An interesting article by author Matt Ridley:
...made me revisit the thinking behind The Bone Traders -- : for more visit The Bone Traders. When there is no future, all you have left is the past. Why? What happened? Look toward the sun.
AN EXCERPT:
The once grassy plains have changed. All
hint of greenery has gone. It is hot, dry and a lazy devil-wind spirals
lethargically in the West.
The skyline of the city you named earlier
has disappeared. Not even a shadow remains. Those people that survived have
moved on to distant places.
The cause of The Event is simple. It
requires no scientific explanation. Mother Nature has always walked with small
steps, learning and progressing during her gradual journey through time. We humans
have ignored that learning. We have outpaced our own, what should have been,
measured strides. We have started running before we have truly learnt to walk.
Mother Nature has simply put the brakes on.
She has shortened your stride. She has retarded life in the hope that we will
learn to walk again.
The solar storm, you remember, lasted for
eight months; in some areas, longer. The crust of the planet was left flecked
like the hide of a spotted hyena; flecked with disaster zones, places where the
few survivors, mainly the young, managed to migrate from. Some were fortunate,
others not so.
The sun is now a white, hostile orb; iris
burning.
Welcome to the town that your God, Law,
Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick
deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from
salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers
of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.
An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily
in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three
crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power
to light a bulb or two.
A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be
seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.
A small Church offers its imperfect steeple
to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no
gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare.
There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight
off metal.
At the far end of the only street, outside
a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.
Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom,
Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a
Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness. It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of
his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.
Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from
within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on
his heels.
“Well?” Reverend Dickenson asks the midwife
that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.
The woman giving birth again screams. She
is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts
grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.
The midwife, who is in her late sixties,
glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”
“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his
response.
The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.
“I need light. Move away from the window.”
The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses
shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the
group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a
wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn
child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.
The midwife works, her heavy face sweating
profusely.
A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and
out of.
“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson,
still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles.
“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push,
Mary! I can see the head!”
There is another scream and the tension
shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.
The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own
breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”
Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels.
“It’s a what? Tell me.”
Reverend Dickinson makes eye contact with
the midwife as he struggles not to look at the bloody mess that he knows the
midwife must be holding.
The midwife holds the Reverend’s enquiring
look momentarily, then she vomits.
Reverend Dickinson gulps in air and closes
his eyes. He inhales and exhales and he tries to compose himself. He
straightens his back, finding strength from somewhere.
“Wrap the...wrap it up,” he finally says
with an edge of hostility.
Then he leaves the narrow room, the Bible
clutched to his chest.
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