The night was cold and long, as nights had been ever since They had come through the crack in the sky and the sun had grown dim and life had become hard for those who remained. They had come, so unlike us, beautiful and graceful and with promises and dazzling silver smiles. They had come, so like us, and boiled away seas and razed cities to the ground and turned night to day so that They could better understand us. They had come and brought the rain that never ended, fields that lay bare beneath a sickly white sun, and forests grim and silent as a tomb.
They had come.
On the hilltop where the hut stood there had once been a city of men – towers of glass and steel lit with a fire that never left them, long since turned to ashes and dust. Hillsides and valleys lay choked with the debris of a vanished age, clustered around the sharp-edged cylindrical hole bored down into the darkness beneath the Earth, silent but for the low moan of the wind.
He had built the hut near to the edge of the hole, by the truncated cliff-edge of the hill. It was whispered among those who remained that They never came near again to the scars they had torn into the face of the world, and so there were always a few to be found within a mile of the great deep pits. He did not know if They came to the pits, and he did not care. He walked among those who remained, silently searching the grubby, haunted faces for signs of recognition among them. He saw only what he must have looked like himself; others searching his own face desperately, wringing out any inkling of familiarity he could display. He had little to say to those who remained, those most like him. They said little to him in return but their presence comforted him – the little sounds that told they were still among the ruined hills, living as best they could among the ghosts of the lives they had once known.
On quiet nights when the clouds gathered thick above the city that had been, he could see Them travelling through the sky, shining lights creeping between the black clouds like lightning that scorned the ground. He would look up, searching the sky for signs of their passing, and hate himself the more for it. They were beautiful, They were terrible, and still he watched the skies for signs of their passing.
From time to time, some among those who remained would come to his ramshackle hut under the pale light of the dying sun and speak with him. In the years he spent living by the pit’s edge, he came to know that those who remained formed a community – nothing like a village as once had been, but a gathered tribe that came and went with the seasons. They wandered where they could, keeping their faces hidden from the crack in the sky whenever they could and creeping over and through the rubble. In what he had come to understand as the spring, they passed near to his hut. Perhaps they were the same people year after year – perhaps they were not. He no longer had the mind to tell apart those who remained – their dirty gaunt faces and rasping whispered voices were as one to him. In the long nights he ate little and slept much. In his dreams he saw Them – saw Them long years ago in the moments after They had arrived, Their feet like things divine refusing to touch the grimy reality of the world. Between earth and sky They hung suspended, beauty and terror in the annihilating void of their wondrous eyes, and They had cracked the cities that had been and cast open their pits in the earth. His people had fallen before Them and They had not cared, and still at night he thought of Them. He thought of Them, breathless and enthralled in the hut he had not known how to build and which did not keep out the rain, and he lived apart from those who remained.
One summer’s day he rose with the sickly light of the dawning sun and turned his numb eyes to the crack in the sky. The light buckled around the crack in the sky as it rose over the horizon and he wordlessly slipped on his gloves and coat and stepped out to gather what leaves he could. He no longer knew why it was that he ate, for he knew he would never again see Them, save as They travelled in the dark of night above the clouds. Taking with him his cracked and weathered jug, he slipped through the ruins on the hilltop to the pit’s edge where he gathered clean water as it fell into the darkness below. As he dipped the jug in the cracked channel he saw a flash far off among the tumbled spars of the valley and raised his head, still and silent. Twice again the light shot out from the dark well of the valley. Carefully he set down his jug between the stones and picked his way through the city that had been to where he had seen the flash. It came once more, feeble and pale as sunlight – stumbling after it, he ran rather than walked.
When he reached the valley, they were thronged around the mouth of a cave, shoulder to shoulder with each other. He pushed his way between them and recoiled when they turned their eyes on him, each one after the other as he swam through the crowd. Defiance was carved on their faces, washing away the numb resignation he had so often seen. At the heart of the cave, lying broken on a stone, lay one of Them – those who remained stared at It but drew no nearer to the still, tarnished body. He turned around and looked at the crowd, mourners and murderers standing bloody-handed by their own destroyer, then turned and sat down beside It.
The beautiful eyes were closed, and the feet that never touched the earth were caked with dust and ash. A cruel hand lay crooked and limp over the unmoving chest. He stayed there, sitting vigil with It, as close as he had ever been since the days when he had seen Them and the world had ended. When dawn came the next day and the crowd who had hunted It had gone, he lifted It in his arms and took It to the pit. Those who remained never saw him again.
They had come.
On the hilltop where the hut stood there had once been a city of men – towers of glass and steel lit with a fire that never left them, long since turned to ashes and dust. Hillsides and valleys lay choked with the debris of a vanished age, clustered around the sharp-edged cylindrical hole bored down into the darkness beneath the Earth, silent but for the low moan of the wind.
He had built the hut near to the edge of the hole, by the truncated cliff-edge of the hill. It was whispered among those who remained that They never came near again to the scars they had torn into the face of the world, and so there were always a few to be found within a mile of the great deep pits. He did not know if They came to the pits, and he did not care. He walked among those who remained, silently searching the grubby, haunted faces for signs of recognition among them. He saw only what he must have looked like himself; others searching his own face desperately, wringing out any inkling of familiarity he could display. He had little to say to those who remained, those most like him. They said little to him in return but their presence comforted him – the little sounds that told they were still among the ruined hills, living as best they could among the ghosts of the lives they had once known.
On quiet nights when the clouds gathered thick above the city that had been, he could see Them travelling through the sky, shining lights creeping between the black clouds like lightning that scorned the ground. He would look up, searching the sky for signs of their passing, and hate himself the more for it. They were beautiful, They were terrible, and still he watched the skies for signs of their passing.
From time to time, some among those who remained would come to his ramshackle hut under the pale light of the dying sun and speak with him. In the years he spent living by the pit’s edge, he came to know that those who remained formed a community – nothing like a village as once had been, but a gathered tribe that came and went with the seasons. They wandered where they could, keeping their faces hidden from the crack in the sky whenever they could and creeping over and through the rubble. In what he had come to understand as the spring, they passed near to his hut. Perhaps they were the same people year after year – perhaps they were not. He no longer had the mind to tell apart those who remained – their dirty gaunt faces and rasping whispered voices were as one to him. In the long nights he ate little and slept much. In his dreams he saw Them – saw Them long years ago in the moments after They had arrived, Their feet like things divine refusing to touch the grimy reality of the world. Between earth and sky They hung suspended, beauty and terror in the annihilating void of their wondrous eyes, and They had cracked the cities that had been and cast open their pits in the earth. His people had fallen before Them and They had not cared, and still at night he thought of Them. He thought of Them, breathless and enthralled in the hut he had not known how to build and which did not keep out the rain, and he lived apart from those who remained.
One summer’s day he rose with the sickly light of the dawning sun and turned his numb eyes to the crack in the sky. The light buckled around the crack in the sky as it rose over the horizon and he wordlessly slipped on his gloves and coat and stepped out to gather what leaves he could. He no longer knew why it was that he ate, for he knew he would never again see Them, save as They travelled in the dark of night above the clouds. Taking with him his cracked and weathered jug, he slipped through the ruins on the hilltop to the pit’s edge where he gathered clean water as it fell into the darkness below. As he dipped the jug in the cracked channel he saw a flash far off among the tumbled spars of the valley and raised his head, still and silent. Twice again the light shot out from the dark well of the valley. Carefully he set down his jug between the stones and picked his way through the city that had been to where he had seen the flash. It came once more, feeble and pale as sunlight – stumbling after it, he ran rather than walked.
When he reached the valley, they were thronged around the mouth of a cave, shoulder to shoulder with each other. He pushed his way between them and recoiled when they turned their eyes on him, each one after the other as he swam through the crowd. Defiance was carved on their faces, washing away the numb resignation he had so often seen. At the heart of the cave, lying broken on a stone, lay one of Them – those who remained stared at It but drew no nearer to the still, tarnished body. He turned around and looked at the crowd, mourners and murderers standing bloody-handed by their own destroyer, then turned and sat down beside It.
The beautiful eyes were closed, and the feet that never touched the earth were caked with dust and ash. A cruel hand lay crooked and limp over the unmoving chest. He stayed there, sitting vigil with It, as close as he had ever been since the days when he had seen Them and the world had ended. When dawn came the next day and the crowd who had hunted It had gone, he lifted It in his arms and took It to the pit. Those who remained never saw him again.
