From The Ice People
I, Saul, Teller of Tales, Keeper of Doves, Slayer of Wolves, shall tell the story of my times. Of the best of days, and the end of days. Of the new white world that has come upon us. For whoever will read it. For whoever can read.
I am sitting in the the halfdark by the fire. A circle of eyes reflects the firelight. The wild children, surrounding me. Not a circle, really. Too regular. They crowd, and bulge outwards, and fight, and crow. Kit, and Jojo, and Fink, and Porker, and some who have roars and grunts for names ...
They are eating something. That familiar smell. Delicious because all food is delicious, then fatty, sweetish, sickening.
They see I am writing. Their eyes flicker. Beyond them, it's black to the horizon, where the afterglow of the sunset is brighter than before. The unearthly radiance beyond is coming close, like the deep new cold. A ring of fire from a ring of ice.
I'm an old man now - old for these times - over sixty. Not long ago, people lived more than twice as long, if they were rich and lucky enough not ot be terminated. In the easy days, the long hot days when there were so many human beings ...
I'm not afraid to die. This morning I saw it coming, or did I dream it? - the white bear with a cub beside it, lolloping, joyful, glassbright in the sunlight.