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Cernuous
by Derek Ivan Webster
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The following is an excerpt from Cernuous. For access to the entire story, sign in or create an account to purchase this issue. “It’s good to see you again,” the Magnus said softly. The old man sat atop a small wooden chair, on the other side of the glass partition. He wore a simple white cotton robe. His head was gleaming bald and his long white beard combed to a silky luster. Behind him the small room was empty but for a narrow cot and a single shelf of ancient, leather-bound books. “I would come more often,” nodded the pilgrim, “if it were allowed.” “There is an order established for all things,” said the Magnus. “Save time herself, who takes order from no man,” the pilgrim finished the maxim and the two men shared a polite smile. The old man studied this odd and nameless boy with a familiar sense of disbelief. How was it, exactly, that this mere child had become so important to him? He who had never known his own family, had spent his entire life purposefully removed from the emotional frailties of humanity, now found himself sitting across from a single naïve youth and returning a smile. The older man’s lips couldn’t hold. His brow began to tighten. “And how is your family?” “I don’t know,” the young pilgrim replied. “And have you met anyone new in your travels?” “Ours is a lonely road.” The Magnus shook his head slightly. “This concerns me.” The pilgrim’s eyes went wide. “Sooner let the sun worry about a single bowing flower.” “And what does Raverdi tell us about the relationship between the Sun and its Flowers?” “The Sun burns too bright to see its own path. The Flowers must turn with it, bending when necessary to follow its brightness. And so do they justify its brilliant path through the sky.” “And what does that mean to you?” there was a growing curiosity behind the Magnus’ question. “That I belong here, justifying your presence. Exactly as intended.” The Magnus closed his eyes, doing his best to stave off a deep sadness. He could still recall when his pilgrims had numbered in the thousands. So many that their procession of faces had become one. All their stories had run together as a single ballad of unflinching devotion. These had been heady times. Enough to convince him it would last forever. “Have I done something wrong?” the pilgrim asked, confused. The Magnus considered the question for a moment. He stroked his long flowing beard, and recalled the fate of his once mighty flock. Age had taken many of them from him. The ascetic lifestyle of the Holding gave its followers a longer than average lifespan, but nothing when compared to his many centuries. As the oldest and most faithful began falling away, others were confronted with a world-weary disillusion. The old beliefs seemed increasingly primitive when compared with the brave new theology the world had discovered. At the end, what did he have to offer them? An old face, smiling through the glass, promising them a happiness he himself could no longer manufacture. His sun continued to rise and set, but one by one the garden of flowers wilted and were plucked away. Until only one remained. “Yes,” the Magnus said at last. “You have done wrong, but not to me. To yourself. To your family. To the life you could have lived. Filled with so many questions; so much raw and stubborn love.” The pilgrim sat rigid, unresponsive. His eyes swam with fear, but years of devotion would not allow that sensation to pollute the rest of his body. “I cannot read this riddle,” he said slowly. “You offer too subtle a wisdom, hidden in these strange words.” “I offer the truth!” the Magnus burst out, leaping from his chair and rushing the glass barrier. The sudden movement, the show of such stark emotion; it was too much for the young pilgrim. He fell backwards and cried out in fright. “You alone, still come to stalk this cage!” the Magnus beat on the thick glass partition for emphasis. “You alone still abide by the dead dreamings of forgotten men. You come to mock me. Your blind, aching ignorance makes a fool of what had once been a religion of Magnates and Kings. You are not welcome here. You are not needed. Not wanted. By Raverdi’s brow, I banish you from my presence!” this last he screamed at the top of his voice. “I don’t—” the young pilgrim’s deep, controlled breathing failed him. He clutched at his chest and dug deep for an extra ounce of breath. “I don’t understand.” “Go home,” the Magnus fell to his knees now, all anger melted down to a pleading pool of despair. “By all you find holy in me, in what I stand for, go home and offer this same devotion to your family. The ones that love you. That can care for you. That won’t forget you.” The pilgrim had no time to respond. His eyes drifted past the fallen, defeated Magnus to the open doorway at the back of the room. The men in blue-suits had arrived. Two of them took the old man, one on each side, and a third went to the glass to offer the pilgrim a slightly embarrassed smile. “This relic has grown tired. I’m sure you’ll love the next exhibition, one window down, please,” the man said. “I come only for the Magnus,” the pilgrim had scrambled to his feet. His desperation was panting out of him. “I will not abandon the Sun.” “Run!” screamed the old man, carried bodily by the blue-suits, he was disappearing through the back doorway. “Escape while you can!” Cernuous © Copyright 2010, Derek Ivan Webster
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© Copyright 2010, Zefram Media LLC |
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