“I see now,” says Shara. “The prison cell was meant only for Kolkan, wasn’t it?”
“For Jukov to hide there, he had to become Kolkan,” says the Divinity. It puts its hands over its ears, as if hearing a roaring cacophony. “Too many things, too many, all in one. Too many things I needed to be. Too many people I needed to serve. Too much, too much … The world is too much.” It looks at Shara pleadingly. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Shara looks down at the tiny black blade in her fingers.
The Divinity follows her gaze, nods, and says through its two mouths, “Do it.”
Despite everything, Shara hesitates.
“Do it,” the Divinity says again. “I never really knew what they wanted. I never really knew what they needed me to be.” The Divinity kneels. “Do it. Please.”
Shara walks around behind the Divinity, bends low, and places the black blade at its throat.
As she says, “I’m sorry,” the Divinity whispers, “Thank you.”
Shara grasps its forehead and pulls the blade across.
Instantly, the Divinity is gone, as if it never was.
The air fills with crashes and groans as hundreds of white skyscrapers come tumbling down, and screams as innumerable starlings take flight.
Good historians keep the past in their head and the future in their heart.
—Efrem Pangyui, “On History Lost”
What Is Sown
Shara lies in the tub of warm water in the dark room, trying not to think. Sheer white undergarments cling and suck to her flesh. Her eyes are wrapped with bandages to keep the light out, yet still she sees bursts of colored light and colorful words, and her head still thrums and bangs with a monstrous migraine. She is not so sure she wouldn’t have preferred simply dying from the philosopher’s stones: to deal with a hangover this hellish and psychedelic is something she did not anticipate.
She knows she is lucky to receive any care at all. The hospitals of Bulikov are overwhelmed with the injured and the maimed. It is only here, in the hospital at the governor’s quarters, that Shara and her comrades could be looked after.
She hears a door open, and someone enters in soft shoes.
Shara sits up and hoarsely asks, “How many?”
The person slowly sits in the chair beside the tub.
“How many?” she says again.
Pitry’s voice says, “We’re over two thousand now.”
Shara shuts her eyes behind the bandages. She feels hot tears on her cheeks.
“General Noor informs us that this is, despite everything, actually a good thing. So much of Bulikov was destroyed—well, the amount of Bulikov that was there before all the buildings from Old Bulikov appeared, I mean. But then, well, almost all of those new buildings were destroyed when you killed Kolkan.”
“It wasn’t Kolkan,” says Shara hoarsely. “But kindly get to the point.”
“Well, erm, General Noor says that two thousand casualties is a low figure, considering the amount of destruction. He thinks you distracted Kolk— Ah, he thinks you distracted the Divinity, slowed it down, which gave the city time to evacuate. And many of the people, as I understand it, had been transformed into some kind of birds. And a few hours after the Divinity died, they all started turning back into people—confused, cold, and, erm, totally nude.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. The hills around Bulikov were suddenly filled with hundreds of naked people. Hypothermia became a concern, though we’ve gathered and clothed and treated them as best they could. Noor has asked if you could possibly explain this.”
“It was a trick that Jukov used to do, worked on a mass scale,” says Shara. “When he wanted to hide someone, he turned them into a flock of starlings. I expect that, in order to save people from the fate Kolkan had forced them into, Jukov simply extended this protection to them: rather than see harm, they took to the skies as flocks of birds. How did so many die?”
Pitry coughs. “Most perished when the buildings collapsed, but many casualties occurred during the evacuation. … Apparently it was more of a stampede.”
What a neutered word is “casualties,” thinks Shara. And how pleasant it must be, to sit behind a desk and pare a lost life down to a statistic.
“It’s all a tragedy, Pitry,” says Shara. “A horrible, monstrous tragedy.”
“Well, yes, but … it was their god, wasn’t it? Doing what they asked of it?”
“No,” says Shara. Then she adds, “And yes.”
“General Noor is aware that your recovery might be more, ah, mental than physical … but he has asked me to see if I can retrieve clarification on this.”
“You’ve been promoted, Pitry. Congratulations.”
Pitry coughs again, uncomfortable. “Somewhat, yes.” I am assisting the regional governor’s office now. Mostly because almost all of the embassy and polis governor’s staff is … indisposed.”
“You behaved quite admirably during the fight. You deserve it. How is Mulaghesh?”
“She’s stable. The arm … could not be saved. It had been quite crushed. It was, at least, not her good arm.”