The Gnostic Chronicles: Evermore

            Evermore Excerpt

               Smithson

                                 

                    
          

His horse’s hooves beat against the sand in a steady, percussive rhythm. Each stride was a series of heavy but dulcet thuds that inveigled his weary mind, tugging at his eyelids with the tempo of a soothing lullaby; yet, he rode on. 

 Smithson Pyke was troubled by the steadily rising tides of the ocean. Its swells had consumed so much of the beaches that nearly all the upper island had drowned in the water’s wrath. Waves of churning gray battered the shore with incessant aggression, pulling away the sand in large voracious bites.


The Atlantic was angry. 

There was also a drastic shifting in the once docile winds. Some of the massive airships -- elaborate titans fueled on innovation and coal -- had been tossed about by the turbulent winds and flung into the ocean, their fractured aluminum-alloy frames leaking oil and casting debris, marring the waters. Smithson Pyke surmised that the rogue machines, which day to day hovered over the coastline like metallic honeybees transporting goods and people alike, had not been anchored when the winds came; or, possibly, the controls were set to some sort of autopilot. Still, numerous dirigibles hung in the air, smudging the sky with their billowing, cloudy signatures. With each puff of sooty exhaust, they added to the already thickened cloud cover.

 There were times, unfortunately, that an airship was sent off-course by the violent currents, careering into one of the towns dotting the length of the barrier, razing the establishments to the ground. He had witnessed many of these conflagrations since beginning his ride south and regarded the destruction with lamented sighs as he watched the buildings burn. Already, many lives had been lost, and the storm had just begun.   

 Carriages and crankrods congested the road that divided the Bank’s beaches, doubtless making their way up the coast and inland, away from the inclement weather and hungry fires. He rode his horse, Yates, only a dozen of meters away from the vehicles as the ocean crept closer, bullying the remaining thin strip of land. 

 Taking a carriage wouldn’t have been faster, what with the building traffic, and even if he’d been given the option, he loved his mare and would always opt for traveling horseback. Smithson found the notion of riding along in a horseless carriage to be an excessive luxury; it was one of the modern amenities that he was entirely against -- that and the automaton horses paraded through some of the larger cities.    

 You’re confined to a roadway, and look what good that does you, Smithson mused, patting Yates on the neck and rolling his eyes at the clustering of headlamps that presently formed a rather lengthy queue.  

As he raced south, the effects of the encroaching storm became sadly, more prevalent. Creators, this storm is drawing in fast, he worried. 

 Sprouts of seagrass peeked above the surging tides, and lifeless fish, some covered in the black thickness of petroleum, mingled with the reflective gleam of nonspecific scraps of metal. Collectively, they peppered the scant amount of beach that remained in grim confetti. The littered landscape unnerved him; he felt powerless.

 Turning his face toward the bruised sky, a cold tremble ran the length of his body. These occurrences were not what had been planned, and this was not something he felt capable of handling on his own. He had played his part to the fullest and to the best of his ability. Every calculated move that he and others like him made affected the performance -- the burlesque -- that was the world he knew, a world the Gnostics had created and maintained. 

“Give more, Yates!” Smithson yelled into the howling winds, pressing the heels of his boots into his mare’s flanks. With a burst, Yates ducked her head and picked up the pace.

 It was then that the rain began, and ground-hungry raindrops took jabs at his face, obscuring his vision. Letting one of his hands go from the reins, he pulled at the goggles that swung freely around his neck. The leather strap and brass buckle, used to tightened the eyewear, tangled in his mop of curly, brown hair, but with a forceful tug and a grimace, he managed to get them over his eyes. His nose and mouth he covered with his favorite black and white checkered cravat.  

 Smithson’s breath caught in a choke as he looked into the sky again and noticed that, even at top speed, he and Yates could not outpace the darkness gathering over the Banks. The only thing giving him solace was knowing that once he reached his sister, she would see that all the chaos was brought to order, and that wrongs were made right. He was certain she would ease his nerves with a cursory flick of her wrist in response to the sudden flux in weather. Smithson was confident that all the tumult, all the mayhem that was tearing apart a perfectly organized world, was an essential component of an organized agenda.   

* * * * *

The last time he and his sister had corresponded, she hadn’t seemed the least bit concerned over the subtle changes in weather pattern, crop production, animal propagation, or coastal erosion; nor did she bat an eye at the increase of human afflictions, such as the flu and bronchitis. Gnostics, from even the farthest reaches of the Americas, sent news of disconcerting fluxes in the once maintained balances. His sister had told him this, and had she shown a more assiduous concern then, those faint and easily contained variants would never have escalated to the calamitous state in which they now rested. 

 All of these elements had, within the last few months, slowly, insidiously crept into their flawless society. After only a short while they began affecting not only the local communities of the Carolinas, but impacting the larger towns and metropolitan areas farther inland and throughout the great expanse of the Eastern Province.

  
 Francesca Evermore, his sister, was mayor of the Carolinas, a coastal region of the much larger Eastern Province. And the Eastern Province was one of the four quarters dividing North America, running the length of the entire eastern coast and as far inland as the Midwest Territories. It was a position Smithson had implored her against taking, but she was inexorable, always wanting more. Francesca stated often that she was in control, or at least had innumerable subordinates keeping the minor, bug-bite adversities under thumb. 

 Why his sister would have veered from the Gnostic lifestyle of her own volition, left him flummoxed. They were raised to live simply (he and Francesca and all other Gnostics), advised to blend in with humanity, living out an existence of pedestrian camouflage. In the beginning it was easily done.  

But Man was born to progress. Industry and technology sprang up around them, and the desire for more convenience, more engineering, rose to a fever pitch. Some of the Gnostics had chosen to advance in status as well, craving more power, pulling themselves from the shadows, and procuring roles of command. Francesca Evermore became one of the first to take a public office, almost casually topping the provincial election, and overseeing the human populace of the Mid-Atlantic coast. 

 Others, like Smithson, remained in hiding while living with, utilizing, and even at times enjoying the comforts of modern machinery, but all the while keeping themselves veiled from watchful eyes.

 For years, as far back as Smithson could recollect, his responsibility had been to watch over the fauna that called the shoreline of the Carolinas home. That was his region, and with earnest, he made sure it remained in a state of placidity. His main concern of late had been maintaining the rising urge for livestock husbandry; it was a task he found arduous, as the need for animals and their byproducts escalated, mirroring the coast’s growing population. 

 There was never a time under his watch that the cattle fields, nor the chicken stocks, had seen anything less than a perfect breeding season; which, in turn, meant that mouths were fed, money was kept in pocket, and the population was kept happy. He made sure that the local farm-life, as well as the hunted wild game, reproduced when they were supposed to, and in abundance. This was his charge, appointed to him by his sister, and he was good at it.

 It was supposed to be simple.  

 Much too quickly, these cycles had been thrown demonstrably off balance and into a state of upheaval. Cattle and their calves were dying for no reason. Complaints flooded in from ranches located throughout the Banks(a thin island chain in the Carolinas), as well as farther inland. Farmers wanted answers, a vaccine, anything.. . . 

 Coal was an expensive commodity, and since the introduction of livestock factory farming -- some fifty years back -- it became a necessitous resource for the business. But no cattle meant no money, and no money made the idle steam-stacks little more than monolithic pillars of destitution.   

   
 Wild birds had already begun heading south. Who’d ever heard of birds flying south in August? But even now, in the typically sunny month, a large majority of the local avian population made haste for warmer, dryer conditions, wings beating for summer. 

* * * * * 

Presently, undue precipitation and buffeting winds assailed him with stern authority, forcing him to contemplate the preponderance that nature was capable of if loosed and untamed.

 Maybe the world should have been left to its own devices? Possibly, have we meddled beyond what was necessary? Everything we do, is in the best interests of humankind -- this was our charge, passed down to us throughout the ages and generations since the beginning of life, so how could we be wrong? Smithson’s mind played roulette, his thoughts spinning and pinging in rapid succession, but never settling on an answer.

 There was another friction against his face, now. A surge of water had taken Yates’s hooves out from under her, and as she struggled to maintain her footing, blasts of sand were kicked wildly into the air. 

 He hit the ground with a concussive thud, drawing his arms over his face in attempt to avoid the crushing force of Yates’s brassed hoof-fall. One blow hit just inches from the left of his head, and another just to the right. It was as close as it could have gotten, sparing injury. 

 With agile alacrity, he somersaulted to his left, pushed himself upright, and gave a relived and puissant exhale, spitting bits of beach from his mouth. Slowly, he rolled his head from left to right, the tight stress that had settled in his neck and shoulder ached with the motion. Smithson Pyke removed his white fingerless gloves and untied the cravat, which had fallen back to the base of his neck. Using the scarfs wetness, he wiped the fog that coated the lenses of his goggles and the sand from his face and lips.   

 He watched as Yates bounded onward in proud subservience, ready to carry her rider to wherever he needed to go. But the mare slowed once she realized that the weighty load she’d carried had gone. He felt naked, desperate even, without his animal; when he was seated on her back, they were connected, now he felt alone.

 Yates circled back, cantering up beside him, and Smithson reached out to grab the reins. Pulling her muzzle toward his own, he pressed his forehead against the white diamond shaped splotch that nested between the mare’s eyes, its milky color standing out like a beacon against the rest of her cinnamon hide. After muttering a few sweet words of appreciation for her having returned, he kissed her lovingly on the velvety bridge of her snout. Yates gave a sharp, wet snort followed by a nicker, and with that, the exchange of appreciation was rounded out. 

 Pushing back his khaki trench, he reached into his waistcoat, withdrawing his showy pocket watch, and eyed the piece of mechanical clockwork with an incredulous cock of his head. He held the time-keep to his ear, and was pleasantly surprised that the springs and cogs hadn’t become waterlogged, the hands still tick-tocking; moreover, if he kept on, within a day or so he would reach Salvo, the town where his sister and her children lived. The storm was intensifying, growing increasingly more volatile; it was essential that he arrive sooner than later. 

 A whisper of ozone, playing on the heavy sweeping drafts, piqued his distress. He once loved the smell -- the salty aroma of an ocean breeze -- but now it left him disconcerted. The world, like a ball of thread held tightly by the tail end, then rolled across the floor, had come undone.

 His tired legs gave out repeatedly as he attempted to mount his horse, so he gripped the pommel of the saddle to help himself along. When Smithson finally managed himself into the leather seat, he twined his hands around the subtle suede bindings that conveyed his will to Yates. This time, however, the commands were not relayed with the normal tugs from the left and right, but through a sequence of silvery static charges that rippled from the hard-clenched reddening of his knuckles, through the reins, and across the mare’s face.

 Spiderwebs of crystalline energy spread from Yates’s head, and within moments her entire body was aglow. He leaned forward, placing his lips near her ear and whispered, “Go.”