Copyright © 2005 by John T. Cullen. All Rights Reserved.

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Robinson Crusoe 1,000,000 A.D.

a novel

by John T. Cullen

39.

The island loomed around him almost as mysteriously as it had during the fog and rain of night.

Daylight did not shine deeply into its dark shadows. He felt himself in the presence of ghosts as he circled around to the old woman’s cottage. Though the house stood empty now, he felt an obligation to leave things in order, if only for himself when he returned. He straightened things out, fixed the door so no animals could get inside, and prepared to close up the cottage. He would think about using it as a hideaway, after some time had gone by and he’d digested what he’d seen and felt here. Before he closed up, he noticed a couple of slender wooden sticks lying in a corner, along with a small clay jar. He knelt down and examined the jar. It was filled with a black paste, and the tip of the sticks were black. Crawling on all fours, he began to take an interest in the pale scraps lying around. Most were blank. They were paper, evidently created by chopping vegetal matter up fine and mixing it with wool in water to make a pulp which was then pounded flat and left to dry in the sun, maybe stretched over a flat rock or pressed between flat rocks. He resolved to explore the art of paper making on his next trip. Right now, he was more interested in the old woman’s writings, which he found on several of the scraps that had been in her bed. She must have composed some thoughts on her last day, until the light faded and the deadly gas from the fireplace took her away. Alex sat on a rock on the beach and read the scraps, repeatedly and out of order, until some logical threads took shape in his mind.

I am Kathryn, bearing the memories of Kathryn Bellawood, an instructor of History at Beacham University. In many ways, I am Kathryn Bellawood, who lived eons ago. Yet, I am my own person, so I call myself simply Kathryn or Bella. We write because we feel we must leave some record, even when it is not clear anyone will ever read it. To you, years in the future, maybe a thousand years from now if this record survives, greetings. If you wonder why you live, know that we wonder also. Know that it is good to live, and to love life, and to enjoy the world despite all its evils and hardships. In that sense, I have no regrets. Like Dorothy, my dear friend Dot, I am a clone. We are sterile and cannot bear young. We are born in the cave and very few of us ever escape from the devils who eat us. I was strong and smart. I was quick and got away, finding my way to this abandoned village where nobody has lived in centuries. I tried often to return to the valley, but the devils frightened me off. Finally I did rescue Dot, who bears the memories of Dorothy Chin, who taught Chinese Literature at Beacham. Dot went back to the valley despite my objections and has not come back. I fear the devils have taken her, and I am so old and sick that I don’t think I can go on. But know that life was good, such as was able to live it, and maybe in some ways we have had it better than the millions of true humans who lived and died in their cities, with their wars and other horrors. They accomplished great things, but there is no memory of them in the universe except what we unfortunates carry in our genes. The night is coming and I can smell the smoke now. It reminds me of Kathryn’s childhood, and it makes me sad that I never was able to sit with my (her) parents at the fireplace at Christmas and tell stories. I did have a kitten once, and it lived to an old age but was taken by forest animals. I am growing drowsy now, and I have so much more to tell about...

With that, the account ended, and Alex sat for a long time staring at the words on the crude paper. They were inked in stiff, uneven print letters and did not resemble the fine script he knew Alex Kirk had possessed. He rose and took the papers into the cottage, where he carefully hid them in a dry cubbyhole high up. He laid them pressed between stones so rodents could not make a meal of them. They were perhaps the last written testament of mankind. At the same time, Alex had learned enough, reading between the lines, and knowing what he himself had learned in his short life so far, to know there was a place he must go look for more answers and possibly for his own purpose in life, his own salvation.