Henry Lion Oldie

x x x

...Smallest lumps of primeval protoplasm were merging and greedily
absorbing the nutritious substance from a thick warm broth permeated by
ultra-violet rays; they were splitting, increasing in number, their
structure was rapidly getting more and more complex, the strongest ones
were devouring the weak and surviving, and life was already getting out
onto the land and spreading all over the new unexplored spaces...
Giant reptiles were wandering among the giant ferns, the formidable
steam-roller of the Ice Age was flattening the shivering planet, and the
first ape grabbed a stick with its hairy hands... and men in chariots
threw their darts into the running barbarians, and Rome was burning, and
Dresden was in flames, and the first nuclear mushroom grew over the
secret proving ground, and a trembling finger hung over the scarlet
button...
The genie hunched his back and got back into his bottle.

x x x

...Dead grey waves were running over the dead molten sand, and with
metronome precision rolling back to the horizon where the foaming sea
medley touched upon the dull sky torn up with gaping atmospheric holes
and whirlwind wells heavy with tornadoes.
The ancient paunchy green-glass bottle firmly shut with a tarred
cork lay on the soft sand. The crow scornfully brushed it with its wing,
and set out on a slow walk along the shore, stopping from time to time to
peck at the bodies lightly covered with sand. There was plenty of food.
The crow was satisfied.
The delicate hands of surf touched the bottle, turned it over and
drew back into the sea -- farther and farther away from the silent shore.
Without looking back, the crow gave out a muffled croak, and for an
instant in the grinding sound of its throat there came a forgotten word
of a forever-gone race.
Never.
Never again.
NEVERMORE.

THE END

(c) Henry Lion Oldie, 1991.
(c) Translated from Russian by Mikhail Zislis, Irina Kapitannikova,
1997-1998.

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