Veracity (9 page)

"So, as I'm sure you can imagine, there are monuments, sculptures, music, poetry, literature, and paintings that are strewn about ruined buildings all over the world, and there will also be countless references to them when we start going through our species' history together. For that reason, I wanted you to know that art, and the hoards of references to it, are real. But more importantly, I wanted you to understand that, though some of the things created might be impressive, and their role might come across as important, at the end of the day, they were completely worthless.

"You see, there is this incredibly frustrating process that has occurred repetitively throughout history. It looks like this: A society forms, usually in the disastrous wake of another society that has just crumbled, and things begin anew. At first, the society seems to function quite well, even flourish, but soon corruption, the lust for power, and patent greed begin to choke out the 'weak'. As gaps begin to form between the people who are reaping the rewards, and the people who are just plain reaping, a quiet struggle arises. But, to no avail - the privileged ranks only continue to prosper while conditions worsen for everyone else. The tension begins to mount, and the social strain cumulates. Hoping to stop things from falling apart, the society decides they need a new leader. And of course, all of the would-be-leaders instinctively know that to come into power in even slightly strained conditions, it's to their advantage to exploit people's fear and greed, rather than their kindness and philanthropy. So, obviously, the wrong people gain control. (Though even if they
weren't
the wrong people, they quickly poison themselves with their own corruption, and become the wrong people anyway.) Then, the only thing left to do is make a few horrible decisions based on the same fear and greed that got them into power, and
poof
: war, disease, famine, genocide, or other calamities ensue, resulting in the society collapsing in on its own filth. The people who manage to crawl out of the ashes afterwards are the lucky ones that get to start the cycle all over again. And then again. And again. In fact, if one were to repeat this process continuously and span it over about 10,000 years, you would have a rough overview of the history of civilization.

"So then, there
are
some remarkable things that have been created out there; and those things were usually expressing the artists' take on where their society was inside of the cycle I just explained. So, accordingly, you'll find art representing all of the different stages: art from the flourishing periods of cultures, art remonstrating the disparity that starts to surface, and art monitoring the spiralling decay of it all. And as I said, it's always been the voice of that tiny population of liberals, people who wanted to communicate their insight to the masses. And what they were communicating
was
often warmly embraced, provided, of course, it didn't challenge the masses standing in any way. But when it did, at that exact moment when their perceptive message became crucial, when the demand for tolerance was needed, or a call to the fair-minded shifting of wealth, or the changing of corrupt systems before the society reached a critical point, at that precise instant, the impact that artists
thought
they'd had would vanish into thin air. Unfortunately, this is the way it is with human beings; the moment that truth is most needed is the moment that it's least wanted - the millisecond that it is essential to see, hear, and speak out, we become blind, deaf, and dumb.

"And so my fear is that you might see a building, a sculpture, painting, poem,
something
from one of those small windows of time when a culture was flourishing, and take this to mean that we had the potential to be enlightened, to be something better than we actually are. Obviously, my advice to you is: don't. Don't be misled. Tomorrow we'll begin to study our history, and as we delve into the mistakes of the world that once was, you may see some interesting or beautiful things, and that's perfectly fine. But if you find yourself secretly thinking of them as extraordinary or remarkable, I want you to bear in mind two things. One, that it certainly wasn't reflective of the masses, and two, if it was, it didn't last long.

"Because you must recognize that if anyone is in danger of mistaking some of the things we've done as 'progressive', it is people like you and me, people who were raised in an isolated environment, far removed from any kind of external difficulty or social strain, and by loving and supportive people. And I'm sure we wouldn't be the first, either. I'm sure that there were many times throughout history when people have been tempted to look around themselves and think of their world as one that was moving in the right direction. But I assure you, these people were unquestionably among the tiny percentage of the privileged ranks, and were happily (if ignorantly) wallowing in the wealth that stemmed from the oppression of others. It's a simple rule: the only human beings that have ever looked at their race and believed they were surrounded with promise, were seeing it that way simply because they could afford to."

Dana reached forward and moved the stack of books to the side so that the table between our bodies was clear except for the book of art. He sat up, interlocked his fingers, and placed them gently on the wood in front of him. "Flip it to another page," he insisted. I pinched a clump of the glossy sheets and turned to another section of the book. This time it opened to a painting of people sitting in sun-dappled shade, smiling, eating, drinking, chatting, a lake lined with trees and grass sprawling out behind them. Dana shifted in his seat, took in a deep breath. Within only a few seconds, he seemed to have become anxious, his lips a thin line, his jaw clenched tight. When he spoke, his voice was stifled, shaking. "So... if you're ever tempted to see hope, Joshua, you must believe, you must
know
that there is none. None. Can you understand that? None. The only answer that exists is complete regeneration, complete renewal - an all-encompassing rebirth. That's it. That is the only choice we have." He looked out into the garden, blinking quick blinks. "Now close that book." I nodded and quickly hinged it shut, sliding it away to the side.

We sat in silence for quite a while after that - me watching Dana, Dana watching the trees. It was strange. I didn't know what had upset him; in fact, I didn't know what any of these bizarre nuances and inferences meant, I only knew that they were suddenly trickling out of everything. They were in the pauses in the Elders' speeches, the selection of words in the dialogue between themselves, in the cold silences that followed, in the constricted saliva of their gritting teeth. It was obvious that, again, there were more things at play around me than what I was seeing, and that I couldn't really do anything about it. And not that I wanted to. If there were conflicts between the Elders, or even
inside
of them, it wasn't my concern. I certainly didn't need more levels of complexity to deal with, more things to try and figure out - I could barely keep up with what I was expected to.

Because there could be no mistake, this wasn't education, wasn't a simple imparting of knowledge from one person to another. No. No, it was a frantic dissection; it was the picking apart of mad concepts in search of something reasonable inside of them, and it was proving to be more work than I'd ever imagined. Nothing was cut and dried. Nothing could be gently taken from the table and put into my pocket to forget about. There was always more to consider, more to weigh, more to doubt. I bit my lip and tried to sum up Dana's main points while they were still fresh in my mind. He'd basically said: if you find something compelling, know that it didn't work; if you think you can spot a glimmer of hope amid the detritus, know that it's false; and if you ever wonder about there being a different solution for humanity, know that there isn't.

Great. Where should I have begun with this? How was I supposed to strip off the layers of these ideas without even knowing where they came from, or what the world looked like when they were formed? How could I ever expect to pluck out what was true, if anything, if everything?

But the answer was easy: I couldn't. It was hard enough scrutinizing my own beliefs, let alone breaking down someone else's.

I wanted something simple. I wanted something I could ingest without having it move around inside of me later. I looked over at the spines of the books and read some of the titles. Except for the art book, violence seemed an integral part of every one of them, which, I imagined, was probably the reason they'd picked them. Though, I didn't really mind; at least it would be interesting reading - and at least I wouldn't have to pause and question the basis of every single word that was inside them. Everyone knew that books only contained facts. And facts were exactly what I wanted.

"I notice you skimming the titles," Dana interjected, looking as if he'd just woken up. "They seem interesting, don't they? And they are - you'll see. I didn't only bring them in to help spark ideas of where you'd like to start, I also thought you should see some of the topics that we'll definitely be covering - just to get your mind moving in that general direction. Of course, for your Coming of Age we'll only touch on the surface of it all, but then we'll move into it in much more depth during the training."

"Training?" I asked.

"Yes. There's a reason that you are one of the few people we've chosen to tell about The Goal, and that is that we think you might
potentially
have the skills to lead one of the third phase expeditions. So the plan is to train everyone in that tiny group to do just that, and, during the course of the training, see which of you is best suited to take on the challenge. The same goes for the crew. After Coming of Age, whether people are told the truth or not, everyone's training starts to focus on specialized skills that might benefit a life-long expedition. That way, we'll be able to pick out a first-rate support team as well.

"But," Dana shook his head at himself, "we might be getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. So, let's stick to the task at hand." He stood up and sprawled the books out across the table in front of me, exposing their covers for the first time. Some of them had pictures of hairy men walking in small groups, hunched over, spears in hand, while others depicted costumed soldiers with metal shielding plastered all over their bodies, massive knives dangling from their hips. "We'll begin teaching you about the history of our kind; what we've done to each other, how, where, when. That way, at least you'll have a string of information to actually ask questions about and form your own process with. Does that sound like a reasonable way to continue?"

"Uh... sure."

"Brilliant," he said, nodding slowly and looking across the splay of books. "So, what I'd like you to do this evening is..." he bent over and hovered his pointer finger above a few of the titles before letting it drop onto one. It was called
The Evolution of Weapons - The Neolithic Period
, "...flip through this. Why not start at the very beginning.

"So then - tomorrow we'll go through some of the main points together, and discuss things along the way. Sound good?"

"Sure."

"Good." He turned to leave, but then stalled in mid-stride, "Actually, something interesting that you might want to look for in that book tonight: The oldest mummified human ever found lived during that era. And when his remains were discovered (almost perfectly preserved in ice), archaeologists from around the globe gathered to learn what they could about our earliest behaviour. Guess what they found?"

"What?"

"An arrowhead in his back." He grinned before turning away, "I'll see you tomorrow."

9

I'd always thought of the Elders as people who had set limits for themselves and then, in some kind of superhuman way, managed to keep inside them. And because they'd always acted with this amazing degree of restraint and self-control, I was somehow sure that I'd never see them step anywhere close to their limits, never see them press up against one of the boundaries that they'd firmly engraved in the stone of their conduct. But I was wrong.

They would begin by asking a vague question, sitting with their hands gently folded in their laps, an encouraging grin dressing their faces. They would casually invite my opinion into the conversation, coaxing it out into the open. After all, they would assure me, this was simply an open discussion where any point of view was welcome, where there were no right or wrong answers; I was free to say whatever I wanted, whatever I believed. So please, they would whisper, raising their eyebrows expectantly, go ahead - tell us what you think. And then they would grow silent, transfer their weight from one side of the chair to the other, refolding their hands in their laps. Waiting.

After speaking my mind the first couple of times, I soon found out that, in fact, there
were
right and wrong answers, and the Elders certainly made me want to learn which was which, and quickly. Because it was when I gave them the wrong answers that I discovered how close they were to their limits. Their reactions seemed to fall just scarcely on this side of control, as if the skin of their patience had become taut, as if it were quavering with pressure beneath the surface and right on the verge of rupturing.

I would say what I thought, and they would exchange a sharp glance before letting their eyes drop to the ground in front of them, their expressions disappointed, burdensome. Then one of them would wipe his forehead, slowly pull his weight forward, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair, and stand up. While he walked over to select the relevant book, which he would then use to make his point in the clearest, most concise, and irrefutable way, he was either biting one of his lips, or tapping a stiff finger on his chin. When he found the right volume, he would slide it into the middle of the table, creak open the cover, glide a slow and heavy finger down the table of contents, and, once he'd found what he was looking for, raise his eyes to meet mine. Yes, he might sympathize, he could see how I was able to come up with an idea like that, but what the medieval period consistently taught us, unfortunately, is quite the contrary. He would start to flip to the chapter he wanted, his hand tossing the sheets onto one side of the book with aggressive, jerking movements, his eyes focused wildly on the increasing page numbers. And once he reached the chapter, he would run a rigid palm along the crease, slowly rotate the book until it was oriented for me to read, slide it under my nose, and then lean in until I could feel his breath on my face. But, he would say softly, maybe we haven't read enough about the medieval customs for you to have known that. Let's take another look, shall we?