A Dispatch for the Disparate: From Penthos

Dispatches for the Disparate:

“Mama,” I heard a child cry as I walked down the plank.

This was the first sound, but it quickly faded into the background of a permanent lament. I'd been told visiting Penthos would be an unforgettable experience, but not one everyone could recover from.

Physically, the Penthians are much like us. Aside from their three eyes, four legs, azure scales, and the absence of teeth. Their similarities transcend these otherworldly traits, but they've built a radically different society atop their belief in the values of compassion, memory, and time.

From the exit of the spacecraft, I saw a sprawling hovel city, shrinking under the shadow of an innumerable number of majestic monoliths. The huts all appeared to be single story constructions, allowing one to see the people milling about in the streets. They meandered about, rarely engaging in conversation, but maintaining a ceaseless moan.

Then a party detached itself from the mass and approached us. In spite of my preparation, and their languid movement, anxiety awoke in my stomach as their titanic forms towered over us. I felt as dwarfed by them, as a hut cowered before a monument, but I didn't shrink from their greeting. We represented an official delegation from the United Nations.

Sir,” said a sonorous voice from the leader. “We can not express our gratitude for your visit to a people you do not know, who share no relation to yourself, and who you will never see again. With only a finite time to spend with family and friends, to expend mourning your past, present, and future losses, your willingness to exhaust even a few hours gifts us a great honor.”

“And your willingness to speak to us, when you could be wailing for the future deaths of your children, and weeping for the passing of your parents, demonstrates your boundless hospitality,” replied my companion.

You see, dear reader, I wasn't the diplomatic head of a duo delegation, but of course, the recorder of our our interaction, so future generations of The Disparate, as we are known intergalactically, may better understand the Penthians. The conversation was polite, generous, but terse.

“Would you suffer a tour of our city?” chanted the leader.

My companion smiled, a sudden titter among their five members, and then replied, “We appreciate your liberality with your time, but we decline. We are scheduled for an eating later this evening, and would be glad (a gasp) to postpone further talk until then.”

“While we are temporarily parted, may we be allowed the privilege of grieving for the future experiary of yourselves and your kin?”

“You do us a great distinction, and may we walk about the city?”

“Yes,” he said, and without a further word, the five of them turned, immediately bedecked with tears, and quavering a wordless elegy to the bright day. They strode firmly, but without direction back into the throng of citizens swarming about the streets. I looked at my companion, and he said.

“Feel free to explore the city. We have the meeting later.”

“Is it safe?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Penthos is the safest inhabited planet in the known universe. The crime rate is zero. I'm sure you'll be able to discover the source of their peaceful culture.”

With that he waved me into the crowd. I discovered that they were not as tightly packed as I'd first believed. Certainty their size influenced my misunderstanding. Upon further inspection, I realized their homes were shorter then their bodies, and with a bit of patient observation I understood why. The only people in the homes were asleep. They entered them, crawling, only for the purpose of rest.

I was writing my observation, when one inhabitant asked me, “You are a record maker?”

(Recorder's note. I was unable to determine the gender of the people, or any details about the situation. If I refer to a he or a she, it is only to avoid the oddness of calling them, it.)

“Yes,” I replied.

“And you don't record your thoughts in stone?”

“No, this is paper,” and I handed it to him.

He touched it gently, and then began to tear at the notebook.

“Stop! What are you doing?!?”

He didn't appear more distressed than usual. Didn't flinch or cry out.

“What is the purpose of a record on such a flimsy surface?”

“On our planet many thoughts were originally recorded on paper, but now they are stored in computers, a much more durable source of storage.”

I was trying to think of how to explain computers to the person when he seemed to lose interest in the conversation, as if he'd already wasted too much of his precious time. He handed back my battered book, and walked away straight-backed and sobbing.

But another person replaced him in the conversation. I wonder if this was their normal mode of dialogue, with everyone only partaking in a piece, without enough time to complete a thought.

“What is a computer?”

“It's a device which performs many functions. It stores information, calculates solutions to difficult problems, and entertains. In our society it is considered a necessary technological device. I am surprised you don't have any here.”

She looked at me confusedly. “What use would we need for your technology?”

“What about stoves?”

“We pick most of our food, and use fires for the rest.”

“But what about Dishwashers, Dryers, Cars, Heaters, MRI machines, Phones...”

I stopped asking because she walked away.

During this time, I'd been walking toward the buildings on the other edge of the city. Curiosity called. I was near, but a sight struck me to the bone.

“Daddy,” cried a girl. She was standing, grasping the hand of a man, and he was holding as fervently. Tears trickled from their eyes, and I witnessed them observing a beautiful flower growing at their feet. As I watched they keeled, arms entwined about each other, unwilling to separate from the other, but sharing an experience which bordered on the transcendental. As with one body, they touched the vermilion petals, gently stroking the soft texture. With a finger, the father tenderly wiped the tears from the child's eyes, and with a sigh, which only temporarily broke his low lament, stood. She stayed only a moment longer upon the ground, before standing beside him.

Rudely, I interrupted with the most absurd question I could muster. This is duty of a recorder of cultures, for the benefit of the reader, as awkward as it is.

“If the future death of the child saddens you, why procreate?”

He didn't appear affronted, but gazed at me with a pitiable expression for a moment, while she stood with eyes only for her father.

“Children don't generate sadness, the loss of an exquisite life does. But sadness would be a greater magnitude if there was no one to lose. If there was no one to love. And life is the best monument to the past, even if it is not permanent.”

“Some people on my planet don't want to have children.”

“It matters not if they are their own children. Do you believe I only lament for the loss of my daughter?”

I wanted more from him, and I waited. Then he gestured helplessly if uncertain how to explain. But in the face of my silence eventually he continued.

“Why are you not weeping?”

“I can drown it out. On our planet we've learned how. We must.”

He replied, again with a pitiable expression, and then he gestured helplessly as if uncertain how to explain. Finally he said, “See the sage at the sepulcher,” and turned away.

Exiting the city, the area beyond stretched endlessly off into the distance, populated by an uncountable number of monuments. It was almost as if they contained the bodies and records of everyone who had ever lived.

Perhaps they did.

At last I found among the crowd one creature who seemed beyond the the others. In rejection of the upstanding grace the others of her species displayed, she wailed and groaned, rolling back and forth in the dirt, eyes red-rimmed, never ceasing. A sight she was an I stood aside, appalled in spite of my professional detachment.

What I'd the previous people had demonstrated was a strange, but beautiful wonder. But this was, only dross and despair.

I must have made some sound to disturb her recital, because suddenly she shook herself, sat upright and gestured me over.

“You are from another planet,” she said, which was obvious. So I only nodded.

“I see only skulls.”

I waited.

“It's quite easy. One needs only begin with the teeth, which are already visible, so protruding. Then there's your nose, remove the tip, and the empty hollows without eyes.”

She reached out a hand and touched my face. I nearly staggered. It was the gentlest touch I'd ever felt, caressing my deepest fears, and yet knocking lose some part of myself. Tears carved paths through the dirt which masked her face.

“There is nothing but the end, and the existence of an end negates all beginnings and all occurrences,” she said, and passed a hand through my hair. It felt as when my father stroked my head as a slept, and when I tried to wipe dirt from where she had touched my nose, my hands were soaked.

“There is nothing which can make the length of life sufficient, as long as it is measurable,” she said, and she used her own tears to clear the dust which had settled on my face. It felt as when my mother washed me clean in the warmth of a tub.

There is only one purpose in life. To teach a child to prepare to die, but most hesitate, too terrified to contemplate, and begin too late,” she finished and she gather me in her arms, embracing me, encompassing me. It felt as when, in the darkest nights, out of the darkest dreams, my father had come to my cries, clasping me to drive away the darkness.

Their consolations had been deceptions, driven by a death they did not dare to comprehend. But on an alien world, light years from my home, and clasped to the filthy breast of otherworldly creature, I gained the first shard of a solace I'd never known.


I left Penthos eventually, a few hours later, after our meeting with the elders. Maybe I'll write more about it some day.

But I will carry a bit of Penthos where ever I traveled until the day I die.

Recent:

Relevant:

Comments