M. Banner - Stone Age

Dearest Betty,

You have saved me not only from my physical ailments but also from those much more disabling in my mind. I have a new sense of purpose that I have never felt. I have also fallen in love with you. I know that I will not be able to ask you for your hand until I have made something of myself. So, I will take leave for a short while. Know this, my love, although I am leaving you now, I promise to return for you. I can only hope that you feel for me the same love I feel for you. If, however, you do not, I am still joyous that you have given me so much to hope for. I pray that that day when I am able return to you will come swiftly.

Gord had tried to walk only during the night, something they were all taught, avoiding the daylight and its ruinous light. However, the journey was so long and he feared he would never reach his destination. He kept his walking during daylight to a minimum, knowing the risks, and really only started in the last lunar cycle. He made up much more territory when he found the ancient trails made by previous masses of people. Some of these trails were huge, at least thirty arm lengths, and it appeared that many of the trees were removed to make traveling easier. Oddly, a small channel separated some of the widest spans, as if a mighty river, which had since dried up, once parted the middle of these clearings. He would have enjoyed seeing what these trails looked like when they were built and maybe even their builders.

Every so often, one of these spans would be blocked by an odd arrangement of large grey boulders, some standing tall like monumental trees of gray smooth rock. Often, these rocky arrangements were impassible and required that he find a path around them. When he came upon them, he couldn’t help but see some design to them as if the loose arrangement of gray boulders were actually used for something he would never come to know. Occasionally, Gord would run across some sort of warning, obviously posted by a tribe many moons ago, as there sometimes appeared to be writing on a flat surface that had long since been removed by the harsh elements.

He was covering a lot of ground right now and felt as if he was very close. Perhaps in a couple of days, but not much longer, he would find what he was looking for: a place called Cicada.

He lost track of the days. So many days were the same: waking up, walking many trails, avoiding capture or death by the few other tribes, or the occasional wanderer who was desperate and not part of a tribe. Always seeming to get closer to Cicada, but never getting close enough. He was tired and frustrated, but still hopeful.

Gord stopped for a moment of rest, and a drink of water. The end of his waterskin, a new one he made only a few suns ago, was cool to his parched lips, cracked from the sun. He drank eagerly of the life giving liquid, careful not to drink too fast. Wiping the wetness from his hair covered face, he noticed the dirt from the path caked his hands and no doubt his face, as well. Looking down, he saw that his feet, wrapped in freshly cut skins, were also a grey-black color that matched the path beneath his feet. His legs were a matted mess of hair and dirt, all the same color. A nodule on his knee seeping blood and puss, where he fell shortly after sunrise, had run down his right leg adding the only color to his person. Finishing the inspection, he examined his waist, then chest and then back out to his arms. He imagined he was a pretty scary looking figure right now. He smiled a smile he couldn’t see.

He took in another swallow of water and only realized then, something had changed. The air was different here. Normally, it was dusty, like it was now and sometimes he would smell an animal or the unending yellowish-grey trees around him, but rarely did he smell anything else. Where he stood now, a new scent assaulted his senses, full of death and decay. He was close to people.

Immediately, his mind was on alert and he knelt down, making himself smaller and less visible. This was something his father taught him when he hunted or when he was being hunted. Gord searched all around him to make sure no one was watching. He seemed to be the only one on a long hill, maybe 200 arm spans high, above a long valley.

Looking forward, the three pointed mountain top he had been walking to for countless days was prominent overhead. These final steps had been aided by a flat surface on which he could easily walk. Again, another passageway used by masses of people.

He stood up for a moment. In the distance, not far, but just far enough he couldn’t clearly see, was some object in the middle of the path that looked like a large marker. Beyond the marker was barrier twice his height, and above this was, something he couldn’t explain. The sky above the barrier seemed to reflect some of the sunlight back to him. This made no sense, as there was nothing in the sky to cause this reflection. He started walking towards this marker, first slowly, attempting to soften the noise of each footfall, so as to not alert another. As the distance between him and the object shrank, his pace quickened, as there was now an excitement in his step. It felt familiar, as if he had seen what was becoming clearer. The marker was like a large pile of stones, but smoother than normal and almost silver in color. Inset was a large white flat surface that reflected the blinding light of the afternoon’s sun right back at him. He squinted and held his hand in front of his face, failing to blunt the harshness of the light that mugged his vision, unable to see yet what lay upon it.

The crunch — crunch — crunch of his footfalls were almost at a running pace. Abruptly, he stopped. Rearing up, he stared at the marker, which now stood before him. The cloud of dust, churned up and trailing his swift passage, had now caught up and dispersed past where he stood.

He was motionless for a long breath, taking in what was now plainly visible. The marker was definitely older than he was. It must have been made by one of the great technology tribes his father’s father Stepha told him about; the examples of their existence he had witnessed many times during his long pilgrimage. The marker was as tall as he was and appeared to be made of a smooth reflective surface. He remembered it being called, “metal.” Taking up almost half of the surface was a perfectly square placard, of thin reflective material and a white finish, permanently mounted to the marker.

It had fancy writing on it with a drawing in the lower middle portion of the placard. Over the writing and the drawing, someone else had roughly written something else, presumable later. It said:

The drawing was very familiar to him. When he was standing in front of it, he knew exactly where this image came from.

Gord removed a large cloth sling from his back, which contained all of his belongings. Placing it on the ground beside him, he pulled out a rectangular object and placed it in front of his feet, between the marker and him. He carefully untied a strap that bound the object. Then he unfolded the flaps of leather protecting the prized possession within. He picked up what was inside, what people before him called “a book.” Gord believed it was one of the only books left in all the lands.

He opened the cover. On the first page was written:

“The Adventures of Russell P. Thompson III”

On the third page was the drawing he remembered all too well. He held the book and its drawing up to compare it to the image on the marker. It was the same.