Clifford’s laughter, though, was short-lived. As he looked around the depth of carnage unleashed by the collapsing statue-cannon became readily apparent. The ground was scorched black, turning a light gray in the rain/snow that was falling. The broken statue lay against the side of the pyramid, its greenish metal twisted and blackened. Some areas of it still smoked, as though the fire from the cannon still raged.
The black helmeted head of the statue had rolled off and now lay over to the side against a row of trees. Part of the faceplate was gone, likely blown away in the resulting fire, and underneath where it had once been was a genteel face sculpted of the same greenish metal as the rest of the statue.
Clifford, who had been standing in a bit of a ditch, stepped up to the same level as the pyramid and was greeted with a horrifying sight. The ground was covered with burned skeletons, many twisted in agony, some curled into fetal positions, some scattered over large areas. None alive.
The statue’s fall had done considerable damage, and had cost many lives. As Clifford surveyed the damage, he realized just how badly the pyramid itself had been compromised. The golden surface was dented and torn in many places, including the top, where Clifford knew he had to go.
He thought for a moment about looking for an entrance to the pyramid, but his attention kept returning to the downed statue. He walked toward it, careful not to disturb the remains scattered about. Once he had reached the statue, he quickly appreciated both its size, and the overall size of the pyramid. They were huge.
He stepped inside the now ripped open neck and saw stairs leading up. He knew immediately that he would actually be walking on the under-side of the stairs, but they accomplished his goal just the same. That is, if they were strong enough to take his weight. The fall might very well have jarred them loose.
He took the first tentative steps onto the upside down staircase and found them sturdy. He began to move with more speed, and since there was no give to cause him to hesitate, he began to take the stairs two at a time, and sometimes three at a time. The stairs zigzagged throughout the body of the immense statue, passing floors that now served as ceiling and ceilings that now served as floors, all running at about a 20-degree angle.
Every so often he would happen across a window that looked out on Historia. The higher he climbed the more expansive his view became, and when he was near the top he noticed something. The sentry station, the black wall with the names, and the fountain where he’d seen the body crash down were in perfect zyzygy, even though he knew, for a fact, that he’d taken many turns along the street going from one to the next.
The top of the statue... well, what was now the top, once the bottom, if that makes sense, was near. With it, Clifford knew, he would once more be exposed to the weather, which from the windows looked to be all snow now. And nightfall was nearing as well. He thought about the fire he had seen smoldering within the statue’s body, some eight stair-flights back. It would keep him warm and sheltered until the next day, and he would be able to get some sleep.
He had all he needed. Guitar, gun (guns, actually. He still carried the M-1 Garand as well as the sidearm he’d lifted off the dead soldier when he’d first reached Historia), food (there was still some dried meat in his bundle, along with the cheese-block in the leafy paper), and coat. He worked his way back down the stairs, which for some reason seemed a far more dangerous proposition than going up. The fire that was smoldering proved to be the remains of a desk, meaning that he was near what had been the bottom of the statue, where office would’ve been.
He stoked the fire back up a little bit so he could get warm. Nestling close to it he put his bundle and guitar over to the side. It was odd carrying the bundle and not have Schrodinger in it, but Clifford didn’t mind anymore. Not since Schrodinger’s deception had been revealed.
But why had Schrodinger acted the way he had? It struck Clifford as odd that the mouse would lie so blatantly just to keep him in the dark. The book had been blank all along, and Clifford doubted if he had ever had any sort of gift. Most likely the mouse had merely found him useful as a means of getting to Historia quicker.
But that didn’t explain what had happened in the King’s Valley. Or at the Farm of Pepperidge for that matter. For the first time, truly the first time, Clifford’s mind found itself occupied by what had actually happened at those places.
Maybe this world was just that different. Maybe, he thought, once you crossed the Mountains of Antiquity and entered the valley that is Historia, everything changed. The laws of nature seemed different. Clifford’s time-sense was definitely suffering some adverse effects. He had wondered a few times how his hair had grown so much during his first night away from Nostalgia, and yet he hadn’t grown a beard. Perhaps he did have some kind of gift, some power that was new to the world. Perhaps he had adapted to the world instead of making it adapt to him.
Schrodinger had once told him, just before they had bedded down for the night (along the road to the Farm of Pepperidge, just after the encounter with Israel Putnam), and again in the sentry station, that humans made the environment change to their needs. Clifford hadn’t thought much of the statement at the time, but now he understood it better. Human stupidity was, in essence, the mother of innovation and invention. If the climate was too cold, humans would make better coats, or build thicker walls instead of move to a warmer, more temperate area.
Maybe, just maybe, Clifford Jenkins was the first human in ages to adapt to the world, and his adaptation was a gift that allowed him to survive. He was able to avoid problems by thinking them away. He could remember the teacher at the University in Nostalgia telling the students once that they could not simply think their problems away; that they had to solve them. And now Clifford Jenkins sat on an un-numbered ceiling-floor in an upside down statue. And now Clifford Jenkins understood that he could actually think away his problems.
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