CHAPTER 3 

Sailing the wind.

“Want to see something interesting, Cyrus?”  

Three weeks had passed since their discussion, Silvertree was away to Paris and other unknown destinations and Cyrus had turned all his efforts into polishing the last details of their tool, withdrawing into his lab and computer and avoiding more in-depth conversations. He had used the time to try and come to terms with his childish disappointment as well. He still admired Silvertree and Greenwood without reserves for their vast knowledge, their calm and positive demeanour and the fairness and generosity with which they put to use the immense power they had come to gather along the years.  

They were great scientists, probably the best in the world, who had spurned honours and public recognition and had exchanged them for a simple, yet satisfactory life of intellectual and practical activity. He could not blame them for that. Most of his long-time friends had done the same. And these two had achieved more than many whole organizations. He could not force others to fight, he thought firmly, and so he had overcome his despondency as he had done so many times before.  

“Cyrus?”  

He looked up, coming out from his musings. Greenwood was leaning in the doorframe, watching him with mild amusement.  

“Beg pardon, was daydreaming, it’d seem, you said?”  

“I asked if you wanted to see something interesting, and, in case you did, let me know if you can ride….”  

“Yes, and yes,” was Cyrus prompt answer. Every time any of them had come with a similar offer, Cyrus had been treated to some unforgettable experience; the mating dance of what turned out to be the last whales of the southern hemisphere, the hatching of a brood of diminutive humming birds, the final melting of a nearby glacier or the dying song of a beloved part of the forest, their eye for natural beauty and their ability to perceive its most subtle changes never ceased to amaze him.  

“Right, then, we’ll leave before dawn, we’ll drive to “Camp Rosario” and ride up from there. Good night!” and with a friendly wink he turned and disappeared, leaving Cyrus with the feeling that some of the light of the world had gone with him.  

********

“Camp Rosario” was about fifteen miles west and upwards, following the battered trail. Most of the families who lived there were stock farmers, descendants of those nomadic gauchos (1) who had herded sheep and cows across the endless plains of Patagonia for generations uncounted. Since the melting of the Patagonia Ice Fields, North and South, most of those lands were now submerged. Those strong people had taken to the mountains and held on to their way of living, to horses, sheep, goats and cows, raising cattle for their own, and the neighbouring camps’, consumption. One of those dark, stern and silent men awaited them with two spirited horses at the entrance of the camp.  

“Morning, Antonio,” Greenwood greeted them with the closeness and familiarity he extended to everyone around him. He carried himself with an easiness that Cyrus found compelling, rather than overbearing, as if he knew he commanded attention and were always ready to see to the needs of those around him. The man nodded silently to Cyrus and then whispered something to Greenwood, who laughed out heartily.  

“He worries that the horse will be too much for you, Cyrus, what do you say?” there was a hint of a challenge in his blue, laughing eyes.  

Cyrus studied the horse with a critical eye. He knew its type. They were like old-time bureaucrats, apparently tame, but vicious, nasty and petty creatures if you let them have their way. Once they recognized who the master was, and provided it was not themselves, they were faithful, useful and wise creatures, who knew the intricacies of their trade and willingly cooperated with the noblest of targets in mind; to live another day with as little trouble as they could gather. Hand, voice and knee were usually needed, mostly at the same time, to get to that point, though.  

He had learnt to use the same trick with horses, so he gave an unconcerned smile at his expectant companions and with a sure hand he mounted the reluctant steed, ducking the sudden movement of the big head and holding on steadily until the horse stopped rearing and skirting, the reins firmly held short in his left hand.  

“Shall we go?” he asked blandly.  

“After you, Dr. Feldman!“ Greenwood smiled openly, mounting his obedient stallion in one effortless movement and following him.  

They rode on, as the morning unfolded in the east. The wind whistled softly among the trees to their right as the narrow path winded its way laboriously up, a deep fall at their left. It would be different when they reached the top, Cyrus knew, for then the north-western ocean wind would blow with full force in their faces, with no trees to shelter them.  

Cyrus noticed then that Greenwood held the reins loosely on his hand and looked very relaxed upon his steed. His own mount was behaving properly, but he still kept a tight hold and gave no concessions to friendship, not with that long fall at his left side. The sun was climbing slowly behind them, filtering through the moisture-laden clouds and gilding the silvery sky. With some luck, Cyrus thought, it might even rain.  

“In the mood for a race?” Greenwood brought him out of his musings as soon as they reached the end of their ascent.  

“Why not?” he agreed, smiling at the eager, intense look in his friend’s face.  

With no warning, Greenwood gave a short cry and his stallion jumped forth at full speed, racing across the open plateau. Cyrus followed suit, more carefully, enjoying the sight of his friend who seemed one with his mount, riding with wild abandon against the ocean’s salt wind, his blond mane flying loosely behind him, looking as if he truly belonged there, Cyrus thought not for the first time.  

“Not bad for an old man!” Greenwood smiled playfully, his face alight with delight when Cyrus finally caught up with him.  

“Not bad for another,” Cyrus retorted amusedly, caressing his horse’s mane. “What are we doing here, Greenwood?“ he added, his curiosity piqued by the strange animation in his friend’s face. The light played tricks with his golden mane and his eyes searched the steely skies restlessly.  

“There! “ he whispered with relief, “look!”  

“Where? I can see nothing… what…” A hand hit his chest, and Cyrus looked down to see it held a pair of binoculars. Greenwood’s eyes were fixed on a spot in the sky and he tried to follow his pointing finger with the lenses.  

“Welcome home, my friend… welcome home…” his blond friend whispered softly.  

They stood there for hours, watching as a pair of wandering albatrosses unfolded their welcome dance in the morning skies, white as new fallen snowflakes, bright as morning stars, soaring elegantly in the southern winds with their powerful wings wide open, caressing each other in a well known routine they repeated every breeding season, regardless of how tired they were after their restless cruising of the wide skies of the world.  

“They mate for life, “ Greenwood said softly, his voice hoarse, “They sail the skies restlessly, alone, but they unfailingly return to the place were they first met every two years and wait for each other…” there was a strange emotion in his voice as he stood there, his hair whipping in the wind, following the enthralling dance. “They wait…” he whispered with such longing that it almost broke Cyrus heart. They remained there, their horses patiently grazing what grass was at their reach, not even daring to move as their riders watched the birds lovingly hold each other amidst the skies.   

“They’ll rebuild their old nest and lay a single egg, which will take about a month and a half to hatch”, Greenwood said in a neutral tone of voice once the seabirds disappeared behind an exposed ridge. Cyrus thought he could glimpse the glitter of unshed tears in those profound and knowing eyes. “We’ve been tracking them for the last seventy-five years,“ he added with a small smile, “and this was the first time the male came late to their appointment. She had been waiting for a week!“ Cyrus remembered then the glistening whiteness of both birds, only a faint shade of pitch black in the tip of the outer tail feathers, and knew that those birds were really old.  

“Like all of us” he thought with a sudden surge of tiredness. He understood only too well the longing in his friend’s expression. At a certain point one grew tired of so many goodbyes and so much loss.  

“Are you all right?” Cyrus heard Greenwood’s worried question through a haze. He shook his head.  

“Yes, a passing bout of dizziness, but it’s over”, he tried to sound reassuring. “A beautiful sight, I’m glad you shared it...”  

“A bit melancholy, though…” At times, they both showed a stunning ability to read through him. “ I fear this might be their last time…ready to go?”  

“If you are,” Cyrus answered a bit challenging, for his friend still wore a pained expression that worried Cyrus in turn.  

“I’ll be, thanks,” he answered slowly, hitting Cyrus with the most wonderful and indescribably melancholic smile he had ever seen, as he started his horse back, Cyrus at his side. “There’re only fourteen pairs of wandering albatrosses left in the world now. These two are the oldest, and every passing year they’re more tired and wane. It’s been twenty years, now, since their last chick survived long enough to reach adulthood…”  

“What a terrible doom, “ Cyrus observed sadly, “To sail the skies endlessly and touch the land shortly, only to see their efforts come to nothing…”  

“What a terrible doom to fulfil their nature?” Greenwood’s voice held a mix of surprise and exasperation as he stopped his mount and faced Cyrus, searching his face with incredulity. “Oh!" he laughed then harshly, “I forgot, the human privilege, to stand above their doom and change their destiny with their own deeds... and daring to pity those creatures who are not granted that same “gift”… what a terrible doom indeed, Cyrus, for these wonderful creatures to share their lifetime with men who managed to disrupt the wind and sea currents and bring scarcity to seas that once thrived with food and life!”  

He shook his head angrily and with a soft word Cyrus could not understand, he urged his horse forward, leaving behind a mystified Dr. Feldman.  

Cyrus followed slowly, giving his friend time to recover his firm grip upon his temper. In truth, he knew that Greenwood was right, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of giving up. Surely, there must be something that could be done to save those magnificent old seabirds from extinction?  

He caught up with his friend half the way back. He had stopped to talk to two gauchos from “Camp Rosario” and they were watching something packed in one of their saddle blankets.  

“They are out to retrieve some lost sheep, “ Greenwood informed him as he reached them, “it seems they‘ve had some attacks from a great predator. It’s been time since we last had one around,” he added evenly, but Cyrus could see a strange glitter in his eyes. The men behind them said something in their ancient language, and the only word Cyrus could understand was “puma,” (2) the mountain lion. They said something to Greenwood and laughed out loud as he turned and bowed to them.  

“A puma?” Cyrus asked in amazement.  

“I seriously doubt it,” Greenwood said evenly, without meeting Cyrus’ eyes, nodding to the men and urging his mount into a canter.  

****

“I had an extra copy of the mid-year report printed for you, Cyrus, I would really like to have your opinion,” Greenwood said that night as they shared a mate in the almost empty communal dining room.  

Cyrus raised his brows in amazement. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. Paper was a luxury, there, something truly treasured. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to my in-tray lately,“ he added on second thoughts.  

“I know,” Greenwood laughed in his customary loud and friendly manner, “your assistants tell me that you’re dedicated to the soils, which is good and well. How’s everything going on? Bard tells me that he’s very proud of the outcome...”  

“Is he, now?” Cyrus felt absurdly gratified by that compliment. For some unexplained reason, those four men’s opinion mattered to him more than his four Nobel Prizes. I’m getting old, he said to himself, and then out loud, “Wish I knew which of them is Bard...”  

“Never bother to try,” Greenwood said unconcernedly, “they exchange names constantly, so all I can tell you is that one’s ranting is Doom biased and the other’s stems out from unrequited love…“  

“I see... I’ll read that report and give you my opinion. You could have told me, if there was something urgent, the handbook is finished, after all…”  

“Nothing that we did not know or expect, Cyrus,” Greenwood said softly, patting his friend’s shoulder and wishing him goodnight.  

For two days and two nights Cyrus studied the mid-year’s earth state report, having his meals brought to his lab and checking incessantly on his computer.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cyrus dropped the report in front of Greenwood and took a seat at the other side of his friend’s desk.  

“Tell you what?” Greenwood looked at him with concern, Cyrus looked as if he had been wrung out, his face grey with fatigue and his shoulders slumped in defeat.  

“What?” Cyrus pointed at the report, “we’re at the point of no return, Greenwood, and you know that! I’ve been hiding here for so many years, and I gave up checking because I trusted that you were doing something! That we were doing something!  

“We are, Cyrus,” Greenwood answered calmly. “We’ve been making the difference for many people for a long time now, and you already knew that we were well past the point of no return… we crossed that threshold long before you came here...”  

“But that’s not enough! You cannot hide here and simply gloat in smug satisfaction, the world is heading to an end, and you sit here and do… nothing?”  

“Cyrus, you’re overtired, and are not seeing the things with equanimity...”  

“Equanimity? You positively know that the earth’s coming to its end and ask for equanimity? I cannot believe that you two have been hiding here all these years, keeping this from the public knowledge and letting things come to this state, and I cannot believe that I could have so misjudged the two of you!” he hit the desk vehemently, disregarding the telltale signs of a storm brewing on his friend’s face.  

“Cyrus…”  

“You keep all this knowledge, all this fantastic organization to yourselves and those you deem worth of it, leaving millions of people to die and to live in those crowded cities or underground, breathing venom and exulting when they get to eat some naturally grown vegetables… “  

“What would you have us do, then?“ Greenwood could barely control his anger, but Cyrus took no notice.  

“Do? What have you been doing? You tell me, Greenwood Great’s president, what have you been doing with your powerful organization that you let the earth come to this situation!”  

“You would have me stand up in arms and force all those millions to follow a lifestyle they did not believe in, they never asked for? You would that we had taken control of the world and imposed our system by force? You think that would have worked? We’ve been helping those who wanted another life, Cyrus. You know of many communities that were not viable, but you never heard of those who needed no help! The world is full of communities like this one, where people live free of worries and needs, enjoy free education and energy supply and grow up knowing that the earth must be supported and respected! And those people are doomed to death for they were never enough, Cyrus, not enough to stop this from happening! This is public information, it is not me hiding it from public knowledge, but people refusing to believe it!“  

“You could have done more…” Cyrus whispered, tears of impotence in his voice, “You could have changed everything…”  

“I suppose,” Greenwood’s voice held now an icy tinge that caught Cyrus’ attention. “But you know how the earth came to be, Cyrus? In the beginning it was a ball of fire, and then came the water, and terrible earthquakes, and only long after that, life. But nothing lasts forever, and even this earth’s days are numbered. It might be a meteorite, it might be the sun becoming a nova and exploding through the solar system, or it could be an implosion due to environmental collapse…” he leaned forth and bored into Cyrus with his deep blue eyes.   

“The thing is,” he kept on, “it is bound to happen, and neither you nor I can do much about it. Where do you think all those myths and legends come from Cyrus? It has happened before,” he said softly, “ in the time before the time, in the time of the Songs, and the myths, when the gods walked the lands… the light disappearing and the darkness ruling, the waves roaring…all those myths are the echo of ancient memories, or maybe a memory of something that will happen, an echo from a future that once melt with the past…“  

“So you sit there and tell me that the earth has come to its end because some ancient myth said so, and you would do nothing to stop it...” Cyrus looked at the man across the desk as if he saw him for the first time, “that’s inhuman! “ he claimed.  

Greenwood’s reaction caught Cyrus Feldman by surprise. He let his head fall backwards and let escape a bitter, mirthless roar of laughter. “Inhuman?” he cried,  “Of course, my good friend, glad you finally noticed! Of course that this is inhuman, as are all the creatures bound to this earth, doomed to silently cope with human’s despoil and devastation, with human’s careless misuse of the land, as one who’s wasting another’s property… We may have no escape, Cyrus, but at least the earth will be freed of her most destructive and careless guests,” he added sternly, his voice almost feral, a strange glitter in his icy eyes.  

“I cannot believe what you’re saying” Cyrus said softly, looking his friend in the eyes and shivering at the almost unrecognisable depths that lurked in there. “I told you, Greenwood, I won’t surrender while I still breathe,” he added, stepping out of his friend’s office without looking back.  

Cyrus awoke in the early hours of the night. He had gone to bed right after his conversation with Greenwood and had tried to sleep, tired as he was after two days with almost no break. But his rest had been plagued by strange dreams. He had dreamt of his wife, too, for the first time in many years. She was clad in glistening white and smiled at him tenderly, lovingly, extending her arms as if wanting to embrace him. “I wait for you, Cyrus, I always wait...”  

He walked out. The camp was silent, although it wasn’t late, and the moon was still high. Cyrus walked aimlessly, entering the forest, searching for a place where he could sit and put his thoughts in order.  

He was shocked by that afternoon’s conversation. “Inhuman? Glad you finally noticed.  Greenwood’s words haunted him. He knew that his friend was right, he had known that this was bound to happen, but somewhere in the deepest corner of his mind, stemming from something more ancient and innate that a long-forgotten religion, he had felt a tinge of recognition, the last spark of hope burning back to life when Silvertree had walked into that empty meeting room after his last speech in front of the COEP Directorate. He was not sure, he had never been, whether his friends were flawed humans, as himself, or another, otherworldly thing, but deep inside, he knew now, he had hoped.  

The forest was dangerously silent all of a sudden, Cyrus noticed, coming abruptly out of his troubled thoughts. He had inadvertently come too far away from the camp and now he felt a lurking danger, a strange presence.  

He looked around carefully. The full moon filtered through the sparse canopy, leaving little room for hiding. He stopped dead and listened intently, straining to hear anything.  

He saw it before he heard it, a powerful puma lurking among the trees, its muscled body tense, its eyes sparkling, its glistening coat shimmering under the moonlight. Cyrus held his breath and considered his options. The puma wasn’t looking at him, but Cyrus knew that it had spotted him long ago. It seemed enthralled by something different, something placed to Cyrus’ left, and soon he realized with trepidation that the puma was stalking another prey.   

And then he saw him. There, under the pale moonlight, stood Greenwood, clad in the khaki shorts he usually donned for outdoors activity, his wired, taut body glistening, red and black lines marking strange patterns along his rippling muscles, his long mane shimmering around him, looking almost translucent, a creature of the forest even more than the mystified puma, his eyes glittering strangely, brighter than the reflection of the pale moon.  

Cyrus stood there, transfixed, as man and beast locked eyes in silent conversation, muscles rippling in both perfect bodies, a long spear in the man’s hand, sharp claws in fast paws.  The debate wasn’t long, and soon the man bowed his head briefly and then shook his golden mane off his eyes, squaring his shoulders and raising his spear, his feet affirmed, his long legs lightly flexed, his body taut and his eyes alert.  

Swift as lighting, the beast lunged forth and with a clean, elegant movement, the spear found its way through the creature’s heart, it seemed, for it fell and rolled as a dead weight.  

Nothing moved in the clearing, as the godly figure stood there, panting heavily and looking at the dead animal sprawled at his feet. He squatted by the beast’s side, after pulling out the spear carefully, and bowed to caress the carcass with reverence. His long mane covered his features, but Cyrus could have sworn that he was whispering something, maybe a blessing, perhaps a prayer.  

With a swift, effortless movement, he pushed the dead beast upon his shoulders, and as he lifted his head, Cyrus could glimpse a fresh trail of tears running through that beautiful face.  

Cyrus felt his knees buckle, and he leaned on a trunk, stunned by a beauty not intended for mortal eyes, he suddenly realized, as Greenwood marched across the forest with his light, elastic pace, burdened by the dead weight but alight with the spirit of the dead beast, as if it had melted with his own life force. Cyrus could not put words to what he had witnessed, he only knew that he felt a mixture of fulfilment and piercing hunger, as after a long night of sweet, slow lovemaking, a feeling that sated the limbs but aroused the soul to and endless search for those fleeting lapses of eternity.  

It was in the strange hour before dawn that Cyrus finally found the strength to make it back to his cabin. 

** 

He next ran into Greenwood three days after that incident, at breakfast time.  

“Cyrus!” he strode by his side, “I must ask you a favour...”  

Greenwood had been closeted in his office for the last days, reportedly busy with some unexpected development. He looked as young and strong as ever, Cyrus thought grudgingly, while he was still recovering from his previous effort.  

“What is it?” he answered neutrally.  

“I know that you’re…disappointed, and that you may be considering… leaving camp...” Greenwood offered hesitantly. With a deep intake, Cyrus stopped and faced his friend.  

“I am,“ he acknowledged loyally, “but that doesn’t mean that I have come to a decision, so spit it out, man, what is it that you want from me?” he added, retrieving their bantering ways of old.  

“I must leave urgently, there is something that requires my presence, and I don’t know for how long...” Greenwood said seriously. “Silvertree must be back in two or three months. It’s unusual that the two of us are abroad at the same time, but I cannot postpone it any longer and I wanted to ask you to… take care of my projects. My assistants do most of the job, but... I trust your eye for the most refined conclusions...”  

“You’re bribing me with information, Greenwood? Isn’t a bit too late for that?” Cyrus asked with a mockingly offended voice, and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend blush for once. “Ha! I got you! “ he added, laughing loudly and patting Greenwood’s back, “Of course, my friend, tell me what is it that you want...”  

Two days later, Cyrus was familiar with all the intricacies of Greenwood’s complex environmental tracking system, and he wondered why he had never taken interest in his friend’s activities during all those years.  

“Well, this has always been open to you, as everything here,” Greenwood told him with all sincerity, “ but I’m glad you chose the soil. It is an amazing job you’ve done there...” They were sitting by the old beech that had harboured Greenwood and Silvertree’s refuge for so many years. It had died a couple of years ago, and they had taken to sit by its trunk out of unspoken respect, instead of still climbing its naked frame.  

“Bard and Poet are responsible of that, too, and of its distribution...”  

“Yes, but I was speaking of the soil nursery. There are a good number of soil experts now who learnt with you, you’ve spent many years teaching the young ones, Cyrus, and that’s what will make the difference in the end…”  

“In the end?” Cyrus asked, amused in spite of himself.  

“Well, if you’re going to plunder my figures, you might as well come out with a date, Cyrus. We spoke of an end, but not about a date…”  

“Ok, I say… two hundred years,” for some reason Cyrus always let himself be dragged by Greenwood’s prodding.  

“I’ll give you time to adjust your prediction, my friend, you’re going to have time, now,” Greenwood laughed good-naturedly.  

They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars.  

“Do they know?” Cyrus pointed vaguely at the quiet camp.  

“What? That the end is coming? Everybody knows Cyrus. None of them is undergoing longevity treatment, so why would they worry? Dr. Feldman says it shall happen in two hundred years…”  

He had a point there, Cyrus sighed, wondering for the first time whether he would be alive by then, and whether he wanted to. Longevity was an unexplored subject, and he was the oldest living person, but nobody knew how many years he could expect to continue to be so. He had rejected reinforcing treatments or follow-ups, and, with some reluctance, it had been granted to him. As far as he knew, he could either last another two or three hundred years, or die tomorrow. He preferred it thus.  

“What happened to the puma, Greenwood?” he heard himself ask against his conscious will.  

He endured a long, appraising glance from those deep, bottomless eyes.  

“He wouldn’t yield, Cyrus, but he wouldn’t give up everything to preserve a life that wouldn’t be his anymore,” he answered softly.  

“So he fulfilled his nature…” Cyrus voice held no hint of mockery, he was eager to understand.  

“As much as the wandering albatrosses, Cyrus. They wouldn’t yield either. They tried everything, year after year. They managed to move this north, they changed their breeding season… and they kept trying every two years, no matter that their younglings never survived. It’s in their nature. They will never surrender, but they won’t win this war." He sighed deeply. "And try as you might," he caried on, his voice a soft whisper in the night's breeze,"you can win many battles and find your hands full of fruitless victories. It is the same wind that carries us all, Cyrus, and it’ll be blowing still when there’s anything left upon the surface…” 

“So, what are we supposed to do, then?” Cyrus voice held all the anguish of a long life coming to its end, a desperate plea for some hope to hold on to, even if it was a wavering light at the end of a dark tunnel.  

“Keep going, Cyrus, and keep hoping.”  

Next morning, Cyrus drove the battered sun powered jeep down to the small airport.  

“You’re a good man, Cyrus,“ Greenwood said in a soft voice, putting his broad hands upon Cyrus’ shoulders and looking him in the eye, “and I’m proud to count you among my friends.”  

“I am, too,” Cyrus smiled, strangely moved by the serious tone in his usually merry friend. “Take care, Greenwood.”  

“You too,“ he said, shaking his hand firmly and walking to the airplane without looking back.  

As he drove back to camp, climbing the now bereft mountainside, Cyrus had the strange feeling that he would never see his friend again.   

TBC

A/N:  Only one chapter left, and only two footnotes!  

Notes:  

(1) Gaucho: South American version of North American cowboy. Same legends around them, same nomadic habits and symbiotic relationship with their steeds.  

(2) Puma, or cougar. It was only two years ago that I discovered that “puma” is actually the original Quechua word for the mountain lion of the American continent. Quechua was the common language imposed by the Incas as they conquered most parts of the Andes, (and from the Andes to the coast) from central Chile to southern Colombia. The puma had a symbolic and magical meaning in the Inca Empire, commonly associated to royalty.