Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Younger World ((100,000 to 8000 BC)(a short SF story))

The Younger World
(And the Ancient Canis Etruscus)

Part One of Six

Advance: The Canis Etruscus, a link to the Canis Ambrusteri which is a link to the ancestor Lupus, emerged in North America during the Pleistocene Epoch perhaps from Europe (conceivably between 100,000 BC to 8000 BC). They migrated to South America thereafter, and can be found in deserts, on mountains, forests, grasslands, and on one particular island called “White Island” in English (which is really a mountain in the Pacific Ocean) off the coast of Peru, or otherwise known as “Isla Blanca” in Spanish. As far as we know, they had 42-teeth, similar to the Gray Wolf, but they were large in comparisons to those of today, and were of a saber-tooth species. The island is 16.5 square km, about two-miles long, and close to one mile wide, with a litico forest (or stone forest). And this is the premise of the story you are about to read…and it should be known these ancient wolves or sorts, once roamed the island as kings among its inhabitants!


The Present Past

In my days—my youth, in that world, the younger world, the fear that ruled supreme at night (if not during the day hours also), a period known as the Pleistocene, was the Canis Etrusous (the ancient Gray Wolf). They ruled the island.

The Past Present

I can only describe it from my blurred-dreams, such pictures that come before my eyes. It is white, most of the island coast, contours due to guano ((the excrement from caves dwellings on the island) (from the seabirds, seals, bats, etcetera)). The island itself is small, likened to a stone forest, yet there are foliage and tall and thick trees sparsely dotted throughout the island.
But as I said, in short, the fear of the canis beasts that roam the beaches: among the shells and clams, crabs and snails, the fear they bring is enormous, was, and still is. Even the pelicans and gulls kept their distance—they can, and I have seen this, crack open bones with their molar teeth.
I hope this explanation is of some substance, it is of the dream I now live, and have lived, and this is how I live. As I write this in some kind of order—before me a phantasmagoria engulfs me—or better put: figures by elusion, one with little motion, and to be truthful, reasonless to my sanity.
When I talk to my kind it is more like chatter, this is in my world—when I’m awake; when I’m dreaming, my mind seems to collect this cave of strange experiences (?) And before I wake they are questions, always unanswered questions— that is why I’m writing this down in my sleep—plus, I must say what I must say because I am getting old, too old to remember even this, perhaps in my next dream.
I believe I live, in a younger world, and dream in some other strange far-off world—that is older, that belongs to each other somehow. I fall from trees and am pursued by beasts and prey, deadly snakes, this is the real world I’ll go back to when I wake up—the one I have always went back to, the one I live in when I’m not sleeping. The other is the dream world of mine; the one I fall through space and time in, and that is when I feel like a two-headed bat. Yes, a freak of nature. A freak with two personalities, one vague that is obliterated upon some stronger reality—perhaps I should call the stronger truth, the lost world.

My friends infer that sometime throughout the night I am a reincarnation of some roaming beast of the future, but I’m not sure what a future is, and neither are they.
They don’t understand what I see in my dream world, it is the remote part of me, a part that does not belong in this time, as if yet to be developed.


I don’t mean to bore you, in going on and on with this freak thing, but my dream memory is an enormous cave, and I’m in it now, far-removed from my awakening world, quite remarkable to say the least.
Very good, now I must learn how to transmit from this time to the next, perhaps imprint somehow in my cellular structure for that other time, —even if in a dim and confused standard, some genetic process, through evolution and seed-plasma, something called a strain—inbred, heredity for posterity sake—to let whomever know I was, we were, even if it turns out to be a nightmare for them.


And now, now as I take up my tale, for those who are prone to scoff—this is just a dream—one I had long ago, and can only tell it to you, while in my dream world now, where did you get this projection, you may ask yourself, this knowledge. You must say, somewhere in your subconscious, you must say that years ago it was implanted in us—from somewhere in a younger world, perhaps through evolution, yes, that would be my world now, that may very well be the key, who has the key, but this key is given to man by a Higher Being, someone up in the clouds, for sanity sake.

Canis Etruscus
The Present Past

I saw a ferocious wolf once—no, better put, I was the prey of a ferocious wolf once. He peered at me curiously, I do believe. He growled, while shifting his body weight from one fore-leg to the other, shifting his eyes, then his head; not one single blink from either eye—just a steady stare. And I to him did the same. He was hungry and I knew he wanted my warm blooded heart. I was silent and motionless, instinct took over; and so I stood there and waited—but for what? I wasn’t’ sure. Once familiarity takes over curiosity, deadly cruelty steps in, and in this case curiosity had left. He moved forward a yard, then again, until he was near face to face with me, perhaps seven feet away. And I did what I had seen others do in such similar situations—I yelled like a wild dog, as loud as I could, it was indiscernible, it is what my instincts demanded of me, and in the far-off distance there was a howling—that echoed throughout the island.
This second sound seemed to disconcert the canis, for a second. He halted, shifted his weight again, with bewilderment, it was as if an apparition fell over us, a huge shadow, a giant fury took charge, the beast was very tall, heavier built than me, by far; and had more hair on her arms which were long and strong and wide, her legs sorter, like giant white ape. She gritted her teeth, made frightful grimaces, snarling at the canis, and made awful howls; the beast had fallen on top of the great wolf, taking his breath from him. Then she swerved towards me. We had not but a moment to react, and I jumped to the branches of a tree, pulled myself up as she leaped straight up into the air, catching the branch above me, and pulling me up higher to safety, thus, trumpeting.

It wasn’t until after the fact, and this dream came about, that I noticed she was my mother, and I was reliving the moment, a moment that was old, as if time was rewound, and replayed. It was my first dream of this kind.
From all sides of the tree, large and hungry wolves dashed to circle us, a pack of them. My mother just sat there chattering, scolding them as they marched bolding tooth-garnishing in their ever pacing circle.
I admit I was trembling looking down upon those one-hundred and thirty to two-hundred pound wolves.
My mother looked strange to me, in this new dream world, scared me somewhat, now that I think of it. She had a broad face, nearly flat, weedy eyebrows, small eyes, deep-cast, close together. Not much of a bridge, two big holes for nostrils. Her forehead slanted a small head, preposterous looking to her lower body. These were things I had never noticed before.
The canis, saber-tooth, long skulls, large paws; their cadaverous bodies are indescribable, beyond my knowledge, or vocabulary, which is not adequate to convey. But once in their grips they gave sudden and violent death, by having one of us, go into their stomachs. But it didn’t work out that way that day.


Oh, believe me; we were quite simple in my awakening world—but not a whole lot different from my dreams. We threw stones with our feet at one another when we were mad, I can’t imagine what my dreams will expose in the other world, in due time, if compared.

No: 698 (1-11-2011)

White Island
(Part Two of Six, to “The Younger World”)

Advance: Blanca Island is a mountain island, in the Pacific, off the coast of Peru, some 16.5 square km, about two-miles long, and close to one mile wide, with a stone forest upon it. Conceivable this period we are talking about is in the Pleistocene Epoch, 100,000 to 8000 BC.

Well, do I remember my other dreams? In my old age they come back to me harder, slower now, but it is easier to talk about my dreams while in a state of half-sleep, or dreaming. I have very long dreams now. I remember the first cold spell we had off the island, I was blue faced and my teeth were chattering. We had all gone into one cave; there were forty-two of us then, huddling all together in a bat cave, with all its secretions, it smelled badly, but our body heat kept us warm while waiting for the morning sun. Old Crackle Bone was the elder of the group, he like me, like all of us, had never seen ice before. Perhaps we were going into an Ice Age. I had heard in one of my dreams, what a voice said, and ‘…a Glacier Period is upon you.’ Yes, first it was dreams, and then voices came into my head, while in the dreams. When I tried to explain to Old Crackle Bone, it was going to get colder, his blank to melancholic look which came into our eyes, told us, many would die, I understood this, but I doubt many others did. Old Crackle Bone was of my family, an uncle or something of that nature, my mother’s brother, if I recall right: we had such insight ever since I can remember. He was always vague and inexpressible, but when he inferred something, he was seldom wrong.
I have many memories of many cold winters thereafter, but this first one was the coldest. North of us, there was much migration south, so it must have been much worse there. The first few winters little was ever planned. We ate as usual, when we were hungry, avoided the wolves, and found caves that didn’t smell. Time passed swiftly, we were easily amused, and Old Crackle Bone played pranks on us all. In my dreams I felt I had a purpose, but outside of them, I never could figure them out, I even thought my dreams then were inconsequential, until I started dreaming again.
We caught fish in the streams; the ice was thin, nothing more. Just fish, oh, on a few occasions a bird, the Hairy One, my brother, he could hit a bird with a rock a hundred feet away. My mother was the Mocker, no one bothered her, and she was so very huge, ferocious, and heavy.
It would seem to me, as I remember this, now in my dream world, I seem to be more serious, more adult like, and while in my real world, you know the one I am from, the Younger World, I am much more playful, like the children, perhaps even a little more animal like. What little I’ve learned from one world to the other, is due to my curiosity, and now I remember bits and pieces of it, while in the real world—as time goes on, so does my intensity grow to explore more.
But something happened the third year of winters, we discovered a weapon against the cold, it was brought down from the North, it was called “Fire!”
We were all applauded at it, admired those who had it, and we had learned quick how to use it. We lost several in those three, first, winter years to the cold. But a few of the Northern Forest-dwellers joined us, we felt perfectly safe with them at first—and we even shared our wives with them—lest our race die out and theirs—we all chattered together, misunderstood each other. They taught us how to hunt animals, with a spear, and now we were chasing the wolves for meat. They left us soon after, we didn’t see eye to eye, they gave us wives and we gave them wives, and so we had more when they left, than when they first arrived.
Old Crackle Bone, even tried to spear one, and the wolf sank his sharp large teeth into his arm, and dragged him around like a dead leaf from a tree. I think he died from the suddenness of the bite, and surprise of the wolf, I didn’t see him struggle much.
Anyhow, that was my first winter, and a few extra winters to boot, and a few other jarring elements for my DNA to remember—to seed it to you, I heard that word in one of my past dreams, something about the process of becoming a human being, or man, although I’m not sure what all that means. Java Girl is waiting for me at our drinking spot—I name her Java Girl, she didn’t have a name before, other than a nickname ‘Thin-legs’ and of course I heard that name in my dreams and she liked it better than Thin-legs. So, I’ll try to wake myself up, get out of this approaching dark dream—I think a nightmare is upon me, I get them also, fore-runners to some kind of future disaster.

No: 699 (1-11-2011)

Regions of Darkness
(Part Three of Six to “The Younger World”)

It is one thing to see demons with your eyes shut, it is another
To see them with them open… (The Author)

Forward (and conclusion): “When dreams developed so did the demons, perhaps it was better to be blind and stupid—before my dreams, I didn’t understand the difference between the old way of thinking, and a suggestion of the New Age upon us. So what did I discover? Perhaps regions of darkness, or fear of things invisible; and what would all this come to? I asked myself: are these beings gods, and do they watch over us? I mean, friends of a God that are little gods that watch over us. Real or imaginary it became in time, fanciful to my people, not quite figuring it out if they were natural or supernatural, I think my sleep state was now part of my awaking state. But let me tell you in a mover vivid form, how this came about!” By Nagas of White Island, 54,000 BC to 8000 BC (?)


The Present Past

So, strong were my impressions within my dream world I told “Sacred Treat,” about them. This was when I was middle aged—sometime ago, when I didn’t know the words I had captured from my dreams, cerebral excitement, which caused a fever in her. She was every young fellows desire in the horde, and the most knowledgeable, she came from the seed of my uncle. When I told her, and tried to explain to her about them, she danced in a circle, swiftly, with conviction, and asked me to dream something she could fully understand, something I could see complete, not blurred, it had created a cavernous gloom in a way for me. How can you tell your mind to remember to tell your dreams to be more vivid, my dreams were just dreams, but there of course was that intermit voice—sparse it was, but it came occasionally?
And yet in those trying days to follow, the feeling grew even stronger in my own mind that something observant in that world would stick in my mind to tell her. Yet, I did not know the ruler of my dreams; I mean the one that give us peace and those that give us unhappiness, and perhaps one that gives us foreknowledge. I was coming to the conclusion, some were good and some were bad, some seemed mortal others of an immortal kind. To be honest, I was at that time just forming a belief-system—that was forty-years ago or so. I was wrestling with the flesh and blood principle, or was it principalities of the invisible world? All in all, my mind in those days was in some befuddlement.


The Dreadful Lurking Spirit

About the dreadful lurking spirits of the mammoth cave that I saw in a nightmare-dream (countless malevolent demons, like motes of dust, were buzzing around my head, and everyone else’s in future times, they came out of the mammoth cave—as if they had power over the air), that’s why I never went back there. He invades my other dreams as well, besides creating nightmares now and then, pretty much at his whim: as if he knows something is about to happen, something is about to take place, or perhaps something is taking place, as if there is a big change in the weather coming like when we first got our cold winters, they came out of nowhere it seemed, and they are still here, but in this case, a bigger change I sense.

Let me explain: this one night, I had asked the voice that occasionally comes into my dreams a good turn, to rid me of this cadaverous beast. It was the first time I ever talked to it, unseeing it up to this stage. The experience I was about to have would leave a fearful impression upon my mind, but it made me also thankful. But what I had learned was that there was someone or something more powerful than the thing making the nightmares!
I was with the horde sleeping around our dying fire when I found myself aroused, rather, I might say, shook out of my dream world…
There isn’t another sound on White Island that can be compared to it. It caused my ears to nearly split; likened to a roaring thunderstorm, but no one else could hear it but me. It caused the uttermost strain on my body, agony and horror. It was like a wild roaring thunderstorm, but in the form of a fiend, a devil or demon. I clapped my hands to wake the others up. I simply wanted to shut out the nerve-shaking drama, and figured once they woke up, perhaps I might also—hoping it was a nightmare and not reality (and I’ve yet to figure that out).
My heart beat tripled, I was sweating, my stomach eerie, in essence, I was just miserable. A condensed agonizing cry came by me, and then I saw two huge beings, the dark one with the high-pitched crying sound from its mouth, being dragged away from the fire, by the other which was a bright lit figure, with the wings of an eagle. The dark one had horns of the goat; the goat one, looked at me, and out came a deep-chested laugh, a growl of merriment, a grotesque look, I must have witnessed this for a full two or three minutes while the goat-thing rustled with the eagle, although somewhat startled, he overpowered the goat easily. I stood horrified, silent. Then I threw a handful of twigs upon the fire. I was cold, and the red glare lit both the intent faces, then by the flickering I had the privilege to hear a prehistoric anomaly, an established drama which would occur among all living creatures of my kind, the bright one, the one with the wings, the eagle, said: “We realize, it was late, that man was brought to this understanding in creation, but there were other forces against time—the monster has been removed for the time being—but the order of Creation is that there is a Creator, He has sent me to seize this shadow.”

How do you tell such a story? It was a brave act back then, that I took; I told Sacred Treat, and her face became like flaming wood, into my face, and I was glad I had taken such a risk, she had seen in her first dream, what I had experienced in what I think was, the real world.


The Present Awake

It was not until twilight, that Sacred Treat came to the bank of the river, there in an open space among the rocks and trees, near the river, a fire was burning. The old man, known as Nagas was sleeping, People of the Fire, were dancing about, the Hairy One, was with them; Scared Treat crept cautiously and silently to within a foot of him, clutched him suddenly, to wake him, he didn’t move, looked closely at him—he was an old dreamer she knew, and dreamt deeply; whatever it was that he was dreaming, it left his face in a permanent smile, yet there was a dried-up, gray look to it. She looked over at the young hunters dancing around the fire, they had killed a wolf, and they were less stooped than a generation ago she noticed, and their backbones and knee-joins seemed more firm, more agile, they seemed all in all more balanced, their arms no longer touching the ground, the faces were more pleasing. Something was taking place, and it was somewhat attractive. The flames and smoke came over towards her, and it bothered her, but not the old one. Then she noticed noises in the trees behind her, and she told herself, no one sleeps that soundly. And she heard a great yelping, and the young hunters all stopped, gazed out towards the sound, without blinking an eye, no longer nervous but rather with eagerness, and perhaps more cautious than in the old man’s days.
The moment was smouldering for Scared Treat, she knew he had stepped over into the dream world once and for all, and she knew there was nothing she could do, and she did something no one else ever did, something she saw in her dreams, she dug a hole, and buried him, so the animals would not eat him, and all looked upon her as if she was pitiful, but that was also to become their fashion, it was inevitable, and she knew it, because she saw it.

No: 700 (1-12-2011)

The Endless Hour
(Part IV, to “The Younger World”)

The Past Awake

(Sacred Treat: deep in thought) I had crossed the immensities of space in my dreams—broken out of time—perhaps like my cousin, Nagas, some fifty years since he has died, like him, I also can merge with the distant figure. For what purpose I’m not sure. I had inherited this gift, and sharpened it, taking it a little further, although God Knows, I can’t explain how. We now call the invisible one who sent the Bright One—with eagle wings down to help him—God, it was how Nagas implied the being referred to him.
If I tell this to others they will call it hallucinations, although they don’t know the world yet. I admit, there are changes in my brain chemistry when I get my dreams—visions, but for an endless hour, I am fully awake, eyes even open. So I take these remediable aspects—being able to slither through walls of time, awake or half-asleep, as readily attributable to something well within the realm of advanced—time travel, in lack of a better term: I call it ‘The Endless Hour.’ This is—I’ve learned, and picked up from these advance time periods, these past fifty-years, my new vocabulary. My nephew Krik has a similar ability, we are working together on this—perhaps knowing our future, we can better our present. I find him intelligent, pleasant, polite and able to deal with everyday human affairs, along with stretching out his abilities in this other area; although I find him in a state of distraction and dreaminess much of the awaking time, more so than I.
But now I’ve been pondering what I’ve seen on many occasions, I’ve somewhat figured it out:

I see in my dream world the pictures of what are called psychiatrists of the future, they are attempting peculiar things, those who see the future—beyond them (as I do) they are calling them psychotic. And this is ideal for the so called scientists, those who throw rocks because they know they can feel they are rocks, maybe they are the devils manure—who’s to say? One helps the other in this mad tug-of-war: a dilemma over the question of sanity—
Their objective being to rid the future of its creator, the very one we just found here on White Island, I sense their hearts are saying ‘He must vanish,’ because of one being, the validity of scientific madness is just that, madness, or apparent contradictions, and this they can’t have.
So I re-enter the future through my dream world to find answers lately—
I did notice on one occasion, the psychoanalyst became what the scientist called a ‘co-conspirator,’ I think this meant, he believed in the patient, who had visions of God—of course, since the scientist did not see God, it was called by him a delusion: but not that rock he threw long ago, that remains a rock, not the devils manure, as some would call it. Anyhow, he even questioned the scientist by saying ‘How sure are we, that visions of the future, or those of angels or God himself, are not from God? Or perhaps from the devil?’

I needed to know this for my sake; perchance I too was of this psychosis. According to consensus, the future world is 90% in belief, of God, the ten-percent left, are the scientists, psychoanalysts, and philosophers, everybody but them are having delusions—by gosh what a world. Evidently, according to them, the scientists, this society made all this up about God. They said, these people are over tired, a lack of REM sleep; sensory deprivation, perhaps on local weed, an illness, high fever, you name it, they had it all 90% of them. These future beings have quite the zeal to find a conventional physical explanation, so they do not have to believe in a Creator. Why do they not have a simple acceptance of the fact: something cannot come out of nothing?
Anyhow, I must conclude my notes, to memorization for Krik; he is eagerly waiting for my observations, while being captivated by his own visions. For some reason him and I mesh—to a certain degree that is. And what I think I can tell him about future scientists—is this:

There is a startling rapid rat in the minds of such people—the scientists, larger and larger grows their mind, trying to fill this empty hole, taken over by fantasy, unproved logic, that is really theory, and theory is far from logical, and such theories they change from decade to decade, to fit the puzzle of the present, yet at the same time, they imprint it in stone. Better put, they are not consistent. It is for them a cosmic adventure. And what little they do find of credibility, and share, is brought to such a hype, it becomes a sweeping extravaganza, and usually the plot deadly, if not of self-interest, well, then of world destruction.

“I’m torn,” said Krik, to Sacred Treat, “I was thinking, perhaps Nagas, lost the boundary between reality and imagination.”
“Perhaps you are more scientist and psychiatrist than you think you are. If the future is unpredictable, perhaps you are right; in any case it will be a wonderful, if not rewarding pursuit. For me, there is no personal end, how about for you?”

“There seems to be,” commented Krik, “a thin line between these studies.”
“In the world to be, I think it is called by all factors, ‘inventor charades’” said Sacred Treat.
“But why is it at the expense of others?”
“A mad scientist or psychologist, or psychiatrist, can help take away the madness of another person, perhaps by talk therapy, or medicine, time and patience, writing books, but he can also take away his reality just as well, depending on his reality—truth is in the eye of the beholder, what he values is what he expresses. In many cases from what I’ve observed, the patient saves the therapist, seldom is the scientist saved.”

No: 701/ 1-13-2011)

Sons of Death
((Part V, to “The Younger World”) (8000 BC))

(Testimony of Nodnon :) For untold ages, we have wandered around this little rock island, no more than a mountain sticking out of the ocean, two miles long one mile wide. Snake and wolf infested, a little wilderness, roaring sounds around us.
I have impressions of loss time: the time that our forefathers thousands of years ago told us about. Their nightmares are coming to be our reality. Back then they said it was once warm, and then it became cold for a very long time, now it is warm again. Thus, one season comes, vanishes and a new one steps in front of the old, much like birth and death.
Very strange upon me are these legends, their legends. And now on this small island, there are just twelve of us left. We are lean and wretched. Our bones can be seen sticking out of our skin: protuberant, and in some of us, perforated. We no longer sing or chatter like the ancient ones did. We are just a handful of survivors, sons of the dead.
We all live in one small sandstone cave. My name is Nodnon, and I came from the bloodline of Nagas, Sacred Treat and Krik, all long dead, the old wise elders.

There were many of us at one time—as time dragged on, from time to time the population changed—and a century ago, we started mating with our own families, to survive, thus becoming all of one blood, this has been our downfall, along with, not leaving this island, I do believe. You see, when one gets sick, we all get sick, nothing to fight the bad seed in us, we fall one after the other to our deaths, and never leave the island. One dies, and is not replaced, we have become perambulating skeletons.

I shall not tell in detail of the past, just that in old times, it was a happy abiding place; we could survive in such an environment. We died early on, we perhaps died faster, but now, there are no longer new born, and our numbers steadily diminish.
About twenty-years ago, there was a radical change in our diets, it was bad: ocean crabs that is all the strength we had to hunt for, that and seaweed, some clams and snails, but nothing more.
We are scared to join the world beyond White Island, every time we think out loud of it, we whimper. I think I will be the first or perhaps the last of us twelve to parish—depending of course on sickness and health among us, for crossing the water to the land beyond, eastward, is bleak at best. Thus, God will have to find another plan for man.


((Part IV, to “The Younger World”) (2011 AD))

The Future Present (the Narrator/the Author)

There is little more of my tale to tell, for here is where all memories vanish, to include dreams and nightmares. And here is where a child must inherit the past, to tell the future—impressions, that is all we have, of life lived, and there was nobody on White Island beyond Nodnon’s time. And perhaps this is were a greater story begins, in some far-off land, called Eden.

No: 703/ 1-13-2011)