Back | Next
Contents

EPILOGUE,

being the conclusion of the first tome of Achibol the Sorcerer.

This conclusive chapter in what might be called the first Book of Benadek has no apparent roots in the collected mythologies. The biocybes, however, have certified it with an unprecedented level of confidence.
A more fitting conclusion would have been hard to devise—but there are loose ends. Even the unsubstantiated idea that Benadek alone might be father to the entire Race of Man demands clarification, and the introduction of a quest for Gibraltar hints that there are more tales to be told. Entire cycles of myth have been ignored herein, strong ones like "Benadek among the Cannibals of Orkenor." Have they been discarded, or can we hope that they will find a place in a future tome? Upon what yet-undiscovered legends will their telling depend?
(Kaledrin, Senior Editor)

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Massive, pearly clouds gathered high above the jagged mountain barrier, and low-angled sunlight sprawling across the eastern plains tinted them with the rose blush of early morning. The Tin Mule was heaped high with trade goods and the amenities an old man would need on the long journey ahead. Achibol swung the ancient craft in a great loop around the Valley encampment, swelled now and bustling with the departing population of Continental Defence Treaty Command Post Alpha.

"That's one prophecy that may yet come to pass," he thought wryly, not unhappily. There would indubitably be a city here, a few years hence. Or would it only be a stone lodge and a campground, where sightseers could rest between forays out on the icefield nested among the Alberta mountains above? Eastward of the camp, he searched the ground for the ruins of ancient buildings, but trees had thrust up and died and grown again many times in the two thousand years since he had honeymooned there. The ice had advanced and retreated, and not even the greatest monuments of man could have withstood its grinding progress. Only the graceful northeasterly arc of the valley itself marked the route of the old road.

He proceeded slowly, savoring bracing mountain air laden with spring flower-scent and traces of everlasting ice. There was no hurry. Either his old heart—and his new, jury-rigged one—would last, or they would go out in spatters of melted bearings. He would make it to Gibraltar one way or another—on his own feet, or as a reluctant, carping, complaining passenger in the mind and body of his apprentice, who was up ahead.

Focusing an augmented eye on two specks barely in sight around the curve, he smiled. The tall young man walked with a lean grace no honch could have shown. Benadek had been changing again, to suit himself, this time—and Teress. Arms around each other, the lovers strolled slowly out of the now-vigorous Vale of the Dead. It was an awkward way to walk, so entwined, but Achibol suspected they could continue that way for as many miles as they wished.

 

 

 

 

POSTLUDE

The Great School, Midicor IV

 

"Hey!" Abrovid exclaimed. "That's Kaledrin's terminal!"

The gangly simian-form turned slowly, and squinted at Abrovid's low silhouette. "Ab?" it asked. "Is that you? These simian eyes aren't as sharp in the infra-red as my old ones."

"Kal? Kaledrin? No! I can't believe it. You, a simian-form? After all the troubles we've had over them? I thought you'd become a nice, flexible amoeboid or something. I thought . . . I thought you were . . ."

"What, Ab? What did you think?" Kaledrin raised a graceful black eyebrow.

Benadek, Abrovid thought, relieved. He looks like I imagine Benadek to have looked.

"Promise you won't laugh, Kal?" he pleaded.

"Why would I laugh at you? Tell me what you thought."

"For a moment—just because the light was bad, mind you—I thought you were . . . Saphooth."

Abrovid realized then that Kaledrin had not really promised not to laugh. The bony simian-form whooped, bellowed, and cackled with horrible mirth. Chagrined, Abrovid backed away from the doorway. When Kaledrin continued to chortle, slapping long, five-fingered hands on thighs all too similar to Saphooth's bony shanks, the programmer retreated even further, leaving the echoes of that laugh—Saphooth's laugh—far behind.

"That's it!" Abrovid decided aloud as he hastily dictated his resignation. "I'm finished. The job is done, and the tale is told. I'm going to take a long, hot vacation before I look for a new job."

Back | Next
Framed