“And this is the Cronus Club?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied brightly. “Like the Illuminati without the glamour, or the Masons without the cufflinks, a self-perpetuating society spread across the ages for the infinite and the timeless. I had to investigate it because someone said the Russians were, and from what I can tell it’s a fantasy created by a very bored mind, but then… then someone like you comes along, Dr August, and that really throws off my paperwork.”
“You think that because my delusions correspond to an old wives’ tale there must be something to it?”
“God no, not at all! I think that because your delusions correspond to the truth, there must be something in it. And so,” a flash of a grin as he leaned back easily into his chair, “here we are.”
Time is not wisdom; wisdom is not intellect. I am still capable of being overwhelmed; he overwhelmed me.
“May I have some time to think about it?” I asked.
“Sure thing. You sleep on it, Dr August. Let me know what you think tomorrow morning. Do you play croquet?”
“No.”
“There’s a beautiful lawn if you want to try.”
Chapter 11
A moment to consider memory.
The kalachakra, the ouroborans, those of us who loop perpetually through the same course of historical events, though our lives within may change–in short, the members of the Cronus Club–forget. Some see this forgetting as a gift, a chance to rediscover things which have already been experienced, to retain some wonder at the universe. A sense of déjà vu haunts the oldest members of the Club, who know that they have seen this all before but can’t quite remember when. For others, the imperfect memory of our kin is viewed as proof that we are, for our condition, still human. Our bodies age and experience pain as humans do, and when we die future generations may come and find the place where we are buried and dig up our rotting corpses and say, yes, here indeed is the departed flesh of Harry August, though where his mind has fled to who can say? The implications for reality of this revelation are too numerous to discuss here, but always and again we return to the mind–the mind is what takes the journey through time while the flesh decays. We are no more and no less than minds, and it is human for the mind to be imperfect and to forget. So no one can remember who founded the Cronus Club, though everyone has played their part; perhaps even the ouroboran who made that first choice can no longer remember his part in it and wonders with everyone else. When we die it is as if the world resets, and only memory remains as evidence of the deeds we have done, no more and no less.
I remember everything, and sometimes with that intensity when it is not so much recollection as reliving. Even as I address you now I can recall the sun setting on the hills and the brownish smoke from Phearson’s pipe as he sat on the patio beneath my window, looking towards the untouched croquet lawn. I cannot re-create the exact pattern of my thoughts, in that they had no words, no constructed thing on which to grapple; but I can tell you the moment I reached my decision, where I sat and what I saw. I was sitting on the bed, and I saw a picture of rustic farmhouses painted in greens and greys, with a spaniel barking outside, its legs ungainly and rabbit-like as it bounded in the air.
I said, “Yes, but I have a condition.”
“What would you like?”
“I want to know everything you do about the Cronus Club.”
Phearson only thought for a moment. Then, “OK.”