H.P. Lovecraft. Till A the Seas
Till A the Seas
by H. P. Lovecraft and R. H Barlow
Written Jan 1935
Published Summer 1935 in The Californian, 3, No. 1, 3-7.
I
Upon an eroded cliff-top rested the man, gazing far across the valley.
Lying thus, he could see a great distance, but in all the sere expanse
there was no visible motion. Nothing stirred the dusty plain, the
disintegrated sand of long-dry river-beds, where once coursed the gushing
streams of Earth's youth. There was little greenery in this ultimate
world, this final stage of mankind's prolonged presence upon the planet.
For unnumbered aeons the drought and sandstorms had ravaged all the lands.
The trees and bushes had given way to small, twisted shrubs that persisted
long through their sturdiness; but these, in turn, perished before the
onslaught of coarse grasses and stringy, tough vegetation of strange
evolution.
The ever-present heat, as Earth drew nearer to the sun, withered and
killed with pitiless rays. It had not come at once; long aeons had gone
before any could feel the change. And all through those first ages man's
adaptable form had followed the slow mutation and modelled itself to fit
the more and more torrid air. then the day had come when men could bear
their hot cities but ill, and a gradual recession began, slow yet
deliberate. Those towns and settlements closest to the equator had been
first, of course, but later there were others. Man, softened and
exhausted, could cope no longer with the ruthlessly mounting heat. It
seared him as he was, and evolution was too slow to mould new resistances
in him.
Yet not at first were the great cities of the equator left to the spider
and the scorpion. In the early years there were many who stayed on,
devising curious shields and armours against the heat and the deadly
dryness. These fearless souls, screening certain buildings against the
encroaching sun, made miniature worlds of marvellously ingenious things,
so that for a while men persisted in the rusting towers, hoping thereby to
cling to old lands till the searing should be over. For many would not
believe what the astronomers said, and looked for a coming of the mild
olden world again. But one day the men of Dath, from the new city of
Niyara, made signals to Yuanario, their immemorially ancient capital, and
gained no answer from the few who remained therein. And when explorers
reached that millennial city of bridge-linked towers they found only
silence. There was not even the horror of corruption, for the scavenger
lizards had been swift.
Only then did the people fully realize that these cities were lost to
them; know that they must forever abandon them to nature. The other
colonists in the hot lands fled from their brave posts, and total silence
reigned within the high basalt walls of a thousand empty towns. Of the
denser throngs and multitudinous activities of the past, nothing finally
remained. There now loomed against the rainless deserts only the blistered
towers of vacant houses, factories, and structures of every sort,
reflecting the sun's dazzling radiance and parching in the more and more
intolerable heat.
Many lands, however, had still escaped the scorching blight, so that the
refugees were soon absorbed in the life of a newer world. During strangely
prosperous centuries the hoary deserted cities of the equator grew
half-forgotten and entwined with fantastic fables. Few thought of those
spectral, rotting towers...those huddles of shabby walls and cactus-choked
streets, darkly silent and abandoned...
Wars came, sinful and prolonged, but the times of peace were greater. Yet
always the swollen sun increased its radiance as Earth drew closer to its
fiery parent. It was as if the planet meant to return to that source
whence it was snatched, aeons ago, through the accidents of cosmic growth.
After a time the blight crept outward from the central belt. Southern
Yarat burned as a tenantless desert - and then the north. In Perath and
Baling, those ancient cities where brooding centuries dwelt, there moved
only the scaly shapes of the serpent and the salamander, and at last Loron
echoed only to the fitful falling of tottering spires and crumbling domes.
Steady, universal, and inexorable was the great eviction of man from the
realms he had always known. No land within the widening stricken belt was
spared; no people left unrouted. It was an epic, a titan tragedy whose
plot was unrevealed to the actors - this wholesale desertion of the cities
of men. It took not years or even centuries, but millennia of ruthless
change. And still it kept on - sullen, inevitable, savagely devastating.
Agriculture was at a standstill, the world fast became too arid for crops.
This was remedied by artificial substitutes, soon universally used. And as
the old places that had known the great things of mortals were left, the
loot salvaged by the fugitives grew smaller and smaller. Things of the
greatest value and importance were left in dead museums - lost amid the
centuries - and in the end the heritage of the immemorial past was
abandoned. A degeneracy both physical and cultural set in with the
insidious heat. For man had so long dwelt in comfort and security that
this exodus from past scenes was difficult. Nor were these events received
phlegmatically; their very slowness was terrifying. Degradation and
debauchery were soon common; government was disorganized, and the
civilization aimlessly slid back toward barbarism.
When, forty-nine centuries after the blight from the equatorial belt, the
whole western hemisphere was left unpeopled, chaos was complete. There was
no trace of order or decency in the last scenes of this titanic, wildly
impressive migration. Madness and frenzy stalked through them, and
fanatics screamed of an Armageddon close at hand.
Mankind was now a pitiful remnant of the elder races, a fugitive not only
from the prevailing conditions, but from his own degeneracy. Into the
northland and the antarctic went those who could; the rest lingered for
years in an incredible saturnalia, vaguely doubting the forthcoming
disasters. In the city of Borligo a wholesale execution of the new
prophets took place, after months of unfulfilled expectations. They
thought the flight to the northland unnecessary, and no longer looked for
the threatened ending.
How they perished must have been terrible indeed - those vain, foolish
creatures who thought to defy the universe. But the blackened, scorched
towers are mute...
These events, however, must not be chronicled - for there are larger
things to consider then this complex and unhastening downfall of a lost
civilization. During a long period morale was at lowest ebb among the
courageous few who settled upon the alien arctic and antarctic shores, now
mild as were those of southern Yarat in the long-dead past. But here there
was respite. The soil was fertile, and forgotten pastoral arts were called
into use anew. There was, for a long time, a contented little epitome of
the lost lands; though here were no vast throngs or great buildings. Only
a sparse remnant of humanity survived the aeons of change and peopled
those scattered villages of the later world.
How many millenia this continued is not known. The sun was slow in
invading this last retreat; and as the eras passed there developed a
sound, sturdy race, bearing no memories or legends of the old, lost lands.
Little navigation was practiced by this new people, and the flying machine
was wholly forgotten. Their devices were of the simplest type, and their
culture was simple and primitive. Yet they were contented, and accepted
the warm climate as something natural and accustomed.
But unknown to these simple peasant-folk, still further rigours of nature
were slowly preparing themselves. As the generations passed, the waters of
the vast and unplumbed ocean wasted slowly away; enriching the air and the
desiccated soil, but sinking lower and lower each century. The splashing
surf still glistened bright, and the swirling eddies were still there, but
a doom of dryness hung over the whole watery expanse. However, the
shrinkage could not have been detected save by instruments more delicate
than any then known to the race. Even had the people realized the ocean's
contraction, it is not likely that any vast alarm or great disturbace
would have resulted, for the losses were so slight, and the sea so
great...Only a few inches during many centuries - but in many centuries;
increasing -
* * *
So at last the oceans went, and water became a rarity on a globe of
sun-baked drought. Man had slowly spread over all the arctic and antarctic
lands; the equatorial cities, and many of later habitation, were forgotten
even to legend.
And now again the peace was disturbed, for water was scarce, and found
only in deep caverns. There was little enough, even of this; and men died
of thirst wandering in far places. Yet so slow were those deadly changes,
that each new generation of man was loath to believe what it heard from
its parents. None would admit that the heat had been less or the water
more plentiful in the old days, or take warning that days of bitterer
burning and drought were to come. Thus it was even at the end, when only a
few hundred human creatures panted for breath beneath the cruel sun; a
piteous huddled handful out of all the unnumbered millions who had once
dwelt on the doomed planet.
And the hundreds became small, till man was to be reckoned only in tens.
These tens clung to the shrinking dampness of the caves, and knew at last
at the end was near. So slight was their range that none had ever seen the
tiny, fabled spots of ice left close to the parent's poles - if indeed
such remained. Even had they existed and been known to man, none could
have reached them across the trackless and formidable deserts. And so the
last pathetic few dwindled...
It cannot be described, this awesome chain of events that depopulated the
whole Earth; the range is too tremendous for any to picture or encompass.
Of the people of Earth's fortunate ages, billions of years before, only a
few prophets and madmen could have conceived that which was to come -
could have grasped visions of the still, dead lands, and long-empty
sea-beds. The rest would have doubted...doubted alike the shadow of change
upon the planet and the shadow of doom upon the race. For man has always
thought himself the immortal master of natural things...
II
When he had eased the dying pangs of the old woman, Ull wandered in a
fearful daze out into the dazzling sands. She had been a fearsome thing,
shrivelled and so dry; like withered leaves. Her face had been the colour
of the sickly yellow grasses that rustled in the hot wind, and she was
loathsomely old.
But she had been a companion; someone to stammer out vague fears to, to
talk to about this incredible thing; a comrade to share one's hopes for
succour from those silent other colonies beyond the mountains. He could
not believe none lived elsewhere, for Ull was young, and not certain as
are the old.
For many years he had known none but the old woman - her name was Mladdna.
She had come that day in his eleventh year, when all the hunters went to
seek food, and did not return. Ull had no mother that he could remember,
and there were few women in the tiny group. When the men had vanished,
those three women, the young one and the two old, had screamed fearfully,
and moaned long. Then the young one had gone mad, and killed herself with
a sharp stick. The old ones buried her in a shallow hole dug with their
nails, so Ull had been alone when this still older Mladdna came.
She walked with the aid of a knotty pole, a priceless relique of the old
forests, hard and shiny with years of use. She did not say whence she
came, but stumbled into the cabin while the young suicide was being
buried. There she waited till the two returned, and they accepted her
incuriously.
That was the way it had been for many weeks, until the two fell sick, and
Mladdna could not cure them. strange that those younger two should have
been stricken, while she, infirm and ancient, lived on. Mladdna had cared
for them many days, and at length they died, so that Ull was left with
only the stranger. He screamed all the night, so she became at length out
of patience, and threatened to die too. Then, hearkening, he became quiet
at once; for he was not desirous of complete solitude. After that he lived
with Mladdna and they gathered roots to eat.
Mladdna's rotten teeth were ill suited to the food they gathered, but they
continued to chop it up till she could manage it. This weary routine of
seeking and eating was Ull's childhood.
Now he was strong, and firm, in his nineteenth year, and the old woman was
dead. There was naught to stay for, so he determined at once to seek out
those fabled huts beyond the mountains, and live with the people there.
There was nothing to take on the journey. Ull closed the door of his cabin
- why, he could not have told, for no animals had been there for many
years - and left the dead woman within. Half-dazed, and fearful at his own
audacity, he walked long hours in the dry grasses, and at length reached
the first of the foothills. The afternoon came, and he climbed until he
was weary, and lay down on the grasses. Sprawled there, he thought of many
things. He wondered at the strange life, passionately anxious to seek out
the lost colony beyond the mountains; but at last he slept.
When he awoke there was starlight on his face, and he felt refreshed. Now
that the sun was gone for a time, he travelled more quickly, eating
little, and determining to hasten before the lack of water became
difficult to bear. He had brought none; for the last people, dwelling in
one place and never having occasion to bear their precious water away,
made no vessels of any kind. Ull hoped to reach his goal within a day, and
thus escape thirst; so he hurried on beneath the bright stars, running at
times in the warm air, and at other times lapsing into a dogtrot.
So he continued until the sun arose, yet still he was within the small
hills, with three great peaks looming ahead. In their shade he rested
again. then he climbed all the morning, and at mid-day surmounted the
first peak, where he lay for a time, surveying the space before the next
range.
Upon an eroded cliff-top rested the man, gazing far across the valley.
Lying thus he could see a great distance, but in all the sere expanse
there was no visible motion...
The second night came, and found Ull amid the rough peaks, the valley and
the place where he had rested far behind. He was nearly out of the second
range now, and hurrying still. Thirst had come upon him that day, and he
regretted his folly. Yet he could not have stayed there with the corpse,
alone in the grasslands. He sought to convince himself thus, and hastened
ever on, tiredly straining.
And now there only a few steps before the cliff wall would part and allow
a view of the land beyond. Ull stumbled wearily down the stony way,
tumbling and bruising himself even more. It was nearly before him, this
land of which he had heard tales in his youth. The way was long, but the
goal was great. A boulder of giant circumference cut off his view; upon
this he scrambled anxiously. Now at last he could behold by the sinking
orb his long-sought destination, and his thirst and aching muscles were
forgotten as he saw joyfully that a small huddle of buildings clung to the
base of the farther cliff.
Ull rested not; but, spurred on by what he saw, ran and staggered and
crawled the half mile remaining. He fancied that he could detect forms
among the rude cabins. The sun was nearly gone; the hateful, devastating
sun that had slain humanity. He could not be sure of details, but soon the
cabins were near.
They were very old, for clay blocks lasted long in the still dryness of
the dying world. Little, indeed, changed but the living things - the
grasses and these last men.
Before him an open door swung upon rude pegs. In the fading ligh Ull
entered, weary unto death, seeking painfully the expected faces.
Then he fell upon the floor and wept, for at the table was propped a dry
and ancient skeleton.
* * *
He rose at last, crazed by thirst, aching unbearably, and suffering the
greatest disappointment nay mortal could know. He was, then, the last
living thing upon the globe. His the heritage of the Earth... all the
lands, and all to him equally useless. He staggered up, not looking at the
dim white form in the reflected moonlight, and went through the door.
About the empty village he wandered, searching for water and sadly
inspecting this long-empty place so spectrally preserved by the changeless
air. here there was a dwelling, there a rude place where things had been
made - clay vessels holding only dust, and nowhere any liquid to quench
his burning thirst.
Then, in the centre of the little town, Ull saw a well-curb. He knew what
it was, for he had heard tales of such thing from Mladdna. With pitiful
joy, he reeled forward and leaned upon the edge. There, at last, was the
end of his search. Water - slimy, stagnant, and shallow, but water -
before his sight.
Ull cried out in the voice of a tortured animal, groping for the chain and
bucket. His hand slipped on the slimy edge; and he fell upon his chest
across the brink. For a moment he lay there - then soundlessly his body
was precipitated down the black shaft.
There was a slight splash in the murky shallowness as he struck some
long-sunken stone, dislodged aeons ago from the massive coping. The
disturbed water subsided into quietness.
And now at last the Earth was dead. The final, pitiful survivor had
perished. All the teeming billions; the slow aeons; the empires and
civilizations of mankind were summed up in this poor twisted form - and
how titanically meaningless it all had been! Now indeed had come an end
and climax to all the efforts of humanity - how monstrous and incredible a
climax in the eyes of those poor complacent fools of the prosperous days!
Not ever again would the planet know the thunderous rampaging of human
millions - or even the crawling of lizards and the buzz of insects, for
they, too, had gone. now was come the reign of sapless branches and
endless fields of tough grasses. Earth, like its cold, imperturbable moon,
was given over to silence and blackness forever.
The stars whirred on; the whole careless plan would continue for
infinities unknown. This trivial end of a negligible episode mattered not
to distant nebulae or to suns new-born, flourishing, and dying. The race
of man, too puny and momentary to have a real function or purpose, was as
if it had never existed. To such a conclusion the aeons of its farcically
toilsome evolution had led.
But when the deadly sun's first rays darted across the valley, a light
found its way to the weary face of a broken figure that lay in the slime.
The Lovecraft Library wishes to extend its gratitude to Chilek al-Hassad
for transcribing this text.
