Travelers 1: Rumbagh the Scholar

Ancient Journal 6: The Last Lullaby


They are calling me The End. Not the kindest name, I suppose, but I don’t mind. A thick skin is one of the many benefits of our long lifespans. Our long, beautiful, creative . . . empty lifespans. And now, The End. Unkind, and impossible to verify; one would think that, in a society such as ours, the accuracy of a name would be carefully weighed before that name entered common usage. But our energy is waning, I suppose—or, rather, it is all being put into the answer for the one great looming question. How to avoid The End? How to escape the trap we have laid for ourselves? Some look up; some look down. Each side launches volleys of vitriol at the other, when they have time; thankfully, enough of our common sense has perdured to keep us cognizant of the need for focus. For haste. Time is now our most precious resource, and we must use all of it in pursuing creative solutions. We cannot—we must not squander it in the destruction of others; not when the destruction of all is so glaringly imminent. I wonder how much longer our common sense will last. Meanwhile, both sides look at me—with suspicion; with resentment; with bare-faced, hungry envy. What secret pact did she make? —their questions hiss around and through me under every breath. What potion—what formula—what deal with some unholy power opened her womb? Let them whisper. Let them speculate. Let them hiss. I know the truth, and that is enough. It must be enough. I am the sign that our beloved Gift has a vicious sense of humor. I am the punchline of the last great cosmic joke. My child will have no one with whom to grow up. His lengthy years will be marked by increasing loneliness; and, when he finally grows old and gasps out his last, perfectly healthy breath, there will be no one to bury him. My child will have no children. What mother would wish for such a fate? Perhaps I am not The End. With great power comes great scrutiny, my husband says; my situation would not be so public were I not already in the public eye. Perhaps somewhere, in some quiet, hidden village, there is another woman feeling the rarity of life growing inside of her. Just because I am the last mother in the capital doesn’t have to mean I am the last mother anywhere. The world is a vast place, however small our technology has made it seem; perhaps, somewhere, there are children. Perhaps, somewhere, there is hope. Or perhaps my son will have to make hope for himself.