[Fiction] Working title: Kasili (partial)
This is actually cheating a bit, because I've been hoarding this story fragment since last year. I hate the term "post-apocalyptic" but I might just have to use it to describe this one. Both post- and pre-, actually.
Working Title: Kasili
Genre: futuristic/speculative
General idea: A group of reactionary survivors (of an unmentioned technological holocaust) face the imminent end of the world, and take recourse in performing the religious rituals prescribed by their ancestors, the Old Ones.
"Kasili is dying," Amang Roberto said, to no one's apparent surprise. The gradual lengthening of the days, accompanied by the cold creeping over the equator were signs they were told to look out for by the Old Ones. Huli found it difficult to imagine anyone being older than Amang Roberto himself. The old man was as wrinkled, she thought, as any person could be without being dead. Wrung dry, Huli thought, a bit guiltily. Squeezed like a freshly laundered shirt and hung out in the sun. Amang Roberto's liver spots stood out like Braille.
"We must do the ascension rituals then," said one of his guests, a young man that Huli had never seen before. One of the technologists, Huli noted with no small amount of scorn. He proudly wore an electric timepiece on his wrist, as if he weren't content with the natural rhythm of the Earth. The numerals--strange, angular characters--blinked at Huli. Nine-forty, they whispered tentatively, belying the midday sun pounding on the ground outside.
"Too early," Amang Selmo said, exposing teeth blackened by betel nut. "We must pray to Bathala. Bathala will find a way."
"The Old Ones have predicted this," the young man said, "and they mention nothing about praying."
Amang Selmo made the sign of the cross, one of the old rituals of unknown origin. "Shame, shame," he muttered.
"There's always some benefit in prayer," Amang Roberto said. "Or if there is none," at this he crossed his fingers, "at least there is no harm."
The men were gathered at Amang Roberto's veranda, an emergency meeting, but without the briskness associated with emergency. Of late, the trend had been the slowing down of long-established rhythms. Kasili, the giant eel that ground the Earth into it's rotations, was failing. It seemed to be a slow and painful death.
Huli herself was not slow--as her name might suggest--as she cleared away the empty glasses of tuba. She was Amang Roberto's ward, and though the old man was gentle with her, the others did not take so well to her presence. She could see Amang Selmo's mouth quirking as she cleared away his glass.
"Let us discuss this," Amang Selmo said, "when there are no breaches in security." Huli quickly withdrew from the party, folding herself smaller by a slight bending of the joints, a slight closing of the mind. A lone eagle was riding what was left of the warm updrafts of summer.
The men hummed and averted their eyes, but not without looking sideways at Huli, sixteen years old and bereft of the artificial protection of childhood. Huli watched the last eagle of summer, wondering where the rest would go. What would become of them?
"Nonsense. She deserves to know, as does the rest of the colony."
Huli looked up at the unexpected help. Everyone studiously ignored her presence, except for the young technologist. He was staring at her openly. He smiled, trying to draw her in. Trying. She looked away and withdrew into the cool shade of the house.
"Pshaw." Amang Roberto spit out the remnants of betel nut. "No use causing mass panic either."
The old men continued their ruminations, chewing over fate and betel with equal deliberateness. Fire or ice, Huli thought. She had read that, or heard that somewhere. Fire or ice, and either one would do. What no one thought of was this: old men sitting on a porch, their muscles loose on brittle bone.
Huli crossed the threshold, and went out through the back door of the house. The sky was empty, cloudless. Even the eagle had gone. She leaned against the wall, peeling white stucco, and closed her eyes. The sun flared orange against her lids, reminding her of the way eggshells glowed against the light.
It seemed she stayed this way for only a moment, but when she opened her eyes the sun was lower in the sky. A young man encased in a clear plastic membrane sat before her on a wheeled chair, appraising her curiously. His guardian stood by his shoulder, a large solid shadow of a man. Huli knew him from around town. Lakan was his name, and he was a mercenary by trade.
"Madam," the young man said. "Is this the home of Amang Roberto?" Beyond the two men, a motorcar--one of the few remaining ones--idled under an old mango tree. Painted on the doors was a familiar logo: a stylized yellow sun, surrounded by three small stars.
Huli hurriedly knelt before the young man sealed away in his chair. "Your grace, it is." She bowed her head, remembering his face. It seemed normal, if a little pale. A large, but fragile-looking nose. The hint of blue veins around his jaw and neck. His feet, ineffectual, were sheathed in black leather boots.
"Stand up," the young man said with a brush of his hand, brushing aside both Huli's gesture and the sterile air in his soft plastic chamber.
"Yes, your grace," she said, standing up. The straps of her sandals, she saw, had created lighter-skinned bands on her feet.
"I am not Grace," the young man said in a gentle voice. "I am called Sulayman."
Huli led the prince and his guard through the back door, into the house.
* * *
Working Title: Kasili
Genre: futuristic/speculative
General idea: A group of reactionary survivors (of an unmentioned technological holocaust) face the imminent end of the world, and take recourse in performing the religious rituals prescribed by their ancestors, the Old Ones.
"Kasili is dying," Amang Roberto said, to no one's apparent surprise. The gradual lengthening of the days, accompanied by the cold creeping over the equator were signs they were told to look out for by the Old Ones. Huli found it difficult to imagine anyone being older than Amang Roberto himself. The old man was as wrinkled, she thought, as any person could be without being dead. Wrung dry, Huli thought, a bit guiltily. Squeezed like a freshly laundered shirt and hung out in the sun. Amang Roberto's liver spots stood out like Braille.
"We must do the ascension rituals then," said one of his guests, a young man that Huli had never seen before. One of the technologists, Huli noted with no small amount of scorn. He proudly wore an electric timepiece on his wrist, as if he weren't content with the natural rhythm of the Earth. The numerals--strange, angular characters--blinked at Huli. Nine-forty, they whispered tentatively, belying the midday sun pounding on the ground outside.
"Too early," Amang Selmo said, exposing teeth blackened by betel nut. "We must pray to Bathala. Bathala will find a way."
"The Old Ones have predicted this," the young man said, "and they mention nothing about praying."
Amang Selmo made the sign of the cross, one of the old rituals of unknown origin. "Shame, shame," he muttered.
"There's always some benefit in prayer," Amang Roberto said. "Or if there is none," at this he crossed his fingers, "at least there is no harm."
The men were gathered at Amang Roberto's veranda, an emergency meeting, but without the briskness associated with emergency. Of late, the trend had been the slowing down of long-established rhythms. Kasili, the giant eel that ground the Earth into it's rotations, was failing. It seemed to be a slow and painful death.
Huli herself was not slow--as her name might suggest--as she cleared away the empty glasses of tuba. She was Amang Roberto's ward, and though the old man was gentle with her, the others did not take so well to her presence. She could see Amang Selmo's mouth quirking as she cleared away his glass.
"Let us discuss this," Amang Selmo said, "when there are no breaches in security." Huli quickly withdrew from the party, folding herself smaller by a slight bending of the joints, a slight closing of the mind. A lone eagle was riding what was left of the warm updrafts of summer.
The men hummed and averted their eyes, but not without looking sideways at Huli, sixteen years old and bereft of the artificial protection of childhood. Huli watched the last eagle of summer, wondering where the rest would go. What would become of them?
"Nonsense. She deserves to know, as does the rest of the colony."
Huli looked up at the unexpected help. Everyone studiously ignored her presence, except for the young technologist. He was staring at her openly. He smiled, trying to draw her in. Trying. She looked away and withdrew into the cool shade of the house.
"Pshaw." Amang Roberto spit out the remnants of betel nut. "No use causing mass panic either."
The old men continued their ruminations, chewing over fate and betel with equal deliberateness. Fire or ice, Huli thought. She had read that, or heard that somewhere. Fire or ice, and either one would do. What no one thought of was this: old men sitting on a porch, their muscles loose on brittle bone.
Huli crossed the threshold, and went out through the back door of the house. The sky was empty, cloudless. Even the eagle had gone. She leaned against the wall, peeling white stucco, and closed her eyes. The sun flared orange against her lids, reminding her of the way eggshells glowed against the light.
It seemed she stayed this way for only a moment, but when she opened her eyes the sun was lower in the sky. A young man encased in a clear plastic membrane sat before her on a wheeled chair, appraising her curiously. His guardian stood by his shoulder, a large solid shadow of a man. Huli knew him from around town. Lakan was his name, and he was a mercenary by trade.
"Madam," the young man said. "Is this the home of Amang Roberto?" Beyond the two men, a motorcar--one of the few remaining ones--idled under an old mango tree. Painted on the doors was a familiar logo: a stylized yellow sun, surrounded by three small stars.
Huli hurriedly knelt before the young man sealed away in his chair. "Your grace, it is." She bowed her head, remembering his face. It seemed normal, if a little pale. A large, but fragile-looking nose. The hint of blue veins around his jaw and neck. His feet, ineffectual, were sheathed in black leather boots.
"Stand up," the young man said with a brush of his hand, brushing aside both Huli's gesture and the sterile air in his soft plastic chamber.
"Yes, your grace," she said, standing up. The straps of her sandals, she saw, had created lighter-skinned bands on her feet.
"I am not Grace," the young man said in a gentle voice. "I am called Sulayman."
Huli led the prince and his guard through the back door, into the house.
* * *