Wonder of the World
Some people call it the Eighth Wonder of the World.
That phrase has been used since time beyond count. Every great work achieved by Man has been put alongside the Seven Wonders of antiquity. Wonders that exist in various forms of ruin now, and in the case of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, may never have existed at all. It occurs to me now that there is yet further distinction between this wonder, and those of the others. Every other wonder was built by the hands of Man, and many of them. This wonder was built at the hands of a mutant. Of what some call a god. Built in a far shorter amount of time, but with no less cost of life. It dwarfs the Great Pyramid of Giza, and will endure far longer, provided that humanity does not seek to remove its presence. I might ask why destroy when you can create, but already the powers of the world seek to restore their spears of fire. They create, so that they may destroy, and the cycle continues on.
Cairo is a dead city now. A necropolis, larger than any pyramid, with far more dead, yet none entombed with payment for Anubis. Old god, false god, the distinction feels academic now. All that is left is the monument of the one who declared himself lord and master, who sought to shape the world over several hours rather than seven days. Animals prowl the streets of Cairo – cats and dogs roam the streets, but without the grace of Bastet or Anubis. The dregs of humanity prowl the streets as well – animals of a hairless, upright kind, but animals nonetheless. Whether it be under the light of Ra or Khonsu, their actions are akin to Set. No longer do they fly like Horus. They are but mortals, and I ignore them. Let mortals tend to other mortals. I, I tell myself, am not like them.
So through the streets of the necropolis I walk, as I approach the pyramid. No guards here, at its entrance. In time, perhaps the people of Egypt will claim dominion, as the peoples scattered over the world begin to ask, "what now?" Peoples scattered by distance and tongue, but Babylon's Tower is long gone, and its magic not so permanent that humanity cannot listen, if they try. I walk, and see other pilgrims before me. Human, or mutant, I wonder? Mostly the former, if only from a basic knowledge of statistics. The strong are fewer in number than the weak. The weak are many, and look up to the strong, even when it's against their interest. The weak and many of this world faced oblivion, if not for the strong, yet the weak even now give praise to the strongest of all. The one of many names and titles – Apocalypse to Ra, "terrorist" to "true god," and so on. Names, so many, names, so trivial. I join the pilgrims and enter the pyramid. Its shadows are long, and cut me off from Ra's light. I reflect for a moment that neither mankind nor mutant will ever eclipse the power of the orb that gives us life, but as I think a moment longer, doubts dwell within me. A mutant reshaped the face of the earth, could one do so with the sun? Eclipse its light, like a phoenix, before reducing the world to ashes?
For a moment, I dwell in such nightmare. A moment later, my thoughts depart, as I approach the pyramid's centre. How long have I walked these halls, I wonder? Light is the constant of the universe, but so little of it reaches this domain. Time, it seems, is indeed relative. As is appreciation of art, as I see His visage looking down upon those who have gathered here. Mankind, mortals, the distinction feels academic now. Some clasp their hands, some bend down in prayer. Mostly in Arabic, but all the tongues of Man I hear represented. Greek to English, Persian to French…some have travelled far, I reflect. Travelled from the devastation of their own lands to kneel in the sight of a god. I pity them. I envy them. I stand here, and wonder…why I'm standing here at all. I'm not in prayer. I'm not of their blood. But I saw stone rise from the earth, and fall down as if Judgement Day had arrived. Mutant, he may have been, but no god. Gods are not meant to be slain. But yet, gods can be capricious and cruel. Gods may be replaced by new figures on new altars. Gods are the construct of humanity. Mutants, perhaps, can be their own gods. We at least have the power to truly shape the world by our own hands.
Yet in fear, I stand here, for the weak are many. The weak are divided, but diverse, and will look upon this place as a monument to what mutants can do. Look at us with fear, and in good measure. I hear the sound of thunder, and glance out a crack in the walls, seeing what little light remains in this world. I frown, and averting His gaze, I exit the Halls of the Dead.
A storm's coming. And I do not know whether to take shelter, stand against it, or be carried by the wind.
Something tells me I won't have long to decide.