Monday, June 22, 2009


Those who encounter this author might well be prompted to ask: "Sir, you are injured? Whence the inflammation of your legs and upper corpus? Whence the pain, so clearly visible in your movements? Whatever has done this to you?"

And he might provide any of the following answers.

He was there, at the last stand of the Fremen; their sand-worms encircled, ack-ack guns on their backs spitting defiance at the swarms of Imperial ornithopters above. He was there, watching them - so proud! Indestructible, they seemed! - until the stone burners fell, and made a mockery of further resistance. It was they that burned him.

Or perhaps he would say this:

There was a thing there, on the sands - dead - long dead. But our arrogance was without peer - we thought we knew better! We brought it back to the land of the living with dark arts, seeking to tame its strength for our own ends; but it consumed us. Only I escaped; and still the wounds of it are with me.

Or, alternately, he might explain matters thus:

It was the sun that burned him - my brother - the Little Rabbit. Filled with rage, he set out for revenge; I followed him, ever a loyal companion. Many challenges we surmounted together, but I fell at the last - and he went forward alone. I managed to crawl back to shelter, heal my wounds, for the most part - though some yet remain - but never again have I seen my brother.

None of these are true.

But there is something of truth in each; and no more, really, can be demanded.

1 comment:

Calvacadeofcats said...