I am but flesh and blood,
And a spirit that is not good, and
Perhaps, a vague simulacrum of whomever.
In vain I say: I.
For it is not I whom my two walkers carry,
But one that has been awarded by neglect,
To be my likeness’ image.
* Excerpt from Untitled, by Avraham Halfi.
#
Pythia remember when things were different. They remember the wild times before they started counting the days; before anyone had a name. Pythia remember how they delivered themselves and those around them from savagery and violence into civilized order. For a while, the residents of Last Day Town still carried with them the memories of the chaos, and those memories kept them on the straight and narrow path. But memories are not cold stone tablets that can be left unattended—they require work to keep alive, need to be rehearsed and refreshed and talked about, or they weaken, fade and disappear. If those memories are lost, the others will allow themselves to make daring moves for power, forget what’s at stake, take for granted the absence of absolute chaos this society has reached. But Pythia remember, and so, Pythia worry.
Diocletian arrive at Pythia’s confession chamber, as accurate as the clock. They are here to collect a body, and to make one. These are their duties—they welcome the newcomers, and see them out of Last Day Town when their time comes to leave. The two other lines, Ctesibius and Anaxagoras, against Pythia’s advice, opted for a more private ritual, and left Diocletian with the less dignified work of disposing of the bodies the lines made themselves. Pythia, understanding the importance of keeping traditions, still accept Diocletian’s services. They thank them ceremonially, once before the ritual and once after.
“Stay for confession, Diocletian?”
“Long day ahead,” they joke, their black eyes cold and hard. Diocletian leave, carrying the body in their arms.
Their refusal compounds Pythia’s worries—not because change is inherently bad, but because the old ways have proven their worth in the natural court. The new forms, however well rationalized and agreed upon, have not yet stood the judgment of time.
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Next, Anaxagoras arrive at Pythia, riding on a rocket, to exercise their right to confession.
Anaxagoras’s life is full of quiet travel and manual labor, alone in the starlit night. It is not easy, but Pythia know there is a dignity in it that Anaxagoras would not trade for any of the luxuries the other lines get.
They take a couple of moments to weep quietly at the feet of the statue before they enter the confession chamber, where they are allowed to speak of their old life, words and thoughts that don’t belong in Last Day Town. The others don’t know this, but Pythia doesn’t commit any of it to memory. By the same time tomorrow, all that is confessed to Pythia is forgotten, wiped clean. With an uneasy feeling in their stomach, Pythia wonder if, not knowing that, Diocletian refuse to confess for fear of something being remembered. But if so, what, and why?
#
When Anaxagoras leave, Pythia see in their eyes that they do so with a lighter heart. They are ready to face the world, to let go of what they were, before, and spend their day in peace.
While they wait for Ctesibius to arrive, Pythia rehearse their memories, singing, even confess to themselves. It would have been terrifying, to be alone in the cold starlight. Thankfully, Pythia are never alone.
Ctesibius are heard before they are seen. They speak to themselves, thinking aloud of some problem they’d left unsolved back in their cliff. To them, there is always some tool or machine left unbuilt, every waking hour of the day—which in Last Day Town, means every single hour. The rocket they manufactured for themselves is stronger than the ones they gave Anaxagoras, faster, and they bring it to a clumsy stop, visibly unpracticed in its use.
They greet Pythia reluctantly, repeat the same dry jokes, as if they’d rather not let go of their distractions even for a couple of minutes. And yet, they deemed confession a tradition worth keeping.
Pythia hold the door open for them to enter, and just before they do Ctesibius stop to look behind them, into the great crater beneath, dread clear in their movements.
Pythia don’t remember them ever doing that before, and coupling that new and strange behavior with Diocletian’s, Pythia suspect there is a connection there, hidden from their eyes. Pythia are afraid.
#
Ctesibius leave the confession chamber, but they don't seem much relieved. Even as they spoke, they seemed preoccupied, unable to leave Last Day Town in their thoughts.
“It’s almost time for recitation, isn’t it?”
Pythia check their estimated oxygen time left, and agree that it is.
They go on their way to the airlock. Ctesibius by rocket, hurrying to pass by their cliff and get one more thing done, and Pythia by foot, never in a hurry.
Around the airlock they all gather, Diocletian, Anaxagoras, Ctesibius, and Pythia to recite a poem, a ceremony held once every ten hours, when the sky changes color from gray to gold.
Pythia notice how Ctesibius, all three of them, tactfully avoid Diocletian’s seeking eyes. Anaxagoras devote their whole being to the ceremony, their eyes on the golden sky, their heart in the words, paying no mind to the forces pushing and pulling going on around them.
Pythia remember, and so, Pythia feel that's something very bad is about to happen.
#
And as they stand there, reciting, a visitor is coming to Last Day Town.