By Anthony Paolucci

Since I was a child, I had heard tales of the People. A group of nameless survivors who braved the desolate lands long after the sky was scorched. They were a myth to some. Others, the last hope of mankind. No one knew their names. No one knew what they looked like or how many they numbered. Some believed they were part human and part animal. Covered in fur or scales, depending on who was telling the tale. Some believed they dwelt beneath the sea, coming ashore only every full moon to taste the air – or what passed for air now. Some believed they hid in the mountain caves, copulating with beasts, though only for pleasure. For the People could not procreate. This was their curse. The People could not make new life. When the sky became scorched, they still lived above ground. The People were hurt, their bodies damaged, and when the last of them expired, the People would be no more. They had but one chance. They must wait until a new life emerged to join them.

What happened if and when this new life appeared to them, no one could say for sure. Some believed the child would grow and mature, and one of the People would mate with them, since the child’s body had not been damaged with the scorching of the sky. Some believed the child would merely be a symbol of faith and renewal. It would rise up and lead the People to an oasis of untouched land, where the soils were still fertile and the waters clean. Then the People would heal and be able to increase their numbers again. No one knew for certain. There were only the tales that foretold these events, and there were many variations. Only one thing every tale agreed upon, its phrasing never deviating from one story to the next: the child would be the People’s first taste of new life.

My tribe, we live beneath the ground. An endless network of tunnels and caverns, away from the foul air, polluted waters, and the beasts that would make us their food. Our numbers are dwindling. Age, pestilence, famine, and toxic parasites and molds have been harvesting our lives over time. We eat the fish in the subterranean streams, the lichen that coat the dank walls, and the roots that peek out from beneath the earthen floors. But these things are becoming scarce. There is not enough for everyone, and many have gone without. The elders were the first to surrender their portions to the young, the strong. Soon, however, the young became the old, and the only ones left were me and two others – a man and woman who told me they are my parents. But no one knows for sure. It does not matter. We live and die by our willingness to help each other survive. We are each other’s father, mother, sister, or brother. Whatever you need us to be. Yet no more. Only the three of us remain.

One day I awoke in the darkness. This was unusual since it was custom to keep the torches burning to ward off the worms, scavengers that did not pass up a meal of living flesh if they happened upon it. Yet it was not the darkness that roused me. Nor was it a troubling dream. I did not dream anymore, not since I was a child and first heard about the People. No, it was the sound of a crying babe.

I stood up from the ground and followed the strange sound, one I had never heard before. Yet I could still recall the mewling of kittens and whimpering of puppies from the old days, so I knew the sound to belong to a creature fresh with life. Its pitiful tone was human, and I was instantly compelled to protect it and guard it from harm.

When I reached the place where the babe lay on the ground, the man and woman who were my parents were standing over it, perplexed yet fascinated. For there was another part of the old tales that most but not all agreed upon. When the child came into being, whatever remained of the tribe would perish, and only the youngest and strongest of them would survive to bring the child to the People. This bleak realization gradually stole over my parents as they stared down at the naked babe, whose arms and legs clenched with every bellowing wail. If it was not quieted soon, it would attract the worms – or worse.

Yet my parents did not become afraid as the reality of their fate became known to them. They resigned to its truth, because they knew they had no other choice, no power to stop events as they were meant to occur.

I bent down and lifted the child up off the ground with my pale-white arms, and it immediately grew silent. It stared hard into my eyes, its pupils large and dark. In turn, I stared back. I determined the child was male, but I did not give it a name. None of us had names, there was no need. I could not wrap the shivering babe in clothes, for we had none. No one of the tribe covered their bodies. We did not have access to animal hides with which to fashion garments. Over time, our skin grew hard like leather and adapted to our earthen environment, strewn with sharp stones and jagged rock. Yet in my arms, even without the meager comfort of a blanket, the child grew lax. As if the small creature felt instinctually safe.

I could see my parents staring at us. They knew what must be done. And they knew what would happen to them once it came to pass. They told me to leave the underground realm and never return. If I ever came back, they would not be there. They did not know how the child came to be, who brought it to our lair, or who birthed it. They found it as I had done. They only knew its purpose, according to the old tales. The child must be brought to the People, their first taste of new life. Only then will mankind persevere. Only then will we be saved.

My father turned and left. When he returned a moment later, he carried strange objects in each hand. He told me the item in his left hand was called a bow and his right hand held a quiver of arrows. He explained how they worked and assured me so long as my aim was true, I would never miss. Nor would the quiver ever run dry, regardless of how many I fired. He did not say how he knew these things. The objects were left behind by the first of the tribe, before the scorching of the sky, and blessed by a madman, who was believed to be the first teller of the old tales. I did not test the validity of my father’s words. I only accepted them as truth.

My mother assured me that for the duration of my quest, both the babe and I would never tire, become hungry, or grow thirsty. We would not become ill or require sleep, and the beasts would not find us appetizing. When I asked what need I might have for weapons then, my father simply said there are greater dangers than the beasts that lurk beneath the scorched sky. They reminded me the child would be the People’s first taste of new life, and the future of mankind rested with me. I did not need to be reminded. It was all I could think about now. I imagined future generations of people, civilizations sprouting up with the child’s arrival, and their thriving numbers beating back the darkness. New minds would invent ways to clean the soil, the air, the water, and heal the sky. New minds that would come from new lives. New lives that would begin with the child. The People would make all of this so. Perhaps I would not see it in my lifetime, but knowing I would help bring it about was enough to fill me with righteous purpose.

I do not remember when I went to sleep that night. I do not remember anything leading up to the following morning. When I awoke, my parents were no longer there. I knew they were not a part of this world anymore, though I did not know the nature of their fates. The child lay peacefully on the ground as if in wait. Without preamble, I lifted the child, shouldered the bow and quiver, and made my way for the tunnels I knew led to the lands above.

I trusted my parent’s last words, though I had no reason to. They were not even sure what they told me was true. But I had no choice. The child must be brought to the People. He must be their first taste of new life. And I would be the one to bring him there.

Throughout our journey, we encountered many types of weather. We pushed through violent snows. We passed beneath angry rains. We navigated the hot blowing sands. Yet both the child and I remained impervious. Never once did I feel fatigue, hunger, or thirst, as my mother had promised. Nor did the child appear to either. The beasts remained in the shadows. I was given no map or shown directions to my destination. I did not know where the People lived. Nor did my parents. I knew where to go regardless. Despite our resistance to the harsh elements, and our ability to ignore the mortal needs of our bodies, I remained vigilant nevertheless, my bow always at the ready. In one arm, I cradled the child, who rarely stirred, only to play with the ends of my long hair or beard with its tiny fingers. In the other, I held my bow. The quiver was strung around my shoulder, the ends of the arrows within reach.

After many days and nights of traveling, I knew we had crossed over into a new region. Yet our surroundings remained unchanged. Desolate, gray, and still. The air was thick and unrefreshing, as always. The light toyed with the darkness, teasing it with its dull illumination. The child and I were unfazed, and so we continued, until we at last reached a clearing of sorts. The dry, powdery earth before us appeared without scatterings of rock or pieces of deadwood. Only a single boulder stood in the center, like a forgotten altar, and atop this stone was a scorpion. It sat facing us as if expecting our arrival. I knew at once the scorpion was not what it seemed, and I believed it understood I was aware of this.

I approached the scorpion, and when I stood a respectful distance away, I gently lowered the child onto the ground, who lay quietly staring up at the sky.

“Who are you that bars my way?” I asked the scorpion. “For you are no mere beast, are you?”

“You assume correctly,” replied the scorpion, though I only heard its voice in my mind, which was like a stick slowly scratching words in the dirt. “For I was once a god to the People. I taught them how to love. Once they harnessed this ability and were able to express this emotion independently, they showered me with praise and adoration. In return, I gave them what they asked for and needed. When the sky was scorched, they believed I had punished them, so they loved me no more. The People became hateful creatures. I was thus spurned, despised, and eventually forgotten, though each and every one of them can still love, if they so wish to. Children are born without hatred. Give me the child, and I will restore the People’s goodness.”

“I cannot do this thing,” I told the scorpion who was an estranged god.

“Very well,” said the scorpion. “Then you will not move forward.”

The scorpion raised its stinger and began growing, larger and larger, until it was bigger than a man.

In turn, I nocked an arrow and, with careful aim, fired my arrow into the scorpion’s face before it could lunge and impale me on the end of its vicious stinger.

The scorpion’s body began to deflate, whatever passed for life seeping out through the wound I had inflicted. When its body lay shriveled and flat against the boulder, it began to turn to dust, though not before I heard in my mind the words, “Thank you.”

Lifting the child once more, I resumed our journey.

After some time, I once again sensed we had entered a new region. A similar realization overcame me as I studied my surroundings once more, the subtle changes and shifts in the air. When everything settled, I was standing in a clearing of fresh green grass, peppered with colorful flowers and bright red toadstools. No fallen leaf or stray stone littered the small area and in the middle stood the stump of a dead tree, fashioned into the semblance of a chair or throne. Atop this stump sat a creature that seemed both human and phantasm, its light-blue form translucent. It wore nothing resembling clothing, yet its body did not reveal its gender. Still, there was a face and eyes into which I could look. The eyes were like silver coins in which the light gleamed off in blinding rays. Yet I held the creature’s stare comfortably.

“Who are you that bars my way?” I asked the creature, laying the child on the ground to gaze up at the sky. “For you are no mere fae, are you?”

“You assume correctly,” said the creature, its melodic voice filling my thoughts as the scorpion’s had done. “For I am a spirit, and the essence of the People. I am the result of their actions, what remains long after they have committed these deeds. Whether for better or worse, I linger about their thoughts, their conscience, unifying their sense of morale into one cohesive energy, which nourishes their delicate will to continue. The People, however, are imperfect, and too many times have committed deeds most foul, ones damaging to both the individual and the collective. They are impulsive and act on their emotions, whether out of fear, guilt, or ignorance. Children are born without sin. Give me the child, and I will restore the People’s innocence.” 

“I cannot do this thing,” I told the spirit of the People.

“Very well,” said the spirit. “Then you will not move forward.”

Standing up from the stump, the spirit spread its arms out wide and leaned back its head. The spirit closed its eyes, and the light that once blazed forth was closed off at once. The grass, flowers, and toadstools all along the ground turned gray and brittle, until the ground itself resembled a pond of molten earth. Into this mire I slowly began to sink, along with the child, who did not appear afraid.

When I was standing in this strange pool up to my knees, I nocked an arrow and aimed it at the spirit, who did not seem unnerved by my threatening actions. I fired the arrow at the spirit’s heart, who turned into mist upon impact, the arrow disappearing into its cloudy form.

As the mist gathered and ascended upward, I rose up from the molten pool, which turned back into solid earth, yet without the grass, flowers, or toadstools growing upon it. I heard in my mind the spirit’s voice. “Thank you,” was all it said.

Lifting the child once more off the ground, I resumed our journey.

In time, I came upon a beach, whose shores were being accosted by the slow beating of an ocean tide. I had never seen such a large body of water before, much less one so vast that its ends and borders were unfathomable. These waves crashed gently against the sandy edge, as if taunting every grain for being unable to wash away into the ocean at will.

Floating over the water, mere inches from the surface, was a girl-child. She was dressed in a gown of sea foam, her long blond hair hanging down over her naked shoulders. The child sat casually as if bored with my presence, though I had only just arrived. When I looked closer, I could tell she was not bored, but had been expecting me. Thus, she was simply unaffected by my coming.

Now familiar with the protocols of these encounters, I lay the babe on the beach and said to the girl-child, “Who are you that interrupts my travels? For you are no mere child, are you?”

“You assume correctly,” said the girl-child, whose soft, fluid voice I heard with my ears. “I am a soul, and the heart of the People. When they were formless and new, I was each and every one of them. All of them who were, and all of them yet to be. I am their beginning, before experience, before regret, before love, and before pain. I am their ending, a place to which they will return when corporeal no more. Mortal existence cursed them with choices that shaped their destiny. I am sister to spirit and our purpose is similar. The People made decisions that paved pathways to what has become of their kind. Many of these decisions were made without prior knowledge of their fate, for none but my kind can see the future. The People were damned, regardless of their inability to foresee the results of their choices. They became divided, opposing each other with belief, philosophy, and various interpretations of morality. They broke into factions and defended the values on which they stood with their very lives, whether or not their sacrifice had any worth or positive effect. Children are born without corruption. Give me the child, and I will restore the People’s purity.”

At the very idea, I hesitated.

Was I tempted to surrender the babe and abandon my sacred quest? The girl-child was convincing in her sincerity, and I believed she was capable of what she claimed she could do for the People. And what sort of person would ever ignore the chance to be pure again?

Yet rationality quickly took hold, returning me to my sense of duty.

“I cannot do this thing,” I told the soul and heart of the People.

“Very well,” said the girl-child who was a soul. “Then you will not continue your journey.”

The girl-child closed her eyes and the water around her swelled. Waves grew into tidal giants, forming some distance behind the child and slowly creeping forward toward the shore. As they grew, the white of their foam roiled, lining the top of their crests like hundreds of stampeding white stallions, hell bent on trampling any and all who stood in their path.

As I fitted an arrow to the bow string, I noticed an acrid smell in the air. Where once the ocean rang with the scent of salt and brine, now only a rancid, noxious odor remained. I knew then the water had been turned to poison, the kind that melted anything it touched.

I loosed my arrow at the soul of the People, and, upon impact, the girl-child dissolved into a spray of water. She became one with the ocean, whose tides quieted and returned to the endless rippling of slow-moving waves.

I heard in my mind the soul’s voice, whose words echoed like a fading memory. “Thank you.”

Lifting the child once more, I resumed our journey.

Following the sandy shore, I walked a great distance, never turning inland. When I reached the end of the shore, which rounded into a peninsula, I followed the curve of the land which led me to a bridge. The bridge that connected the edge of the shore to the land beyond was made of wood and metal. It had been built with care and precision and appeared to have stood usefully for longer than my mind could comprehend. I stepped onto the sturdy construction, bow and child in my arms, and crossed over into a new territory.

I sensed them near, the People. I could smell their ingenuity, their progress, and their cunning. It was in the air, which seemed thinner, cleaner, and easier to filter through my lungs. I detected the scent of freshly hewn trees for building, clay for molding, hot iron for welding, and strongest of all, freshly skinned animals for tanning. These smells would never be found amongst my tribe. These materials were exotic and beyond our ability to craft or even locate. I ventured further, albeit more carefully. I could now hear voices, speaking in an articulate tongue, and not merely grunts and growls. Their speech was formal, spoken from learned tongues rich with knowledge. This intriguing sound aside, I only heard what likely amounted to a small number of beings.

I pressed on, not knowing what I would find or how I would be received. My grip tightened on the bow, and I pulled the child closer to me, even though I knew my purpose was to deliver the babe to these people.

Their first taste of new life. Their hope for the future of mankind.

What awaited me took me by surprise, despite being prepared for anything my imagination could conjure. A village lay spread out in a lush, shallow valley. Small domiciles made of lumber. A drinking well surrounded by stone. Storehouses and granaries. A steepled building with a large bell hanging in the belfry. Metalsmiths working a forge, tanneries, and corrals of livestock.

Beyond the modest structures, far in the background, lay a field of stone markers sticking up from the ground. There were many, all of which were in the throes of age and decay. They had stood for a very long time. Throughout this field were also cairns, both large and small. I even saw what appeared to be blackened patches of earth, the length and width of a full-grown man. These, too, were very old.

At one end of the village were rows of crops. Many different types of vegetables, each represented in a long straight line. They were plentiful and ripe. I knew then the inhabitants here never went hungry, nor was the weather ever unkind to their bounty.

Wandering about freely were the People. The men’s faces were shorn, their hair clean and neat. The women were demure and poised, their mannerisms soft and unassuming. All of them were clothed. Though their garments consisted mainly of hides, the items were practical and well-fitted. They wore shoes on their feet and carried satchels made also of hide. They pushed wagons with wheels, filled with sacks of seed and flour, and bales of hay. No one brandished anything in the way of a weapon, only tools. These humans did not know fear. And yet, they did not appear mirthful, as if they were merely going through the routine motions of the only life they had ever known.

The People were simply existing.

Most notable was their numbers. Perhaps ten at most, more if some lingered in the cottages or buildings nearby. No one appeared younger than middle age. Some appeared closer to the end than others. But there were no children. These were the People.

When I entered the village, everyone paused in whatever they were doing, as if time had suddenly frozen. Every pair of eyes were turned my way, but I knew they were not looking at me. They were looking at the child I carried. I took another step, but no one moved or looked away. Once I stood in the center of their humble civilization, they all turned their bodies to face me. No one spoke, and any conversation they had been in the midst of before my arrival ended abruptly. I was not instructed on what to do once I had reached this point in my journey, so I waited a moment for someone to give me direction. Yet no direction came.

I slowly rested my bow on the ground, and with both hands lifted the child in the air, presenting him to the People.

Their arms collapsed to their sides, their eyes widened, and their mouths slackened slightly, as if they were witnessing a miracle they had only dreamed about.

Then, one of the women moved cautiously forward, her mouth turned up into a curious grin.

She wrung her small hands together anxiously, and her breath quickened. She approached me as if I was merely a statue holding aloft the living creature in my hands. I was insignificant, nearly invisible. With both trepidation and reluctant excitement, she reached out with both hands for the child.

“Our first taste of new life,” she uttered reverently, never speaking above a loud whisper.

Then at once, every other person in earshot uttered, “Our first taste of new life,” before moving toward the woman, who had by now taken the child from me and was cradling it carefully in her arms.

I stepped away, still intrigued by all I was seeing. My chest swelled with warmth. They would take this child and care for it, prepare it for maturity and the perpetuation of humanity. Whatever that entailed. All looked on the child with the same reverence and awe as the woman. Every mouth was turned upward in varying degrees of joy. They moved closer, and the woman shifted the child in her arms so everyone could see him more clearly.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a few more bodies emerge from the various dwellings about me, and they too, moved toward the child. Joining the gathered group, everyone pressed closer, bathing in the vibrant hope that radiated from the tiny life in the woman’s arms. And still, no one acknowledged my presence or thanked me for having brought them the child.

I retrieved my bow from the ground, basking in the success of my achievement. I did not know what came next or what I was meant to do. Should I return to the underground caverns and tunnels where once lived my tribe, despite my parent’s instructions? Do I join the People and become one of them? They did not invite me to partake of their world, and I lacked the sophistication and skills to contribute anything worthwhile to their way of life. I decided to leave, yet I would not return from whence I came. I would begin a new life, based on everything I had learned and experienced during my journey. I had no friends, no family, and no mate, and so I would live as a hermit. I would be a civilization of one. I would construct a shelter and partake of food the earth, waters, and forests provided. Somewhere away from the People, yet close enough to share in their natural treasures. I had my bow and quiver of limitless arrows, after all. Having delivered the child to the People, I was content in this endeavor. It provided me with a sense of peace that would carry me through the remainder of my life.

As I turned to make my departure, I could hear them, repeating what the woman had said: Our first taste of new life!

They said this phrase, over and over, until it became a haunting chant.

And with every repetition, it sounded louder until nearly reaching the point of frenzy. Troubled, I turned back around in time to hear the child cry out.

From my perspective, I could not see the child as the crowd pressed their bodies even closer, heads bowed toward the object of their fixation.

But I knew.

I could hear teeth tearing plump, immaculate flesh, and the soft patter of blood on the earth. I could hear their breathing, air moving quickly in out of their mouths as they chewed. Even the rapid thumping of their hearts was made known to me.

Their first taste of new life.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, trying to deny these sounds. The bow fell from my hand and landed at my feet. I placed my hands over my ears, yet I did not think to walk away. Not yet. Only when the People had finished devouring the child, they turned as one to me. Their eyes glinted in the light of the sun overhead. But I could not tell whether they glinted with hope or hunger. Only that their eyes were filled with life. Every gaze brimmed with the ferocity of this living energy, yet I did not know if this quiet force was primal malevolence or the reinvigoration of their lost faith.

I knew only that I must run.