The Sacred Era: A Novel (Parallel Futures) Page 2

  1. This essay appeared in English translation with a critical introduction; see Yamano Kōichi, Kazuko Behrens, Darko Suvin, and Tatsumi Takayuki, “Japanese SF: Its Originality and Possibility,” Science Fiction Studies 21, no. 1 (1994): 67–80.

  2. “Soft Clocks” has been frequently anthologized in English translation. See Yoshio Aramaki, “Soft Clocks,” trans. Kazuko Behrens, ed. Lewis Shiner, Interzone 27 (1989); reprinted in The Big Book of Science Fiction, ed. Ann and Jeff VanderMeer (New York: Vintage, 2016), 544–56. For another work from this period, see Yoshio Aramaki, “Blue Sun,” trans. Kazuko Behrens, Strange Plasma 4 (1991); reprinted in Fiction International 24 (1993): 36–60.

  3. Tsutsui Yasutaka, “Kaisetsu” (introduction), Shinseidai (The Sacred Era) (Tokyo: Tokuma shoten, 1978), 237–42.

  4. Nakajima Azusa, “Book Review,” Hayakawa’s S-F Magazine, September 1978, 211.

  5. Andō Reiji, “Kaisetsu,” Shinseidai (The Sacred Era) (Tokyo: Sairyūsha, 2015).

  6. Yoshio Aramaki, “Kaisetsu,” Shinseidai (The Sacred Era) (Tokyo: Tokuma shoten, 1980), 462–69.

  7. Yoshio Aramaki, Jinsei wa SF da (My life as science fiction) (Sapporo: Sapporo Tokeidai Gallery, 2013), 42.

  8. Andrew Pollack, “Japanese Refight the War, and Win, in Pulp Fiction,” New York Times, March 3, 1995. Web source accessed August 26, 2016, at http://www.nytimes.com/1995/03/04/world/japanese-refight-the-war-and-win-in-pulp-fiction.html.

  The Sacred Era

  The Sacred Service Examination

  1

  At last. I’m here!

  K is famished as his train screeches to a halt. A few moments later, the train lurches forward again, creaking over the dusk-colored iron bridge as if being dragged like an oxcart. Not a single drop of water to be seen under the bridge, K notices. No different from any of the other dried-out riverbeds K had crossed along the way. The drought ravaging the lands of the Holy Empire has not spared the capital.

  K presses his nose against the barred windows, looking out toward the rear of the train. Only a wall of darkness lurks behind him. But the blinding dawn lights up everything waiting before him on the other side of this iron bridge.

  Like outstretched arms raised in praise of the glory of The Holy Igitur, gleaming white towers reach toward a sky painted with the light of the rising sun. Or perhaps this glorious view of the city before K is nothing more than a mirage, a hallucination of hunger? Just the latest dream to pass before him on his long journey?

  This is no time to dream . . .

  Only later will he come to terms with what these moments mean. Only later will he understand that crossing the bridge now behind him marked the beginning of a new day for K.

  K is the first to stand up. He stretches his arm toward the luggage racks, reaching for the one bag he brought with him on this journey. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he stumbles toward the deck between the train’s cars, trying not to disturb the other passengers still slumbering in their seats. The train pushes its way past the high walls at the perimeter of the capital toward the dusty center of the city.

  So much bigger than I’d imagined!

  Breathing in the crisp dawn air calms K’s nerves, and every breath he takes fills his lungs with pride.

  The train rolls into the terminal, but K doesn’t even wait for the train to come to a complete stop before he leaps off like a cat to land on the firm stone floor of the platforms. Walking forward with a determined stride, he knows this is no mere dream. His feet really are treading on the sacred ground of the capital city of Igitur.

  The capital rises atop a massive plateau of exposed bedrock in the middle of a wasteland, with the terminal station standing at the foot of a high cliff at the edge of the city. A passage from the station’s platforms carves its way through layers of ochre sandstone speckled with fossilized bones into the city proper. K enters this passage, ascending up a slope that leads to a stairway, until finally stepping into the Great Hall of the terminal. Carved columns of rock support high ceilings. Security personnel in their solemn uniforms stand guard around a series of barriers and gated fences. One of them approaches K.

  “Where are your papers, young man?”

  K retrieves the examination forms from his belt pouch and presents them to the security officer. That’s all it takes for the stern-faced officer’s demeanor to soften. Without hesitation, he stands aside to open a path for K.

  “My apologies. Please proceed, sir.”

  K stands even prouder. As he proceeds down the hall, the officer resumes his thorough inspection of every passenger. Of course, his status as a candidate for the Sacred Service Examination confers all manner of special privileges. For the first time in his life, he rode the train all the way to the capital without hassle. Had he not received the passes along with the notification of his candidacy, he wouldn’t even have been able to board in the first place.

  K continues toward the exit of the Great Hall. He emerges on one side of a dust-strewn city plaza at the foot of a round sandstone hill. The towering structure at the opposite end must be City Hall, he thinks. And standing atop a protrusion on the hillside opposite must be the Papal Court, its spires glimmering in the light of the morning sun.

  The Sacred Service Examination isn’t scheduled to begin until tomorrow. Not having much money to his name, K will have to find shelter somewhere out on the street. But that is a problem for later. For now, he has the whole day ahead of him. His first thought is to head to the city library and prepare for tomorrow’s examination. But K’s growling stomach drowns out the thought. Instead, his feet lead him toward the crowds milling in the city center where a morning market has just opened. But it is still too early in the day, and the market stalls sell only a dubious selection of rice, grains, fruit, meat, and fish, along with large quantities of strange weeds that K has never seen before. No wonder everyone around him has parched skin, if these weeds represent a staple diet in the capital.

  Hundreds of vagrants line the streets. From the many villages that dot the lands of the Holy Empire, refugees have been abandoning their dried-out farms only to find themselves on the streets of the capital begging for spare change or scraps of food. Even in K’s hometown, most residents have either starved to death or fled, leaving behind a town torn apart by roving gangs. Scenes of poverty and starvation shouldn’t come as a shock to K. But it shocks him anyway. If even the capital finds itself in such dire shape, he can only imagine how much worse off the surrounding towns must be.

  None of the beggars approaches K. Barefoot and dressed only in dirty, brown rags, there is little to distinguish him from them. Not that he has the luxury of caring. Foremost in his mind is the incessant growling of his stomach. But he can barely afford any of the food in the market. Not that this fact stops him from looking at every stall that happens to catch his eye.

  “Some chapa bread, please?” K says to an old man standing behind one of the stalls, the only merchant in the market who has any meat left on his bones. Even the other merchants are just as gaunt and starving as K.

  K exchanges his last coin for a piece of flat bread. But he gets more than he bargained for. A sharp jolt of pain and a cracked tooth come for free with his bread. Biting into a small stone in the bread is all the proof he needs to conclude that mud has been mixed into dough. Still, K keeps on eating. Rancid bread without much nutrition won’t be good for his digestion. But for now, all he needs is something to calm his growling stomach.

  K soon realizes that wandering the city only worsens his hunger. Noticing the throngs of bodies lying along the side of the road, moving as little as possible, K decides to follow their example. Surely that is how to make it through the day. He remembers seeing a massive banyan tree spreading a lush canopy of verdant leaves despite the severe drought near the intersection of a boulevard he passed earlier.

  I guess that’s where I should go . . .

  Others have the same idea. Vagrants gather under the shadow of the banyan tree. K joins this mass of
filthy human bodies searching for a spot to sit. Each of them returns K’s gaze with exhausted eyes, some with eyes so hollow you can no longer tell whether they are still alive or already dead.

  As K steps over sleeping bodies to make his way toward the tree, he spots a small area with just about enough space for him. The eyes of a beggar woman seated there catch his gaze. With a slight nod, she picks up her baby to make room for K.

  “Thank you,” K says as he sits down.

  The woman says nothing, as if even the simple act of forming words in her mouth is already too much for her.

  With so little space to go around, their bodies come close to touching, but the woman doesn’t seem to care. Without a word to K, she exposes her breast to feed her baby. K does all he can to avert his eyes. His gaze wanders, eventually resting on her unexpectedly beautiful face. A cool breeze flutters the clumps of disheveled hair stuck to her dirt-caked cheeks. She looks too innocent to be a mother, barely out of adolescence herself.

  K flinches at the sight of the naked baby girl. She gazes up at K with a smile, so he forces himself to smile back. Seeing this sad tableau, the poor, naked baby suckling at the bosom of her dejected mother, fills K with discomfort. A wave of guilt sweeps over him as he comes face-to-face with the stark realities of life.

  Stop staring!

  As penance, K recites the name of The Holy Igitur to himself ten times, focusing on the dried-out and dead-silent cobblestone street nearby, emptied by those hiding from the midday heat. Vehicles pass by every so often, but only a few pedestrians are to be seen.

  It doesn’t take much time for K to grow weary watching the empty streets. The pride that had propelled him through the streets that morning had vanished, and not even thoughts of tomorrow’s examination can rouse him from his exhaustion now.

  How did I make it this far? Tomorrow’s exam is going to be a disaster. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. At least I was able to ride on a train for the first time in my life. At least I was able to see this city.

  K’s thoughts wander.

  2

  K grew up in an isolated village hundreds of miles away from Igitur. Traveling to the closest train station takes two days on foot across a landscape scattered with rocks and desert sands and little else. At one time, the land had hosted an abundance of farms. But today, little more than an endless parched desert remains. Only the presence of a saltwater well in the area allows the village to limp along. This had been K’s home. After completing his primary schooling, he joined the seminary to learn the teachings of The Holy Igitur once he reached the age of ten, as required by law in the Holy Empire.

  K’s time in the seminary was like an oasis, filled with wonder. His teacher, a cleric, taught K to read and write. But more than that, he paid special attention to K for some reason, giving him access to his library and letting K read whatever texts he found there. Perhaps he thought K would become his eventual successor, or perhaps he intended to use him as his personal assistant to help with housework and other mundane tasks. After all, K did receive better marks than any of the other boys in the village.

  K’s teacher was named Hypocras, and he enjoyed a notoriety that spread beyond the seminary and K’s village to other nearby towns due to his many eccentricities and enigmatic activities. He was tall and muscular and had such a mysterious, commanding presence that when he bared his eyes, his expressions would appear so frightening that babies often burst into tears. Yet despite his oddness and impassivity, he commanded respect from everyone in the village. Or to be more precise, he commanded their awe.

  From even a very young age, K had heard all sorts of rumors about Hypocras. He never understood why Hypocras seemed to take a liking to him. While Hypocras was known to mete out whippings on his students, not once was K subjected to these punishments. And over time K began to develop a fondness and appreciation for Hypocras. Soon after they met, K moved out from the shed he had built for himself at the other side of town and began living in the groundskeeper’s room in the temple.

  Carrying water, cleaning the grounds, and other household tasks—these were K’s duties in the temple in exchange for meals twice a day. Compared to the long days of farm work and animal husbandry that K was used to on the family farm, his tasks in the temple were far less onerous. Coupled with the improvement of his living conditions, there was little for K to complain about. At times, he even considered his life one of relative privilege.

  But make no mistake. Compared to the truly wealthy boys in town, this was not, by any means, a life of leisure. Any spare time quickly went toward his studies of the various texts inside the temple’s library. For years, K went about his life like this. Little by little, he gained the knowledge expected of him by his teacher to the point that he could begin to teach classes in his place.

  Even then, there still should be no way for me to make it this far. Candidates for the Sacred Service Exam come from the top theological institutes! This must be some kind of mistake!

  Almost a hundred people applied to take the Sacred Examination in K’s district. Among them, only K was accepted as a candidate.

  Noon in the capital city. Temperatures climb to over a hundred degrees. At least it’s a dry heat, still somewhat bearable under a shade. K can’t even begin to imagine what life here must be like in the midst of a humid summer. Across the Holy Empire, several million people will die from the heat this year. Nothing to be done about it now but to lie down in the dust and wait for the inevitable.

  The planet is changing. The past several centuries have witnessed a radical transformation in the climate. Much of the land, once abundant in trees and farmlands, has turned into dried-out wastelands. At the height of the Holy Empire of Igitur’s Millennium of Prosperity, a staggering six billion people resided within its borders and among its territories. But today, the population of the planet has been decimated a thousandfold. What caused these changes in climate? There are many theories, but the most plausible among them points to the extraction of hydrogen energy from the oceans as the root cause. This led to a two-hundred-meter drop in sea levels, with significant consequences for the planet’s climate and ecosystem. Now, all that remain from this energy boom-and-bust are the scattered ruins of water decomposition facilities. K used to explore these ruins as a child, finding only rusted pipes and the broken carcasses of old machinery still half-buried in the desert sands.

  K falls asleep and dreams of food, as usual. After what seems like only a few brief moments, the renewed pangs of hunger wake him. The piece of bread he ate that morning has long been digested. His fingers dig up the roots of the dried brown weeds around him. He brings them into his mouth, not caring about the toxins they carry and what they might do to him. Many lose their minds chewing too much of these weeds. But despite the dangers, they really can’t help themselves. What else is there for those who need to take their minds off the hunger they suffer?

  Torpor grows on top of K’s hunger, his body stiffening as he watches the crowd swirl around him. The many people lying immobile on the ground near him may very well be dead, for all he knows. But despite their skeletal bodies and swollen stomachs, somehow they live on.

  A miserable sight, indeed. But one must remember the Temperance Proclamation from the year 420 of the Igituran Era. Pope Algol IV spoke of the virtue of restricting one’s consumption and the sin of gluttony in a homily shared with the citizens of the Holy Empire: If my people have to starve, then I shall starve with them. If my people have to die, then I shall have to die as well. But before we pass on, I call on all of us to follow the sacred teachings of the great prophet The Holy Igitur and separate the Holy Spirit from our soiled bodies. To serve as an example to all, the pope fasted. The palace sent out the fasting regimen via the Ion broadcasting system: a daily diet of no more than two glasses of water and a minimal cut of meat, a tiny bit of bread, and some vegetables mixed together in a small dish.

  Famine had already ravaged every corner of the Holy Empire when K fi
rst came into this world. Things were certainly bad in the Southern Hemisphere. But the more populous Northern Hemisphere was far worse off. None of the old states survived the famine there. The few still living in the north turned to barbarism, with some even resorting to cannibalism to survive.

  We must struggle against hunger in this world.

  K closes his eyes.

  Hunger is the fate of all living things.

  Why do the pope’s words remain etched in K’s memory? It must be because one of the questions in the qualifying exams he took half a year ago asked him to articulate his views on the Temperance Proclamation. K’s answer then was little more than a statement of his heartfelt opinion. He confessed to the smallness of his mind, to the weakness of his willpower. Yes, that’s right—The Holy Igitur teaches us all that humans are born into this world when the spirit enters the body. So all it takes to live without food is to separate the starving body from the spirit that is beyond hunger. This is how The Holy Igitur himself fasted continuously for 777 days, if you believe the Southern Scriptures.

  K has been taught to feel shame at his own lack of will. Even the tiniest bit of hunger makes him feel wretched. Those vagrants, collapsed on the ground, waiting for death without a word of complaint—they deserve far greater respect than K.

  How long have they waited like that? A month? Two months? They will be dead soon. But that will signal nothing more than the death of the flesh. Their spirits will be guided by The Holy Igitur to the Fertile Gardens of Heaven.

  K’s mind clouds over. The enthralling scent of milk brings back his hunger pangs. Next to him, the young beggar woman is breast-feeding her child again. Her breasts are the only part of her body that still retains color and health. Once her baby is satiated, the woman looks straight at K with her pale blue eyes.