Disclaimer: See chapter 1

A/N:  Belated happy birthday to Nilmandra, gentle host of this wonderful site!

CHAPTER 4

The lords of the last days (1)  

Much to Cyrus’ surprise, things went on in “New Future” as usual. He had half expected that, his two gentle hosts gone, the miracle would fade away like smoke, leaving behind the traces of a good dream.  

It was no dream that sustained the vital and positive activity of that camp, though, but just human enthusiasm. Greenwood’s aides worked on their tracking systems, and helped Cyrus through the amazing amount of data collected through decades and centuries. His classes went on, as well as the lively exchanges about the many different experiments going on in the numerous communities spread around the world and connected by Greenwood Great’s blogging network, courtesy of Bard and Poet, who dutifully updated and commented every new result, be it with a haiku, a pointed sarcasm or a forgotten rhyme containing more useful information about the subject.  

Cyrus missed his friends’ company and conversation, their calmness and serenity, but he had to acknowledge that life in camp was essentially the same, with or without them, and that was even a greater mystery to him.  

Problems were faced calmly and disagreements dealt with in a constructive way, with little amount of angry exchanges. Life was perceived there as an endless opportunity for learning, helping, exchanging, enjoying or even making mistakes, but seldom as a cause for bitterness or deep regret, and Cyrus started wondering about the quality of the invisible spell Greenwood and Silvertree seemed to cast over that camp.   

People just kept on with their lives, children were born, people died, some migrated to the main cities, or to other communities, to work in other Greenwood Great’s programmes and projects, and Cyrus was surprised to learn that some of his former students were now working for the COEP.    

Silvertree and Greenwood e-mailed regularly, to keep track of some issues or simply exchange small talk about the community and the world at large.  

When Greenwood’s team found out that the old albatrosses’ chick had died short after hatching, they had mourned. Greenwood answered with a charter showing the slow but steady decline of the world’s population in the last two centuries. That night, Cyrus went again to the forest.  

He sat there, in the same clearing where he had seen the puma die for his life, wondering what was wrong with him. He had known for long what was coming, and yet could not help the pain in his very soul, threatening to overwhelm him every time he dared think that he might live to see the day when that beautiful world would come to nothing. He didn’t fear death; he had seen enough of it in his long life to consider it a necessary force. But he had always found comfort in knowing that life moved on, that there was always the eternal –or so he had thought- cycle of life and death, feeding upon one other in a balanced way.  

But this would be another thing. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be there to witness it.  

Everybody in camp seemed to know, but nobody seemed exceptionally worried about the end of the world, and that, too, stunned Cyrus.  

“We have bets,” Greenwood’s chief assistant told him one night by the fireside, sharing a drink and some good music. Cyrus had noticed the white board on the widest wall of Greenwood’s lab, where “End of the World predictions” ranked from closest to more distant. “The boss has his own, but he said he would not disclose it until we had all revealed ours… would you like to join in, Dr. Feldman?”  

Almost a couple of weeks later, he had come up with his own figures, one hundred ninety-eight years and three weeks, and the assistants cheered him as he placed his forecast upon the board.  

“What are the bets?” he asked.  

“We don’t know, and by the looks of it, we never shall,“ a young assistant answered, looking quizzically at the board; Cyrus’ date was the closest by large. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind collecting our wagers if any of us wins, Dr. Feldman,“ he added with a mischievous grin, and general laughter had ensued.  

*****

“I’m glad to have you back, Silvertree,“ Cyrus said frankly, clasping his friend’s arms as soon as he descended the small airplane. In fact, he felt relieved. He had feared that he would never see them again, that for some unknown reason they would vanish like ghosts just when the world would need them most. In those five months since Greenwood had gone away, Cyrus’ unrest had grown again as his strength seemed to decline. “But, I’m forgetting my manners, how went your trip?” he added, as they climbed the jeep and started up to camp.  

“Not bad, I met some of your friends at the COEP, as I told you,” he said with his peaceful smile. “But I’ve missed this so much. How are you, Cyrus?” he said, studying him with his piercing gaze.  

“Oh, well, I can say that the soil handbook is done. I’m reluctant to finish it, because there are always some last touches, but, honestly, it is as good as it shall ever be,” he answered, refusing to acknowledge Silvertree’s worries concerning his less than healthy air.  

“Well, I suggest, then, that you start writing the appendices…”  

“What do you intend to do with it?  

“Me? Which are your intentions?” Silvertree looked him with plain astonishment.  

“I still don’t know,” Cyrus answered sincerely. “I had thought that, now that it is complete, and tested, maybe you would agree to have it presented to the COEP… and try to see its implementation…what you have managed is amazing, Silvertree,” he added before the other could start arguing, “You have managed to create independent, sufficient communities with zero ecological impact, even in areas where the Convention had thought that life would never be possible again…this must be known around the world, Silvertree, there may be yet a chance to stop it?”  

Silvertree looked at him with concern, and then shook his head. “Let me think about it. It is not just my own decision, but I’ll consider it... Now, tell me about your orchids!”  

Cyrus smiled at the welcome that awaited Silvertree in camp. The children ran to him and soon he was carried away by a whirlwind of squealing young ones competing to show him their progress. Life in camp might go on without them, Cyrus thought amusedly as he parked the old jeep, but then, it was never that interesting when those two weren’t around.  

That night at the communal dining room, as he pretended an appetite he was far from feeling, Cyrus studied his friend, who was required to pay a visit to every table, to be greeted by scientists, workers, teachers and families. He did not know for sure what Silvertree’s responsibilities exactly were, Cyrus thought with surprise for the first time in fifteen years, apart from being the spirit of the place, much as Greenwood was its heart, but that alone was more than enough.  

“I’ve seen your prediction in Greenwood’s lab, Cyrus,“ Silvertree told him one night as they sat by their old beech. “How’re you coping with it all?”  

“Greenwood told you, “ he answered flatly, absurdly irritated.  

“More or less,” the other acknowledged, “he was worried. And I must agree that he’s not the most…diplomatic person when it comes to, let’s say, certain…issues,“ he added with a twisted smile. “If you want to talk about it,“ he added, genuine worry in his voice.  

Despite his friend’s friendly words, Cyrus felt angered at the thought that they were treating him like a fragile thing, a child who would be frightened by truth.  

“No, not really, for I wouldn’t get more from you than what I got from him…”  

“We’re not hiding anything, Cyrus, but maybe we don’t see things upon the same perspective…”  

“You’re not hiding anything? Come on, Silvertree, he said this had happened before, the drowning, and the dimming, and the...” all the things he had been mulling over came around in a confused babbling, and Silvertree let him speak without interruption. 

“Well, if you take a look at the geological and fossil data…”  

“No, don’t try to confound me, he spoke as if he knew, Silvertree, as if he… if he had been there when it happened!”  

“In all truth I can tell you, Cyrus, that he wasn’t,” he said, a hint of amusement on his fair voice. But Cyrus Feldman wasn’t the most renowned scientist of two centuries for nothing, and he positively knew when he had found a useful thread.  

“How do you know that he wasn’t? What are you, Silvertree?”  

A tense silence stretched among them, punctuated by Cyrus’ ragged breathing. Silvertree gave him one of his long, appraising glances and then shrugged. “We are old, Cyrus, much as you are…”  

“No, my friend, don’t try to fool me,“ Cyrus felt the tingling that was always prelude to a thrilling discovery. ”I am old. You, I would call ancient, but that’s not enough for me. I’m asking what you are, and you claimed that you’re not hiding anything from me, I remind you...” he said in a challenging tone.  

“We aren’t;“ Silvertree answered, a steely edge to his calm voice, “you never asked.”  

“I’m asking now, “ Cyrus asked triumphantly, feeling that he was about to get the answer to a question that had been sleeping in his mind since that springtime evening in Paris fifteen years ago. “What are you?”   

Silvertree spoke, or rather chanted in his silvery voice, the whole night away. He told Cyrus about a time before the time, a world sang in to being by the will of the one, the making of the wide lands and the eternal cyclical destruction; the making of the stars and the awakening of that strange people of magnificent beauty and otherworldly wisdom, the firstborns, born to live until the end of the world.

He told Cyrus about their long trip to the west, the beautiful land under the stars, the rising of the sun and the moon, magnificent jewels, desperate battles ended in mighty earthquakes and submerged lands, and darkness coming back, time and time again. Only to be fought, with ever waning strength, with the same desperate hope, by the creatures of the earth, in a dance of fruitless victories, hopeless deeds of honour and courage and selfless sacrifices that had never managed, in the end, to keep evil at bay.

The sun was wearily piercing the dense cloud that now covered the world, a minute or two later each passing month, a part of Cyrus’ brain noticed almost mechanically, when Silvertree put an end to his heartbreaking tale, and closed his intense, strangely bright eyes with a deep sigh.  

Cyrus’ mind was reeling, trying to find his way amidst that story, but he returned, time and again, to the point that haunted him, a world sang into being. Pythagoras and Plato, (2) Kepler and Vico, (3) the Australian aboriginals’ Dreamtime and Songlines, (4) early twenty-first century’s Max Planck Institute’s experiments with music and neural semantic processes, (5) or that line in a twentieth century fantasy epic in which a character connected a song and a language to a land, the title of which Cyrus could not remember for the life of him, (6) all the theories and experiences, ancient or not, about the way music related to the innermost recesses of human understanding and identity raced in confused turmoil across his astounded brain.  

“So…it…was the music, after all?” was all he managed after a long time.  

Silvertree rewarded him with a beautiful, fond, caring smile.  

“It is the music, yes…but…few mortals ever get to understand it wholly. Most, simply... feel it tugging at the corner of their minds for as long as they live…”  

“What…what will become of you?” Cyrus asked after a long time.  

“We don’t know. We know that we’re bound to the earth, Arda, as we know it, but what shall become of us after the end, it hasn’t been revealed.” 

“And yet you don’t fight?”  

“Cyrus!” Silvertree’s reconvention was exasperatedly amused. “Does a rock fight the tide?”  

“But the waters come back and forth, every six hours, more or less. If Greenwood’s data are accurate, and that I do not doubt at all, you have less than two hundred years left before the final and definite tide…you cannot accept it that calmly…” his old fighting self still rebelled at the mere thought that such wonderful, wise, perfect creatures would be doomed to end with the earth and would accept it graciously. They couldn’t die!  

“Maybe we’re tired, Cyrus,“ Silvertree suggested with a soft smile.  

“You both told me that you’d never give up,” Cyrus argued, “you cannot fool me, Silvertree, there must be something, I cannot accept it…”  

“Of course you can’t! But you’re a human, Cyrus, a second born, and yours is the gift to rise above the music and complete your fate beyond the circles of the world. You’re not tied here, and your souls are always seeking, maybe for the place where you truly belong...That’s your gift and your hope, Cyrus…”  

“Another place? And where would that be?” he asked slowly, almost afraid of what he might hear.  

“That, the firstborns know not,” Silvertree answered sadly. “A friend of mine, who was a recalcitrant friend of your race, said once that the spirits of the men were always seeking forth, mere guests in this world, heading for the place where they would rule forever, freed of fear and darkness, and there we might as well find a place in which to remember how things were…”  

“I would like that,” Cyrus said hoarsely after a long pause, “ I would like to go to a place where I would meet you again…”   

They sat there in companionable silence for a while, watching the camp come to life one more morning, carelessly and happily, as if eternity stretched before them.  

“I’m dying, Silvertree,” Cyrus said softly.  

“I know,” was the even answer, but Cyrus could perceive the immeasurable pain that rang in the deep voice.  

“And the earth is dying, too…Greenwood was right…”  

“Thranduil.” The answer came softly, after a long silence.  

“What?”  

“His name is Thranduil. He once was king in a mighty forest. He fought darkness with his own hand, and kept the enemy at bay and his people safe even at the most desperate times for longer that your civilization will last, Cyrus…” he added seriously. 

“I see, “ Cyrus chuckled and then smiled at Silvertree’s quizzical gaze. “It still shows, you know? He carries himself like a king of old…what happened?”  

Silvertree shrugged. “Urban encroachment, they call it. Suburbs, roads, dams, national park declarations…you know how it went…”  

“And I blamed him for giving up...” Cyrus groaned...he must hate me...”  

“Not exactly,” Silvertree flashed that crooked, ghostly smile of his that made him look like a mischievous youngster. ”But you piqued him, that I grant you, I had not seen him so irked in quite a long time...”  

Silence sat again comfortably between them, as Cyrus tried to overcome his embarrassment.  

“And you, Silvertree?” he eventually asked.  

“I never was a king,“ his friend asked, his playful smirk still lingering upon his fair face.  

“I bet you were more than that…” Cyrus said softly, “but I was asking about your name, my friend…”  

“Celeborn.”  

“Celeborn…” Cyrus whispered. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad I’ll be able to call my friends by their name before leaving…”  

“We could take you back, Cyrus, surely there’s something that can be done...”  

“No, thanks. It’s been more than enough. I’m glad, after all, because I had the chance to know you, but… I don’t want to be around when everything happens. It’s a bitter defeat, and I’d rather not live to se it...”  

“Say better another fruitless victory, for fight we must, even if there’s no possible victory in the end, except beyond our limited sight...”  

“You hope, still?  

“Always. That’s our gift.”  

“Hope?”  

“We call it Estel, hope beyond knowledge…”  

“We call it faith… but few are granted that precious gift…” Cyrus could not decipher the sad smile upon his friend’s face at that.  

“Now, I understand many things,” Cyrus added after some more time, “Is it to the moon, then, that our hope drives us?” he asked in a mockingly unconcerned tone.  

“Have I ever told you that you’re an amazing human being, Cyrus?” Celeborn laughed, deep satisfaction in his voice. ”Yes, the moon, and mars, and… who knows where from there?”  

“Vacuum energy?”(7)  

“Exactly. We started cooperating with the CERN, (8) and then hired some of their best scientists and moved to another, more secluded lab. While they concentrated in other tasks, we kept on working in vacuum energy as the cleanest, least expensive way to help move humankind out of their planet, when the worst came. Other projects have been dealing with the logistics, and we have been perfecting the soil growth, as you well know, but the main problem was how to find the energy to start travelling and building facilities out there. As far as I’ve been informed, our scientists have finally come with the definite solution. Thranduil’s now overseeing the last tests, and soon we shall be able to present the humankind with a new hope….”  

“But, then…” Cyrus was literally gaping. That was more than he had ever imagined.  

“The trick is, we owe the solution, and so we’ll impose our conditions. Together with the energy, the Convention has accepted that our teams shall be in charge of the project; scientists who have learnt, trained and worked with us, as well as the people who have been leading and developing this network of zero ecological footprint settlements round the world, shall be in charge of the settling down,” he explained with a brief smile. “Your soil care and regeneration handbook, Cyrus, will be the guiding document for the new settlements in the moon, as well as all the literature, images, knowledge, languages and culture that Bard and Poet and their teams have been collecting for centuries. That shall be your legacy, Cyrus, ancient knowledge and an endless hope for a new beginning, out there, among the stars…”  

“I…cannot believe it, Celeborn…why…why are you doing this?”  

He let escape a surprised laughter, “Why? Why not? It is in the human nature to seek always further…In the beginning, our people were here to teach and guide yours, and, in a sense, we kept on doing the same… we just…helped humans achieve their aims and fulfil their destiny…the fact that we are tied to Arda doesn’t mean that your race is, too, so… maybe you were due to find this escape.” he added. “Hope is always there, whether you embrace it or not, Cyrus…”  

“But...what about you? What about Thranduil, and Bard, and Poet? Are they like you?   

“We’re all the same, yes, creatures of this and not another earth, so we’ll finally learn our destiny once Arda’s days are fulfilled…”  

“It’s going to be a dull life without you to take care for human kind…” Cyrus said softly.  

“Do not despair, my friend,“ Celeborn told him softly, pressing his arm comfortingly, “We may yet meet beyond the end…just…wait for us…”  

***  

Cyrus felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now that he knew what the new hope was he found a new sense to all his toils. As his health deteriorated rapidly, he gave up most of his tasks, concentrating mostly on his orchids and in writing the appendices for his handbook, his legacy, as Celeborn had called it.  

It was as if he had been granted long months of that clear-sightedness that it is said that only comes to mortal kind shortly before the final curtain; he looked back at his life and found it full of meaning. He picked up memories and enjoyed them without pain, or anguish or remorse, seeing them instead as parts of a whole that only now came to unfold its meaning before him.  

He spent a lot of time in amazed talk with Celeborn, hearing of the wonders of a world before the world, and the toils and hopes of that mysterious and deeply sad race.  

“Why…why did you choose me?” he once asked his friend, awed that he had been granted that ultimate privilege.  

“We needed you, and you needed us. It was meant to be, Cyrus...we could have done it by ourselves, but it would have take longer and it would have lacked your compassionate, loving touch. This is the work of your life, my friend, a long one devoted to protect and preserve. Your name will be remembered long after our world has disappeared…”  

“And what if I had refused?”  

“You couldn’t. I knew that you wouldn’t…”  

Cyrus remembered that spring evening in Paris, and wondered what had become of gentle Claire. He didn’t miss his apartment, or his things; he had long ago learnt not to hold on to material belongings or memories, but to people, he grew attached easily. And, above all, he wondered what would become of his friends; those amazing creatures that were devoting their last years to preserve and save a race that had brought their demise with its carelessness.  

He spent most of his time in the soil nursery, testing new ideas, overseeing the children’s experiments and caring for his orchids. He loved to work there, in the place where most of their labours had come to fruition, a place that was considered almost sacred by everybody in camp.  

There had never been music there, though, Cyrus thought that afternoon, or maybe it was that he was finally able to perceive the song of Arda, as Celeborn called it, he wondered idly as he blinked repeatedly, trying to focus his gaze in the diminutive orchids he had been trying to observe.  

“I’ll be back soon! Don’t move, Dr. Feldman!”  

He heard the child’s panicked voice in the distance I’m not going anywhere, child, he thought lazily, I’ll never go to the moon. I’ll remain here, with Celeborn and Thranduil, he thought amusedly. There was something strange, there, he thought, for the orchids were supposedly growing on the backside of the leaf of a much bigger plant, and he was now seeing them floating over him.  

He blinked twice, and the two little white orchids became the eyes of the puma Thranduil had killed in the clearing, and then, they stretched and became the wings of the two albatrosses, glistening in the sun and gliding gracefully in the winter skies. As he watched in delight, they came closer, and one turned into his wife’s face, alight with her long- missed smile. Wait, Sara, he tried to say, noticing for the first time that he could not speak. His face was resting upon the newly restored soil, and for a moment he perceived its powerful fragrance. Such a healthy soil, he thought, his brain mechanically processing the sensations, we’ve truly mastered this process… And with a blissful smile he extended his hand to grasp the wing of the albatross and sailed away in peace.  

****  

Two years after Cyrus’ death, Thranduil finally returned to camp.  

“He was a good man,” he said, sitting by Celeborn’s side under their old beech and accepting the gourd and bombilla.  

“He was a wise man, too.” Celeborn said softly.  

“It has started.” Thranduil said then, after sipping with delight. Celeborn raised a brow in his direction and waited.  

“And we have finished just in time,” Thranduil added, frowning slightly. “COEP’s forecasts still waver between five hundred and four hundred and forty three years, even with the plain evidence of the releasing of the massive methane artic deposits due to ice melting… (9)  

“The beginning of the end, then,” Celeborn said evenly. “How long?” he added.  

“Well,“ Thranduil extended his long legs and leaned back on the old, dead wood, “I’ve been checking the forecasts in my lab... and Cyrus’ was the closest…”  

“How long, Thranduil?” Celeborn’s voice had a warning tinge that his friend considered prudent not to ignore.  

“One hundred and forty-one years, Celeborn. This is going to be the shortest ennin (10) in history.”  

“Will it be enough?”  

“Certainly. Everything is ready and waiting. As soon as you convince the Secretary General, our people will take over and… in about sixty years, ninety at the worst, everything will be done…”  

“Let’s not tarry, then…”  

*****

Those were busy years indeed. Silvertree spent a great amount of time in Paris working out the details of the whole evacuation and resettling processes with the Secretary General before making public announcements. Greenwood Great’s team was ready to undertake the coordination of the operation, called ”The Great March” in a bout of Thranduil’s warped sense of humour, and only the agreement of the General Assembly was needed before starting the process that would lead the human kind to the stars.  

When the Secretary General of the Convention announced to the General Assembly on open and live broadcast session that the end was less than one hundred and fifty years away, his words were greeted by a courteous silence and incredulous smiles.  

When his chief scientist showed his graphics and data, the world leader’s panicked.  

When Greenwood’s Great Operations Manager, a scientist who had trained for years in New Future, explained the details of “The Great March” clearly and calmly, a collective sigh of relief was heard across the world.  

Thus began the Years of the People.  

Much to Greenwood Great’s four co-presidents’ satisfaction, humans showed their best qualities at this direst situation. A worldwide surge of solidarity and cooperation was the answer to that shared plight. As people began to accept the enormity of the impending tragedy, serenity and equanimity were the widespread answer. All efforts were turned to ensure the future of those who would be alive by that time with a generosity that became stuff of legends for centuries uncounted.  

Longevity treatments hadn’t been available for almost a century, and birth rates had slowed down dramatically even without the frightening news. The world’s population had been reduced in a third in the last century, and the process would be increased unavoidably in the years to come.  

Thirty years after the announcement, the first permanent base had been established in the moon.  

Fifty-five years after the eventful session at the Convention’s General Assembly, Camp Feldman, the first permanent civil compound in the moon opened its doors with a moving ceremony to the memory of Dr. Cyrus Feldman, the great scientist whose dedication had made it possible for the man to find refuge and a new, ecologically sound beginning among the stars.  

A cruel selection had been needed to choose the representatives of races, trades, sciences, languages, cultures, knowledge, arts, who would make up the future human kind. The rest were doomed to linger on earth and face slow extinction before the end.  

Those turned out to be strange years. As population dropped dramatically, living conditions improved almost unexpectedly. The remaining earth population enjoyed unknown rates of well - being and peace. Some of those doomed to remain took to violent activities or risk sports, but most simply found fulfilment in working to the limit of their skills to save treasures, pieces of knowledge, or simply enjoy what was left for them. They called themselves “the lords of the last days” and expressed the best of human genius with their selfless sacrifices and generous work, or simply living their remaining years with all the dignity they could muster.  

Seventy years after the first public announcement of the upcoming of the end of the world the first human child was born in the moon.  

Ten years after that, as the hundredth city was completed in the moon, the last child on earth was born. Those who had been selected to travel out there were settled, and those remaining only hoped to die before the worst came.  

That year, too, Greenwood’s Great council board held its last meeting. The four co-presidents decided that it was time to step back and hand everything over. Their work was done, their task fulfilled and their mission accomplished. To them, the final question still remained unanswered, but for now, they could rest, unnoticed and secret as they had always been, unknown benefactors of a human kind that was now heading for its next hope, ignorant, as always of what had been needed to take them there.  

But yet, among those who had managed the operation, all of them senior officers at Greenwood Great’s projects, an unofficial tale was passed from parents to children, from chief to assistant, an initiate’s secret that recounted how a powerful organization, ruled by immortal men, had long ago secretly begun preparing the escape route for humankind, and had then returned to the stars whence they came, to keep benevolent watch over their human charges.  

And so it came to pass that, long after the earth had dissolved under fire, “Greenwood” was still synonym of accuracy and highest quality, “Bard&Poet” designed any communication network, and the computer units that ensured the correct performance of the life supporting systems of the settlements were galaxywide known as “Silvertrees,” nobody knew why.  

This way, the myth dissolved into daily use and embedded itself in the deepest layers of human consciousness, to remain there as a familiar and indescribable feeling, as part of an atavistic memory that had once been truth and was now but the stardust of a legendary past. 

To the EPILOGUE >>>>>

Notes:  

Uh, I fear this time I’ve gone too far….  

(1) The title is taken from a sentence in Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s 1986 “Songs from distant Earth.”  

(2) Pythagoras was the first to correlate the intervals of musical scale with simple numerical ratios. He applied his studies of the mathematical foundation of musical harmony to astronomy, coming up with the concept of “The music of the spheres” saying, more or less, that music was a reflection of the harmony of the Universe. Plato, as well as other philosophers, expanded this theory.  

(3) J. Kepler, a German sixteen-century astronomer, inspired by Pythagorean mathematics and concepts, came to formulate the Laws of the Planetary Motion, which sustain modern astronomy, based on the concept of “the music of the spheres” and the essential harmony of the Universe proposed by Pythagoras.  

G.B. Vico was an Italian eighteen-century philosopher, generally regarded as the founder of modern philosophy of history. He stressed the importance of myths, poetry and music as ways of transmission of ancient knowledge from mythical times to present days.  

(4) The Australian aboriginals have lived in harmony with their territory for around forty thousand years. Their creational beliefs go back to a time, the “dreamtime”, in which the god’s walked the earth, singing things into being, and drawing through their songs, -the songlines- the limits for each tribe’s territory and beliefs. “Songlines” are still used today as geographical and administrative reference in aboriginal owned lands.  

(5) Recent experiments show that music, as well as language, can prime the meaning of a word, and can determine physiological indexes of semantic processing in the brain. Which, more or less would mean that there would be an inner language and semantics in music that our brains are equipped to decipher…or almost…  

(6) “That, Legolas said, “must be the language of the Rohirrim, for it is rich and rolling as the lands, and yet strong and stern as the mountains…” (The King of the Golden Hall, LOTR, TTT) Cyrus had read it, but forgotten, and yet the line kind of stuck… Forgive, him, though, for inaccuracies, he’s citing by heart….  

(7) Vacuum energy: underlying background energy that exists in space devoid of matter. One of the theoretically but not yet experimentally proved applications of particle physics.  

(8) CERN, originally, the European Centre for Nuclear Research. Presently, it is the largest particle physics research facility in the world. BTW, the www was “born” there. It is a huge facility situated close to the French-Swiss border.  

(9) Ocean floors and artic sediments hold huge amounts of methane. The melting of the artic cap would release these huge sediments, causing an unexpected increase of the greenhouse effect, and consequently a more than significant warming of the global climate, as well as landslides on the sea floor that would lead to instability and more methane releasing …  

(10) I have serious doubts about this word. I’ve seen it used as Sindarin for yen (144 years) and one reference I found says, “a long-year” and “a Valian year” in the same definition, which to me is a contradiction, so I assume that it is indeed a “long-year,” the 144 years period the exiled Noldor called “yen.“