Disclaimer: Characters and references belong to Prof. Tolkien. I derive no profit from this.

MANY FRUITLESS VICTORIES (1)

Follow Lord Celeborn and Lord Thranduil as they experience the End of Arda as it went, not exactly as recounted by Vanyarin and Noldorin lore masters. A tale of the selfless courage found in unsung heroes, those who face every day’s lost battles, even when there shall be none left to sing of their deeds.

If these two particular elven-lords had stayed until our present times and beyond, I’m sure they would have been engaged in environmental preservation. This is a four-chapter recount of their toils.

I, too, hate elves-in-modern-times tales with a passion. Please, give this a chance.

(1) ”…I have seen three ages of the West, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories” Elrond to Frodo. LOTR, “The Council of Elrond”

*********

PROLOGUE

Camp “New Future” , Somewhere in Patagonia, South America. April, 2138

Greenwood Great’s council board meeting place was…unusual, to say the least. It was perched amidst the foliage of a huge specimen of southern beech, a perennial variety of Nothofagus. (1)

To a stranger’s eye, it would seem the result of a passing whim, a fancy extravagance of the coolest designer of the moment for a multi-millionaire firm, an exclusive resort where potential clients and bribable officers could be flattered, persuaded to indulge in their more unspeakable pleasures and then conveniently blackmailed into reasonable behaviours that, surprisingly enough, would meet the company’s best interests.

But, had the stranger been subject to that treatment before, he would soon acknowledge his mistake. The decoration was too austere, almost spartan; No leather couches, no extra huge flat screen, no fur rugs, no flaming hearth, no bottles of intoxicating substances on sight.

Greenwood Great’s board members weren’t more according to standard than the place where they met. Attired in casual and well-worn outdoors clothing, they looked like four young executives in an expensive tour, enjoying an exotic fishing trip with some thrilling extreme sports on schedule, rather than the executive council of the most powerful organization in earth.

Had the stranger been granted access to their meetings, he would have been utterly disappointed, for they spoke rarely, and in a language completely incomprehensible to mortal ears. The glitter in their bottomless eyes and their knowing glances would have frozen the stranger in place, and would have convinced him of what the urban legend maintained; that Greenwood Great’s core management team was otherworldly.

“I don’t think that particular way of demonstration leads to the fulfilment of any objective,” the blond one was complaining, comfortably sprawled in a hammock chair, pointing at the media reviews of some of the organization’s recent activities.  

“But it is great fun,” another answered, a tall fellow with dark hair and grey eyes, long, restless fingers that were always drumming upon something, as if dreading silence. “Your father had an extraordinary lack of sense of humour, Thranduil, and I do not let pass a day without praising the Lady that you have been blessed with that very same gift….” he added in a more than educated voice that had moved generations uncounted to tears.  

“Daeron…” The growl was menacing, almost feral.  

“Unfortunately, in this case, I must agree….” a third one chimed in, smiling wickedly, putting aside some reports he was eyeing for the tenth time, as if hoping something would change between readings. He was tall, too, the four of them were, and with a long, silver, uncommonly brilliant mane. He wasn’t old, though, or at least didn’t look in his old age, except for the eyes, that seemed pools of knowledge and deep sorrow, as his companions’.  

“Celeborn…” the blond one’s voice held a tinge of annoyance that did not fool his companions. They knew each other all too well, for better and worse.  

“I agree with them.” The fourth member of the meeting turned from the window and met the rest with a blazing gaze; eyes strangely alight in a pale face framed by wild, raven hair. He lifted a heavily disfigured hand and pulled aside a dark lock from his face, his powerful voice resounding with merriment. “And since I didn’t have the…pleasure, of meeting your lord father, Thranduil, we can safely assume that I support Daeron’s other claim, strange as this may seem,” he added in a soft yet magical voice that stirred images of times before the time and that could move, as his own father’s had done back then, the hearts and the wills of those who listened.  

“So, it is true, then,” Daeron whispered, master of his own trade, hitting the exact mix of worry, grief, relief and expectation with unconcerned ease. “Maglor supports me, this is the end of Arda…”  

The chorus of raucous laughter resounded in the forest.

TBC

Notes

(2) Nothofagus: Family of beeches found in the southern hemisphere. Some are deciduous.

CHAPTER 1.  Coming Home

PARIS, May, 2138

The meeting room was empty, except for the grey-haired man at the head of the long, polished, sustainably-managed certified teakwood table. Dr. Cyrus Feldman was taking his time, closing down his laptop and gathering his papers, as he tried to get a firm grip on mixed feelings of anger and relief. It had been his last speech before the Directorate, and it hadn’t been different from others that had taken place at that same meeting room in the Parisian headquarters of the COEP, the Convention Environment Programme, during his long years of duty.  

In fact, it hadn’t been the Convention Environment Programme when he had started working there, a lifetime ago, but the United Nations Environment Programme, but since the Convention had replaced the United Nations Organization, the old programmes had simply changed the organization’s name…and that was the only resemblance left, Dr. Feldman thought with the bitter taste of defeat on his lips. Stop it, he chided himself, you had your last chance, and it went as expected, you’re too old to have hopes of changing anything, not in your last stand…  All in all, it had been a very collected last stand; he had joked, he had showed terrifying figures that did not frighten anyone now -except for the fact that they were twenty years old at their youngest and still amazingly accurate- and even had indulged in the wicked pleasure of introducing an indigenous, mythological tale about the end of the world, something he knew the President of the Directorate disliked with the same passion he granted to honest scientists, dutiful technicians and responsible bureaucrats.  

They had listened, and nodded, and showed surprise, and even amazement at the right moments. They had been properly chastised by the blindness of their predecessors and had accepted guilt in the most careless and disrespectful of manners. “We don’t care”, they seemed to be thinking, “it wasn’t our fault and now there is little we can do, just look ahead.”  Only, there wasn’t much “ahead” left to look to, and that was what enraged Dr. Feldman, for they hadn’t understood, they hadn’t learned and they did not intend to change anything. Blindness had taken the world to this dire situation, and blindness would be the end of it.  

“Shit!” He hit the table almost reflexively. He had promised himself that he would take it calmly, but old habits died hard, and he was a fighter, above all other things. He couldn’t help tears of frustration welling in his eyes as he looked around for the last time, taking in the walls that had witnessed so many lost battles and opportunities, so many sterile debates and so many agreements based on general consensus rather than on common good.  

“Cyrus! You need help? “  

Dr. Feldman turned around slowly. He was in no particular hurry to face this Secretary General -and former long-time friend before politics and career, the current Secretary General’s more precisely, came between them, but there was no way he could ignore him any longer.  

“I’m old, but I can still take care of my things, Mr. Secretary.”  

“Of course you can, my friend,” the other agreed jovially, entering the room with the satisfaction of one who has downed the biggest prize in the flock without risk or effort, the satisfaction of the vain, Cyrus thought with resentment. “It was a wonderful speech, Cyrus, very moving indeed. I could see that everybody was touched by your passion, as usual, but still I wonder at how you manage to stir emotions in these soulless officers, you old fox!” he laughed, winking his eye conspiratorially, “you think you could disclose the trick to me?” he joked, as he slapped Dr. Feldman on the back. “It’s a shame that you finally chose retirement, Cyrus,” the Secretary added more soberly, “It’s a true loss for our organization. Your voice is respected everywhere, and I’m sure that your legacy will be of the utmost importance for all of us. We are facing difficult times, but your example will help us choose the right path, my friend!” He looked up expectantly, as if awaiting the ovation that usually crowned his speeches.  

Cyrus considered a cynical answer briefly, and then settled for an old-style confrontation.  

“I didn’t see many handkerchiefs, Mr. Secretary,” he said acidly, “ And I don’t think that my voice is respected anywhere…if we take into account that my voice is rarely heard nowadays…” That had hurt, Cyrus raged as he closed the old-fashioned briefcase in which he carried his notes. When his voice had become too uncomfortable for politicians, they had silenced him in the most effective way, by hallowing him and labelling him as the “most respected expert in the field”. Soon, he found out that he could talk to hardly anybody and about anything: the dramatic changes in the world ecosystem equilibrium, the wrong policies, the necessary adjustments and the mounting risks, everything was banished from public information, labelled under “experts say” and filed in “restricted access” or “not general interest”, while the trend-makers and public communicators ranted relentlessly against the prophets of catastrophe.  

“But you must be glad,” he added scathingly, “for as my figures are proven true, it will be good for you that I’m retired and out of the limelight, so you can explain to the world how you knew this years ago and why you did nothing to prevent it!”  

“Oh, come on, Cyrus!” the Secretary was as resilient as the best politician, Cyrus noted not for the first time, “you’re being too harsh! You know, as well as I do, that we did not have a way to know whether your figures were right or wrong, we could not change the whole lifestyle of the world based upon… FIGURES!” he said, warning him to let the matter lie. But Cyrus was a fighter, he had been one all of his life, and he wouldn’t concede defeat easily, even if there were only the two of them in that fight.  

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Secretary, first, it wasn’t the lifestyle of a whole planet, but of a quarter of its population, and second, it was never a choice between returning to the Stone Age, as you liked to present it, and doing NOTHING and let the hell come to us, which is exactly what you, what WE have done, NOTHING! to prevent what now is looming. I was in Eastern Africa in the 1980s, (1) John, with your grandfather,” he said in the tired voice of a man who had seen more than a hundred years or erosion, deforestation, famine and bad political choices, and had lived to tell the tale. “And we knew then, we knew that it was no natural cause that had turned the monsoon away for a decade. How many people have died in those man-made hells since then, only god knows, but we are doubly guilty, John, because we didn’t stop it then, and because we let it come to this!”   

“Excuse me…” a soft voice and a knock at the doorframe interrupted the outburst.  

Cyrus, though, was at full steam now and he paid no heed to the intrusion. “And let me tell you another thing, Mr. Secretary, they’re not “soulless officers” but good men and extraordinary scientists that have been burned out by the greed and inefficiency of most of you, bureaucrats and politicians! “ he gasped for air, but, too stubborn to concede defeat before his last word was said, he continued in a hoarse voice. “And this is my trick, since you asked, I believe in what I do, that’s how I impress them! What the hell are you doing here!” he raged then at the intruder, who waited patiently at the door.  

“Oh, I had forgotten!” the Secretary turned a friendly smile to the stranger, “please, forgive me, Mr. Silverstone, do come in!”  

“Silvertree,” the stranger corrected in an even, beautiful voice, as he stepped into the room with graceful, fluid movements.  

Cyrus had noticed him among the audience, a tall man with long silver hair, loosely braided and strangely brilliant against his impeccable tweed jacket, a stylish raincoat neatly folded over his lap. It was not his hair what had caught his attention, though, but the glitter of his grey, steely eyes.  

“Silvertree, that’s it. Dr. Feldman, this is Mr. Silvertree, who showed great interest in meeting you, he is president of a great company, and a big donor to the COEP,” the Secretary added in the mellow tone he used when he wanted to flatter someone.  

That tone of voice had, too, the effect of turning Cyrus against whomever it was directed, a simple precaution born from years of experience, so he eyed the stranger with immediate dislike and shook his proffered hand without enthusiasm.  

“Greenwood Great is a Non Governmental Organization, Dr. Feldman,” the stranger said pleasantly, “we have been investing in forest protection for many a year now, among other activities,” he added. “I would be very honoured if you agreed to visit some of our projects and give us your opinion…”  

Cyrus was tired, and the feeling of “been there, heard that” was almost overwhelming now. Another eager, enthusiast, zillionaire philanthropist intent on saving a planet that had been condemned without trial years ago. “I’m sorry, Mr. Silvertree, but I’m retired, as you may have heard today. I do not take part in projects anymore. You can ask the Secretary to send any of his assistants in the Ngo’s area, or you can call the COEP University, forestry department, to find an advisor,” he said gruffly, “I’m going home.”  

The stranger seemed undisturbed by his grumpiness.  

“And where would that be?” he asked in his calm manner, genuine interest showing in his grey eyes.  

Cyrus looked at those bottomless grey eyes and stood still for a moment, holding on to his briefcase as a myriad of emotions hurled inside him. “Home is a time, not a place,” he wanted to say, ”A time when Susan and little George were alive, and we believed that we were doing what was right!”  Images of the many houses that had harboured him along his long and wandering years flashed in quick succession in front of his eyes, leaving behind the same old feeling of emptiness. He blinked twice, and turned his eyes from that compassionate silver gaze. “That, sir,” he said in a polite but cold tone, “is none of your business.“ He turned to pick up his own raincoat from the rack beside the window. It was pouring down with a vengeance over Paris.  

“I found your mythological reference very fitting,” the stranger said in his calm voice, “the end of the world heralded by the return of the darkness…very fitting, indeed…”  

“Scientists call it `global dimming’ (2)“ Cyrus said flatly.  

“I know you do,” the other answered playfully, holding his briefcase while Cyrus put on his raincoat. “I know that you said in your speech that it was a Yámana myth, (3) but I was glad to read in the abstract that it is actually a selk’nam myth...”(4) he added, a glint of mischief in his serious eyes.  

“And I’m glad that there was at least one person who was actually listening, among such a select audience. I actually misquoted the reference purposefully…you brought a small ray of light to my last speech, it was my pleasure, Mr. Silvertree,” he said, a bit warmer this time, recovering his briefcase and shaking again the stranger’s hand,  “I’m sorry I cannot be of any assistance to you, though. Now, Mr. Secretary…” And without waiting for further comment, he retrieved his briefcase and strode away from the office and then the building without looking back.  

Dr. Feldman walked three blocks down the street form the Convention headquarters to the old building where he lived when in Paris, heedless of the rain. Spring in Paris was not what it used to be, but then, the sea level had risen quite remarkably in the last years, due to the slow but constant melt of the polar cap, and the North Atlantic Drift had slowed its speed, (5) causing snows to be a common occurrence in mid-May, as well as in mid-July, he thought with dry humour.  

“Dr. Feldman!” a youthful, warm voice dragged him from his thoughts as he entered the old building. Claire, the young concierge, was welcoming him with her usual smile. “How did it go?”  

“Oh, fine! They brought champagne and we drank to the good old days,” he joked, ”seriously!” he claimed, smiling in spite of himself at her reproaching looks. “As expected, child,” he shrugged, “ It was a parting speech. Nothing relevant can come from that…”  

“You can never tell,” she said, with her enthusiastic optimism, escorting him to the elevator, “you cannot tell when or where you can make the difference for anyone,” she added, patting his arm comfortingly, “at least that’s what you’ve been telling me all these years!” she added, winking at him.  

“Well, child, at least you do know,” he smiled gratefully, “for you keep making the day for this old man!” he added, stepping into the elevator, and welcoming his first moments of solitude in the day, as the doors closed silently in front of him.  

When he had been offered to be among the first persons to undergo life-prolonging genetic treatment in the early years of twenty–first century, he had agreed out of duty. He felt he had a responsibility towards the world, as the most renowned climate and environment scientist of his time, and as such, he had consented, accepting the binding terms of the operation, which meant that he could talk to nobody about the treatment or its after effects. It also meant that he was alone. He had already been, when he decided to go through the procedures, for Susan had died more than twenty years before that, with their only child, in a plane crash. At one hundred and eighty, now, he was hopeless and utterly alone, for none of his colleagues or friends could follow the path he was treading, his desperate fight between acceptance and resistance. They said it was because he had already been old when he underwent the treatment, and that had only worsened the natural melancholy of the old age. He did not know. At times he felt that he had been granted a painful knowledge, and he felt alternatively aggravated and grateful for it. “Longevity is not for those of human race,” he had once written down in his personal journal, the only place where he could make such statements “for it brings along an unbearable burden of understanding that breeds unbearable grief and compassion”  

The elevator stopped smoothly and he walked ten paces to his door, closing it behind him and hanging the keys on the rack, a white-tail deer antler, gathered in a northern forest many autumns ago, beside many other keys that opened different doors around the world, some now lost forever under the waves. The raincoat went to another makeshift rack; a chestnut stringer salvaged from a forgotten railway line that connected two now abandoned villages. He let the heavy laptop and his briefcase upon a side table, beautifully carved with the Dogon’s Nommo archetype, (6) and picked up the correspondence from the ancient quern (7) where Claire usually left it for his perusal, and gave it a distracted eye as he walked towards the kitchen and took out the tablecloth.  

The doorbell caught him by surprise, standing in the middle of the kitchen, curiously studying the intriguing envelope he had found among bills -some governmental companies insisted on printed invoicing, in spite of the strict regulations against paper consumption- and some restricted publications that held, too, to that ancient and energy-inefficient way of distribution, to his unashamed pleasure.  

“Your dinner, Dr. Feldman,” Claire smiled, picking the table cloth from his hand and walking to the kitchen with the familiarity of a routine, yet lovingly undertaken task. “The cook sends his congratulations, it’d seem,” she said conversationally, laying the table with an easiness born out of practice, “onion soup, your favourite!” she said cheerfully, “And rye bread... and…look! He’s sending a bottle of that wine you praised so much…is everything all right, Dr. Feldman?” she asked worriedly, at the perplexed look in his eyes.   

“Do you happen to know how and when this came, Claire?” he asked evenly.  

She eyed the envelope and nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. This morning, short after you left, a messenger delivered it by hand. I noticed because he insisted to have it delivered on your door, we had a bit of an argument, there…” she smiled briefly. It was almost impossible to have an argument with that sweet creature, as Cyrus knew from experience, having found himself many times in the receiving end of her caring nature. “I noticed, too, because it’s a most unusual envelope, a beautiful one,” she added thoughtfully. 

“Yes it is, “Cyrus nodded his assent. “Thanks again, Claire, and good night!”

Beautiful indeed, he thought as her footsteps faded and the door slammed shut. He fingered it with care and then settled it aside as he sat and had dinner. It was made of virgin paper, an almost extravagant luxury in those times, but he wasn’t able to identify the fibre that gave it that grey, almost silvery appeal. The handwriting was elegant, artistic, and he needed not to see the “Greenwood Great” signet on its back to connect it to the mysterious stranger he had met that evening.  

He finished his dinner with a silent toast to “Le Fournil”, the restaurant that had catered for his meals for as long as he had owned that apartment, carried the empty plates and glass to the sink and went to sit on his favourite armchair to savour a glass of his favourite brandy while pondering that unexpected riddle.  

Cyrus Feldman’s Parisian home looked very much like an ethnological museum. It was full of strange artefacts, textiles and devices gathered around the world in his long years. Most had been gifted to him by grateful residents, co-workers, or beneficiaries of his relentless work as the most renowned geoscientist of two centuries. And most held memories of peoples, of projects, of betrayals, of unexpected victories and foreseeable defeats. Pieces of wood, rocks, seeds, pottery, textiles, delicate handcrafts and hand-made tools piled up in his home and were the true repository of the memories and life-long personal, professional and spiritual experiences that made up what Dr. Feldman was.  

J.S. Bach weaved his tireless, humble, dutiful and sublime trade around him. He lit up a couple of candles and a side lamp, and let the night invade the rest of his living room. He leaned forth and picked up a lost-wax cast metal letter-opener, a gift from a brave half-Dogon smith who had tried –and briefly succeeded in his effort- to revive the ancient blacksmith tradition of those millenary people of western Africa.  

“Dr. Feldman, should you reconsider and accept visiting our project, please contact the number below.  

C.Silvertree  

55362659

It was too dark to make out anything clearly, but Dr. Feldman was almost sure that the ink was hand made, too.  

As he turned the envelope again in his hand, delighting in the soft touch of that unknown material, two photographs fell from it. He picked them up carefully. Mr. Silvertree could be seen in both, standing in the midst of what looked like an encampment. The buildings showed a stunning resemblance to various types of indigenous buildings that repeated themselves around the world since the Neolithic revolution. “Another theme park of lost civilizations,” he thought with distaste. But then, there were the telltale implements of sun and wind powered engines, and the light, round antennae for satellite communication, and, above all, there were children, with happy, carefree smiles upon their faces, surrounding the tall, fair faced, smiling person he had just met that evening.  

He shut his eyes and tried to recall his impressions of that man. All he remembered was the sense of calmness, peacefulness that surrounded him. “We’ve been investing in forest protection for many a year, now, among other things”, he had said. And then, he had known that he would be refused, and had made sure to pique Dr. Feldman’s curiosity with that splendidly wrapped, cryptically devised message.  

Cyrus dozed off in his armchair, assaulted by nightmarish dreams of starving children in the countless camps of hunger he had seen along his years. Faced with the most uncertain environmental future, human birth rates had started a slow but steady decrease in the last decades, no matter what the Convention said. It was out of their control. It was just happening. And the sight of those happy children, growing up in what looked like an almost natural environment had moved him more than he had expected.  

First thing next morning, he was dialling the number written on the bottom of the exquisite note, and forty-eight hours later he was flying first-class to the utmost south. The fact that they had managed to obtain the permits and tickets in such short lapse was sign of the tremendous wealth and power of the organization.  

Dr. Feldman had had enough experience with power in his life to know that, most of the times, the greatest power and influence were wielded by unnoticed, self-effacing people, the likes of that mysterious Mr. Silvertree.  

Two days, a brief rest in a luxury hotel in Buenos Aires and four airplanes after leaving Paris, he was flying over a dense canopy of trees, approaching American continent’s new southern border, since Tierra del Fuego and the northern part of the Beagle channel had been drowned in the first assault of Antarctica melting.  

“Look, Dr. Feldman, down there, can you see it?” The pilot, a young woman in her mid thirties had been thrilled to meet him. Although he didn’t like to acknowledge it, he was a living legend, not because of his four Nobel Prizes but because of his birthdays, the abnormal amount of them. He shook his head and then braced for the landing, gripping his backpack tightly to prevent it from hitting the cabin’s ceiling as the small aircraft suddenly dipped, nose first, into that sea of green. The landing track appeared out of nowhere, and with a deft hand, the pilot landed smoothly and taxied the aircraft to a stop right beside a wooden stool Dr. Feldman guessed would replace the ladder.  

“Welcome to “New Future”, Dr. Feldman.”  The silver-haired man stood by the airplane with a greeting smile.  

Cyrus Feldman breathed in the fresh air and looked around with delight. Autumn was well in and the battle of colours was still as boisterous as he remembered, larches and beeches competing in different shades or red and brown against the perennial varieties of southern beeches, which remained stubbornly green throughout the winter. His host waited patiently by his side, a knowing look upon his face. “I hope you find this an appropriate retribution for that tiring trip,” he added, extending his long hand and picking up his backpack.  

His voice, Cyrus noted, sounded even richer and stronger here. He nodded, then, fixing his look on that intriguing man. “Yes, it was,” he answered carefully. “It is amazing here,” he added, “the forest seems to be more alive than the last time I was in this area…”   

“Maybe it is,” his host answered, and then a playful smile shone openly upon his face. “But, come, please, you must be tired, and we still have an hour’s drive up to the encampment… is this you package?”  

Cyrus walked beside him, towards the wooden structure that looked like hangar, warehouse and office. Two men were checking the airplane’s cargo and another talked with the pilot, leaning casually on a battered jeep, his broad back turned to Cyrus, and his golden mane loosely tied back with a bark strip, Cyrus noted automatically.  

“Qullqui!” the pilot addressed Silvertree in a pleading tone, “He says that I must remain here for at least four days! I cannot do that!”  

“Lest you have brought your own fuel, Anka,” the blond man said in a low, powerful voice, “I don’t see any other possibility. Unless, of course,” he added, mirth resounding in that deep throat, “that you want to sail north with the fishermen… “  

“I’ll wait here, Sach’a, thanks,” she said angrily, “ take care, Dr. Feldman, it’s been a pleasure,” she smiled and walked to the hangar, walking gracefully. The blond man turned and smiled broadly. ”Oh, you’re here! how was the flight?” he asked with an open grin, moving aside to let Silvertree put Cyrus’s pack on the back of the jeep, beside the solar panels.  

“As always, I’d say,” Cyrus answered a bit tiredly. Those moments were always the worst, hosts trying to be polite and forcing tired and bewildered visitors to exchange common pleasantries when they only wanted to be left alone for a little while and feel free to yawn and stretch and even swear out loud.  

“Dr. Feldman, meet “Greenwood Great” co-founder, co-president and long time friend Mr. Greenwood, also known around here as Sach’a, forest, in an ancient Andean language,” Silvertree smiled.  

Cyrus extended his hand, studying the man in front of him. He looked younger than Silvertree, except for the eyes, which were deep grey and bottomless, as his friend’s. He smiled widely and boastfully; he seemed always in movement and expressed constant activity in his broad, muscled body. Even in rest, he looked like a force of nature ready to happen over anyone or anything that disturbed him, a lethal force barely restrained.  

His strong handshake and raucous laughter only served to confirm Cyrus’s opinion, and his sudden fondness of the man.  

“So Quillco, the silver one, said,” he winked at his friend, “Welcome home, Dr. Feldman, “ he rumbled, “we’ve been waiting for you!”  

Looking around in that autumn mid afternoon, as the jeep gasped up a steep mountain path flanked by welcoming trees, Dr.Feldman thought that, strange as it might sound, Mr. Greenwood’s words had ringed true. He felt as if he were coming home.    

TBC

A/N: I hope it’s clear that Mr. Silvertree is Lord Celeborn and Mr. Greenwood is Lord Thranduil. It wasn’t that difficult, after all, ;-)

Environmental threats: It is not my intention to cause alarm, but to explore some scenarios that are possible, though not probable, from a scientific point of view. Although this first chapter may seem a bit “scholarly” the rest have few to none footnotes.

Notes:

(1) Eastern Africa. A persistent drought during the 60’s and 70’s caused a devastating famine in this area. You may remember the hit “we are the world, we are the children…” which was the pop music community answer to that humanitarian catastrophe. The drought, though, wasn’t entirely due to natural causes but to changes in air currents brought about by pollution.  Today, Eastern Africa is undergoing another monstrous famine -not that things have been much better in the meantime; mind you- Deforestation and soil destruction are also to be blamed.

(2)”global dimming” The amount of solar light that reaches the earth surface has been decreasing in about 10% globally in the last years, due to air pollution, too.  The BBC released an interesting documentary early this year, although it’s been a well known, if little mentioned, fact for some years now. You can found an interesting review of that documentary here. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/4171591.stm

(3) And (4) Yámana and selk’nam are two extinct, indigenous peoples of Tierra de Fuego, the great island in the southernmost tip of South America. The selk’nam’s cosmology has a prophecy of a time of “global dimming” when darkness will return, and the women will come out of the sea and regain the power. They also associate that time with the end of the world. (Ooops!)  

(5) North Atlantic Drift, or Gulf Stream, is the warm stream responsible for Western Europe’s mild climate, among other things. Should the North Pole ice cap melt significantly, because of global warming due mainly to greenhouse effect, it would not only cause the sea level to rise spectacularly in some coastal places, but the Gulf Stream to slow down its pace, too, which would result in temperatures and climate in Western Europe dramatically falling down.  

(6) The Dogon are an interesting ancient western African tribe, whose origins are unknown but traced almost 5000 years ago. Their cosmogony is awesome, as it is their astronomical knowledge. They were talented blacksmiths too. Their Nommo archetype is a kind of amphibian creatures that came from the star Sirius and brought the origin of living things.  

(7) Quern, a stone hand mill used to grind grain.

CHAPTER 2

Unrest

"New Future” Camp, Somewhere in Patagonia, South America.

It took Dr. Feldman two days to recover from jet lag, two weeks to make the tour of the encampment and compounds, two months to understand what was going on there and a couple of years to become fully acquainted with the inextricable network of institutions, programmes, projects and activities that stemmed from that mysterious and powerful organization.  

It had all turned out in the most natural way. Nobody awaited him back in Paris, and he was well known for his long disappearances. Every day held a new surprise and the further he delved into that organized community, the most intriguing it all became. They had welcomed him, offered him a wooden cabin with a comfortable bedroom, a living room, a small kitchen and a bathroom; they had granted him unrestricted access to the orchards, libraries, labs, offices, computers, resources and data and he had simply adjusted to the routine of camp, joining in those projects that would benefit more from his expertise and spending time teaching the young ones to take care of impoverished soils in a wonderful hands-on lab they called the “soil nursery.”  

“Now, Greenwood, tell me again, where’s the trick? “  

“The trick?” The blond man was in charge of the data-collecting system, Cyrus knew, among other responsibilities. With the help of a group of highly qualified assistants, he processed huge quantities of data as they constantly monitored the state of the earth, checking on global dimming levels, deforestation, rainfalls rates, temperatures, icecap melting, winds and sea currents, thanks to a sophisticated system of communications. He ruled there with an easiness Cyrus Feldman recognized as born out of experience, letting his assistants work their way through boring data, even when he had already spotted the missing link in a chain of events or highlighted the relevant pattern in tedious series. Cyrus secretly admired his shrewd eye for details and his masterful approach to earth sciences. “What trick?” he asked, pretending ignorance, falling easily into an only too familiar pattern.  

They had just had dinner in the communal dining room, a large wooden structure with great windows opening to the trees, and were now enjoying the ritual mate, the traditional tea which was prepared in a cured gourd and shared, as tradition required, with a strict ritual.(1)

“I’m missing something,” Cyrus smiled. They had had this same conversation several times in those two years, but Greenwood never tired of praising their project, and Cyrus simply expected to understand it better.  

“So, you say that this has no cost to you.” Cyrus began, treading a well-known path.  

“It hasn’t. What is it that worries you so? You serve your duty, as we all do,“ he laughed, nodding towards the large kitchen’s open door where Silvertree was busy cleaning up after his cooking turn.  

“And the computers?”  

“Recycled.”  

“Your assistants?”  

“What happens to them?”  

“They work for free?”  

“Are we paying you, Cyrus?” Greenwood’s deep voice had a tinge of amusement that never failed to provoke a smile in Cyrus.  

At this point, he usually stopped for a while, and tried another approach.  

“So, this is kind of a sect, then?”  

“A sect? That’s a new one, Cyrus, I like that!” Greenwood had a contagious laughter. ”Let me try again. This is a scientific station. The research system, the equipment and the satellite access to the data-collecting systems and stations around the world, as well as their upkeep and technical support, were donated and are financed by Greenwood Great, which, as you know, is a Foundation with many branches,”  

“Such as Green Watchers,” Cyrus interrupted.  

“For instance.”  

“Or Green education.”  

“Yes.”  

“Or Green Energy?”  

“That one, too.”  

“And Green food,”  

“My favourite. And we could go on, so I’m glad you chose random quotes of our over than three hundred directly managed programmes. “New future,” too, happens to be the place where Silvertree and I, two of the presidents of Greenwood Great, chose to settle down an undetermined number of years ago. The most interesting fact about this place, as you know, is that our ecological footprint is less than zero. We not only do not cause any disturbance to the global or local environment, but our activities enhance its well being as well. Energy is naturally supplied and transformed without waste or emissions, we grow and recycle what we consume and we restore the unbalanced ecology of the area.”  

He stopped then to sip from the silvery straw, the bombilla. The mate paced most of their conversations, and that was a ritual Cyrus had been glad to recover after so many years. “The scientists that choose to live here are supplied with all their needs,” he kept on, passing water, gourd and bombilla on to Cyrus in a practiced movement, ”and they are asked to cooperate in maintaining this community by undertaking day-to-day activities and teaching our children. There’s no need of money here, Cyrus, as you have seen for yourself. You need something, you go to the warehouse and ask for it. You want to depart, you are offered transportation to the place of your choice and a post in one of the organization’s projects around the world. If you want to return to “normal” life, the fact that you have been working here opens the most prestigious universities and companies to you. Making currency is a very inefficient and energy-wasting activity, after all,” he added with his infectious grin.  

“And what about the non-scientific community? And the children? What future do they have? What choices?” Cyrus was desperately trying to find fault in what looked to him as an all too perfect project. His long years had taught him that such things did not exist, and that most of the shiny, wonderfully sustainable projects ended up being the green washing machine of some unspeakable industry. Everything sounded too easy for his comfort.  

“Have we never told you how “New Future” came to being, Cyrus?” another deep voice joined in the conversation. They both looked up as Silvertree straddled the wooden bench and had a look at the gourd that Cyrus was holding possessively. “Let go, Cyrus, your turn is long past, and I’d swear there’s still some flavour left there,” he said pleasantly.  

“Excellent dinner, master cook, I might like to have the recipe of that corn pie,“ Greenwood joked good naturedly while Silvertree poured hot water and sipped with delight, plainly ignoring the jest. “So,” he said, passing the implements on to his friend, “As you surely know, Cyrus, in the first decades of last century there was a strong tendency to recover traditional, or more naturally-oriented ways of living, and communities of that kind spread around the world. Porvenir, “Future,” in Tierra de Fuego, became one of those, made up of half-indigenous people, artisans, farmers, professors, and such. When the first assault of Antarctica’s melting hit we managed to save most of them, and offered them to resettle here.”  

“You were here, then?” Cyrus asked softly. That was one of the subjects he had not yet raised, out of discretion. Antarctica’s first bout of melting had happened a hundred years ago.  

“Yes, we were. We knew exactly what was going to happen, we had developed a specific alert system and we evacuated many people from the coastal lands. They now dwell in the surroundings. Children are taught here, there are many experts, and our training programs are among the most advanced and recognized around the world…”  

“But, above all, they learn to be ecologically sound,” Greenwood came back with his favourite subject, “they learn to take their decisions based upon zero ecological footprint. Many choose to remain here, some have gone abroad, but they still maintain their way of living. They are strictly independent from us. They rule themselves, and we simply share resources. They just...came on board, adopted our system, which was far more advanced and practical than the one they had before and… went on with their lives.”  

“Oh! And they changed the name of the place!” Silvertree added with a playful smile. “There are many communities like this around the world. They freely associate to Greenwood Great, we provide them with ecologically sound energy supplying systems and they just... go on.”  

That was new, and Cyrus wondered how he had never thought of asking about it. He knew of that phenomenon, of course, he had seen those communities spread around the world, a reaction against globalisation, but, above all, against the environmental threat. He had found very few that were viable, and this one was, by far, the most sophisticated he had ever seen. Peace, happiness and positive energy coursed the camp; everything seemed possible, and there were no boundaries to what one could or would do, except when one was on kitchen duty.  

“You are a miracle, aren’t you?” he grunted, after sipping thoughtfully.  

“Give me that,” Greenwood demanded, picking up the gourd and eyeing it critically, a friendly reconvention in his voice, “you’re an incurable romantic, Cyrus, but no matter how much water you add to it, what is gone is gone.“ This time, Cyrus thought, his voice had a bitter edge.  

Despite those passing moments of puzzlement, Cyrus truly enjoyed life in “New Future” camp. He was surrounded by talented, enthusiastic scientists who had the means and the knowledge to pursue the strangest of hypothesis and find something practical and useful in their research without the pressing need for economic results. He enjoyed working with the children and engrossing the “soil nursery” best practice handbook. He had the energetic feeling that he was doing something useful, instead of fighting hopelessly to stem a tide with his bare hands. He felt truly privileged to be working in such an enriching milieu, in which knowledge, ideas, theories and data flew freely and grew more fertile because of the freedom with which they were sowed.  

They had their moments of leisure, too. Musicians, artisans and artists, as well as residents, usually enlivened the nights with acting, story telling, recounting of old myths or playing ancient, traditional instruments. He particularly loved the enthralling sound of the sanka panpipes (2) and the bombo drums (3) resounding in the night, at the times when most of the camp reunited around bonfires and simply listened to that ancient, haunting music that pulsed with the mighty heartbeat of the powerful Andes. His hosts, too, seem to particularly favour these instruments, and they could be seen listening intently, their eyes strangely unfocused, as if lost in what distant land of thought Cyrus could not guess.  

Sure as he was that they were the inspiring force behind the astonishing achievements and extraordinary well being of that population, he was strangely afraid to delve further into their mystery for fear that, as in ancient tales, the miracle would dissolve in front of his eyes the moment he tried to fully unveil its secrets.   

So he continued working eagerly, supporting and improving the efforts of the soil department, which seemed to be the most important target of the organization, especially on the field of soil regeneration, soil reconstruction and special crops for poor soils, putting to work the ancient traditional practices he had rescued during his long years working to stop the devastating droughts and deforestation in Africa.  

“Isn’t it amusing?” he complained one night. They were sitting at his hosts’ refuge upon a mighty Nothofagus, a comfortable, rustic chamber that somehow reminded Cyrus of his own Parisian apartment, full of curiosities.  

They were sharing their customary mate, but this time the conversation was scarce, each lost in their own thoughts.  

“We’ve been despoiling traditional cultures from their knowledge for years, or I’d rather say, centuries,” Cyrus ranted, ”exchanging their ancient wisdom for our chemicals, until the soils were ruined and the knowledge lost and they were unable to obtain their own sustenance from their lands. Then, we fed them out of charity and indebted them as we taught them back what we once learnt from them. Isn’t it ironic?” he repeated bitterly, sipping angrily.  

“What do you propose?” Silvertree asked calmly, and Cyrus noted that Greenwood tensed in his comfortable hammock, listening with barely concealed interest.  

“I…I don’t know, I mean, I hadn’t thought…”  

“Let me help you. Many years ago, we started buying patents from different labs, and returning them, improved, to their rightful traditional owners…”  

“Seed patents, of course, those genetically modified seeds that allowed no reseeding…” Greenwood interrupted his friend, now fully immersed in the conversation. 

No matter how well Cyrus thought that he knew his hosts, they always managed to surprise him. Some months had passed since his last bout of doubt, and he now fully trusted them. He had learnt to identify their differences and their reactions. Silvertree was calm and even-tempered, while Greenwood was prone to action and quick –if extraordinary well informed- decisions. Both shared an immense knowledge and inexhaustible patience, and a positive attitude that still surprised Cyrus after  that time. They were always ready to embark on new projects and new battles, and everything seemed possible when they looked at it with their knowing, ancient eyes.  

“Yes, I see what you mean...” Silvertree was musing on something, Cyrus could tell from the glitter in his silvery eyes. “That would be ironic. We must ask our partners for some quick research on intellectual property rights…”  

“Oh, please!” Greenwood’s voice had that amused edge that was always prelude of febrile activity. “I die to read Bard’s rendition of traditional direct seeding procedures and Poet's versions of ages-old harvest songs!“ he joked, laughing at Silvertree’s pained expression. “I wonder how it is that we did not think of it before!”  

Bard and Poet, as they were indistinctly known, were Greenwood’s Great co-founders and co-presidents, too, as far as Cyrus had gathered. They took care of other side of the organization’s activities, mainly running their potent blogging tool and feeding indescribable pieces of undefined, varied knowledge upon the many communities that accessed Greenwood Great’s blogging and information network.  

And so it was that Cyrus found himself involved in the creation of a huge freeware database of ancient traditional agricultural best practices and remedies paired with what caused the problems and diseases.  

Bard and Poet received the proposal with great delight, reinforcing Cyrus’ idea that they might be kind of subversive revolutionary types, and Greenwood’s outburst of laughter was no doubt heard across the continent when Cyrus shared his suspicions with him.  

They worked restlessly for almost ten years, in not always easy collaboration with those distant colleagues, and as the work progressed, Cyrus was more and more amazed at the powerful research tool they had set in motion.  

“They specialized in compiling databases of almost every thing ever researched related to earth sciences,” Silvertree told him once of his two distant friends, and Cyrus could have sworn that he spoke seriously. “They settled in Central Asia, in the Karakorum area, some years ago, don’t ask me why. They had a huge set of caverns arranged and conditioned with wireless connection and brought a number of scholars from different areas to work with them, digitalizing and cross-referencing information for the simple pleasure of it…. Of course they do other things, while they’re at it….”  

Useful cross-referencing was a fact, as Cyrus had the chance of experiencing himself in many occasions during the project. Poet and Bard, despite their moodiness and their queerness, such as sending information in free verse, or coming up with definitions in palindromes (4), proved themselves of the greatest help, and soon their lively blogging community was busy and thriving with information about traditional practices. Most of the practices were tested in New Future’s soil nursery, and extended to other camps that made part of their network, and soon all of Greenwood Great’s associate communities were engaged in that enthralling project.  

“I can’ t believe this!” Cyrus was amazed at what they had set in motion from that simple conversation.  “It’s… it’s amazing, I mean…how, how could we do this? I never thought it was so simple…we have advanced so much in so little time! When this is finished, we may have a powerful tool to stop so many problems that I cannot believe this wasn’t done before!”   

He was sitting on the windowsill in Greenwood’s office, as his friend waited for the midyear report of earth’s state. The blond man raised a brow and looked at him quizzically, but Cyrus was so enthralled by the prospects of their success that did not take notice. “Can you imagine? When this tool is finished and at everybody’s disposal, there won’t be reason for such damaging practices anymore!”  

“Cyrus, I can’t believe that you’re speaking seriously,“ Greenwood laughed out, his big frame shaking with unrestrained mirth, ”you truly believe that this will stop deforestation and the use of chemicals in industrial growing? Come on, man, you’ve lived two hundred years, you cannot possibly believe that!”  

“Of course I do! Why are we doing this, then? Once the information is available...” Cyrus retorted heatedly.  

“The information has always been available, we’re compiling it for several purposes, but none of them is "saving the world", as you should know by now!” Greenwood answered sternly.  

Cyrus eyed him intensely, as if he had found a long-sought answer. “I’ll never give up, though!” he stated calmly, and left the office without looking back. 

*** 

“Why are we doing this, Silvertree?” They were sitting by the fire, in one of those warm winter nights that were now the rule all over the year. In all the years that he had spent there, Cyrus had noticed a steady rising of the temperatures, and rainfalls were now scarcer. Some of the beeches had died, and the forest was clearing out at a firm pace, much to Greenwood’s dismay. The stars, though, shone as bright as ever.  

“For three reasons, Cyrus, as far as I can tell,” Silvertree knew exactly what he was wondering about, Cyrus noted. “First, for the sake of preserving the knowledge and returning it to their rightful owners, as I recall you suggested that night. Second, to try and test those methods and verify their validity, which is something that agrees with our objectives. Third, to help our associate communities improve the quality and quantity of their crops while maintaining their soils. I could add that it makes you happy, and that’s a good thing, and that it kept Bard and Poet from other activities, which is even a better thing, as you must have learnt by now...”  

Cyrus smiled sadly, his fears confirmed by that answer, and he turned his head to the bonfire, where a group of young artists were enacting an ancient myth.  

He discovered with some trepidation that they were playing the selk’nam myth he had used in his last speech at the COEP, the day he had met Silvertree and his life had taken an unexpected course.

He looked briefly at his companion but he seemed deeply engaged in following the acting. This is a chance occurrence, it was casually scheduled for today, he thought firmly, it has nothing to do with our conversation, he added, as the God Sun, justly enraged, chased his wife the moon to the skies, and the rest of the female spirits to the sea. Then, death came to earth, under powerful wings, and God Sun, immortal as he were, could not live in the same place with mighty death, and climbed to the skies, too, to oversee the rest of his subjects, male spirits, whom he turned into forest dwellers.

“We say “casually” only because we are gloriously ignorant about the subtle mechanisms of causality” The quote emerged from who knew what deep recesses of his mind, sending a shiver through his spine. The drama progressed in front of the fire, as darkness and death eventually climbed to the skies and the God Sun was finally chased from his throne and the women emerged from the sea with a powerful roll of drums.

The women among the audience cheered happily at the well-known ending and the young players bowed repeatedly and blushed furiously as the younger girls jumped up and engaged them in a traditional dance, music bursting from everywhere, as it was usual in those celebrations. At the changing light of the flames, Cyrus discovered the silhouette of Greenwood, leaning on a tree, his arms crossed over his powerful chest, his eyes strangely alight and the saddest look he had ever seen upon any face on earth.  

“We’re not giving up, Cyrus,” Silvertree’s deep voice said softly, “We’ll never yield. There are battles, though, that cannot be won.”  

He nodded silently, a lump in his throat, and turning his back on his friends, he walked unsteadily to his cabin.  

He shifted restlessly in his bed that night, tossing and turning as forgotten faces, shreds of conversations and distorted images crowded in his mind. Tired of his unrest, he got up and went out, hoping to find some peace under the stars.  

He walked half a dozen steps towards the forest and then froze.  

Greenwood and Silvertree were standing there, tall as young trees of gold and silver, still as stones, looking west. The full moon washed them in its magical light, and made them shine like ancient statues, like otherworldly spirits keeping guard.  Cyrus was reminded of the tall stone Mohai of Ahu Akivi, in Easter Island.(5) As the legend had it, that particular Ahu honoured the seven explorers that had first set foot in the island, and they looked west to the place were their ancient dwelling had once been, as a reminder of the way home.  

The longing and yearning radiating from those still figures was so poignant that Cyrus could hardly find the strength to move away. When he finally made his way back to his bed, he fell in a deep, untroubled sleep.    

TBC   

A/N : I’ve come down to five notes here! But then, I’m not all that sure of which things are well known facts, so I thought that when in doubt, I’d rather explain… Apologies, if it is too boring…  

Notes:  

(1) Mate: A traditional indigenous drink, kind of tea, made out of the leaves of a tropical south American endemic plant, ilex paraguariensis; with most of the components of green tea, it is said to be healthier and less astringent. It is traditionally served in a dried and decorated gourd, filled with up to two thirds with the dried leaves. Hot water is then poured over the leaves, and the server drinks from the straw, or bombilla, until there’s no water left. Then more water is added and the next person drinks. It is traditional to share the bombilla (Yes it is! :-/) so sharing mate is a signal of friendship and closeness. Of course, it can also be home made as normal tea, or enjoyed alone with your own bombilla.  

(2) Andean panpipe, made up of a double row of reeds, this particular type contains some of the lower notes of all the Andean pipes, which, though more difficult to play, are the most haunting and powerful in their sound, above all when combined with the (3) bombo drums, whose dark and deep sound is due to the fur in the skins used to make the drums.  

(4) Palindrome: A word, phrase, number or any other sequence of units that has the property of reading the same in both directions. (eg.racecar )  

(5) Mohai are those tall stone statues of Easter Island, and Ahu is the ceremonial site where the Mohai are set. Ahu Akivi, with seven statues, is the only Ahu placed inland and looking to the sea. The legend sustains the explanation Cyrus is remembering here, but it’s not a documented fact at all.

CHAPTER 3 

Sailing the wind.

“Want to see something interesting, Cyrus?”  

Three weeks had passed since their discussion, Silvertree was away to Paris and other unknown destinations and Cyrus had turned all his efforts into polishing the last details of their tool, withdrawing into his lab and computer and avoiding more in-depth conversations. He had used the time to try and come to terms with his childish disappointment as well. He still admired Silvertree and Greenwood without reserves for their vast knowledge, their calm and positive demeanour and the fairness and generosity with which they put to use the immense power they had come to gather along the years.  

They were great scientists, probably the best in the world, who had spurned honours and public recognition and had exchanged them for a simple, yet satisfactory life of intellectual and practical activity. He could not blame them for that. Most of his long-time friends had done the same. And these two had achieved more than many whole organizations. He could not force others to fight, he thought firmly, and so he had overcome his despondency as he had done so many times before.  

“Cyrus?”  

He looked up, coming out from his musings. Greenwood was leaning in the doorframe, watching him with mild amusement.  

“Beg pardon, was daydreaming, it’d seem, you said?”  

“I asked if you wanted to see something interesting, and, in case you did, let me know if you can ride….”  

“Yes, and yes,” was Cyrus prompt answer. Every time any of them had come with a similar offer, Cyrus had been treated to some unforgettable experience; the mating dance of what turned out to be the last whales of the southern hemisphere, the hatching of a brood of diminutive humming birds, the final melting of a nearby glacier or the dying song of a beloved part of the forest, their eye for natural beauty and their ability to perceive its most subtle changes never ceased to amaze him.  

“Right, then, we’ll leave before dawn, we’ll drive to “Camp Rosario” and ride up from there. Good night!” and with a friendly wink he turned and disappeared, leaving Cyrus with the feeling that some of the light of the world had gone with him.  

********

“Camp Rosario” was about fifteen miles west and upwards, following the battered trail. Most of the families who lived there were stock farmers, descendants of those nomadic gauchos (1) who had herded sheep and cows across the endless plains of Patagonia for generations uncounted. Since the melting of the Patagonia Ice Fields, North and South, most of those lands were now submerged. Those strong people had taken to the mountains and held on to their way of living, to horses, sheep, goats and cows, raising cattle for their own, and the neighbouring camps’, consumption. One of those dark, stern and silent men awaited them with two spirited horses at the entrance of the camp.  

“Morning, Antonio,” Greenwood greeted them with the closeness and familiarity he extended to everyone around him. He carried himself with an easiness that Cyrus found compelling, rather than overbearing, as if he knew he commanded attention and were always ready to see to the needs of those around him. The man nodded silently to Cyrus and then whispered something to Greenwood, who laughed out heartily.  

“He worries that the horse will be too much for you, Cyrus, what do you say?” there was a hint of a challenge in his blue, laughing eyes.  

Cyrus studied the horse with a critical eye. He knew its type. They were like old-time bureaucrats, apparently tame, but vicious, nasty and petty creatures if you let them have their way. Once they recognized who the master was, and provided it was not themselves, they were faithful, useful and wise creatures, who knew the intricacies of their trade and willingly cooperated with the noblest of targets in mind; to live another day with as little trouble as they could gather. Hand, voice and knee were usually needed, mostly at the same time, to get to that point, though.  

He had learnt to use the same trick with horses, so he gave an unconcerned smile at his expectant companions and with a sure hand he mounted the reluctant steed, ducking the sudden movement of the big head and holding on steadily until the horse stopped rearing and skirting, the reins firmly held short in his left hand.  

“Shall we go?” he asked blandly.  

“After you, Dr. Feldman!“ Greenwood smiled openly, mounting his obedient stallion in one effortless movement and following him.  

They rode on, as the morning unfolded in the east. The wind whistled softly among the trees to their right as the narrow path winded its way laboriously up, a deep fall at their left. It would be different when they reached the top, Cyrus knew, for then the north-western ocean wind would blow with full force in their faces, with no trees to shelter them.  

Cyrus noticed then that Greenwood held the reins loosely on his hand and looked very relaxed upon his steed. His own mount was behaving properly, but he still kept a tight hold and gave no concessions to friendship, not with that long fall at his left side. The sun was climbing slowly behind them, filtering through the moisture-laden clouds and gilding the silvery sky. With some luck, Cyrus thought, it might even rain.  

“In the mood for a race?” Greenwood brought him out of his musings as soon as they reached the end of their ascent.  

“Why not?” he agreed, smiling at the eager, intense look in his friend’s face.  

With no warning, Greenwood gave a short cry and his stallion jumped forth at full speed, racing across the open plateau. Cyrus followed suit, more carefully, enjoying the sight of his friend who seemed one with his mount, riding with wild abandon against the ocean’s salt wind, his blond mane flying loosely behind him, looking as if he truly belonged there, Cyrus thought not for the first time.  

“Not bad for an old man!” Greenwood smiled playfully, his face alight with delight when Cyrus finally caught up with him.  

“Not bad for another,” Cyrus retorted amusedly, caressing his horse’s mane. “What are we doing here, Greenwood?“ he added, his curiosity piqued by the strange animation in his friend’s face. The light played tricks with his golden mane and his eyes searched the steely skies restlessly.  

“There! “ he whispered with relief, “look!”  

“Where? I can see nothing… what…” A hand hit his chest, and Cyrus looked down to see it held a pair of binoculars. Greenwood’s eyes were fixed on a spot in the sky and he tried to follow his pointing finger with the lenses.  

“Welcome home, my friend… welcome home…” his blond friend whispered softly.  

They stood there for hours, watching as a pair of wandering albatrosses unfolded their welcome dance in the morning skies, white as new fallen snowflakes, bright as morning stars, soaring elegantly in the southern winds with their powerful wings wide open, caressing each other in a well known routine they repeated every breeding season, regardless of how tired they were after their restless cruising of the wide skies of the world.  

“They mate for life, “ Greenwood said softly, his voice hoarse, “They sail the skies restlessly, alone, but they unfailingly return to the place were they first met every two years and wait for each other…” there was a strange emotion in his voice as he stood there, his hair whipping in the wind, following the enthralling dance. “They wait…” he whispered with such longing that it almost broke Cyrus heart. They remained there, their horses patiently grazing what grass was at their reach, not even daring to move as their riders watched the birds lovingly hold each other amidst the skies.   

“They’ll rebuild their old nest and lay a single egg, which will take about a month and a half to hatch”, Greenwood said in a neutral tone of voice once the seabirds disappeared behind an exposed ridge. Cyrus thought he could glimpse the glitter of unshed tears in those profound and knowing eyes. “We’ve been tracking them for the last seventy-five years,“ he added with a small smile, “and this was the first time the male came late to their appointment. She had been waiting for a week!“ Cyrus remembered then the glistening whiteness of both birds, only a faint shade of pitch black in the tip of the outer tail feathers, and knew that those birds were really old.  

“Like all of us” he thought with a sudden surge of tiredness. He understood only too well the longing in his friend’s expression. At a certain point one grew tired of so many goodbyes and so much loss.  

“Are you all right?” Cyrus heard Greenwood’s worried question through a haze. He shook his head.  

“Yes, a passing bout of dizziness, but it’s over”, he tried to sound reassuring. “A beautiful sight, I’m glad you shared it...”  

“A bit melancholy, though…” At times, they both showed a stunning ability to read through him. “ I fear this might be their last time…ready to go?”  

“If you are,” Cyrus answered a bit challenging, for his friend still wore a pained expression that worried Cyrus in turn.  

“I’ll be, thanks,” he answered slowly, hitting Cyrus with the most wonderful and indescribably melancholic smile he had ever seen, as he started his horse back, Cyrus at his side. “There’re only fourteen pairs of wandering albatrosses left in the world now. These two are the oldest, and every passing year they’re more tired and wane. It’s been twenty years, now, since their last chick survived long enough to reach adulthood…”  

“What a terrible doom, “ Cyrus observed sadly, “To sail the skies endlessly and touch the land shortly, only to see their efforts come to nothing…”  

“What a terrible doom to fulfil their nature?” Greenwood’s voice held a mix of surprise and exasperation as he stopped his mount and faced Cyrus, searching his face with incredulity. “Oh!" he laughed then harshly, “I forgot, the human privilege, to stand above their doom and change their destiny with their own deeds... and daring to pity those creatures who are not granted that same “gift”… what a terrible doom indeed, Cyrus, for these wonderful creatures to share their lifetime with men who managed to disrupt the wind and sea currents and bring scarcity to seas that once thrived with food and life!”  

He shook his head angrily and with a soft word Cyrus could not understand, he urged his horse forward, leaving behind a mystified Dr. Feldman.  

Cyrus followed slowly, giving his friend time to recover his firm grip upon his temper. In truth, he knew that Greenwood was right, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of giving up. Surely, there must be something that could be done to save those magnificent old seabirds from extinction?  

He caught up with his friend half the way back. He had stopped to talk to two gauchos from “Camp Rosario” and they were watching something packed in one of their saddle blankets.  

“They are out to retrieve some lost sheep, “ Greenwood informed him as he reached them, “it seems they‘ve had some attacks from a great predator. It’s been time since we last had one around,” he added evenly, but Cyrus could see a strange glitter in his eyes. The men behind them said something in their ancient language, and the only word Cyrus could understand was “puma,” (2) the mountain lion. They said something to Greenwood and laughed out loud as he turned and bowed to them.  

“A puma?” Cyrus asked in amazement.  

“I seriously doubt it,” Greenwood said evenly, without meeting Cyrus’ eyes, nodding to the men and urging his mount into a canter.  

****

“I had an extra copy of the mid-year report printed for you, Cyrus, I would really like to have your opinion,” Greenwood said that night as they shared a mate in the almost empty communal dining room.  

Cyrus raised his brows in amazement. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. Paper was a luxury, there, something truly treasured. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to my in-tray lately,“ he added on second thoughts.  

“I know,” Greenwood laughed in his customary loud and friendly manner, “your assistants tell me that you’re dedicated to the soils, which is good and well. How’s everything going on? Bard tells me that he’s very proud of the outcome...”  

“Is he, now?” Cyrus felt absurdly gratified by that compliment. For some unexplained reason, those four men’s opinion mattered to him more than his four Nobel Prizes. I’m getting old, he said to himself, and then out loud, “Wish I knew which of them is Bard...”  

“Never bother to try,” Greenwood said unconcernedly, “they exchange names constantly, so all I can tell you is that one’s ranting is Doom biased and the other’s stems out from unrequited love…“  

“I see... I’ll read that report and give you my opinion. You could have told me, if there was something urgent, the handbook is finished, after all…”  

“Nothing that we did not know or expect, Cyrus,” Greenwood said softly, patting his friend’s shoulder and wishing him goodnight.  

For two days and two nights Cyrus studied the mid-year’s earth state report, having his meals brought to his lab and checking incessantly on his computer.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cyrus dropped the report in front of Greenwood and took a seat at the other side of his friend’s desk.  

“Tell you what?” Greenwood looked at him with concern, Cyrus looked as if he had been wrung out, his face grey with fatigue and his shoulders slumped in defeat.  

“What?” Cyrus pointed at the report, “we’re at the point of no return, Greenwood, and you know that! I’ve been hiding here for so many years, and I gave up checking because I trusted that you were doing something! That we were doing something!  

“We are, Cyrus,” Greenwood answered calmly. “We’ve been making the difference for many people for a long time now, and you already knew that we were well past the point of no return… we crossed that threshold long before you came here...”  

“But that’s not enough! You cannot hide here and simply gloat in smug satisfaction, the world is heading to an end, and you sit here and do… nothing?”  

“Cyrus, you’re overtired, and are not seeing the things with equanimity...”  

“Equanimity? You positively know that the earth’s coming to its end and ask for equanimity? I cannot believe that you two have been hiding here all these years, keeping this from the public knowledge and letting things come to this state, and I cannot believe that I could have so misjudged the two of you!” he hit the desk vehemently, disregarding the telltale signs of a storm brewing on his friend’s face.  

“Cyrus…”  

“You keep all this knowledge, all this fantastic organization to yourselves and those you deem worth of it, leaving millions of people to die and to live in those crowded cities or underground, breathing venom and exulting when they get to eat some naturally grown vegetables… “  

“What would you have us do, then?“ Greenwood could barely control his anger, but Cyrus took no notice.  

“Do? What have you been doing? You tell me, Greenwood Great’s president, what have you been doing with your powerful organization that you let the earth come to this situation!”  

“You would have me stand up in arms and force all those millions to follow a lifestyle they did not believe in, they never asked for? You would that we had taken control of the world and imposed our system by force? You think that would have worked? We’ve been helping those who wanted another life, Cyrus. You know of many communities that were not viable, but you never heard of those who needed no help! The world is full of communities like this one, where people live free of worries and needs, enjoy free education and energy supply and grow up knowing that the earth must be supported and respected! And those people are doomed to death for they were never enough, Cyrus, not enough to stop this from happening! This is public information, it is not me hiding it from public knowledge, but people refusing to believe it!“  

“You could have done more…” Cyrus whispered, tears of impotence in his voice, “You could have changed everything…”  

“I suppose,” Greenwood’s voice held now an icy tinge that caught Cyrus’ attention. “But you know how the earth came to be, Cyrus? In the beginning it was a ball of fire, and then came the water, and terrible earthquakes, and only long after that, life. But nothing lasts forever, and even this earth’s days are numbered. It might be a meteorite, it might be the sun becoming a nova and exploding through the solar system, or it could be an implosion due to environmental collapse…” he leaned forth and bored into Cyrus with his deep blue eyes.   

“The thing is,” he kept on, “it is bound to happen, and neither you nor I can do much about it. Where do you think all those myths and legends come from Cyrus? It has happened before,” he said softly, “ in the time before the time, in the time of the Songs, and the myths, when the gods walked the lands… the light disappearing and the darkness ruling, the waves roaring…all those myths are the echo of ancient memories, or maybe a memory of something that will happen, an echo from a future that once melt with the past…“  

“So you sit there and tell me that the earth has come to its end because some ancient myth said so, and you would do nothing to stop it...” Cyrus looked at the man across the desk as if he saw him for the first time, “that’s inhuman! “ he claimed.  

Greenwood’s reaction caught Cyrus Feldman by surprise. He let his head fall backwards and let escape a bitter, mirthless roar of laughter. “Inhuman?” he cried,  “Of course, my good friend, glad you finally noticed! Of course that this is inhuman, as are all the creatures bound to this earth, doomed to silently cope with human’s despoil and devastation, with human’s careless misuse of the land, as one who’s wasting another’s property… We may have no escape, Cyrus, but at least the earth will be freed of her most destructive and careless guests,” he added sternly, his voice almost feral, a strange glitter in his icy eyes.  

“I cannot believe what you’re saying” Cyrus said softly, looking his friend in the eyes and shivering at the almost unrecognisable depths that lurked in there. “I told you, Greenwood, I won’t surrender while I still breathe,” he added, stepping out of his friend’s office without looking back.  

Cyrus awoke in the early hours of the night. He had gone to bed right after his conversation with Greenwood and had tried to sleep, tired as he was after two days with almost no break. But his rest had been plagued by strange dreams. He had dreamt of his wife, too, for the first time in many years. She was clad in glistening white and smiled at him tenderly, lovingly, extending her arms as if wanting to embrace him. “I wait for you, Cyrus, I always wait...”  

He walked out. The camp was silent, although it wasn’t late, and the moon was still high. Cyrus walked aimlessly, entering the forest, searching for a place where he could sit and put his thoughts in order.  

He was shocked by that afternoon’s conversation. “Inhuman? Glad you finally noticed.  Greenwood’s words haunted him. He knew that his friend was right, he had known that this was bound to happen, but somewhere in the deepest corner of his mind, stemming from something more ancient and innate that a long-forgotten religion, he had felt a tinge of recognition, the last spark of hope burning back to life when Silvertree had walked into that empty meeting room after his last speech in front of the COEP Directorate. He was not sure, he had never been, whether his friends were flawed humans, as himself, or another, otherworldly thing, but deep inside, he knew now, he had hoped.  

The forest was dangerously silent all of a sudden, Cyrus noticed, coming abruptly out of his troubled thoughts. He had inadvertently come too far away from the camp and now he felt a lurking danger, a strange presence.  

He looked around carefully. The full moon filtered through the sparse canopy, leaving little room for hiding. He stopped dead and listened intently, straining to hear anything.  

He saw it before he heard it, a powerful puma lurking among the trees, its muscled body tense, its eyes sparkling, its glistening coat shimmering under the moonlight. Cyrus held his breath and considered his options. The puma wasn’t looking at him, but Cyrus knew that it had spotted him long ago. It seemed enthralled by something different, something placed to Cyrus’ left, and soon he realized with trepidation that the puma was stalking another prey.   

And then he saw him. There, under the pale moonlight, stood Greenwood, clad in the khaki shorts he usually donned for outdoors activity, his wired, taut body glistening, red and black lines marking strange patterns along his rippling muscles, his long mane shimmering around him, looking almost translucent, a creature of the forest even more than the mystified puma, his eyes glittering strangely, brighter than the reflection of the pale moon.  

Cyrus stood there, transfixed, as man and beast locked eyes in silent conversation, muscles rippling in both perfect bodies, a long spear in the man’s hand, sharp claws in fast paws.  The debate wasn’t long, and soon the man bowed his head briefly and then shook his golden mane off his eyes, squaring his shoulders and raising his spear, his feet affirmed, his long legs lightly flexed, his body taut and his eyes alert.  

Swift as lighting, the beast lunged forth and with a clean, elegant movement, the spear found its way through the creature’s heart, it seemed, for it fell and rolled as a dead weight.  

Nothing moved in the clearing, as the godly figure stood there, panting heavily and looking at the dead animal sprawled at his feet. He squatted by the beast’s side, after pulling out the spear carefully, and bowed to caress the carcass with reverence. His long mane covered his features, but Cyrus could have sworn that he was whispering something, maybe a blessing, perhaps a prayer.  

With a swift, effortless movement, he pushed the dead beast upon his shoulders, and as he lifted his head, Cyrus could glimpse a fresh trail of tears running through that beautiful face.  

Cyrus felt his knees buckle, and he leaned on a trunk, stunned by a beauty not intended for mortal eyes, he suddenly realized, as Greenwood marched across the forest with his light, elastic pace, burdened by the dead weight but alight with the spirit of the dead beast, as if it had melted with his own life force. Cyrus could not put words to what he had witnessed, he only knew that he felt a mixture of fulfilment and piercing hunger, as after a long night of sweet, slow lovemaking, a feeling that sated the limbs but aroused the soul to and endless search for those fleeting lapses of eternity.  

It was in the strange hour before dawn that Cyrus finally found the strength to make it back to his cabin. 

** 

He next ran into Greenwood three days after that incident, at breakfast time.  

“Cyrus!” he strode by his side, “I must ask you a favour...”  

Greenwood had been closeted in his office for the last days, reportedly busy with some unexpected development. He looked as young and strong as ever, Cyrus thought grudgingly, while he was still recovering from his previous effort.  

“What is it?” he answered neutrally.  

“I know that you’re…disappointed, and that you may be considering… leaving camp...” Greenwood offered hesitantly. With a deep intake, Cyrus stopped and faced his friend.  

“I am,“ he acknowledged loyally, “but that doesn’t mean that I have come to a decision, so spit it out, man, what is it that you want from me?” he added, retrieving their bantering ways of old.  

“I must leave urgently, there is something that requires my presence, and I don’t know for how long...” Greenwood said seriously. “Silvertree must be back in two or three months. It’s unusual that the two of us are abroad at the same time, but I cannot postpone it any longer and I wanted to ask you to… take care of my projects. My assistants do most of the job, but... I trust your eye for the most refined conclusions...”  

“You’re bribing me with information, Greenwood? Isn’t a bit too late for that?” Cyrus asked with a mockingly offended voice, and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend blush for once. “Ha! I got you! “ he added, laughing loudly and patting Greenwood’s back, “Of course, my friend, tell me what is it that you want...”  

Two days later, Cyrus was familiar with all the intricacies of Greenwood’s complex environmental tracking system, and he wondered why he had never taken interest in his friend’s activities during all those years.  

“Well, this has always been open to you, as everything here,” Greenwood told him with all sincerity, “ but I’m glad you chose the soil. It is an amazing job you’ve done there...” They were sitting by the old beech that had harboured Greenwood and Silvertree’s refuge for so many years. It had died a couple of years ago, and they had taken to sit by its trunk out of unspoken respect, instead of still climbing its naked frame.  

“Bard and Poet are responsible of that, too, and of its distribution...”  

“Yes, but I was speaking of the soil nursery. There are a good number of soil experts now who learnt with you, you’ve spent many years teaching the young ones, Cyrus, and that’s what will make the difference in the end…”  

“In the end?” Cyrus asked, amused in spite of himself.  

“Well, if you’re going to plunder my figures, you might as well come out with a date, Cyrus. We spoke of an end, but not about a date…”  

“Ok, I say… two hundred years,” for some reason Cyrus always let himself be dragged by Greenwood’s prodding.  

“I’ll give you time to adjust your prediction, my friend, you’re going to have time, now,” Greenwood laughed good-naturedly.  

They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars.  

“Do they know?” Cyrus pointed vaguely at the quiet camp.  

“What? That the end is coming? Everybody knows Cyrus. None of them is undergoing longevity treatment, so why would they worry? Dr. Feldman says it shall happen in two hundred years…”  

He had a point there, Cyrus sighed, wondering for the first time whether he would be alive by then, and whether he wanted to. Longevity was an unexplored subject, and he was the oldest living person, but nobody knew how many years he could expect to continue to be so. He had rejected reinforcing treatments or follow-ups, and, with some reluctance, it had been granted to him. As far as he knew, he could either last another two or three hundred years, or die tomorrow. He preferred it thus.  

“What happened to the puma, Greenwood?” he heard himself ask against his conscious will.  

He endured a long, appraising glance from those deep, bottomless eyes.  

“He wouldn’t yield, Cyrus, but he wouldn’t give up everything to preserve a life that wouldn’t be his anymore,” he answered softly.  

“So he fulfilled his nature…” Cyrus voice held no hint of mockery, he was eager to understand.  

“As much as the wandering albatrosses, Cyrus. They wouldn’t yield either. They tried everything, year after year. They managed to move this north, they changed their breeding season… and they kept trying every two years, no matter that their younglings never survived. It’s in their nature. They will never surrender, but they won’t win this war." He sighed deeply. "And try as you might," he caried on, his voice a soft whisper in the night's breeze,"you can win many battles and find your hands full of fruitless victories. It is the same wind that carries us all, Cyrus, and it’ll be blowing still when there’s anything left upon the surface…” 

“So, what are we supposed to do, then?” Cyrus voice held all the anguish of a long life coming to its end, a desperate plea for some hope to hold on to, even if it was a wavering light at the end of a dark tunnel.  

“Keep going, Cyrus, and keep hoping.”  

Next morning, Cyrus drove the battered sun powered jeep down to the small airport.  

“You’re a good man, Cyrus,“ Greenwood said in a soft voice, putting his broad hands upon Cyrus’ shoulders and looking him in the eye, “and I’m proud to count you among my friends.”  

“I am, too,” Cyrus smiled, strangely moved by the serious tone in his usually merry friend. “Take care, Greenwood.”  

“You too,“ he said, shaking his hand firmly and walking to the airplane without looking back.  

As he drove back to camp, climbing the now bereft mountainside, Cyrus had the strange feeling that he would never see his friend again.   

TBC

A/N:  Only one chapter left, and only two footnotes!  

Notes:  

(1) Gaucho: South American version of North American cowboy. Same legends around them, same nomadic habits and symbiotic relationship with their steeds.  

(2) Puma, or cougar. It was only two years ago that I discovered that “puma” is actually the original Quechua word for the mountain lion of the American continent. Quechua was the common language imposed by the Incas as they conquered most parts of the Andes, (and from the Andes to the coast) from central Chile to southern Colombia. The puma had a symbolic and magical meaning in the Inca Empire, commonly associated to royalty.

Disclaimer: See chapter 1

A/N:  Belated happy birthday to Nilmandra, gentle host of this wonderful site!

CHAPTER 4

The lords of the last days (1)  

Much to Cyrus’ surprise, things went on in “New Future” as usual. He had half expected that, his two gentle hosts gone, the miracle would fade away like smoke, leaving behind the traces of a good dream.  

It was no dream that sustained the vital and positive activity of that camp, though, but just human enthusiasm. Greenwood’s aides worked on their tracking systems, and helped Cyrus through the amazing amount of data collected through decades and centuries. His classes went on, as well as the lively exchanges about the many different experiments going on in the numerous communities spread around the world and connected by Greenwood Great’s blogging network, courtesy of Bard and Poet, who dutifully updated and commented every new result, be it with a haiku, a pointed sarcasm or a forgotten rhyme containing more useful information about the subject.  

Cyrus missed his friends’ company and conversation, their calmness and serenity, but he had to acknowledge that life in camp was essentially the same, with or without them, and that was even a greater mystery to him.  

Problems were faced calmly and disagreements dealt with in a constructive way, with little amount of angry exchanges. Life was perceived there as an endless opportunity for learning, helping, exchanging, enjoying or even making mistakes, but seldom as a cause for bitterness or deep regret, and Cyrus started wondering about the quality of the invisible spell Greenwood and Silvertree seemed to cast over that camp.   

People just kept on with their lives, children were born, people died, some migrated to the main cities, or to other communities, to work in other Greenwood Great’s programmes and projects, and Cyrus was surprised to learn that some of his former students were now working for the COEP.    

Silvertree and Greenwood e-mailed regularly, to keep track of some issues or simply exchange small talk about the community and the world at large.  

When Greenwood’s team found out that the old albatrosses’ chick had died short after hatching, they had mourned. Greenwood answered with a charter showing the slow but steady decline of the world’s population in the last two centuries. That night, Cyrus went again to the forest.  

He sat there, in the same clearing where he had seen the puma die for his life, wondering what was wrong with him. He had known for long what was coming, and yet could not help the pain in his very soul, threatening to overwhelm him every time he dared think that he might live to see the day when that beautiful world would come to nothing. He didn’t fear death; he had seen enough of it in his long life to consider it a necessary force. But he had always found comfort in knowing that life moved on, that there was always the eternal –or so he had thought- cycle of life and death, feeding upon one other in a balanced way.  

But this would be another thing. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be there to witness it.  

Everybody in camp seemed to know, but nobody seemed exceptionally worried about the end of the world, and that, too, stunned Cyrus.  

“We have bets,” Greenwood’s chief assistant told him one night by the fireside, sharing a drink and some good music. Cyrus had noticed the white board on the widest wall of Greenwood’s lab, where “End of the World predictions” ranked from closest to more distant. “The boss has his own, but he said he would not disclose it until we had all revealed ours… would you like to join in, Dr. Feldman?”  

Almost a couple of weeks later, he had come up with his own figures, one hundred ninety-eight years and three weeks, and the assistants cheered him as he placed his forecast upon the board.  

“What are the bets?” he asked.  

“We don’t know, and by the looks of it, we never shall,“ a young assistant answered, looking quizzically at the board; Cyrus’ date was the closest by large. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind collecting our wagers if any of us wins, Dr. Feldman,“ he added with a mischievous grin, and general laughter had ensued.  

*****

“I’m glad to have you back, Silvertree,“ Cyrus said frankly, clasping his friend’s arms as soon as he descended the small airplane. In fact, he felt relieved. He had feared that he would never see them again, that for some unknown reason they would vanish like ghosts just when the world would need them most. In those five months since Greenwood had gone away, Cyrus’ unrest had grown again as his strength seemed to decline. “But, I’m forgetting my manners, how went your trip?” he added, as they climbed the jeep and started up to camp.  

“Not bad, I met some of your friends at the COEP, as I told you,” he said with his peaceful smile. “But I’ve missed this so much. How are you, Cyrus?” he said, studying him with his piercing gaze.  

“Oh, well, I can say that the soil handbook is done. I’m reluctant to finish it, because there are always some last touches, but, honestly, it is as good as it shall ever be,” he answered, refusing to acknowledge Silvertree’s worries concerning his less than healthy air.  

“Well, I suggest, then, that you start writing the appendices…”  

“What do you intend to do with it?  

“Me? Which are your intentions?” Silvertree looked him with plain astonishment.  

“I still don’t know,” Cyrus answered sincerely. “I had thought that, now that it is complete, and tested, maybe you would agree to have it presented to the COEP… and try to see its implementation…what you have managed is amazing, Silvertree,” he added before the other could start arguing, “You have managed to create independent, sufficient communities with zero ecological impact, even in areas where the Convention had thought that life would never be possible again…this must be known around the world, Silvertree, there may be yet a chance to stop it?”  

Silvertree looked at him with concern, and then shook his head. “Let me think about it. It is not just my own decision, but I’ll consider it... Now, tell me about your orchids!”  

Cyrus smiled at the welcome that awaited Silvertree in camp. The children ran to him and soon he was carried away by a whirlwind of squealing young ones competing to show him their progress. Life in camp might go on without them, Cyrus thought amusedly as he parked the old jeep, but then, it was never that interesting when those two weren’t around.  

That night at the communal dining room, as he pretended an appetite he was far from feeling, Cyrus studied his friend, who was required to pay a visit to every table, to be greeted by scientists, workers, teachers and families. He did not know for sure what Silvertree’s responsibilities exactly were, Cyrus thought with surprise for the first time in fifteen years, apart from being the spirit of the place, much as Greenwood was its heart, but that alone was more than enough.  

“I’ve seen your prediction in Greenwood’s lab, Cyrus,“ Silvertree told him one night as they sat by their old beech. “How’re you coping with it all?”  

“Greenwood told you, “ he answered flatly, absurdly irritated.  

“More or less,” the other acknowledged, “he was worried. And I must agree that he’s not the most…diplomatic person when it comes to, let’s say, certain…issues,“ he added with a twisted smile. “If you want to talk about it,“ he added, genuine worry in his voice.  

Despite his friend’s friendly words, Cyrus felt angered at the thought that they were treating him like a fragile thing, a child who would be frightened by truth.  

“No, not really, for I wouldn’t get more from you than what I got from him…”  

“We’re not hiding anything, Cyrus, but maybe we don’t see things upon the same perspective…”  

“You’re not hiding anything? Come on, Silvertree, he said this had happened before, the drowning, and the dimming, and the...” all the things he had been mulling over came around in a confused babbling, and Silvertree let him speak without interruption. 

“Well, if you take a look at the geological and fossil data…”  

“No, don’t try to confound me, he spoke as if he knew, Silvertree, as if he… if he had been there when it happened!”  

“In all truth I can tell you, Cyrus, that he wasn’t,” he said, a hint of amusement on his fair voice. But Cyrus Feldman wasn’t the most renowned scientist of two centuries for nothing, and he positively knew when he had found a useful thread.  

“How do you know that he wasn’t? What are you, Silvertree?”  

A tense silence stretched among them, punctuated by Cyrus’ ragged breathing. Silvertree gave him one of his long, appraising glances and then shrugged. “We are old, Cyrus, much as you are…”  

“No, my friend, don’t try to fool me,“ Cyrus felt the tingling that was always prelude to a thrilling discovery. ”I am old. You, I would call ancient, but that’s not enough for me. I’m asking what you are, and you claimed that you’re not hiding anything from me, I remind you...” he said in a challenging tone.  

“We aren’t;“ Silvertree answered, a steely edge to his calm voice, “you never asked.”  

“I’m asking now, “ Cyrus asked triumphantly, feeling that he was about to get the answer to a question that had been sleeping in his mind since that springtime evening in Paris fifteen years ago. “What are you?”   

Silvertree spoke, or rather chanted in his silvery voice, the whole night away. He told Cyrus about a time before the time, a world sang in to being by the will of the one, the making of the wide lands and the eternal cyclical destruction; the making of the stars and the awakening of that strange people of magnificent beauty and otherworldly wisdom, the firstborns, born to live until the end of the world.

He told Cyrus about their long trip to the west, the beautiful land under the stars, the rising of the sun and the moon, magnificent jewels, desperate battles ended in mighty earthquakes and submerged lands, and darkness coming back, time and time again. Only to be fought, with ever waning strength, with the same desperate hope, by the creatures of the earth, in a dance of fruitless victories, hopeless deeds of honour and courage and selfless sacrifices that had never managed, in the end, to keep evil at bay.

The sun was wearily piercing the dense cloud that now covered the world, a minute or two later each passing month, a part of Cyrus’ brain noticed almost mechanically, when Silvertree put an end to his heartbreaking tale, and closed his intense, strangely bright eyes with a deep sigh.  

Cyrus’ mind was reeling, trying to find his way amidst that story, but he returned, time and again, to the point that haunted him, a world sang into being. Pythagoras and Plato, (2) Kepler and Vico, (3) the Australian aboriginals’ Dreamtime and Songlines, (4) early twenty-first century’s Max Planck Institute’s experiments with music and neural semantic processes, (5) or that line in a twentieth century fantasy epic in which a character connected a song and a language to a land, the title of which Cyrus could not remember for the life of him, (6) all the theories and experiences, ancient or not, about the way music related to the innermost recesses of human understanding and identity raced in confused turmoil across his astounded brain.  

“So…it…was the music, after all?” was all he managed after a long time.  

Silvertree rewarded him with a beautiful, fond, caring smile.  

“It is the music, yes…but…few mortals ever get to understand it wholly. Most, simply... feel it tugging at the corner of their minds for as long as they live…”  

“What…what will become of you?” Cyrus asked after a long time.  

“We don’t know. We know that we’re bound to the earth, Arda, as we know it, but what shall become of us after the end, it hasn’t been revealed.” 

“And yet you don’t fight?”  

“Cyrus!” Silvertree’s reconvention was exasperatedly amused. “Does a rock fight the tide?”  

“But the waters come back and forth, every six hours, more or less. If Greenwood’s data are accurate, and that I do not doubt at all, you have less than two hundred years left before the final and definite tide…you cannot accept it that calmly…” his old fighting self still rebelled at the mere thought that such wonderful, wise, perfect creatures would be doomed to end with the earth and would accept it graciously. They couldn’t die!  

“Maybe we’re tired, Cyrus,“ Silvertree suggested with a soft smile.  

“You both told me that you’d never give up,” Cyrus argued, “you cannot fool me, Silvertree, there must be something, I cannot accept it…”  

“Of course you can’t! But you’re a human, Cyrus, a second born, and yours is the gift to rise above the music and complete your fate beyond the circles of the world. You’re not tied here, and your souls are always seeking, maybe for the place where you truly belong...That’s your gift and your hope, Cyrus…”  

“Another place? And where would that be?” he asked slowly, almost afraid of what he might hear.  

“That, the firstborns know not,” Silvertree answered sadly. “A friend of mine, who was a recalcitrant friend of your race, said once that the spirits of the men were always seeking forth, mere guests in this world, heading for the place where they would rule forever, freed of fear and darkness, and there we might as well find a place in which to remember how things were…”  

“I would like that,” Cyrus said hoarsely after a long pause, “ I would like to go to a place where I would meet you again…”   

They sat there in companionable silence for a while, watching the camp come to life one more morning, carelessly and happily, as if eternity stretched before them.  

“I’m dying, Silvertree,” Cyrus said softly.  

“I know,” was the even answer, but Cyrus could perceive the immeasurable pain that rang in the deep voice.  

“And the earth is dying, too…Greenwood was right…”  

“Thranduil.” The answer came softly, after a long silence.  

“What?”  

“His name is Thranduil. He once was king in a mighty forest. He fought darkness with his own hand, and kept the enemy at bay and his people safe even at the most desperate times for longer that your civilization will last, Cyrus…” he added seriously. 

“I see, “ Cyrus chuckled and then smiled at Silvertree’s quizzical gaze. “It still shows, you know? He carries himself like a king of old…what happened?”  

Silvertree shrugged. “Urban encroachment, they call it. Suburbs, roads, dams, national park declarations…you know how it went…”  

“And I blamed him for giving up...” Cyrus groaned...he must hate me...”  

“Not exactly,” Silvertree flashed that crooked, ghostly smile of his that made him look like a mischievous youngster. ”But you piqued him, that I grant you, I had not seen him so irked in quite a long time...”  

Silence sat again comfortably between them, as Cyrus tried to overcome his embarrassment.  

“And you, Silvertree?” he eventually asked.  

“I never was a king,“ his friend asked, his playful smirk still lingering upon his fair face.  

“I bet you were more than that…” Cyrus said softly, “but I was asking about your name, my friend…”  

“Celeborn.”  

“Celeborn…” Cyrus whispered. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad I’ll be able to call my friends by their name before leaving…”  

“We could take you back, Cyrus, surely there’s something that can be done...”  

“No, thanks. It’s been more than enough. I’m glad, after all, because I had the chance to know you, but… I don’t want to be around when everything happens. It’s a bitter defeat, and I’d rather not live to se it...”  

“Say better another fruitless victory, for fight we must, even if there’s no possible victory in the end, except beyond our limited sight...”  

“You hope, still?  

“Always. That’s our gift.”  

“Hope?”  

“We call it Estel, hope beyond knowledge…”  

“We call it faith… but few are granted that precious gift…” Cyrus could not decipher the sad smile upon his friend’s face at that.  

“Now, I understand many things,” Cyrus added after some more time, “Is it to the moon, then, that our hope drives us?” he asked in a mockingly unconcerned tone.  

“Have I ever told you that you’re an amazing human being, Cyrus?” Celeborn laughed, deep satisfaction in his voice. ”Yes, the moon, and mars, and… who knows where from there?”  

“Vacuum energy?”(7)  

“Exactly. We started cooperating with the CERN, (8) and then hired some of their best scientists and moved to another, more secluded lab. While they concentrated in other tasks, we kept on working in vacuum energy as the cleanest, least expensive way to help move humankind out of their planet, when the worst came. Other projects have been dealing with the logistics, and we have been perfecting the soil growth, as you well know, but the main problem was how to find the energy to start travelling and building facilities out there. As far as I’ve been informed, our scientists have finally come with the definite solution. Thranduil’s now overseeing the last tests, and soon we shall be able to present the humankind with a new hope….”  

“But, then…” Cyrus was literally gaping. That was more than he had ever imagined.  

“The trick is, we owe the solution, and so we’ll impose our conditions. Together with the energy, the Convention has accepted that our teams shall be in charge of the project; scientists who have learnt, trained and worked with us, as well as the people who have been leading and developing this network of zero ecological footprint settlements round the world, shall be in charge of the settling down,” he explained with a brief smile. “Your soil care and regeneration handbook, Cyrus, will be the guiding document for the new settlements in the moon, as well as all the literature, images, knowledge, languages and culture that Bard and Poet and their teams have been collecting for centuries. That shall be your legacy, Cyrus, ancient knowledge and an endless hope for a new beginning, out there, among the stars…”  

“I…cannot believe it, Celeborn…why…why are you doing this?”  

He let escape a surprised laughter, “Why? Why not? It is in the human nature to seek always further…In the beginning, our people were here to teach and guide yours, and, in a sense, we kept on doing the same… we just…helped humans achieve their aims and fulfil their destiny…the fact that we are tied to Arda doesn’t mean that your race is, too, so… maybe you were due to find this escape.” he added. “Hope is always there, whether you embrace it or not, Cyrus…”  

“But...what about you? What about Thranduil, and Bard, and Poet? Are they like you?   

“We’re all the same, yes, creatures of this and not another earth, so we’ll finally learn our destiny once Arda’s days are fulfilled…”  

“It’s going to be a dull life without you to take care for human kind…” Cyrus said softly.  

“Do not despair, my friend,“ Celeborn told him softly, pressing his arm comfortingly, “We may yet meet beyond the end…just…wait for us…”  

***  

Cyrus felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now that he knew what the new hope was he found a new sense to all his toils. As his health deteriorated rapidly, he gave up most of his tasks, concentrating mostly on his orchids and in writing the appendices for his handbook, his legacy, as Celeborn had called it.  

It was as if he had been granted long months of that clear-sightedness that it is said that only comes to mortal kind shortly before the final curtain; he looked back at his life and found it full of meaning. He picked up memories and enjoyed them without pain, or anguish or remorse, seeing them instead as parts of a whole that only now came to unfold its meaning before him.  

He spent a lot of time in amazed talk with Celeborn, hearing of the wonders of a world before the world, and the toils and hopes of that mysterious and deeply sad race.  

“Why…why did you choose me?” he once asked his friend, awed that he had been granted that ultimate privilege.  

“We needed you, and you needed us. It was meant to be, Cyrus...we could have done it by ourselves, but it would have take longer and it would have lacked your compassionate, loving touch. This is the work of your life, my friend, a long one devoted to protect and preserve. Your name will be remembered long after our world has disappeared…”  

“And what if I had refused?”  

“You couldn’t. I knew that you wouldn’t…”  

Cyrus remembered that spring evening in Paris, and wondered what had become of gentle Claire. He didn’t miss his apartment, or his things; he had long ago learnt not to hold on to material belongings or memories, but to people, he grew attached easily. And, above all, he wondered what would become of his friends; those amazing creatures that were devoting their last years to preserve and save a race that had brought their demise with its carelessness.  

He spent most of his time in the soil nursery, testing new ideas, overseeing the children’s experiments and caring for his orchids. He loved to work there, in the place where most of their labours had come to fruition, a place that was considered almost sacred by everybody in camp.  

There had never been music there, though, Cyrus thought that afternoon, or maybe it was that he was finally able to perceive the song of Arda, as Celeborn called it, he wondered idly as he blinked repeatedly, trying to focus his gaze in the diminutive orchids he had been trying to observe.  

“I’ll be back soon! Don’t move, Dr. Feldman!”  

He heard the child’s panicked voice in the distance I’m not going anywhere, child, he thought lazily, I’ll never go to the moon. I’ll remain here, with Celeborn and Thranduil, he thought amusedly. There was something strange, there, he thought, for the orchids were supposedly growing on the backside of the leaf of a much bigger plant, and he was now seeing them floating over him.  

He blinked twice, and the two little white orchids became the eyes of the puma Thranduil had killed in the clearing, and then, they stretched and became the wings of the two albatrosses, glistening in the sun and gliding gracefully in the winter skies. As he watched in delight, they came closer, and one turned into his wife’s face, alight with her long- missed smile. Wait, Sara, he tried to say, noticing for the first time that he could not speak. His face was resting upon the newly restored soil, and for a moment he perceived its powerful fragrance. Such a healthy soil, he thought, his brain mechanically processing the sensations, we’ve truly mastered this process… And with a blissful smile he extended his hand to grasp the wing of the albatross and sailed away in peace.  

****  

Two years after Cyrus’ death, Thranduil finally returned to camp.  

“He was a good man,” he said, sitting by Celeborn’s side under their old beech and accepting the gourd and bombilla.  

“He was a wise man, too.” Celeborn said softly.  

“It has started.” Thranduil said then, after sipping with delight. Celeborn raised a brow in his direction and waited.  

“And we have finished just in time,” Thranduil added, frowning slightly. “COEP’s forecasts still waver between five hundred and four hundred and forty three years, even with the plain evidence of the releasing of the massive methane artic deposits due to ice melting… (9)  

“The beginning of the end, then,” Celeborn said evenly. “How long?” he added.  

“Well,“ Thranduil extended his long legs and leaned back on the old, dead wood, “I’ve been checking the forecasts in my lab... and Cyrus’ was the closest…”  

“How long, Thranduil?” Celeborn’s voice had a warning tinge that his friend considered prudent not to ignore.  

“One hundred and forty-one years, Celeborn. This is going to be the shortest ennin (10) in history.”  

“Will it be enough?”  

“Certainly. Everything is ready and waiting. As soon as you convince the Secretary General, our people will take over and… in about sixty years, ninety at the worst, everything will be done…”  

“Let’s not tarry, then…”  

*****

Those were busy years indeed. Silvertree spent a great amount of time in Paris working out the details of the whole evacuation and resettling processes with the Secretary General before making public announcements. Greenwood Great’s team was ready to undertake the coordination of the operation, called ”The Great March” in a bout of Thranduil’s warped sense of humour, and only the agreement of the General Assembly was needed before starting the process that would lead the human kind to the stars.  

When the Secretary General of the Convention announced to the General Assembly on open and live broadcast session that the end was less than one hundred and fifty years away, his words were greeted by a courteous silence and incredulous smiles.  

When his chief scientist showed his graphics and data, the world leader’s panicked.  

When Greenwood’s Great Operations Manager, a scientist who had trained for years in New Future, explained the details of “The Great March” clearly and calmly, a collective sigh of relief was heard across the world.  

Thus began the Years of the People.  

Much to Greenwood Great’s four co-presidents’ satisfaction, humans showed their best qualities at this direst situation. A worldwide surge of solidarity and cooperation was the answer to that shared plight. As people began to accept the enormity of the impending tragedy, serenity and equanimity were the widespread answer. All efforts were turned to ensure the future of those who would be alive by that time with a generosity that became stuff of legends for centuries uncounted.  

Longevity treatments hadn’t been available for almost a century, and birth rates had slowed down dramatically even without the frightening news. The world’s population had been reduced in a third in the last century, and the process would be increased unavoidably in the years to come.  

Thirty years after the announcement, the first permanent base had been established in the moon.  

Fifty-five years after the eventful session at the Convention’s General Assembly, Camp Feldman, the first permanent civil compound in the moon opened its doors with a moving ceremony to the memory of Dr. Cyrus Feldman, the great scientist whose dedication had made it possible for the man to find refuge and a new, ecologically sound beginning among the stars.  

A cruel selection had been needed to choose the representatives of races, trades, sciences, languages, cultures, knowledge, arts, who would make up the future human kind. The rest were doomed to linger on earth and face slow extinction before the end.  

Those turned out to be strange years. As population dropped dramatically, living conditions improved almost unexpectedly. The remaining earth population enjoyed unknown rates of well - being and peace. Some of those doomed to remain took to violent activities or risk sports, but most simply found fulfilment in working to the limit of their skills to save treasures, pieces of knowledge, or simply enjoy what was left for them. They called themselves “the lords of the last days” and expressed the best of human genius with their selfless sacrifices and generous work, or simply living their remaining years with all the dignity they could muster.  

Seventy years after the first public announcement of the upcoming of the end of the world the first human child was born in the moon.  

Ten years after that, as the hundredth city was completed in the moon, the last child on earth was born. Those who had been selected to travel out there were settled, and those remaining only hoped to die before the worst came.  

That year, too, Greenwood’s Great council board held its last meeting. The four co-presidents decided that it was time to step back and hand everything over. Their work was done, their task fulfilled and their mission accomplished. To them, the final question still remained unanswered, but for now, they could rest, unnoticed and secret as they had always been, unknown benefactors of a human kind that was now heading for its next hope, ignorant, as always of what had been needed to take them there.  

But yet, among those who had managed the operation, all of them senior officers at Greenwood Great’s projects, an unofficial tale was passed from parents to children, from chief to assistant, an initiate’s secret that recounted how a powerful organization, ruled by immortal men, had long ago secretly begun preparing the escape route for humankind, and had then returned to the stars whence they came, to keep benevolent watch over their human charges.  

And so it came to pass that, long after the earth had dissolved under fire, “Greenwood” was still synonym of accuracy and highest quality, “Bard&Poet” designed any communication network, and the computer units that ensured the correct performance of the life supporting systems of the settlements were galaxywide known as “Silvertrees,” nobody knew why.  

This way, the myth dissolved into daily use and embedded itself in the deepest layers of human consciousness, to remain there as a familiar and indescribable feeling, as part of an atavistic memory that had once been truth and was now but the stardust of a legendary past. 

To the EPILOGUE >>>>>

Notes:  

Uh, I fear this time I’ve gone too far….  

(1) The title is taken from a sentence in Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s 1986 “Songs from distant Earth.”  

(2) Pythagoras was the first to correlate the intervals of musical scale with simple numerical ratios. He applied his studies of the mathematical foundation of musical harmony to astronomy, coming up with the concept of “The music of the spheres” saying, more or less, that music was a reflection of the harmony of the Universe. Plato, as well as other philosophers, expanded this theory.  

(3) J. Kepler, a German sixteen-century astronomer, inspired by Pythagorean mathematics and concepts, came to formulate the Laws of the Planetary Motion, which sustain modern astronomy, based on the concept of “the music of the spheres” and the essential harmony of the Universe proposed by Pythagoras.  

G.B. Vico was an Italian eighteen-century philosopher, generally regarded as the founder of modern philosophy of history. He stressed the importance of myths, poetry and music as ways of transmission of ancient knowledge from mythical times to present days.  

(4) The Australian aboriginals have lived in harmony with their territory for around forty thousand years. Their creational beliefs go back to a time, the “dreamtime”, in which the god’s walked the earth, singing things into being, and drawing through their songs, -the songlines- the limits for each tribe’s territory and beliefs. “Songlines” are still used today as geographical and administrative reference in aboriginal owned lands.  

(5) Recent experiments show that music, as well as language, can prime the meaning of a word, and can determine physiological indexes of semantic processing in the brain. Which, more or less would mean that there would be an inner language and semantics in music that our brains are equipped to decipher…or almost…  

(6) “That, Legolas said, “must be the language of the Rohirrim, for it is rich and rolling as the lands, and yet strong and stern as the mountains…” (The King of the Golden Hall, LOTR, TTT) Cyrus had read it, but forgotten, and yet the line kind of stuck… Forgive, him, though, for inaccuracies, he’s citing by heart….  

(7) Vacuum energy: underlying background energy that exists in space devoid of matter. One of the theoretically but not yet experimentally proved applications of particle physics.  

(8) CERN, originally, the European Centre for Nuclear Research. Presently, it is the largest particle physics research facility in the world. BTW, the www was “born” there. It is a huge facility situated close to the French-Swiss border.  

(9) Ocean floors and artic sediments hold huge amounts of methane. The melting of the artic cap would release these huge sediments, causing an unexpected increase of the greenhouse effect, and consequently a more than significant warming of the global climate, as well as landslides on the sea floor that would lead to instability and more methane releasing …  

(10) I have serious doubts about this word. I’ve seen it used as Sindarin for yen (144 years) and one reference I found says, “a long-year” and “a Valian year” in the same definition, which to me is a contradiction, so I assume that it is indeed a “long-year,” the 144 years period the exiled Noldor called “yen.“

Epilogue.

A/N: Dr. Charles D. Keeling, the man who alerted the scientific community about the effects of mounting concentrations of CO₂ derived from by human activities upon global warming back in 1955, died last week. Some truths take elven pace to seep into human conscience, it’d seem.

The End of Arda  

Somewhere in Patagonia, South America. Last days of the Earth. 

“Why did you remain, Celeborn?” 

They were comfortably sprawled under an overgrown bush, enjoying the night breeze. Days were now too hot, even that south and surrounded by water, and they preferred to remain awake by night. Climate had deteriorated seriously in the last twenty-five years. Life had become impossible in most parts of the world, due to an unbearable rise in temperatures, fires, floods, freezing, droughts, volcanic eruptions and earthquakes caused by the growing instability due to the huge amounts of sediments freed from the ocean’s floor.  Some optimistic predictions announcing that the freezing brought about by global dimming and the increased warming due to greenhouse effect would cancel each other had been ruthlessly updated by reality.  

They led a quiet life, almost hobbitish in its simplicity, Celeborn thought at times with amusement. They tended to their orchard and the few remaining animals. Hunting and fishing were exercises in patience, suitable for two long-lived elves like them, and long conversations were their relished pastime.  

They had moved down to the small warehouse, fishermen’s wharf and airport area, partly because the only remaining humans lived there and partly because ghosts at New Future had become almost unbearable even for them.  Silence was heavy, up there, and jungle reigned among offices, barracks and labs. The feeling of decay, the smell of defeat was too much for them. They had lived up there until their communication system finally collapsed. That had been ten years ago, when they had last heard the wonderful voices of their two friends, who had decided long ago to meet the end at their own camp, in Central Asia. Celeborn understood that only too well. Many colleagues had decided to remain there and Maglor and Daeron would not desert them.  

“You’re younger, you speak first,” he prompted his friend, who was lazily stretched with his head comfortably reclined against the trunk. 

“I…I promised my Adar that I would take care of his forest...” he answered nonchalantly. Celeborn almost choked in outrage. 

“When did you lose your compass Thranduil? No, don’t answer me; being modest as he was, your father surely understood that all forests in middle earth were his forest…” 

“Except Lórien, of course,” Thranduil agreed placidly. 

“Of course,” Celeborn conceded with a twisted smile. “Seriously, now,” he insisted softly, “Why did you remain?” 

Thranduil changed position twice, as if trying to find a way to accommodate his thoughts, rather than his long limbs, and finally sighed. “In truth…I’d guess…because I had no other reason…” Despite Celeborn’s understanding nod, he felt that he had to elaborate, if only to make it clearer for himself. “There was the forest, and my people, and then…there was always something else, another day, another fight, another try...” he spoke softly, almost to himself. “Of course I miss my wife and my children, but…I learnt to keep the pain at bay by concentrating in just another day… until… it became… a dull pain, something familiar, an almost welcome reminder…In your case it must be the same, I’d say, only a dull fear, rather than pain, though, “ he added wit a provoking wink. 

“You almost got, me, Thranduil, I thought you were finally being serious! “Celeborn laughed out heartily. He liked the way his friend had shed his calm, efficient scientist role and had effortlessly turned back to be the wild, bantering and fighting elf he had known and admired for ages. When facing danger and despair, Thranduil Oropherion was one of the best companions an elf could ask for, he thought fondly.  

“Aren’t you afraid of what your lady wife may do to you when she lays hands upon you, then?” Thranduil insisted with mock worry. 

“Afraid?” Celeborn let a wistful smile shine briefly in his silvery eyes. 

“Why did you stay? tell me,“ he wouldn’t let the subject go, Celeborn knew. “I can only add that for me it was a question of pride, since I did not intend to let you earn all the praise and share it with your Noldorin in-laws…” 

“In all truth, my friend, I cannot tell. I never heard the call, I fear. I miss my wife, of course, but... that was never enough, not when I knew that she would always be there and there was so much to be done here... Honestly, I don’t know…” 

“Well, we’ll learn soon,” Thranduil, said offhandedly. “Only, I would like to meet Pengolod before the end, and make him eat his Dagor Dagorath rubbish, word by word…why!“he added, mocking exasperation in his voice, “do you see the sun falling from the sky, and Tilion following after her, and Morgoth returned and Eonwë and Turin fighting him? Mmm… I could make a decent Eonwë, I suppose, but… no way we have a silvery haired Turambar… see what I mean? (1) 

“And what about our favourite myths, then?” Celeborn was doubling up with laughter at Thranduil’s reasoning, “Darkness is here to stay, and as the fires and eruptions progress, we’ll see less of the sun…” 

“Oh, yes, and the women shall come out of the sea… pity there are no animals left in this ocean to take the land over... I wouldn’t mind it if had been a drowning, after all, but it won’t be thus here, my friend, I chose our location only too well...no earthquakes and no volcanoes…” 

They remained there in companionable silence, at times speaking, at times singing, and at times simply stargazing as they had done for uncounted nights during the long ages of the world.  

“Inti, Inti!” (2) 

The shouts were urgent, amazed. Both elf-lords stood up quickly, walking towards the path that led to the small harbour. 

“Inti, down there!” 

The old man who still cared for the aeroplane with the same dedication his father and his grandfather had shown before him was panting heavily and pointing down to the harbour.  A reddish shimmer was visible down there. Thranduil looked worried. 

“No volcanic craters in the vicinity, and no methane sediments in the surroundings, to cause such fire, “ he said slowly, “I’d better go have a look...” 

“Maybe the sun actually fell from the sky?” Celeborn suggested amusedly, following Thranduil through the now little used path that wounded its way through the dense jungle down to the port, and then added playfully, “My lord Eonwë?” 

The radiance became brighter as they neared the small harbour, yet the dense vegetation made it impossible to discern its source. 

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed to learn that a small volcano has been born under your feet, my friend… ruining your perfect location…” Celeborn was still joking when his friend’s gasps made him look ahead and he immediately froze, standing in the wooden pier, his mouth wide open. 

There, amidst the calm sound, the most beautiful ship that ever sailed the seas or skies pitched lightly in the midnight tide, its white sails gently veering in the soft breeze, and the blessed mariner stood at the rudder with the Silmaril upon his brow, spraying the dreadful darkness with its brilliance. 

A friendly scornful voice greeted them as they stood there, too amazed to say or do anything. 

“If you intend to stand there gaping until the end of Arda, my lords, you may be close to reaching your purpose…” Maglor’s voice them shook them from the sudden spell, and both looked at each other in wonder. 

“I can see a boat below you, my friends, would you mind moving up? I don’t believe Lord Eärendil has much time to spend here….” Daeron’s amusement was unmistakable, and that was what Thranduil needed to get started. He hurriedly walked the pier to find the mooring of the small boat and untied it. 

“Celeborn! He urged his friend, “Come on!” he said, hurriedly descending the wooden ladders and boarding the precarious ship. 

But Celeborn seemed rooted there, paralysed by disbelief, his gaze wavering between the brilliant ship and the darkness behind him. 

“Celeborn, it is over!” Thranduil’s warning had no effect upon him. He took a step back, and then another. He wouldn’t desert them in the end. 

Celeborn looked in the eyes of the old man who had been the last child born in the area. He had followed them, and now stood at the beginning of the pier, his dog by his side. The old man was a good mechanic, and a wise man, versed on the myths and traditions of his ancient people. His simple, hopeless life had always reminded Celeborn of his own, desperate fight. Tied to Arda, much as they were, he had lived in an almost elven way, taking each day as it came, with little worries about the future and few things to regret.   

“Go, my lord,“ the old man said softly, bowing before him. “The sun has come to take you home…” 

Celeborn closed his eyes briefly, and then put his right hand to his heart and bowed low. Then, he turned back abruptly and joined Thranduil in the small boat.  

“What madness possessed you, Celeborn?” Daeron reproached him as they boarded Vingilot, ”for a moment I feared that you would remain... how was I supposed to explain that to your wife?” 

But Celeborn had only eyes for Eärendil, who smiled softly as he guided his ship to open waters. 

“Which of you is playing Turambar, now,” Thranduil valiantly fought to hide his emotion as the shores that had harboured them for so many years faded away in the darkened night. Celeborn found that he could not speak. 

“I assume that you pretend to be a half-sized Eonwë, then?”  Maglor’s sarcastic wit helped shake Celeborn from his contemplation. 

“Daeron, will you play Turambar? This oversized fëanorian ego can play Ar-Pharazon’s entire army, (3) if he cares to join in… we intend to enact the Dagor Dagorath…since the end seems a bit different from what we were told…” 

“Last time I saw him, “ Eärendil spoke for the first time, “Lord Eonwë was readying his gear…” Celeborn and Maglor exchanged a knowing glance. Only the two of them, apart form Eärendil, had seen before the powerful Maia in full battle mode, and the sight had been impressive enough to make them shiver after all those ages. 

“What’s going on there, Eärendil?” Celeborn finally asked, as a thoughtful silence overcome them. 

“In truth, I don’t know, my friends. I don’t know what we can expect to find…” 

“But surely you were told…” 

“No. I simply thought that it was about time someone carried you home…even if there may as well be no home at all…” 

“Your presence was comforting throughout these long years, my friend,” Celeborn said softly, clasping the Mariner’s arms in silent acknowledgment. 

“So, we may as well be banned, nobody told you to bring us back...” Maglor’s voice held a hint of panic not even him was able to completely hide, shame and uncertainty rising to colour his pale features. 

“Look!” Thranduil’s voice called his friends to the stern. Below them, the earth was rapidly becoming smaller as they gained height. The darkened cloud of fumes and pollution shrouded it, and reflected the vast fires that consumed its surface. Volcanoes, earthquakes, oceans in fire, the Amazon rainforest, or what was left of it… the earth was dying slowly but steadily, and it was nearing its end at an even pace under their stunned gazes and silent tears.  

And then, the darkness that kept the solar radiation from reaching the earth’s surface mercifully hindered their vision, and they were spared those nightmarish last sights. 

“So, what happens now?” Daeron asked softly. Nobody had an answer, and the five elves sat there, as Vingilot sailed the starry skies unwaveringly. 

“Is it me, or the Silmaril is becoming even more brilliant?” Thranduil asked after some time. 

“Eärendil?” 

“I…it never behaved this way before,” the Mariner confessed, shrouded in a silvery light that extended to his companions. They looked at each other in wonder, for it seemed as if they became translucent under that shimmering mist that advanced to engulf the ship. 

“Your father must have violated one or two hundred safety regulations when making these things, Maglor, “ Thranduil grunted in exasperation. 

“Of course he did, whom do you think he was?” Maglor laughed, “None of you were there, of course, but Varda hallowed them and it was then said that not before the end will they be undone...and their light freed…and the secret of their making unveiled, “ he added in a hoarse voice, as the shimmering jewel began to pulse intensely. 

“Look!” Eärendil had walked to the prow and was pointing to a distant star that shone brightly with a red heartbeat that matched the Silmaril’s.  

And then Celeborn felt it. First it was like the distant rolling of the waves on a rocky beach, but then it grew to a deep sound, an overwhelming melody of impossible beauty that seemed to come from the very light and pulse around them as the radiance grew in intensity shrouding them and seeping into their bones.

I see it now, he thought with a peaceful smile, as the distant star grew closer and its light extended to reach them in a steady rhythm. A moment before the blessed light engulfed them Celeborn saw his wife’s beautiful face smiling at him.

I’m coming, my lady, I’m almost there.

THE END 

A/N Many thanks to those who read and, particularly, to those who reviewed. Special thanks, too, to some kind reviewers who took the time to gently point out some blatant –and completely unintentional- kicks to English language, which, to the best of my limited skills, have been dutifully fixed.  

Notes: 

(1)Thranduil refers of that prediction of the Last Battle, or Dagor Dagorath, when Morgoth shall come from beyond the walls of the night, and the Sun and the moon shall be lost, and Eonwë will fight Morgoth in despair for the loss of Arien and Arda shall be destroyed by his rage. It is also said that Turin Turambar shall fought beside Eonwë in that final battle. 

(2) Quechua word for the sun. The Sun was the supreme god in the Incas’ cosmology. 

(3) In the Akallabeth it says that the army of Ar-Pharazon will remain in the Caves of the forgotten until the Last Battle.