Ragnarök

Fylliz fiǫrvi
feigra manna,
rýðr ragna siǫt  
rauðom dreyra.
Svǫrt verða sólskin  
of sumor eptir,
veðr ǫll válynd.  
Vitoð ér enn, eða hvat?

Brœðr muno beriaz  
ok at bǫnom verða
muno systrungar  
sifiom spilla.
Hart er í heimi,  
hórdómr mikill
skeggǫld, skálmǫld
skildir ro klofnir
vindǫld, vargǫld
áðr verǫld steypiz.
Mun engi maðr  
ǫðrom þyrma.

So spake the völva to Odin:

“It sates itself on the life-blood  
of fated men,
paints red the powers’ homes  
with crimson gore.
Black become the sun’s beams  
in the summers that follow,
weathers all treacherous.  
Do you still seek to know? And what?

Brothers will fight  
and kill each other,
sisters’ children  
will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world,  
whoredom rife
an axe age, a sword age  
shields are riven
a wind age, a wolf age
before the world goes headlong.
No man will have  
mercy on another.”

It happened that I was traveling In Paris many years ago and had gone to see a show. A fire broke out backstage in the theater. The clown came out to inform the public. They thought it was a jest and applauded. He repeated his warning. They shouted even louder. So I think the world will come to an end amid the general applause from all the wits who believe that it is a joke. And they will laugh and fiddle while civilization burns.

We wrap up our violent and mysterious world in a pretense of understanding. We paper over the voids of our comprehension with science and religion, and make believe that order has been imposed. And, for the most of it, the fiction works. We skim across the surfaces, heedless of the depths below. Dragonflies flitting over a lake, miles deep, pursuing erratic paths to pointless ends. Until that moment when something from the cold unknown reaches up to take us.

The biggest lies we save for ourselves. We play a game in which we are gods, in which we make choices, and the current follows in our wake. We pretend a separation from the wild. Pretend that a man’s control runs deep, that civilization is more than a veneer, that reason will be our companion in dark places. In the vast expense of strange aeons, however, reason fails us.

Reason did not avail me when I made contact with the Great Race of Yith. Nor with my encounter with Nodens. It proved no bulwark in R’Lyeh when Cthulhu roused briefly from his slumber and The King in Yellow extinguished D.P. from existence. It aided me not in my trials in Antarctica or with my dealings at Red Sea. It did not save my sister. It did not save any of my companions.

I walk out in the gray light of the Dreamlands and I stand and see for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

All is to me as if the world did cease to exist. The city’s monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea. It all fades into the forgotten past.

We are all only striving to prevent the world’s premature demise, but it’s demise will see itself to fruition in time. We’re just stalling this fate until we march inexorably on to the next. Perhaps when that day comes they’ll be someone heroic enough – nay, foolish enough – to prevent the next apocalypse. One can only hope.