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.
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