Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

the Bern Saga: Book 3

by Hugh Howey

The Song of Sorrow

“A billion quests of almost, I’ve
seen, a countless number of nearly.
Wondrous sagas of might-have-been
wherein heroes paid, and dearly.

I could relate many a tale,
brutal, believable, and dreary. But
who cares to hear of those who fail: the
sputtering, the sad, the weary?

The following, then, is no coincidence,
not good fortune, nor blessed timing.
It is naught but sad recompense
for those billion others . . .
. . . dying.”

~The Bern Seer~

Prologue: The Land of Light

“Only time—that plodding mute—will tell.
And only the blind will see it coming.”

~The Bern Seer~

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The cabin is small and old, a hasty jumble of overlapping wood planks rattling on rusty nails. It appears more outpost than residence, like a shelter built for a specific purpose in a rugged land, then abandoned and forgotten. Something itinerant hunters might squat in for a night or two, but certainly not what it actually is: a permanent home.

The poor structure bucks and sways as it races along at the edge of time. Now and then, it shudders mightily, responding to some major happening in the universe. Oh, and the noises it makes! Below the rotting joists, a dozen axles grind, groan, and wail in their ungreased housings. The overall effect is a symphony of decrepit sounds—decay and dilapidation in aural motion. It sings the song of things built long ago and in dire need of upkeep; it’s the peal and complaint of a slow dying, like an orchestra of the ancient. And it’s all paced by its perpetual rhythm section: the steady patter of rain beating on dented tin.

A sheet of the simple metal covers the cabin’s forward wall as well as its roof. Forward is where the rain comes from. It doesn’t fall; it flies in with the eternal stream of photons parallel to the ground, hammering the thin metal incessantly. Coupled with the sound of the jostling, the groaning axles, and the creaking boards, the pounding rain allows sleep to come easily and linger a while. For the cabin’s sole occupant, it makes getting up a daily measure of her will. But the good thing—perhaps the only benefit that comes with living on the edge of time—is that one can never be considered “late” to anything. The lady inside the cabin stirs when she feels like it, which always makes it just the right time:

Morning.

And the start of her routine.

First comes the pointless blinking, followed by some stretching as old joints pop and creak in time with the loose flooring. Eventually, she peels her single bed sheet back like the skin of an overripe pod, revealing the shriveled bean of a woman within.