The First Sage: Apocalypse

He carefully swirled the brown and white paper between his forefinger and thumb, watching the shreds of tobacco fall out into the porcelain frontal plate of the old doll. It was ironic that he should remember such small things, like the occipital bone or the parietal suchers of the skull.

Names of science. Names used by men to be specific in their description of such things of import as human anatomy, of nomenclature. Names invented by a civilization that no longer existed, based on a tongue dead longer than it had been.

He mentally went through all the bones of the human body, the various lumbar and even went back so far as the various little knobs of bones, the processes, and the various holes that were referred to as foramen. Such importance they had back then.

Now he doubted anyone but he was alive to even recognize the pursuit of higher science found in those strangely spelled, strangely pronounced words.

He doubted there were people who even knew, much less cared, that there had once been a language of science, the long dead language of Latin, used by those who sought perfection in their understanding of the world.

As the last of the tobacco finally fell into the makeshift bowl, he set the cigarette aside and glanced around his home. The walls had long ago lost their paint, leaving only the faintest remnant of white among the char. Yet even as worn as the paint had been he could still see the outline of a humanoid shape blazed into the wall.

He often spoke at length with his friend in the wall; all that remained of some poor soul that no one knew, or cared about. He cared. His friend was always there to greet him when he came in from a night of foraging, always constant in his vigil.

There were still some vestiges of the crux of the arms, as the man had tried to shield himself from death. A pointless reflexive action, but an attempt that was as heartfelt as any to be sure.

He bent back to his work, pulling the filter off carefully, so as not to damage the paper. Everything he found was important, every morsel needed to be used. He scraped the inside of the doll head until his prize had come into a small pile.

Deftly, he reached in and pinched it, rolling the ball together between his thumb and forefinger and carefully placing it in his pipe.

He had celebrated for hours upon finding the little treasure trove he came across back then. There were gallon jugs that had no holes in them, and even lids. There had been even canned foods, the labels all long gone, but the prize no less valuable.

The best part had been the cartons of cigarettes.

He was not a cigarette kind of man; he much preferred his pipe to the things. They tended to smoke themselves and he prized his tobacco too much for that.

He doubted he would ever find tobacco again. It hadn't been produced during the last two years of the War, the fertile lands of the Carolinas and Georgia having been lost during that time as America had been pushed further and further into the cold recesses of Canada to survive.

That meant it had to be at least twenty-three years since the last tobacco would have been harvested.

When he had found his prize three years ago, it had been air and moisture sealed inside of a panic bunker. They hadn't been built until the last four years of the war, but the date on the cartons had been much earlier.

Perhaps someone had been wise enough to see the need beforehand. Pity he thought. They didn't get to reap the fruits of their labor, but at least someone would.

He went to his wood pile, and pulled a long splinter from a piece of split cedar. It would catch quickly and burn hot, plus it left a not unpleasant aroma when he burned the remnants in the fire.

He turned with his makeshift match to his hearth. The chunks of asphalt and concrete had taken him hours to lug to his little sanctuary, and longer still to break into shapes that roughly coalesced into a solid form.

He had put gravel left over from the breaking in between the pieces in order to protect the floor. He didn't want a random spark during the night doing what a nineteen year war couldn't do.

With a thrust he set the match in the hearth of the flames for a few seconds and watched the thin tip catch. He brought the match to his old worn pipe and carefully puffed a few times as he sat on his haunches.

Content the pipe was lit well; he eased over to his door and carefully undid the string from it. He knew full well the nasty surprise that awaited someone who jerked it open unawares.

As he stepped out into the night he listened to the soft calls of the birds, the chirps of the crickets as they searched for someone the right degree of friendly in the dark.

He took a slow drag from his pipe and relished the taste of the old tobacco. It wasn't Cavendish by any stretch of the imagination, but it was gold to him nonetheless. He heard a frog in the distance, showing off his talent at singing.

He heard another frog respond in kind and imagined in his mind a dialogue taking place that transcended what the petty scientists of the past had ever considered stopping to listen to.

There was a soft sound like branches being tumbled and then the duet of the frogs was only a solo performance. Such was the danger of one trying to find a friend in these times.

He puffed on his pipe a while as he considered what might have happened to the unfortunate frog. Man had killed himself off much more brutally and efficiently than the beasts of the night ever could have.

It was ironic really when he thought about it. Nature had never deigned to conquer, never desired to rule. It simply wished to coexist with itself. Yet, in the end, the drive of the ones who had tried to conquer, to bend the world to their whims and wills had instead destroyed their attempts.