He watched the planet Venus seemingly touch, then be illuminated by the light, which suffused all around it in an instant. So it was true, then: there was still an atmosphere on the planet, even so close to the Sun as it had become (there was once an inner planet called Mercury, swallowed up long ago.) This Venus had once been covered with dense clouds; its atmosphere now looked clear and plangent, though no doubt the sunlight beat down unmercifully on its surface.
He wished he had brought his spectacle-glass with him instead of leaving it up in his tower. But he knew of tales of others, who, looking directly into the Sun with them, had become blind or sun-dazzled for years, so he sat on the wall and watched, out of the corner of his eyes, the transit of Venus til the big dot crossed the face of the sun and disappeared, to become another bright point of light on its far side.
He had found his frogskin cap while exploring some ruins in search of books many years ago. The skin was thin and papery, as living frogs had not been seen within the memory of the oldest living being, or his grandfather. The cap, then, was of an earlier time, when there still had been frogs to skin, probably while there still had been a Moon in the sky.
The first time he had put it on, it seemed made for him. Another sign from an earlier age to his times. From that day forward, his given name, Tybalt, was forgotten and people only knew him as “the man in the frogskin cap.”
This morning he was fishing where a stream rose full-blown from a cave in a cliff-face. He had a slim withey pole and a 6-horsehair line. On the end of his line was a fine hook cunningly covered with feathers and fur to resemble an insect. He was angling for fish to take to town to trade to some innkeep for lodging (and a fine meal.) He was bound for Joytown, where they would be celebrating the Festival of Mud, after the return of the seasonal rains, delayed by a full month this year (due no doubt to strong fluctuations in the Sun).
The fish in the stream at the cave mouth were eyeless of course, which did not make them lesser eating. That they had come out of the darkness was testament to the usual dimness of light from the Sun.
His artificial fly landed on the water near a rock. He twitched the line several times, setting off rings of ripples from the fly.
With a great splash, a large blind fish swallowed the fly and dove for the bottom. Tybalt used the litheness of his pole to fight the fish’s run. In a moment, he had it flopping on the bank. He put it in the wet canvas fish-bag with the three others he’d already caught, and decided he had more than enough for barter.
He wrapped his line around his pole and stuck the fly into the butt of the rod. Carrying the heavy bag over his shoulder, he continued on to Joytown.
The festival was at full peak. People were in their holiday clothes, dancing to the music of many instruments, or standing swaying in place.
Those really in the spirit were in loincloths and a covering of mud, or just in mud, returned from the wet-hill slide and the mud-pit below.
Tybalt was heartened to see that primitive sluice-machinery kept the slide wet. Perhaps the spirit of Rogol Domedonfors had never died through all the long centuries of Time. Not all was left to magic and sorcery in this closing down of the ages. The quest for science and knowledge still simmered below the swamps of sorcery.
“KI-YI-YI!” yelled someone at the top of the wet-hill slide, and plunging down its curving length, became an ever-accelerating, ever-browner object before shooting off the end of the slide and landing with great commotion and impressive noise in the muddy pit beyond.
Polite applause drifted across the watching crowd.
Tybalt had already traded the fine mess of fish (less one for his own meal.) for lodging at inn. At first, the publican, a small stout man with a gray-red beard had said “Full-up, like all other places in this town.” But as Tybalt emptied his bag on the table, the man’s eyes widened.. “A fine catch,” he said, “and supplies being somewhat short, what with the crowd eating anything that slows a little all week…” He stroked his chin. “We have a maid’s room; she can go home and sleep with her sisters. This mess of fish should be enough for — what? — two nights let’s say. Agreed?”
They put hands together like sawing wood. “Agreed!” said Tybalt.
She was a pretty girl in less than a costume. “Kind Ladies. Strong Gentlemen,” she said, in a voice that carried incredibly well, “Tonight for the first time, you will see before your very eyes, the True History of the Sun!”
She stepped to one side in the cleared space before the milling crowd, now beginning to settle down. “To present this wonder to you, the greatest Mage of the age, Rogol Domedonfors, Jr.”
The audacity of the nom du stage took Tybalt aback. The one true Rogol Domedonfors had lived ages ago, the last person dedicated to preserving science and machinery before mankind waned into its magics and superstitions.
The man appeared in a puff of flame and billowing smoke.
“I come to you with wonders,” he said, “things I learned at the green porcelain palace which is the Museum of Man.”
“Al1 wonders are known there,” he continued, “though most are studied but once, then forgotten. If you but know where to look, the answers to all questions may be found.”
“Behold,” he said “the Sun.” A warm golden glow filled the air above the makeshift stage. The glow drew down into a ball and the simulacrum of a yellow star appeared in the wings. It moved from the east, arced overhead, and settled westward. A smaller silver ball circled around it.
“For centuries untold, the Sun circled the earth,” he said. “And it had a companion called the Moon, which gave light at night after the Sun had set.”
Wrong, thought Tybalt, but let’s catch his drift.
The sun-ball had dropped below the leftward stage-horizon while the Moon-ball moved slowly overhead. Then the Moon-ball swam westward while the sun began to glow and came up in dawn on the eastward of the stage.
“Oooh,” said the crowd. “Ahhhh.”
“Til,” said Rogol Domedonfors Jr, “Men, practicing their magick arts, conjured up a fierce dragon which ate up that Moon,”‘
A swirling serpentine shape formed in the air between the Moon-and-Sun balls, coalescing into an ophidiaform dragon of purest black. The dragon swallowed the Moon-ball, and the Sun-ball was left alone in the stage-sky.
Wrong, thought Tybalt again, and I get your drift.
“Not satisfied,” said Rogol Domedonfors Jr, “Men, practicing their magic arts, pulled the Sun closer to the earth, even though they had to dim its light. Hence, the Sun we behold today.”
The Sun-ball was larger and its surface redder, great prominences curled out from it, and it was freckled like the fabled Irishman of old.
“So man in his wisdom and age has given himself a Sun to match his mood. Long may the Spirit of Man and his magicks last, long may that glorious Sun hold sway in the sky.”
There was polite applause. From far away, on the slide-hill, another moron dashed himself into the mud- pit.
It had begun to rain. They were inside the inn where Rogol Domedonfors Jr. and his companion, whose name was T’silla, lodged. T’silla placed before her a silver ball and three silvered cowbells.
“Ah!” said Tybalt, “The old game of the bells and the ball.” He turned back to Rogol Domedonfors Jr,
“Great showmanship,” he said, “But you know it be not true. The Moon was swallowed when Bode’s inexorable law met with the unstoppable Roche’s Limit!”
“True physics makes poor show,” said the Mage.
T’silla moved the cowbells around in a quick blur.
Tybalt pointed to the center one.
She lifted the bell to reveal the ball, quickly replaced it, moved the bells again.
Tybalt pointed to the leftward one.
