Eve Takes a Bite of the Apple

It would be another 45 thousand years before anyone would be able to measure temperature with any accuracy, but as far as Shulmillan was concerned, this was easily the coldest day yet of the long winter. So cold, in fact, that he nearly failed to notice the body lying to the side of the narrow road while hurrying back to the hut that, years ago, he’d dug into the side of one of the many mounds dotting the rolling plains that would…in a far distant future…be farmed by large grain producers east of the Ural Mountains. It was the body of a man, dressed in clothing that Shulmillan had only heard described in stories when he was a child. These weren’t animal hides. These clothes were crafted from manufactured cloth and were clearly well constructed. The dusk had begun to settle in quickly and the wind was whipping at his face, so Shulmillan grabbed onto the nearly frozen corpse and dragged it the remaining half mile to the small settlement of which he was a member. Thirty mounds…just like his own…bent defiantly against whatever this world saw fit to throw at them in a stubborn pact of naked survival. Some human communities were nomadic as a result of the great change. Some weren’t. For good or ill, this community was staying right where it had ended up so many years ago, and it was toughing it out.

The snow had stopped falling weeks ago but one wouldn’t have known it due to how well the brutal cold preserved everything in this desolate landscape. In fact, nothing changed very much at all for a large part of the year due to the harsh, frigid climate, with only four months allowing for any obvious signs of life at all. Four short months of sunshine, gentle rains, flowers, field grasses and a grain harvest, framed by eight long months of hellish cold.

(approximate translation) “You have fine clothes that you no longer need, my friend. I will see to it that they are not left to waste” he smiled, as he began to strip the body of its garments once he got it just outside the shielded opening of his mound on the outskirts of the village. In this harsh world of extremes, there was never much room for sentiment. Expediency was the key to survival, and Shulmillan was a gifted survivor.

As he reached inside to unfasten the wool cloak, he felt something lashed firmly against the torso of the dead man. It was a leather pouch. A very richly designed leather pouch at that. He pulled on it but it was carefully tied with several strands of leather string as if to ensure that no matter what might befall this traveler, this package would not be easily separated from him. Shulmillan went inside his mound and came back out with a small blade and cut through the strings and freed the pouch. It was quite substantial in weight and girth, immediately suggesting that this was a food supply. It would come in handy since food wasn’t plentiful and any extra would certainly be welcome. He tossed the package toward the door and continued the strenuous task of stripping the rigid body of its clothing. This was a rare find and these heavy under layers would provide much relief from the harsh climate.

“What are you doing out there?” came a call from inside the mound as Shulmillan continued to struggle with the uncooperative cadaver.

“I found someone who offers warmth and comfort this winter” replied Shulmillan, followed by a grunt and a loud snap, as he separated the right arm from the shoulder of the corpse in order to remove one of the inner layers of clothing. “His wares include heavy, warm clothing. We are negotiating what it will cost for a transaction to take place. I think he might be someone that will bring back old memories for you, Grandfather.”

Chukmillan appeared, pushing the heavy skins away from the opening of the earthen hut to get a look at what Shulmillan was talking about. “This is a temple messenger” he gasped. “I didn’t think that there were such men anymore.”

“This WAS a temple messenger, you mean” laughed Shulmillan. As a true man of his time, he had no use for talk of the old days…the before days…and had less use for those who persisted in preserving the foolishness that had no doubt led to the struggles that were a fact of life in these days. “This messenger has delivered to us the only message I want to hear from him. ‘Kind sir, I bring you warm clothing to aid in your comfort this season.’” Mocked Shulmillan as he wrenched the other arm from the shoulder and began pulling the last of the material off the now broken body.

Chukmillan looked with sadness at his grandson, as the young man continued to violate the messenger’s corpse in order the retrieve the man’s clothing. The world had become savage in the wake of the disaster. The cataclysm itself had been bad enough, but the resulting climatic changes had ground in the devastation to a degree that men had become animals in their effort to survive. Here was a man, that only a couple generations ago, would have been revered and his property respected, but now he is just another hapless victim of the brutal freeze, and one more corpse to be abused, in an effort to gain whatever edge one could manage over the constant onslaught of nature. Chukmillan watched as Shulmillan finally completed his task and dragged the body off to the dumping area. The beasts of the area would take care of the rest once night fell. Meat was scarce in this part of the world and it would be a gift to the ecosystem, as would be all of the members of this community eventually. Even himself at some point. Having lived 64 earth cycles already, Chukmillan knew his moment in the dumping area could not be delayed for much longer. He was very old, and most men didn’t live as long as he had already. But he’d refrained from embracing the harsh ways of the new world, and that had preserved his health. As a member of the clergy staff in the before days, he’d been taught how to eat correctly and had learned of the value of regular physical conditioning. Wisdom that had been rejected after everything changed and the world had become cold and brutal.

“What is this?” Chukmillan called out to his grandson as he reached for the leather pouch leaning against the outer wall of the mound.

“I think it must be food. It was tied against his body. I had to cut many straps to free it.”

Chukmillan picked up the pouch and pushing the skins aside, entered the shelter, moving quickly to the center where a small fire burned…its smoke curling through a small hole in the roof. The pouch was of the finest calfskin, closed with a wax seal containing the stamp of the Wisdom Council.

“This is not food” he spoke quietly, as he tore away the seal and reached within.

It was most definitely not food. Chukmillan pulled scroll after scroll of parchment out of the case, as well as a handwritten letter that was also sealed with the council stamp. He laid the scrolls out before him and broke the seal on the letter. It was written in the old language of the Wisdom Council, and was addressed to someone whose name Chukmillan had never known in the few…yet personally significant… earth cycles he’d served as a messenger to the Outerlands Council when he was a much younger man. As he scanned the letter, he realized that the sender…as well as the intended recipient of this package…had never served the Council before the catastrophe. His training as a Council messenger had been rigorous, and had included the necessary memorization of each member’s name and duty title. That information had been burned deeply into his memory. It had taken on special personal importance…as had all his temple training…since the catastrophe had ended what he’d grown up dreaming would be a life’s profession in service of this prestigious body, and he’d suffered greatly as a result. The fact that he didn’t know these names could only mean that the Council was still in existence somewhere. Chukmillan began to allow himself to get excited over the possibility that all was not lost. That there was still hope for a return to the wonderfully peaceful and prosperous times that humans had enjoyed before the earth had swallowed the Island of Man, and the frozen madness had descended.

The destruction had been so violent, so relentless and so sudden. Hour after hour of wind so powerful that it flattened the buildings, trees…everything exposed to the sheer brutality of its force. The entire world had seemed to explode around them. Hours of shattering earthquakes tore whole mountains, lakes and rivers from the land. Horrifying volcanic eruptions had burst from everywhere at once. It had all been such a complete disintegration of everything, and in such an angry, almost personal, rage-filled manner. But the worst of it all had been the overwhelming cold that had grabbed hold just as suddenly as the instant dead calm once the earthquakes and terrible winds had stopped. It was such an intense cold that all the people and animals that had been killed or injured in the long hours of destruction were quickly frozen where they lay. The psychological and emotional impact of it all on the few small pockets of survivors that had banded together for survival had been beyond comprehension and the profound fear had led to a total embrace of primitive superstitious madness, presented as spiritual enlightenment, in the many years since. Here, Chukmillan held evidence that the cataclysm hadn’t completely destroyed the one chance for humankind to come back from this hell of ignorance and savagery. He struggled to push these emotionally blinding thoughts from his mind, and tried to focus his dimming vision on the letter that he held in his withered hands.

Dearest Malikay,

I have sent my most trusted and able servant to you with what copies we have left of the Wisdom of Man, and I pray that they will meet with the safety and security that your community has given our council’s other priceless treasures. We are to be overrun within the next day, and the heathens will spare nothing and no one in their revenge against what they view as our betrayal of humankind. This is indeed a black time for Man, and although I know that the cataclysm was a natural phenomenon, I too struggle with the injustice inherent in such a savage destruction of what humankind has worked so diligently to accomplish. The ignorant and violent among us have taken total power, and are determined to erase this knowledge from the earth. They are convinced that The Creator has declared our search for truth to be a vile heresy through the massive destruction that was delivered to our doorstep so many earth cycles ago. Their efforts have been tireless, as their conviction is absolute, and we can no longer hold them off. When you receive this messenger, this council will have already died at their hands.

As you know, there are stories that have been crafted to explain this all to the young, once they begin to question life and their world. I have heard that these stories now have evolved to describe our lost world as a beautiful garden that was taken from humankind by our God due to our deliberate disobedience. It is a very simple tale, designed to appeal to children and those who embrace the simple answers, that seeks to erase forever all that our greatest scholars worked so hard, and for so long, to learn and master about our own world. This evil cannot be allowed to succeed, and I pray that from your remote location, you will be free to carry this knowledge forward. The future of humankind depends on the survival of this knowledge. The triumph of ignorance and superstition will forever cripple the whole of humanity with violence and the abomination of power lust. I pray that you’ll be able to succeed where we have failed in preserving our heritage in the face of this disaster.

The hour grows close, and I bid you farewell. Only a handful of our temples continue to exist, and all are under attack. Let us both unite in our prayer that The Divine Creator will grace our effort with guidance and protection, and that this knowledge will survive. I hope to one day feel your presence in the whole of Man.

Salinkay


Chukmillan looked up from the letter. Malikay, Salinkay….these names sounded unfamiliar. They were clearly those of a region that he had no knowledge of. Both names, and the writer’s handwriting, had a distinct feminine quality…as far as he could tell. For Chukmillan, this was a clear indication that both the writer, and the intended recipient, were of the highest status in their respective temples. Women had traditionally been the only ones allowed to lead both the Wisdom Council and all temple councils, and it had been that way for hundreds of earth cycles, serving humankind well. Men hunted and worked the fields, while women raised the children, and taught the traditions to the next generation of scholars and leaders. Men had traditionally proven to be too competitive, unstable and unpredictable to be entrusted with the responsibility of community leadership. When it came to matters concerning the Wisdom Council, it was clearly best for women to assume the leadership positions. The discernment of truth and the pursuit of knowledge were sacred callings. The constant need for power and dominance, that served men well in battle and in providing for the immediate needs of the community, had been well understood to be a weakness when dealing with matters of great and lasting importance, and had wisely been kept from Council affairs. Sadly, the great calamity had turned all of that around, with brutality and physical power becoming the measure of leadership. The results were predictable, with pockets of war erupting continuously between the small fragile groups that managed to survive, and humans turning against each other instead of joining together as they had before. Of course, the blame for the entire fall of humankind had been put on all women since women had been our leaders when it had occurred. Sometimes even Chukmillan had found himself feeling this way, and he had always considered himself an enlightened and educated man. The destruction had brought so much evil…so much hatred. The world had become so dark, and the despair, so profound. Chukmillan had learned long ago that it was best to not hope that it could all be reversed someday. That would be far too much to wish for. Far too much to expect. Especially now, after reading this disturbing letter. The transformation was clearly profound and permanent. The before world was lost forever.

Or was it?

Shulmillan entered the dwelling and found his grandfather pouring over several opened scrolls in front of the fire. “So, it wasn’t food then?” he asked.

“No” replied Chukmillan. “Something far greater and infinitely more important.”

Shulmillan knelt down beside the old man, and peered over his shoulder. It looked like scribbles and some kind of markings. Shulmillan had never seen any value in learning about the scribbles of the before days. No one in their small community had any use for them. Scratching marks wasn’t going to bring food or water, or provide shelter and warmth from the cold. He’d watched his grandfather play with the scribbles before. He was an old man clinging desperately to days long past. These scrolls lying before the fire were a concern though and Shulmillan needed to know what was contained in them.

“What are these?” he asked.

“These are old scrolls from a remaining temple of the Wisdom Council” Chukmillan replied as he scoured the documents in the glow of the fire. “Our traveler seems to have been a messenger sent to deliver these to someone for safe keeping. I didn’t know there were any temples left.”

Shulmillan was shocked. Temple scrolls in his hut? This was exactly what he didn’t need. Life was tough enough without bringing the wrath of the One God upon his household with the reading of these scrolls.

“We must get rid of these!” he shouted, grabbing up the pouch, and reaching for the scrolls on the dirt floor. “The God Of Us All will bring his vengeance upon us if He sees us with these!”

Chukmillan grabbed Shulmillan by the wrist and looked sternly into his eyes. “This is NOT heresy, Shulmillan. This is knowledge. This is wisdom about who and what we are. This was earned through many lifetimes of hard work, sacrifice and discipline. Why are you young people so afraid of it?”

“This evil brought the wrath of God upon us!” shouted Shulmillan. “It brought the cold and the destruction! You know this! Everyone knows this!”

“I have allowed you to live in my hut when others would have left you to die in the wilderness” he continued through clenched teeth. “I have defended you to the others because you are my blood, and I have even endured your blasphemous ramblings, but I will not allow this heresy to come into my home and ruin my life. I have sinned against God by bringing this evil to our door. You must let me destroy it so that it cannot poison us any more than it already has.”

Chukmillan felt a surge of strength and purpose rise within his tired body. “You did not bring this. It was delivered to our door by The One Who Created Us for a reason. We have been chosen to make sure that these scrolls are safeguarded until they can be finally given to the one who they were meant for. Our collective knowledge must survive this temporary darkness, and it is clear that we have been chosen to ensure its survival.”

Shulmillan was beside himself. He’d heard people talk of the power that this heretical material could have over people, leading them to serve the Evil One through mere physical contact with it. It was clear that his grandfather had fallen under its spell and was now determined to serve its dark master. It was also clear to Shulmillan what he would have to do to atone for the sin of bringing this evil into his home. His mind raced as he fought back the panic that had already begun to build within him. He knew that it was the wicked darkness beginning to reach for him now. He had to act or be lost to its power forever.

“I love you, Grandfather!!” he cried out, as he quickly grabbed the old man by the throat and squeezed with all his might. He could feel the windpipe collapse under his powerful grip as Chukmillan struggled in vain. The end came quickly as Shulmillan sobbed, laying his grandfather gently on the ground before the fire. This was the hardest thing he’d ever done in service to his god, but Shulmillan knew instinctively that it was the only course of action once the evil had infected his grandfather. He would take time to mourn the death of his father’s father but there was important work to do first. The heresy had to be destroyed before its evil took possession of him as well. He could already feel it sapping his strength. Corrupting his spirit.

Taking the scrolls and opening them up, Shulmillan quickly fed each one to the fire that burned in the center of his hut. The fire quickly flared with the feeding of these ancient and dry parchments. It was not long before all the scrolls had been offered to the One God of All through the cleansing fire. Shulmillan then turned to the pouch. He hesitated. This was a fine pouch, made of the softest calfskin. He knew that he would be able to find many uses for this bag and he decided to ask his god if it would be okay for him to keep it, even though it had carried the heretical materials. Just as he whispered his short supplication, a wind gust blew strong against the heavy blankets of animal hide that covered the doorway to his mound, moving them ever so slightly.

“Thank you, my God” smiled Shulmillan. This had clearly been the approval that he’d prayed for.

Casting the pouch to the pile of clothing that he’d gathered from the dead messenger, Shulmillan began the task of stripping Chukmillan of his clothing as well. He saw no reason for the beasts of the night to have these skins. They have skins of their own to keep them warm. Shulmillan would find use for these as well. He was getting to the age when it would be time to choose a bride from the several that were available in the small community, of which he was a member. With the sad, but not unexpected passing of his aged grandfather, Shulmillan would be a very eligible mate, and would have his pick. The new warm cloth, and the sudden doubling of his personal food supply, would also add to his status in the community. He smiled with gratitude. Already his god was shining blessings down upon him for his faithfulness and his difficult personal sacrifice this night.

As he carried Chukmillan to the dumping area, Shulmillan wondered about possibly using the summer months ahead to migrate to the south and a warmer climate. If the messenger had come from there…as was indicated by his clothing, and the manner of wear on his footwear…it was likely that there were permanent communities there, where an honest hardworking man could find an easier life than was possible here. The new clothes would be valuable for trading and he could get a pack animal in exchange for his mound. He dropped Chukmillan next to the messenger and looked across the area to the patch of scrub trees about 100 yards away. He caught a glimpse of movement. The beasts were coming to feed. They’d be fortunate tonight, he thought as he hurried up the embankment and headed for his mound. He looked back for a moment at the two offerings he’d left.

“We all end up in the dumping area’ he mumbled sadly and turned away. “That’s just a part of life.”

Night had fallen, and the sky was bright with a full moon. It was a beautiful night. Shulmillan paused and looked to the sky. Surely, his god was smiling down on him for what he’d done. He could feel it and it took some of the pain away, easing his emotional distress. He lowered his gaze and pushed into the hut. Tomorrow would be the first day of a whole new life for Shulmillan. It would be best to get some sleep.