10,000 Anno Domini

Chapter One

"Simanjou, will you go check the sky to make sure Killsfrons is not coming?"

A boy wearing a burlap sack obeyed his father. He straddled over to the window, and stared up at the racing Heavens. The world was sure to end sometime soon—clouds and dust from Mount Olympus have been rolling for twelve years. "I don't see any sign of the dragon," he called back. "But I do see a stinger."

"A stinger? Come back, before it sees you!"

But it was too late. As the boy retreated, two hirsute legs reached forward and severed his head from his body, letting the letter fall into a bloody heap. A giant bumblebee chomped down on its prize, smiled sardonically at the man whose child it had killed, and flew off into the night.

"Why did we ever allow the insects to eat charcoal? I curse my great-great-great-great-great I-lost-track-of-how many-times-he-was-great, grandfather."

"Well, the good news is, no Killsfrons!" his wife, Hitty said complacently.

"Now we're going to have to move again."

"Why must we always go somewhere else every time one of our children is dead?"

"Because I'm the master of this family, and Mallinor is all we have left. If she dies, I swear I'm throwing myself in the river."

"You don't mean that, Yhiberti."

"I do mean it! That girl is my only sustenance left, and if a stinger takes her too, I have nothing to live for."

"She's four years old, and you're nothing but a ragamuffin merchant. What are you going to do? Beg Zeus to have mercy on your daughter? I'd like to see the great god succumb to such pleas."

"I'll climb up the social ladder, and make things better for her. She'll marry a prince, or a gunberg, an earl or a duke. She'll not have to scrimp and save like I had to my whole life!"

"Dreams, Yhiberti. You'll never get anywhere, unless you act."

"Which is precisely what I'm going to do. I make this vow, Hitty, that when the new century rolls in, any nobleman will squall down on his hands and knees and beg me to permit him to marry my daughter." He laughs villainously. "And I'll be the one to kick scoundrels in the streets. We're going to be like Croesus with riches galore, and Mallinor will be the happiest girl alive."

"Dreams, dreams," said Hitty.

Thirteen years later, a bright star shone forth over the city of Almherst, smack dab in the center of the Western Hemisphere. It was night, and few certs were lit.

A boy was rummaging in a hayloft for some lost treasure. The first thing he found was an ancient photograph of a beautiful teenage girl, with long, plaited black hair and poignant blue eyes. It had been one of his ancestor's concubines. At the bottom of the picture was the single word, "PULCHRITUDE."

The next thing he found was a red tennis ball, but he did not recognize it as such. Children had stopped playing with balls some two thousand years beforehand.

Lastly, he found a golden bow, along with thirty arrows. He could not wait to practice archery, which had come back in fashion around 9330. Guerilla warfare, machine guns, cybernetic lasers…they were all things of the past. Even the poniard was no longer extant. Arrows were the chosen weapons of a warrior, for they were clean and fair, and did not require ammunition.

Something prodded the boy to set the bow down and look at the picture again. It would have to be burned tonight, as followed the custom. All photographs of non-living persons were considered to be images of witches. That the common person owned a Polariod or a Kodak in the late twentieth century never crossed their minds; only sheer magic could turn out such a likeness.

Strange to say, they never connected portraiture done in oils to be wicked. They saw these as painstaking work of the artist, who sold such pictures for a living and had to be commissioned. An ordinary photograph, however, took a mere instant to capture a moment in time which could never physically be revisited. Therefore, they had to be evil.

Staring at the girl, he suddenly felt a prick in his hip. It was like a piercing arrow, cutting deep into his flesh. He lifted up his shirt—a muddy, tatterdemalion thing—and stared at his chest. His heart was bright purple, and he could see it through his ribs and skin. He turned back to the photograph. Inside him, he felt an unknown emotion surging. It was like being whipped by a whirlwind along the sea. He desired to vomit.

Lifting his face, he gazed about the hayloft, and the sickening feeling abated. But he had an inclination to turn again to the picture. The symptoms returned. He was falling as if from a tower; would he ever hit rock-bottom? Or was this a never-ending tunnel, that would keep him in motion forever? Wait, wasn't he on a solid floor? Then how come...? He averted his gaze, and felt a tad better, although sweating now. He was experiencing something that had been absent from the human race for three thousand years. He was in love.

At once, he made a decision. He would not burn that picture. It made him ill, but it was pleasant. If only he could meet her in real life, to coddle and obey her, create a world for her, buy her a poodle (the most popular dog among women), take her to the Stowecert.

But this was all fantasy. This girl was dead. He turned over the portrait and saw a date engraved on the back of the frame. 17 July MMVII. She had been about his age in 2007, and she probably lived a long, full life. Well, full for her would've been around eighty years. People from his generation were lucky to live past fifty.

But there had been lovers of dead people for the longest time. He remembered hearing a story about a nineteenth century man who had fallen head over heels for Sappho, and no matter how many times others tried to dissuade him with arguments (she was a lesbian, a Greek, he needed to love a contemporary), he would not listen. And there were men in the early twenty-first century who praised Sylvia Plath above all other women, not caring that she had killed herself at thirty. They would've rescued her if they had been present at that time.

It is important to note that he did not recognize this as love at first. "Love" as a concept was as mythological as "Hope" and "Worry." Santa Claus and his forty reindeer was more believable than the revival of the most powerful emotion in existence. Love was the stuff of fiction, of dreams, and everyone knew the common maxim about dreams. "A man needs to believe in a dream as much as an elephant needs to believe that it can love mice."

The boy put the photo in his scab bag, which was filled to the brim with berries. It was fortunate that the picture had a glass covering and was in a frame—otherwise it would have been ruined. He then slung the new bow over his shoulder, and nearly toppled to the ground. Next he grabbed the four arrows and carried them in his left arm, for the bag had no more room.

He arrived at town four days later. The mayor's daughter was going to have her "coming out" in celebration of her eighteenth birthday. If the boy had arrived any day later, he would've been ostracized from the city.

What do I care about the mayor's daughter?, a wayward thought. She's not the girl in the witch-picture. Oh, if only I had lived in that time! Eight thousand years separate us; if only I could bridge that gap!

It is worth mentioning that time travel was not a subject of the lore in 10,000 A.D. If it had been, the boy's mind would've rushed to that quarter. He believed he was naturally a scientist, and if anyone could create the impossible, he was capable of doing so. So every youth was convinced from birth. The Raymond-Gurges tapes were commonly used to inculcate value systems in young children. It bounced radio waves off of the trunks of pine trees—the only botanical specimen that could be seen anywhere around the city of Niast. While the kids were sleeping, they heard different messages depending on their gender, which had something to do with auricle evolution. Girls' ears were now hypersensitive to high-pitched sounds, and the highest pitching noise drowned out everything else. Boys still retained the ear functionability humans had exhibited since Adam's day. It was the male group who were constantly drilled with the following, "I am a great scientist, the greatest that ever lived. My abilities are unlimited. They are all natural. Zeus made me strong of mind, Ares nimble of thumb. I will master the arrow, and all will pale in comparison to my skill, and envy me for my prowess."

Truthfully, science is a very limited subject in this time. There are very few who can correctly put in order Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family Genus Species. No one remembers that King Phillip came over for green salami. I doubt a handful of Niast citizens could give you even a rudimentary overview of the relationship between carbon dioxide and oxygen. The only science that was given much credit was zoology, for animals were as intriguing as ever, perhaps even more so since so many had become extinct. The last African elephant perished somewhere around 7000 A.D. However, a parrot elephant hybrid did emerge. They were half the size of a normal elephant, very colorful, and actually had a beak over their trunks. What the purpose of the beak was, nobody knew. There were specialized Zoocerts dedicated to the study of Past, Present, and Future animals, which was the only system that still used those three words.

The boy was conducted to the Govercert's Ballroom by a three-foot robot with one wheel for propulsion instead of legs. It tended to move faster than him, but it always stopped one-hundred meters in front to permit him time to catch up.

He was shocked by the dazzling light. The Govercert was the only building that still had electricity. Others had reverted back to candles, tapers, and oil lamps, for the middle class. Of course, solar power was common, but it did not have the same sparkle as electricity. To see things so well lit at night was always alarming.

Led to a table of varying beverages, he picked up a glass of liquid that looked like Pepto Bismol died green. But before he could bring his drink to his lips, the mayor stood up on a platform and made an announcement.

"Welcome all, to this celebration in the year 10,000 A.D. We made it somehow, and there is no question that we are better off than our forefathers. Well, our stingers are 7000 times the size of theirs. And we are constantly under threat of the dragon. But we are alive, and they are buried. It doesn't take two and two to figure out who has the greater fortune. Tonight is a mark of a new beginning. My daughter, Mallinor, makes her debut. I advise you people to wear sunshades, for her beauty is so scintillating it's blinding."

Many men scoffed at this assumption. The mayor's wife, Hitty, was no beauty. She had most likely been a beggar maid in her youth. Her manners were most contemptible. Slurping was the least of her iniquities; she had no qualms about sitting on her husband's papers, which she said was a way of warming them up. If Mallinor was anything like her mother…well, let's just hope that the pear rolls far, far away from the tree.

The boy did not care to see Mallinor. He wanted his girl, the one in the picture. Removing it from his scab bag and rubbing away the berry juice with his shirt, he suddenly felt an irresistible urge to kiss his queen on the lips. He did so. It was a good thing nobody was watching, for he would've been branded as a wizard and condemned to fire if he had been observed. But all eyes were riveted to the front of the room, where Mallinor was entering.

He heard people swooning and braying all about him. Wondering what the big deal was, he lowered the picture. And the boy gasped. For Mallinor was the spitting image of the girl in his photograph, from her plaited black hair to her shining cheekbones to her slender neck, and even right down to her slender body. But the boy knew that it was not carnal pleasure that he derived from staring at her, but something deeper. Still as yet, he did not know it was love. The other buffoons in the room were imagining using Mallinor without any regards to marrying her. If she had only been a prostitute! On the other hand, that was unnecessary, for young girls were generally light-headed. It was part of their Raymond-Gurges education. All the men had to do was manipulate her the way they had other women, not thinking of morals or decency. Who would want to be tied down to a girl for the rest of their lives? Even one as beautiful as Mallinor. If anything, that was immoral. To sacrifice freedom and deny pleasure to your fellow men? That is a form of selfishness, which is odious and abominable.

Mallinor was greeting individuals as she passed them. She came to our hero, extending her hand. He was stabilized by the large grin on her face.

"Hello, I'm Mallinor," she said.

The boy almost couldn't find his voice. Thinking he was mute, she turned away. "Wait! I'm Brangdon."

"Brangdon? That sounds like the name of a jar, or a parson. I'm not allowed to associate with churchpeople."

He watched her retreating back with fury. A parson? Never in his life would he enter the ministry, preaching about the mercilessness of Zeus and the rascality of Poseidon. They were just a bunch of fools, the whole lot of them! The only god deserving of any admiration was Hades, a just deity who was capable of luring Persephone down to his chambers. If he had an Underworld and could lure Mallinor down there…

Brangdon made a plan. He would win her for his wife, if he had to slave for fourteen years, like Jacob. He alone was worthy. No human being that had ever lived could have loved his Mallinor this much. Pulling out the photograph again, he turned it on the backside. It should not read "17 July MMVII" but "2 January 10,000." Then he flipped it over. Pulchritude was his Mallinor, his strength. He would keep this photo near him always, as a promise that he would work for her hand.

Brangdon composed the following letter:

Dear Mayor Yhiberti,

There is an important business I have to impart to you. Speaking man to man, have you ever seen Aphrodite in mortal form? I believe I have, and I am willing to do anything to win her. She is the queen of beauty, the star of my life, Helios of my days. You alone hold it in your power to influence her marital decisions, and I hope I am a viable candidate.

I realize that I am only a country bumpkin, and my aspirations may be too high. Still, unless you have felt empty, as if there were a part of you that could only be filled with a female companion, you will not comprehend my yearning. Yet it exists, as the pine trees and the stingers and dragons exist. I need her as a sailing ship needs wind. I am stalemated now, in the doldrums, and until you can persuade my girl –Brandgon was so bold as to claim he owned her—I shall be forlorn. Whatever she demands, I will give, if I have to hunt for the golden fleece itself.

I have delayed long enough to mention the name of my sweet. It is Mallinor, your daughter, whom I met at her coming-out. She was most amorous of me—we hit it off from the start. It is impossible to perceive which of us is more in love with the other, if we are together. And absolutely nothing will separate us, not wind nor rain nor sleet nor snow. Not even your objection. We have discussed it thoroughly. If you refuse, we shall elope. Try to dissuade her if you can; but rest assured, we shall be wed before her nineteenth birthday.

Hope this wasn't too much of a shocker,

Brangdon

He had learnt that what he felt was love, in the month since he had acquired the picture. The reason for his lies is that he felt that is was more probable that the mayor would pay heed to his wishes if he thought there was already something afoot. This was detrimental to his cause, however, for truthfully he did need the mayor to persuade Mallinor.

Yhiberti was indignant after reading the letter. When he had asked his daughter if she met anyone desirable at the coming-out, she had said, "They were all insipid, daddy." She had lied and she would be punished. But not until her beau was taken care of; there would be no eloping as long as he had anything to say about it.

Thus it happens that one day, Brangdon was practicing his archery, preparing for mooncalf season, which was near, a barrage of arrows fell about him in a circle. First it was just four, landing perfectly with ninety degrees between each one. More followed, and there were sixteen arrows surrounding him before he realized what was happening. He tried to squeeze in between the gaps, but they were too narrow. Ere long, he was completely surrounded by a wall of them. Now he was prisoner of whoever happened to come along.

Presently, he heard voices outside the arrow wall. "Is it Brangdon we have quartered?" The voice was rough and cruel.

"Yes, it is I," said our hero.

"Victim of Ares, Worshipper of Venus, Mr. Pygmalion, you shall be escorted to the Govercert at once."

A drill was brought forth—a primitive one that had probably known many likenesses in the late 1900's—and was used to strip apart the yew, silkwood, and frespia bark that the arrows were made of. Brangdon was released, and his antagonists were revealed to him. They were ninjas with blue uniforms. Two got on his right, two on his left. Supposing that he was being led to marry Mallinor, or at the very least discuss his predilection with her father, he went with them quietly. Had he surmised otherwise, that he was being taken to his punishment, he would've got down on the floor, supplicant, pleading with the ninjas to set him free.

They arrived at the Govercert, and the ninjas fabricated a story as they stood before the cellar door. "Your queen awaits at the bottom of these steps, as does a priest who will wed you in holy matrimony. There is just one price you must pay before descending."

He gulped. "A price?"

"Yes, you must give as your shirt."

"Gladly, if it means I shall be wed to my sweet Mallinor."

He rips off his shirt and tosses it to one of the awaiting ninjas. The leader of the gang pulls apart the cellar door, and for a second Brangdon smiles. He's about to be married! And not only that, but to a girl he loves. Then he feels three pairs of arms on his back, pushing him forward, shoving him…

For the first time in his life, Brangdon knew why they were called a "flight of steps." Seeing how hard he was thrust into the cellar, he could not regain his footing as he was flung down. Seconds before he realized his fate, he saw the nails, turned upwards. Perfectly set up for offenders of the government. He had committed treason, insubordination. Now he knew it was a foolish move to send a letter to the mayor. But, as a true lover, his only thought before he was made a corpse of was that nothing would come of Mallinor for his impudence.

The ninjas were then dispatched to explore Brangdon's abode, whereof the photograph was found. At first, no one took any notice of it, other than suspecting that Brangdon had been a wizard of some sort. However, upon closer inspection it was discovered that it was the very likeness of Mallinor, the definitive article. All of the boy's other possessions were put up for auction, but the picture was carried to the mayor's office.

"My own daughter!" Yhiberti shouted in fury. "This corroborates everything the rascal said in his letter. Mallinor and he had intended to elope in case of my objection. Call the strumpet, now!"

Mallinor was brought forth, extremely pleased to be summoned before her father's presence, which rarely happened. But when she saw his livid countenance, she shrunk back. How could he be angry at her?

"I know all about your plan to marry Brangdon behind my back."

"Brangdon?" she wondered, trying to recall where she heard that name before.

"Don't play innocent with me, missy. You and he contrived a plot to elope; he says you both had mutual affection for each other."

"OH," she said, laughing, which was more detrimental to her cause than not. "That was the parson."

"Parson? He said he was a country bumpkin."

"Well, he might've been, but his name sounded like that of a parson."

"You don't know what he did and you wanted to marry him?"

"What?!? Marry that loser? I'd rather drown in the Old Nile."

The mayor was taken aback. Perhaps Brangdon had lied? But he lowered his gaze, and noticed the picture on his deck. "A fine ruse, that is, my sweet. However, this proves otherwise!" he exclaimed, holding it up for her to see.

It had no effect on Mallinor, for in the hundredth century there are no mirrors, and so she had never seen herself before. But Yhiberti's action had a negative effect on himself, for in white, chalky letters was printed the date, "2 January 10,000."

"Witch! Witch!" he shouted, and the ninjas entered from outside the room. They grabbed Mallinor, and she began screaming. "Take her to the Shadow Cert! If any questions are asked, she has performed witchcraft, and we have proof."

The chief ninja saluted Yhiberti, and they exited the room. Alone, the mayor ambled over to the fireplace. "I never thought I'd have to burn a daughter of mine, the only child Zeus let me keep. But sometimes prices must be paid for justice. Mallinor, I may be your father, but I shall show no mercy!"