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    In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony
    In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony
    In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony
    Ebook201 pages3 hours

    In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony

    By Barry Pomeroy

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    Lotus had everything: a breathable atmosphere, a vibrant ocean ecology, minerals. It was ideal, until the colonists discovered that they were losing their memories. Even as language slipped away from them, as their fingers unwittingly traced letters and images, the people of Shiptown hastily reengineered their literate, technological society into medieval ignorance.
    A few generations later, with most of the population shambling like beasts, the villages along the river Lethe are connected by the coin cult and faded legends of their former glory while only those in Shiptown recall their interstellar travels. The collector guild fights to keep the coin cult intact and maintain order, and the lethargic settlers are contented until Blier is found raving about a lost colony. In a reveal that threatens their entire way of life, this unmemoried collector’s tortuous journey from forgetfulness back to The Perdu uncovers the long-buried secret of their past.
    Follow Blier and Linder as they struggle through a world of farming villages and political dogma to Shiptown where they hope to trace his chaotic thoughts to The Perdu. In a race against time, with the mindless beasts of his gnawing memories clawing back into consciousness, Blier’s trek across a desiccated landscape transforms both himself and his world. Linder wants to save her new love, Katir wants her father back, and the collector guild is desperate to understand why Blier hates the coin cult and yet clings fanatically to meaningless trinkets: a child’s toy, a knife, and an unusual arrow.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarry Pomeroy
    Release dateFeb 19, 2017
    ISBN9781987922462
    In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony
    Author

    Barry Pomeroy

    Barry Pomeroy is a Canadian novelist, short story writer, academic, essayist, travel writer, and editor. He is primarily interested in science fiction, speculative science fiction, dystopian and post-apocalyptic fiction, although he has also written travelogues, poetry, book-length academic treatments, and more literary novels. His other interests range from astrophysics to materials science, from child-rearing to construction, from cognitive therapy to paleoanthropology.

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      Book preview

      In Sight of Memory - Barry Pomeroy

      In Sight of Memory

      The Legend of the Lost Colony

      by

      Barry Pomeroy

      © 2017 by Barry Pomeroy

      All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author, although people generally do what they please.

      For more information about my books, go to barrypomeroy.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1987922462

      ISBN 10: 1987922462

      In Sight of Memory: The Legend of the Lost Colony

      Lotus had everything: a breathable atmosphere, a vibrant ocean ecology, minerals. It was ideal, until the colonists discovered that they were losing their memories. Even as language slipped away from them, as their fingers unwittingly traced letters and images, the people of Shiptown hastily reengineered their literate, technological society into medieval ignorance.

      A few generations later, with most of the population shambling like beasts, the villages along the river Lethe are connected by the coin cult and faded legends of their former glory while only those in Shiptown recall their interstellar travels. The collector guild fights to keep the coin cult intact and maintain order, and the lethargic settlers are contented until Blier is found raving about a lost colony. In a reveal that threatens their entire way of life, this unmemoried collector’s tortuous journey from forgetfulness back to The Perdu uncovers the long-buried secret of their past.

      Follow Blier and Linder as they struggle through a world of farming villages and political dogma to Shiptown where they hope to trace his chaotic thoughts to The Perdu. In a race against time, with the mindless beasts of his gnawing memories clawing back into consciousness, Blier’s trek across a desiccated landscape transforms both himself and his world. Linder wants to save her new love, Katir wants her father back, and the collector guild is desperate to understand why Blier hates the coin cult and yet clings fanatically to meaningless trinkets: a child’s toy, a knife, and an unusual arrow.

      It’s hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment.

      Jeanette Winterson

      Chapter One

      Blier didn’t know he’d jumped from the cart until he was standing next to a thin young woman beside a fence. The breeze died and the grain field rippled in the heat. His hair hung in his eyes and he brushed it from his forehead with an abrupt swipe, his fingernail scraping his skin. He thought about a knife, or fire, and could smell the burning. She glanced at him, her brow creased as though she were about to speak, and before she could turn away he held out his hand for the arrow. She shrugged and gave it to him, her hands carefully on the shaft. You have to be careful where you put it, she said, her eyes squinting as if at the sun or a joke.

      It’s not from Numers. Blier held it away from his body. His hand was dark from the sun. It’s nearly the length of a man.

      Or a woman. Her grin was broader now and she took it from him tentatively and held it against her side. At first glance her clothes were simple village wear, more suitable for farming than for . . . They were cut differently, however; Blier shook his head back to the arrow.

      A tall woman, he agreed. Once he had it in his hands again he looked at it more carefully. It was nearly to his shoulder when its nock was planted in the ground, and the fabric was colourful, as if it had been torn from the coloured wallpaper of a dream. He wasn’t sure what it was about the arrow that aroused his interest. He often wondered why he was drawn to some objects and not others, but the arrow was different. It’s the tip, he said finally.

      Some stalk, or burned wood, she suggested, her eyes on his face.

      I need it. Now began the difficult process of negotiation. He’d made the request a hundred times but for some reason it seemed to get harder as he followed the moving star.

      The woman shrugged. She looked him up and down, taking in the worn jacket and boots, the thin bag over his shoulder. You’ve little to offer, by the looks of you. Her gaze seemed to make another statement but his struggle for a witty reply was cut short when he turned to face an inarticulate howl.

      Sputtering and crying aloud, a thick bodied man rushed at them from across the field where the woman had found the arrow. Blier held the arrow aloft, the universal sign that he would defend himself, and waited while the man approached, moving the arrow to his left hand. He watched the waving arms warily. Sweat trickled down his back. The air shimmered and the sun had burned a hole in the sky. He shifted from one foot to the other as his soles cringed at the thudding approach. Sometimes his clothes didn’t seem to fit him, and he felt as if he were covered in dried mud.

      As the woman ducked behind him, Blier understood he’d been talking to another man’s woman. Although possessiveness was actively discouraged, jealousy was a driving force on Lotus just as much as he imagined it had been . . . everywhere. The man was bellowing now, his staff waving in the air, his eyes on Blier as though he recognized him. Blier had seen people who’d lost the ability to speak, but it always made him shudder. Usually it was older men, and he often wondered if they eventually became sires, the scaly-skinned beasts of burden in the villages. Perhaps the men slowed down, lost their minds at the same time as their speech, and stooped into the plaintive creatures that dug their fingers into the soil to pull the people’s ploughs and carts.

      In a moment the man was upon them, and although Blier had lowered his arms, he handed the arrow behind him to the woman and readied his hand on his knife. He expected the man to come to a halt, and once his bluster was over, they would trade speech that they could understand. Whatever the man had guessed would be cleared up and Blier could leave the village behind. Instead, the man leapt toward him, his staff descending to brain Blier as he ducked to one side. Aching from the unaccustomed movement, he slipped on the loose soil. His head seemed to move slower than his body, and he watched the ground approach as if he were floating.

      As he turned back to deflect the next strike, he saw the man writhing on the end of the long arrow, still nonverbal in his gasping. The woman held on grimly, but her eye was on his knife, and at her gesture, Blier finished what she’d begun. He was better dead, he’d lost too much of his mind to converse. In a second it was over, and the woman pulled the arrow from the man’s chest and wiped it methodically on the grasses along the road while blood bubbled from the now quiet corpse.

      After the shout of violence, the air was suddenly still. The insects seemed to take a breath before they returned to the noises they’d been making, and from the distance, voices were rising in pitch. The blood darkened as soon as it touched the soil, and Blier remembered what he’d heard about purple flowers that grew over graves. Maybe the blood drew them. He thought about saying that to the woman, but he wasn’t sure it was appropriate after they had killed a man.

      The cart he’d arrived on had passed, but a few other farmers had heard the shouting and they gathered around them. With them, Blier looked on as the woman knelt, searched the man’s clothing for something, and then cut a cord that looped around his neck. She held it towards Blier and he took it. It was a religious amulet, he’d seen a few of them on his travels, and even more in the last few days. It was shaped like a coin, and some he’d examined had the worn traces of what had been embossed letters at one time. Disgustingly, he’d seen people sucking on them as if they were candy, and before they’d pop it into their mouth they’d chant something he’d been too far away to catch. The whole idea repulsed him, but he took the coin and put it into his pocket as the others watched.

      Durn finally went too far, one of the men commented, his chest heaving from the run and the excitement. Jumping a stranger. Gone away from the coin. At the statement the others in the growing crowd touched their chest where their coins dangled from their necks and a few even popped theirs into their mouths.

      What will you do, Linder?

      Help me with the cargo. She pointed to Durn’s body. And give our thanks to the traveller who kept me from harm.

      I didn’t— Blier began. The name’s Blier. He held his hand to the men and they touched his knuckles gravely, as if greeting a guest to the village.

      Linder. He looked at the young woman.

      She ignored him. You best be grabbing a shoulder. It wouldn’t do for you to be handling the feet.

      Although Blier had seen the ritual before he didn’t remember taking part himself. When a villager was killed, by whatever means, they carried him through the village centre to his own house. Then the body sat until the mate chose who would enter the house. The body would be left behind as the woman’s choice made itself known, and by that point it was usually stripped of clothing that might prove of use to another. Blier often wondered if some village women planned ahead, women waiting for their man to die and thinking of others who would better fit their beds. It was an offense for them to kill their men, but he was sure, out of dissatisfaction, it happened just the same.

      Tugging on Durn’s shoulder as he moved the body, Blier didn’t think anyone would miss the man. He was strong-looking, but somehow crude, as though unfinished. Trousers without pockets. A knife without a handle. He felt as though he should chant aloud. He started to say something that would alert the others to the man’s appearance, but in the villages he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself. Blier wondered how he could extricate himself from the death process. His schedule pressed him, a collection of days or weeks, and now that his broad loop was closing, he needed to get back to the source. He’d been away so long he was starting to wonder why he was returning.

      The body was already stiffening when they tumbled it before a rough house. Blier stood awkwardly as the call went over the village. More people gathered while blood slowly congealed at his feet, gluing the dry dust of the road to the body. Dust to dust, Blier said aloud, and when he looked up there were eyes on him.

      Ashes to ashes, said another, and the young woman shifted angrily when they all nodded. Blier fingered the coin in his pocket. It was shiny with wear, and he shuddered at the thought of it in the slack mouth at his feet.

      An older woman came from behind a standing cart, her eyes speculative as she looked at Durn and then the crowd. Other women gathered. It was bad form to interfere with the ritual selection of a new mate, but Blier vaguely recalled villages erupting in violence as a woman chose a popular man who was already taken. The woman’s eyes flickered over Blier, but to his surprise Linder moved in more closely and took his arm. The air stilled, and then a collective sigh breathed their approval. The people whose eyes were on the clothing paused a moment, while others suddenly remembered a task left undone.

      The mother half-entered her house, standing on the threshold and holding the door for Blier and Linder. Somehow his hand was on the knob of another man’s house, and all he had to blame was the arrow he was still holding, its point browning now that the blood was reacting to the air. He leaned it in the corner of the main room and sat at the table. When the mother took the chair opposite him with a cord in her hands, Blier wasn’t quite resigned to his fate.

      I’m to follow the path of the moving star, he explained tentatively. I’m not meant to stop for any time.

      The woman said nothing, her eyes tracing her daughter who had disappeared into the back. A clatter of dishes indicated she was still within earshot. Feeling the ritualistic force of the moment on his back like a load of firewood, Blier continued. I’ve a responsibility put upon me. I’m to collect and then return.

      You’ll stay the night, the woman said, and Blier nodded. He could do that much for a woman when he’d killed the husband.

      He’s done it before. She followed his gaze to the back room. Lost to the coin, both of them, hacking like steers in a thicket. It’s a wonder Durn survived the first fight.

      He went against rules. Linder had returned and stood in the doorway, the light from the back room spilling around her.

      Against, the mother said. She seemed to sag in the chair and the daughter went to stand behind her. Blier expected an awkward hug, some sharing of sympathy, but the woman kept plaiting the cord and the light flickered off its shiny surface. The daughter looked at his face, as though waiting for him to respond.

      He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t remember the rules well enough to comment on whatever their situation was, and even if he did, they varied from village to village. I’ll help with moving the body, he said finally, and rose to look out the window.

      I’ll come with. Linder moved past her mother’s warning look and through the door with him. He turned to give her space when they came to the threshold and he was struck anew by her height. She was nearly as tall as him and reminded him of someone, the lightness of her feet, the quickness of her hands.

      I’ve met someone who moves like you before. Blier thought saying it aloud might jog his memory.

      You probably think there’s one of me in every village. She seemed disgruntled at the prospect but not surprised. Blier found her hard to read. The mother’s lack of grief was easy enough to understand in a farming village—her face was an oven baked brick for building a low wall. But the daughter’s mood was conflicted, and her eyes were mobile with a flicker of emotions Blier didn’t have the energy to follow, even if he had the inclination.

      The sun seemed even brighter after the dark house, and Blier joined the others who’d assembled for the last part of the ritual. They stood a moment over the body, and the sun’s shadow flickered in the street as others gathered. With some others he lifted and moved toward the river. Without clothes the stiffening body was slippery with death and suddenly heavier than it had been even though blood remained where it had been lying. As they passed the houses the day became silent, and some of those watching from their porches mumbled and put their coins in their mouths. The body grew heavier as he watched their fears come to life and he began to stumble as his arms felt the added weight.

      The river was shallow but the current was deceptively fast. It harboured long eels and equally unappetizing fish, but as a sanitary apparatus they were unrivaled. Most yard waste was thrown in the river, if not to the dogs,

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