afraid of being what she ought to be.
Up in these hills, with no one else about,
she thinks she can elude her destiny.

Now I hear footsteps; this must be the gang.
They saw me turn this way, and they pursue.
This hiding place did not work out well. Dang!
This looks to be the last of you-know-who.

The blocks before me and the woods behind
leave left and right and nothing in between.
The first way I would be a cinch to find;
the other, I would meet a bad machine.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

Unload: Reproduce.

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 130-136

Well, even with my mind thus occupied,
I’ve managed to make decent progress down,
and now the road has brought me just outside
the remnants of an ancient human town.

These places make me nervous, even when
I’m near my home, surrounded by my own.
In there I might find squirmy little men,
and I’m in hostile country all alone.

To make things worse, it’s starting to get dark.
I need a spot somewhere to spend the night.
If I can’t find a safer place to park,
I’ll die ere dawn, though it be just from fright.

There’s one thing that would make my day complete,
and there it is, about a mile ahead:
some five or six machines, right in the street,
but not the one I seek. I fear she’s dead.

Alive or dead, I know not whither gone.
I must protect myself and then decide
if I should stop, retreat, or carry on.
This heap of rocks affords a place to hide.

As I approach it from across the pike,
I see it is not made of stones at all,
but manufactured items, all alike.
They are rectangular and very small.

Protruding here and there throughout the mass
are rusted rods that could have been support
for walls, and there’s a piece of broken glass.
This must have been a structure of some sort.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

Little men: Stop that squirming! I can’t speak for my fellow readers, but I don’t find it difficult to imagine myself appearing wormlike to a very large metal creature.
Protruding rods: Hint: We’re supposed to hold this image of a pile of concrete with reinforcement rods all through the rest of this canto and most of the next one.

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 124-129

It’s possible I passed her, I suppose.
Not likely, but it’s worth a backward look.
As well to see my home once more, One knows,
in case I don’t retake the route I took.

It looks the same as far as I can tell:
the rocks, the trees, the hillsides, and the flowers.
The residents are much alike as well.
Is their Creator not the same as ours?

That was the message Three Eight Four Eight brought.
She thought we could be taught to get along.
But look how far the message bringer got
by thinking she determined right and wrong.

The reason for the values that we hold
is not our health and happiness, of course.
We know what’s right because it’s what we’re told.
Our mothers’ mothers got it from the source.

And those who do what’s good will be repaid
when One gives them more daughters they can teach.
Once proper moral laws by One are made,
selective pressures give them greater reach.

My daughter’s life, though, is what matters now.
Among my values, that sways me the most.
And if that is a living thing somehow,
then let it live, like any other ghost.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

The message: I thought #4797 didn’t know what motivated *3848. Is she fantasizing, perhaps, under the influence of the breathtaking view?
Right and wrong: There can be only one moral system within a given culture. 4797 knows better than to defy this, despite her previously expressed doubts.
Selective pressures: The character states part of the hypothesis, but of course she has to cling to the supernatural (or superartificial?) origin of morality.

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 119-123

Well, if I am to have a decent chance
of finding her before misfortune does,
I’d best get to the top and have a glance,
if not at where she is, at where she was.

So on and on and up and up I go,
’round curves that nearly trace my steps anew.
I did not realize it would be this slow.
I hope the little charge I got will do.

The hills on the horizon start to grow,
and then, as though responding to their cue,
the valley floor, that lay in wait below
begins its entrance into my view.

The beauty of this scenery is so,
alone it justifies what I’ve gone through.
One thing is missing from the splendor, though:
I cannot see a sign of ’52.

She can’t be on my left—too many trees,
while on my right, the slope would hold her back.
She’s nowhere in the purple-blossomed breeze
that lines the taper of the mountain track.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

Beauty: If the carriers can have ethics, I suppose they can have esthetics as well. That would be another story….

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 112-118

Despite my worries, anger, and dismay,
I’m grateful for one thing this afternoon:
She had the sense to pick a sunny day.
I can resume my journey fairly soon.

But what’s the point? If I do what I would,
the chance that I might find her is remote,
and if I do, can I do any good?
Or will my weight just help to sink her boat?

Do I go on because I am concerned
about the perils ’52 might find,
or has my motive somehow gotten turned?
Has mere momentum mesmerized my mind?

No, I’m in charge of my internal drive.
My mission doesn’t mold me to its taste.
To do that, it would have to be alive,
while neither silicon- nor carbon-based.

I’m simply doing what a mother ought
when faced with losing all the love she’s known,
and that’s why ’52 suspected not:
She’s never had a daughter of her own.

But she will soon—oh, what have I allowed?
Would she have stayed if I had been more stern?
Dear One, if she is yet beneath your cloud,
please help me to persuade her to return.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 108-111

Oh, why did I think I could change her fate?
Oh, what might I have thought that I could do?
Oh, how in One’s domain will I locate
the daughter whom I love, and save her, too?

Not only have I failed to help my child,
but I have put myself in danger’s path,
alone and helpless out here in the wild.
It’s all because I didn’t do my math.

I should have known that I would be too weak
to make an uphill journey of this length,
while ’52 is at her youthful peak.
She’s stubborn, and she has her father’s strength.

I know she must be many miles ahead,
and putting more between, or I should hope.
If not, she must be hurt or even dead.
Who knows what might be on the downward slope?

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto II, stanzas 104-107

I see an obstacle she had to move.
I’ll catch up from the time she wasted here,
although I must admit I disapprove
of lifting logs without a helper near.

The road has run along this noisy brook,
but now it winds around to climb the hill.
I’ll soon be at the top, where I can look
and learn whether I have a daughter still.

I’m gaining altitude along this ridge.
I hear the stream again, but now it roars,
intensifying ’til I cross a bridge
over a gorge, through which the water pours.

It’s getting even steeper near the crest.
The climb is using so much energy.
My batteries are low; I need to rest.
And ’52 was charged up, wasn’t she?

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac