Across the dead centuries he heard his mother pleading with him to set her free, to end her pain. Use the needle. Her voice mingled with the voice of the Earth crying out in endless pain at her flesh that had been ripped away, at her rivers turned to arteries of dust, at her rolling hills and green fields slagged to greenglass and ashes. The voices of his mother and the mother that was Earth became one, and mingled to become Snake’s voice telling him he was the one man in the world–the last man in the world–who could end the terminal case the Earth had become.
Use the needle. Put the suffering Earth out of its misery. It belongs to you now.
Nathan Stack was secure in the power he contained. A power that far outstripped that of gods or Snakes or mad creators who stuck pins in their creations, who broke their toys.
YOU CAN’T. I WON’T LET YOU.
Nathan Stack walked around the burning bush as it crackled impotently in rage. He looked at it almost pityingly, remembering the Wizard of Oz with his great and ominous disembodied head floating in mist and lightning, and the poor little man behind the curtain turning the dials to create the effects. Stack walked around the effect, knowing he had more power than this sad, poor thing that had held his race in thrall since before Lilith had been taken from him.
He went in search of the mad one who capitalized his name.
23
Zarathustra descended alone from the mountains, encountering no one. But when he came into the forest, all at once there stood before him an old man who had left his holy cottage to look for roots in the woods. And thus spoke the old man to Zarathustra:
“No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago he passed this way. Zarathustra he was called, but he has changed. At that time you carried your ashes to the mountains; would you now carry your fire into the valleys? Do you not fear to be punished as an arsonist?
“Zarathustra has changed, Zarathustra has become a child, Zarathustra is an awakened one; what do you now want among the sleepers? You lived in your solitude as in the sea, and the sea carried you. Alas, would you now climb ashore? Alas, would you again drag your own body?”
Zarathustra answered: “I love man.”
“Why,” asked the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved man all too much? Now I love God; man I love not. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love of man would kill me.”
“And what is the saint doing in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.
The saint answered: “I make songs and sing them; and when I make songs, I laugh, cry, and hum: thus I praise God. With singing, crying, laughing, and humming, I praise the god who is my god. But what do you bring us as a gift?”
When Zarathustra had heard these words he bade the saint farewell and said: “What could I have to give you? But let me go quickly lest I take something from you!” And thus they separated, the old one and the man, laughing as two boys laugh.
But when Zarathustra was alone he spoke thus to this heart: “Could it be possible? This old saint in the forest has not yet heard anything of this, that God is dead!”
24
Stack found the mad one wandering in the forest of final moments. He was an old, tired man, and Stack knew with a wave of his hand he could end it for this god in a moment. But what was the reason for it? It was even too late for revenge. It had been too late from the start. So he let the old one go his way, wandering in the forest, mumbling to himself, I WON’T LET YOU DO IT, in the voice of a cranky child; mumbling pathetically, OH, PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED YET. I’M NOT YET DONE PLAYING.
And Stack came back to Snake, who had served his function and protected Stack until Stack had learned that he was more powerful than the god he’d worshipped all through the history of Men. He came back to Snake and their hands touched and the bond of friendship was sealed at last, at the end.
Then they worked together and Nathan Stack used the needle with a wave of his hands, and the Earth could not sigh with relief as its endless pain was ended…but it did sigh, and it settled in upon itself, and the molten core went out, and the winds died, and from high above them Stack heard the fulfillment of Snake’s final act; he heard the descent of the Deathbird.
“What was your name?” Stack asked his friend.
Dira.
And the Deathbird settled down across the tired shape of the Earth, and it spread its wings wide, and brought them over and down, and enfolded the Earth as a mother enfolds her weary child. Dira settled down on the amethyst floor of the dark-shrouded palace, and closed his single eye with gratitude. To sleep at last, at the end.
All this, as Nathan Stack stood watching. He was the last, at the end, and because he had come to own–if even for a few moments–that which could have been his from the start, had he but known, he did not sleep but stood and watched. Knowing at last, at the end, that he had loved and done no wrong.
25
The Deathbird closed its wings over the Earth until at last, at the end, there was only the great bird crouched over the dead cinder. Then the Deathbird raised its head to the star-filled sky and repeated the sigh of loss the Earth had felt at the end. Then its eyes closed, it tucked its head carefully under its wing, and all was night.
Far away, the stars waited for the cry of the Deathbird to reach them so final moments could be observed at last, at the end, for the race of Men.
26
THIS IS FOR MARK TWAIN
“Impeity: your irreverence toward my deity”
–Ambrose Bierce
Acknowledgments
It took ten years to complete this cycle of stories. I never lacked for enthusiasm or encouragement. These are some of the people who had the right words and smiles when I needed them: Holly Bower, Ben Bova, R. Glenn Wright, Leonard Isaacs, Edward Ferman, Ralph Weinstock, Bentley Morris, James Sallis, Thomas Disch, Dona Sadock, Dr. Richard Carrigan, Mildred Downey Broxon, Terry Carr, Robert Silverberg, Martin Shapiro, Max Katz, Karen Friedrich, James Tiptree, Jr., Norman Spinrad, Ed Bryant, Rosalind Harvey, Huck and Carol Barkin, Louise Farr, Damon Knight, Kate Wilhelm, the students at the Clarion Writers’ Workshops, 1971 and 1972, Jane Rotrosen and most specially, with utmost patience and a concern for this book that goes far beyond mere publishing courtesy, my editor, Ms. Victoria Schochet, without whose pushing and shoving and ramrodding and affection, this book might never have been completed. For Vicky, and for my friend and agent, Robert Mills, there are no words rich enough to convey my thanks.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt for a small portion of “Little Gidding” in Four Quartets, copyright © 1943 by T.S. Eliot; copyright 0 1971 by Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.
Foreword: “Oblations at Alien Altars,” copyright © 1975 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2003 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“The Whimper of Whipped Dogs,” copyright © 1973 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2001 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Along the Scenic Route” (under the title “Dogfight on 101”), copyright © 1969 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1997 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“On the Downhill Side,” copyright © 1972 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2000 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“O Ye of Little Faith,” copyright 1968 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1996 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Neon,” copyright © 1973 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2001 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Basilisk,” copyright © 1972 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2000 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes,” copyright © 1967 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1995 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Corpse,” copyright © 1972 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2000 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Shattered Like a Glass Goblin,” copyright © 1968 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1996 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Delusion for a Dragon Slayer,” copyright © 1966 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1994 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“The Face of Helene Bournouw,” copyright © 1960 by Harlan Ellison. Revised version copyright © 1967 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1988 and 1995 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Bleeding Stones,” copyright © 1972 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2000 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“At the Mouse Circus,” copyright © 1971 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1999 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“The Place with No Name,” copyright © 1969 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1997 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Paingod,” copyright © 1964 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1992 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Ernest and the Machine God,” copyright © 1968 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1996 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Rock God,” copyright © 1969 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 1997 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54’ N, Longitude 77 ° 00’ 13” W,” copyright © 1974 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2002 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
Copyright © 1975, 1976, 1980 by Harlan Ellison
Copyright © 1983, 1993 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation, renewed 2003, 2004
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0477-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Harlan Ellison, Deathbird Stories
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