Songs of the Dying Earth

Howard Waldrop FROGSKIN CAP

The sun was having one of its good days.

It came up golden and buttery as if it were made of egg yolk. The dawn air was light blue and clear as water. The world seemed made new and fresh, like it must have seemed in previous times.

The man in the frogskin cap (whose given name was Tybalt) watched the freshened sun as it rose. He turned to the west and took a sighting on a minor star with his astrolabe. He tickled the womb of the mother with the spider, looked away from the finger and read off the figures to himself.

A change in light behind him gained his attention. He turned — no, not a cloud or a passing bird, something larger.

Something for which men had sometimes taken dangerous journeys of years’ duration, to the farthest places of this once green and blue planet, to see and record. Now it was just a matter of looking up.

The apparent size of a big copper coin held at arm’s length, a round dot was coming into, then crossing, the face of the morning sun.

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.

She lifted that bell and frowned a little when the ball was revealed.

“Listen to the rain,” said Rogol Domedonfors Jr. “The crops will virtually spring up this year. There will be fairs, festivals, excitements all growing season. And then the Harvest dinners! “

“Aye,” said Tybalt. “There was some indication that wind patterns were shifting. That the traditional seasons would be abated. Changes in the heat from the Sun. Glad to see these forebodings to be proven false. Surely you ran across them when you were Curator of the Museum of Man?”

“Mostly old books,” said the mage. “Not very many dealing with Magick, those mostly scholarly.”

“But surely…”

“I am certain there are many books of thought and science there,” said Rogol Domedonfors Jr. “Those I leave to people of a lesser beat of mind.”

T’silla let the blurred bells come to rest. She looked up at Tybalt questioningly.

“Nowhere,” he said. “The ball is in your hand.”

With no sign of irritation, she dropped the ball on the table and covered it with a bell, then brought the two others around.

“Then do you not return to the Museum of Man?” asked Tybalt, adjusting his frogskin cap.

“Perhaps after this harvest season is over, many months from now. Perhaps not.”

T’silla moved the bells again.

From far away on the slide-hill, an idiot screamed and belly-flopped into the cloaca at its bottom.

“Give the people what they want,” said Rogol Domedonfors Jr, “and they’ll turn out every time.”

The way southward had been arduous, though most of the country-people were in an especially good generous mood because of the signs of a bumper harvest. They invited him to sleep in their rude barns and to partake of their meager rations as if it were a feast,

It was at a golden glowing sunset after many months of travel that he came within sight of the green porcelain palace that had to be the Museum of Man.

From this distance, it looked to be intricately carved from a single block of celadon, its turrets and spires glowing softly green in the late afternoon sun. He hurried his steps while the light lasted.

A quick inspection revealed it to be everything he’d hoped for. Tome after tome in many languages; charts and maps; plans of cities long fallen to ruin. In the longer halls, exhibit after exhibit of the history of the progress of the animal and vegetal kingdoms, and of Mankind. There were machines designed for flying through the air; others seemingly made for travel beneath the seas. There were men of metal shaped like humans whose purpose he could not fathom. He had time before darkness to discover that the northenmost tower was an observatory with a fine giant spying-glass.

He found a hall of portraits of former Curators of the Museum. Just before he had parted company with Rogol Domedonfors and T’silla months ago, she had handed him a folded and sealed paper.

“What’s this?” he had asked.

“There will come a time when you will need it. Open it then,” she said. All these months, it had been a comforting weight in his pocket.

He travelled up the hall of portraits, pausing at the one of the original Rogol Domedonfors from long ages past. He came up the hall as if transgressing time itself, noting changes in the styles of costuming in the portraits, from the high winged collars to the off-the-shoulder straps. The last full portrait outside the Curator’s door was of Rogol Domedonfors Jr. Tybalt noted the faint resemblance of the features shared by he and the original — the wayward cowlick, the frown-line on one side of the mouth, the long neck. Almost impossible that the same features would skip so many generations, only to show up later in the namesake.

Last outside the door was an empty frame with four pins stuck at its center.

Tybalt reached in his pocket, took out the folded and sealed paper, broke its waxen seal, and unfolded it.

It was a drawing of himself, done in brown pencil, wearing his frogskin cap. The legend below said: “Tybalt the Scientist. “Frogskin Cap” The last Curator of the Museum of Man.” It was an excellent likeness, though the words uneased him. When had T’silla had time between the game of the bells and the ball, and early the next rainy morning when they parted, to do such a good drawing

He pinned the drawing within the frame — it fit perfectly. It made him feel at home, as if he had a place there.

He noticed too, that as the night had darkened, the walls of the room it had begun to glow with the faintest of blue lights, which intensified as the outside grew blacker. He looked from the office-room and the whole Museum glowed likewise

He found a writing instrument and pages of foolscap, cleared a space on the desk, and began to write on the topmost sheet:

THE TRUE. AUTHENTIC HISTORY

OF OUR SUN

By Tybalt, “Frogskin Cap”

Curator of the Museum of Man

He had worked through most of the night. The walls were fading as a red glow tainted eastwards.

Tybalt stretched himself. He had barely begun outlining the main sequence of the birth, growth, senescence, and death of stars. Enough for now; there were books to consult; there was food to find. He was famished, having finished some parched corn he’d gotten at the last farmhouse before coming to the woods that led to the Museum of Man, late the afternoon before. Surely there was food somewhere hereabouts.

He went outside the green porcelain Museum and turned to face the East.

The darkened Sun rose lumpy as a cracked egg. Straggly whiskers of fire stood out from the chins of the Sun, growing and shortening as he watched.

A curl of fire swept up out of the top of the sphere, and the surface became pocked and darkened, as if it had a disease.

The Sun was having one of its bad days.