animals about and I saw a great flock of a thousand or more violet pterosaurs at one point, but, as for dinosaurs, no luck.
God, it was hot out. But no, that couldn’t be the problem. I reminded myself that Torontonians are supposed to be impervious to shifts in temperature. We always blame our discomfort on something else. In winter we say, “It’s not the cold, it’s the wind.” In summer our lament becomes, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”
Well, whether it was temperature or moisture that was at fault I didn’t know, but I was sweating like the proverbial pig. And, indeed, there was a third potential culprit—exertion. I suddenly realized that the ground tilted up at a sharp angle. I must have gained more than thirty meters in elevation already. Although we’d been able to make only rough guesses about what the landscape would be like here in the late Cretaceous, we’d expected a uniformly flat terrain at this particular site. Certainly there was no trace in the geological record of a steep hill.
I decided to rest upon a boulder. Like everything in this landscape, even this rock teemed with life: it was covered with a blanket of moss so dark green as to be almost black.
It seemed peaceful here, what with all this unspoiled nature, and yet I knew the peace was illusory, that the wild world was a violent place, a gridiron of mindless brutes fighting a game of kill or be killed in which there were no time-outs, no substitutions, and, in the long run, no way for you or even your species to win.
But still I felt a strange calmness. There was a simplicity here, a sense of great burdens lifted from my shoulders, a feeling that a yoke that I—and all humankind—had worn throughout our lives was somehow gone. Here, in the innocence of Earth’s youth, there was no unending famine in Ethiopia, with children, in one of anatomy’s cruel jokes, looking potbellied as their guts distended with hunger. There were no race wars in Africa, no burning of synagogues in Winnipeg, no Ku Klux Klan in Atlanta. No poverty in New York City, growing worse year by year, gangs no longer content just to kill their victims, now actually eating them, too. No knife-wielding thugs slashing the throats of cabdrivers in Toronto. No mindbenders starving to death while juice trickled into their brains. No blood washing down the streets of the Holy Land. No threat of nuclear terrorism hanging over all our heads like a glowing sword of Damocles. No murderers. No molesters robbing sons and daughters of their very childhood. No rapists taking with force what should only be given with love.
No people.
Not a soul in the world.
Not a soul…
An inner voice came to me, rising tenuously from that part of my mind that knew that it normally had to keep such ideas hidden, buried, lest it reveal itself to those who ran the world, those who saw such notions as signs of weakness.
I’d never prayed in my life—not seriously anyway. With six billion other souls to worry about, why should God care about the concerns of one Brandon Thackeray, a fellow who had a roof over his head, plenty to eat, and a good job? But now, in this world devoid of people, perhaps, just perhaps, it was a good time to bend God’s ear. Who knows? I might even get his full and undivided attention.
But … but … but … this was silly. Besides, I really didn’t know how to pray. No one had ever taught me. My father is a Presbyterian. He’d had an antique prayer rug by his bed, but I never knew whether he used it. When I was little I sometimes heard mumbling coming from his room as he got ready for bed. But my father often mumbled under his breath. Or else, he would grumble, and my world would shake.
My mother had been a Unitarian. I had gone to their Sunday school for five years as a child, if you can call a series of field trips that started from the North York YMCA a Sunday school. They used to take us for walks by the Don River, and I got soakers. All that I learned about God was that if you wanted to get closer to him, you’d probably end up with wet socks. Once, when I was an adult, an acquaintance had asked me what Unitarians believed in, I didn’t have a clue; I had to look it up in an encyclopedia.
Well, perhaps the form of the prayer didn’t matter. Did I have to speak out loud? Or was God a telepath, plucking thoughts from our heads? Upon reflection, I hoped the latter was not the case.
I reached up to my lapel, thumbed the MicroCam off, then cleared my throat. “God,” I said quietly, feeling sure that although perhaps the words had to be spoken, there was no reason to think the Good Lord was hard of hearing. I was silent for several seconds, listening to the word echo in my head. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. But then again, I knew I’d never forgive myself for not trying if I didn’t take advantage of this unique opportunity. “God,” I said again. And then, at a loss for what should come next, “It’s me, Brandy Thackeray.”
I was quiet for a few seconds more, but this time it was because I was listening intently, both within and without, for any acknowledgment that my words were being heard. Nothing. Of course.
And yet I felt as if a gate within me had burst open. “I’m so confused,” I said into the wind. “I—I’ve tried to live a good life. I really have. I’ve made mistakes, but—”
I paused, embarrassed by this babbling start, then began again. “I can’t fathom why my life is falling apart. My father is dying the kind of death we all hope to be spared. He was a good man. Oh, I know he cheated on his taxes and maybe even on his wife, and he hit her once, but only just that once, but now you’re punishing him in a way that seems cruel.”
Insects buzzed; foliage rustled in the breeze.
“I’m suffering right along with him. He wants me to release him from all that, to let him die peacefully, quietly, with a modicum of dignity. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong here. Can’t you take him? Can’t you let him die quickly instead of robbing him of his strength but leaving his mind to feel pain, to suffer? Can’t you— won’t you—relieve me of having to make this decision? And will you forgive me if I can’t find the strength within myself to choose?”
I was suddenly aware that my face was wet, but it felt good, oh so good, to get this off my chest. “And, as if that wasn’t enough to put me through, now you’ve taken Tess from me, too. I love her. She was my life, my whole existence. I can’t seem to find the energy to go on by myself anymore. I want her back so very much. Is Klicks a better son to you than I? He seems so … so shallow, so unthinking. Is that what you want from your children?”
The word “children” triggered a thought in my mind. God’s putative son, Jesus, wouldn’t be born for almost 65 million years. Did God know how the future would go? Or did the Huang Effect supersede even his omniscience? Should I tell him what would happen to his beloved Jesus? Or was he aware already? Was it inevitable that humans would reject his son? I opened my mouth to speak, but then closed it and said nothing.
A twig cracked and my heart jumped. For one horrible instant I thought that Klicks had followed me, had overheard me, had seen me making a bloody fool of myself. I looked into the forest but couldn’t see anything unusual. Clearing my mind, I quickly rose to my feet, brushed pieces of moss off my bum, and headed forward.
Countdown: 6
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
The sun was sliding slowly down the bowl of the sky. My watch still showed modern Alberta time, but it looked to be about 3:30 p.m. My nose was a bit stuffed, perhaps from crying but just as likely from the pollens. Little golden motes and things like dandelion seeds danced in the air all about me. I saw a small tortoise at one point, pushing itself with splayed, wrinkly limbs across my path. It seemed ironic that such a humble creature would survive the coming changes that would kill every last one of the magnificent dinosaurs. Like Aesop’s fable: slow and steady wins the race.
Suddenly the ground dropped away. I was at the lip of a sheer precipice of crumbling reddish-brown earth, a
