From: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com   
      
   DO NOT FORWARD to Ephemeral/Gossamer. Thanks.   
      
   TITLE:       Egypt, Under Pharaoh (A Song of Plague)   
   AUTHOR:      David Stoddard-Hunt   
   CATEGORY:    S, A, R   
   KEYWORDS:    MSR, Post-Col, CD (non-violent)   
   RATING:      PG-13   
   REFERENCES:  Tithonus, all things, TFWID   
   SUMMARY:     He's the last of his kind. Of them, there are   
                thousands upon thousands.   
   ARCHIVE:     Ephemeral/Gossamer, ok. Others, by request.   
   DISCLAIMER:  No profiteering here. Move along.   
   FEEDBACK:    dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com   
      
      
      
   Mashantucket-Pequot Reservation   
   Spring, 2021   
      
   He sits in the shade of a gnarled stand of trees in the lee of   
   a hill, a poor man's oasis in the middle of the Atlantic wastes,   
   in what was once Connecticut. On a clear day, he has a view many   
   miles to the south, of bygone seaports and whalers, and the   
   life-bringing sea. But, it is rarely clear, anymore.   
      
   For amusement, he can climb to the crest of the hill, high up by   
   local standards, and view the incongruous splendor of a casino,   
   whose finest days are also long past. Foxwoods. The irony of the   
   name weighs heavier on him some days than others. He's considered   
   changing the name, and has rejected the notion. He would always   
   know. And besides, who is there left to fool? He's considered   
   leaving the vicinity. But where else would he prefer to be?   
      
   Finally, it comes down to one thing. This is where their long   
   journey came to a quiet and dignified end. And for that alone he   
   will stay put, irony be damned.   
      
   Insofar as he knows, he is the last.   
      
   "She always said you were one of a kind. Well, whaddyaknow? She   
   sure knew what she was talking about. Here you are, the "Last Man   
   on Earth."   
      
   The fabulous title makes him laugh. That is a rare and unpleasant   
   sound these days, scratchy and wheezing; a laugh in serious   
   disrepair. But he has no incentive to fix it.   
      
   The last man. He's compiled no scientific basis for the conclusion,   
   except for this: It's been years since he's seen anyone else. And   
   that? Is just as well. He's made a home here, dug right into the   
   side of the hill, overlooking the grove below. The furniture and   
   supplies for his dwelling, he's borrowed from the casino on an   
   as-needed basis. In this way, he's managed to achieve a measure of   
   relative - if a shade tacky - comfort. It pleases him, at this late   
   date, to have reacquired a black leather sofa. He never sleeps on   
   it; at his age, he's become quite accustomed to the comfort of an   
   actual mattress and box-spring. In fact, he rarely sits on the   
   grained, cool surface. The sofa is important to him not as a piece   
   of furniture, but as a visual cue to the past, to a specific time   
   in his past. It is a black, oblong memorial that he visits several   
   times a day, and remembers. Maya Lin would be proud.   
      
   Most important in the cause of memory and memorial, however, is   
   the position of the house itself, standing watch over the grove,   
   unstinting in its vigil.   
      
   Until recently, there have been no visitors whatsoever to his   
   realm, human or otherwise, Terrestrial or not. That's to be   
   expected, considering. In the last three weeks, however, to his   
   great surprise, that has changed. His hill, his grove, his home   
   is now teeming with life. The visitors have appeared by the   
   thousands, and by the thousands of thousands. They've come to   
   this grove, he suspects, because it is the only gathering of   
   trees for many miles around. Their arrival has been a surprise,   
   yes, even a shock. But they aren't unwelcome. Thanks to them,   
   he once again knows the year.   
      
   *********************   
      
   eastern shore of Maryland   
   Spring, 2004   
      
   "They are *not* locusts, Mulder!"   
      
   Scully is astonished at her partner's irrational discomfort. An   
   insect has fallen from the branch above, an uninvited guest to   
   their picnic lunch. Without lifting his rear-end off the blanket,   
   Mulder scoots away from it, his long legs bunching, then thrusting   
   out, propelling him back against the tree. With each scooch, he   
   pushes the blanket into tall, rounded folds that eventually topple   
   over on themselves, burying food and interloper alike, leaving a   
   rivulet of iced tea to flow from one of the valleys, a toppled   
   pitcher the hidden font of the stream.   
      
   The sight of his crab-like escape prompts delighted laughter   
   from the normally restrained Scully. Her amusement prompts   
   annoyance from the normally unflappable Mulder. He sits straight   
   up, protest at the ready, but, in so doing, bangs his head   
   painfully against the trunk.   
      
   "Ohhh, did you bark your head?"   
      
   He grabs the back of his skull in one hand, and says, "You can   
   bark your shin, but you can't bark anything else, Scully."   
      
   "I think you just did."   
      
   He turns to inspect the offending place on the tree, rubbing the   
   ridged bark. As the meaning of what she's just said dawns, he   
   turns back to glare at her.   
      
   Scully kneels, finally, to lend aid and comfort. "Are you," one   
   hand politely hiding her smile and partially stifling her laugh.   
   "Are you okay, Mulder?" she manages to ask.   
      
   "No, I am not!"   
      
   Scully mouths a sympathetic "aw," and leans in to check for injury   
   other than to his pride. Mulder bows his head compliantly, calmed   
   by her touch. Suddenly, he shoots to his feet, brushing the front   
   of his t-shirt and jeans wildly with both hands.   
      
   "Gah! Damned bugs!"   
      
   Two more insect invaders complete their fall - from the tree,   
   onto Mulder and, then, to the ground. He moves to crush them   
   underfoot.   
      
   "Ah, ah!" Scully cries. "Mulder, don't do that."   
      
   Her admonition is too late to stop him from trying, but Mulder   
   succeeds only in pushing the pests into the soft grass. He paces   
   several yards from the spot and looks up, scanning the canopy of   
   the woods.   
      
   From her knees, Scully takes in her partner in one long, lazy   
   glance, starting at his feet and meandering up. He's rangy and   
   graceful, loose-limbed and resilient. He may bend and bow with   
   the storms they have and will yet face, but he will never break.   
   By God, she thinks, he is magnificent. Every bit as magnificent as   
   the oaks and sycamores all around them.  Though, at the moment,   
   he's just one more titan in the forest bedeviled by insects.   
      
   Neither of them can spot more than a handful in the trees, but   
   they hear multitudes. A steady, throbbing, clacking buzz.   
      
   Scully surveys the ruins of their picnic. "Hey, Gulliver. Get over   
   here, and give me a hand with this shipwreck. We'll move it out so   
   that your half is under the sun and sky, where all the Lilliputians   
   won't bother you as much."   
      
   He seems to notice the havoc he's caused as if for the first time.   
   Mulder kneels down quickly beside her, and ends up doing the bulk   
   of the cleaning up and moving. On one point, though, he will not   
   be moved.   
      
   "They are, too, locusts," he says, lifting his brows in the   
   direction of the trees.   
      
   "Mulder," she begins, but her reproof is mild.   
      
   "Come on, Scully. Give it up! They have hard exoskeletons, jointed   
   legs and proportionately large wings. They swarm in the thousands,   
   and they're loud as hell. They're locusts!"   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)