V

Death is a crone who grins only when the pulse is weak, and smiles only in full when breathing stops. She grasps her dying globe and smiles—a grim madonna gloating on her sickly child.

As the wail rose in the streets, Sarkon, the World Hater, smiled at a triumph which he knew would be short-lived. He braced himself for what he saw ahead. He had decided to become the herald of the mountain gods, though all the mountain gods were dead.

He hated Terra as he always had. He gloated on her exile, pleased that her disease was terminal. Like other aging planets, she would die. But well he knew her time of dying was not yet. She would recover from the current illness in her streets and die when men were more intelligent—less wise.

In the meantime he would try to draw men from Earthmaker. He would need a trick or two and for his purposes non-existent gods would do.

Sarkon liked the mountain gods for they were made in man’s own image. He knew what mortals never seemed to learn: The more the gods become like men, the easier it is for men to believe the gods. When both have only human appetites, then rogues may worship rogues.

Meanwhile he enjoyed seeing Terra at the point of death. He smiled because her desperation was intense. He made his way through the streets to the quarters of a man he had met a thousand times before, but when he reached the Madman’s door, a sheet of fire blocked his way.

Inside, the great Earthmaker drew a soft embrace around his lonely child, who sought to pray the sickness from the streets.

“It is good to be your child, Earthmaker,” the Madman said aloud.

“It is good to own you,” said the darkness with impressive silence. “Madman, you are sane—more sane than any dweller on this orb. You may no longer wear a name that lies. From now you will be Anthem, for you will be the Herald of the Anointing. The power of Earthmaker will be yours, to bear the Singer and his Song before the kings of Terra.”

Then Anthem fondled his new name, and turned it over in his heart. Tomorrow he would take his name and enter a new age. Tomorrow he would come and bring with him the promised Age of Gold. His name was quite as eloquent as that great flame that kept his gate. The fiery wall left Sarkon a vagabond to walk alone in hate.

VI

It takes a breeze to make a banner speak.

The third of Krios wrapped itself in gray. The sun was merciful and never rose. The morning brought a breeze that stiffened to a gale. The welcome smell of sweet young rain became a furied hint of promises the heavens shortly kept. Rain drenched the earth in torrents of the love that great Father-Spirit now scattered in the dust.

So Terra came alive and people ran into the streets to feel the water and the wind. None were ashamed to see themselves soaked in driving, blinding rain.