The Fires of Delphinus

illustrated by Gustavo Barroni

 

Original Fiction by Lindsay Taylor

The publisher had dutifully tried to hype the whole affair, but there’s only so much that could be done under the circumstances.

A launch party crammed into a humble bookshop above a vacuum repair shop can only offer its guests so much by way of entertainment, after all. And at the end of the day, most people just had somewhere better to be a week before the apocalypse, even if it was to be the last book ever published. The only attendees were those too jaded or alone to bother savoring their final moments with loved ones and making peace with their existence, and to be frank, those kinds of people didn’t make ideal party guests. From her corner near the window, the author wondered which category she fell into. Perhaps a little bit of both. She sighed as she looked around at the somber faces, the witnesses to the crowning achievement of her life, and took another swig of champagne. She let the bubbles fizz on her tongue for a moment, pleased that the publisher had at least sprung for the good stuff. Her appreciation quickly dissipated when she remembered that money was now obsolete.

“You must be Mrs. Smeede!” A stout man with glasses appeared suddenly at her elbow, making her start. He offered her a wide smile that bordered on crazed, though perhaps it was just a side-effect of his unruly beard.

“Please, call me God,” she said, shaking his hand.

“What a day!” He gazed around in admiration at the handful of solemn guests. “I would have never guessed it when I opened up this place… The last book in the world – released in my humble bookshop. Galen Couch, by the way, pleasure to meet you.” He doffed an imaginary hat, then shook his head in bemused wonder. With a satisfied sigh, he picked up a copy of the thick volume that covered every available surface of the shop. The book jacket was white and featured a handsome couple, running hand-in-hand through the cover. The man’s chin was tilted upwards, and he was staring with purpose in the direction of the title: The Fires of Delphinus, written in red and gold script. The woman looked more anxious than her companion, her glance cast downwards towards the author’s name: Goddard Smeede. The man gazed at it for a minute.

“Not much of a title, eh?” he said.

God shrugged. The end of the world had eliminated the tendency for social niceties, but also her tendency to give a shit. She had sacrificed years of her life, foregoing friendship and romance to slave away on her manuscript. It had taken years to arrive at this moment, to have her cumbersome name sit on the hallowed shelves of a bookstore, nestled between Elizabeth Smart and Ali Smith.

Since the Lifeboat departed with its millions of digitized volumes stashed on its harddrive, many found literature to be a rather quaint medium. Skeptics declared that the canon had been closed; neatly packed away and preserved by select members of humanity, now the only members of our species who had a chance at long-term survival. But God had been raised on hope. Her parents were some of the firmest believers that the Lifeboat would return, bringing salvation to a doomed planet. They even christened their only daughter after the craft’s official name: ISS Goddard. And so little God grew up with her nose in a book and her head in the clouds, where she was convinced she’d one day see the blaring lights descend from above with tales of a fresh start, light-years away. When the news broke that a stray asteroid would wipe them all out before the Lifeboat could ever make its homecoming, Mr. and Mrs. Smeede joined several hundred others in jumping off Tower Bridge. 

“Nice of the publishers to fulfil the contract,” Couch was saying now, “you know, all things considered. So many people just packed it in as soon as they heard the news. Poor form, I say.”

“Yes, well, I suppose they couldn’t really see the point.” At this, the bookseller let out an alarming hoot of laughter, drawing bleak looks from several of the nearby guests. 

“My dear! There’s never been any point!” 

God let out a heavy sigh and turned toward the window. She was familiar with this line of reasoning: We were doomed anyway, it all had to end sometime, why get your panties in a twist? God knew everyone had their way of rationalizing the total destruction of humanity, but this one seemed pathetically reductive.

“So you’re not bothered at all, then?” she asked, voice thick with skepticism.

“Bothered?!” the bookseller exclaimed, “why, I’m devastated! When the news came in – oh, how I cried! I cried for myself, for humanity, for the things I would never see and the books I would never read. Most of all, I cried for all my friends… There’s always time for one more cup of tea with a friend, I always say. Damn shame we’ll all be parting so soon.” He looked up at God from under bushy, unkempt eyebrows. “What was the point for you then? Why are you sticking it out till the bitter end?” he asked.

God thought of the long hours at her desk, shoulders hunched and fingernails gnawed down to the quick.

“I’ve only ever wanted to do one thing,” She nodded to the bulky novel in the bookkeeper’s hands. “Write a book.”

“Only that?” he asked.

“Authors taste infinity.”

Couch grinned broadly, like a teacher pleased with a clever student. “Of course!” He cried. “Limitless worlds, inside the finite pages of a book. Authors will never die – as long as they’re read!” He chuckled softly as he gazed around his bookshop at the immortals he had lived among for years. His dearest companions, his gods, his ghosts. Then the gaiety faded from his eyes, leaving his lips locked in a twisted smile. God knew what he must be thinking: Authors can’t exactly live forever when their readers have been wiped from the face of the earth by a flaming comet. Then they’re just as dead as the rest. He grimaced and glanced at her apologetically. For the first time, he seemed unsure of what to say.

“Strange that such a thing can slip from your mind, eh?” he murmured. 

God attempted a comforting smile. She knew the feeling. Just the other day she had been idly wondering if she should go on holiday to France this year. She had been about to look up flights before she remembered she had unwittingly taken her last holiday four years ago –  a long weekend in Cornwall, eventful only for the unseasonable amount of rain. She grabbed another bottle of champagne from a passing waiter, then a second for her companion. They clinked glass and drank deeply. 

“I realize writing won’t make me immortal anymore,” God said, “Or at least, I realize forever has been cut a little short. I did what I set out to do – that’s what’s important.”

“That’s the spirit!” he cried, raising his bottle once again. For a moment they drank in silence, observing the other party-goers milling around. The champagne was starting to work its magic on God; she swayed slightly in space, feeling more magnanimous than the circumstances called for. God had always been a lonely girl; people were never her strong suit. And the fact that she had single-mindedly sequestered herself to write her magnum opus hadn’t allowed her much practice as she grew older. But at present, glowing from her accomplishments and Veuve Clicquot, they no longer seemed like the aliens she’d always made them out to be. Now they were potential readers.

“So what’s it about then?” the little man continued, gesturing to the book.

“You haven’t read it?” God asked, taken aback. “I thought you were sent an advanced copy.” He chuckled.

“My dear, it’s nearly 600 pages. I mean, really – who’s got the time?” 

God’s face was suddenly unpleasantly hot. She glanced around at the other attendees. Were any of them going to bother reading her book? Her pride and joy? Her raison d’etre? 

Of course not, she thought bitterly. They’re just here for the booze. The bottle in her hands felt too heavy.

“I think I’ve had too much of this stuff,” she mumbled over the lump in her throat. She glanced around desperately for a place to put it down, for any escape route. Couch shifted uncomfortably as he realized his faux pas.

“Oh, what does it matter, if anyone reads it anyway?” he continued. “It’s quite an achievement as it is! The Last Book on Earth!”

An achievement, thought God, an achievement for whom? What’s an achievement with no one left to admire it?

“I’m going to get some air,” she said. To her horror, she realized she was blinking back tears. She barged through the sparse crowd and clattered down the narrow staircase out onto Maguire Street. She took a few deep breaths, gulping the cool air greedily. The thought she had been repressing for weeks – that these breaths were among her last – fought its way violently to the surface. All her work, all her sacrifice, just to end here. No cracked spines, no dog-eared pages, no hands to cradle the book, eagerly awaiting the next chapter. Just years of wasted time. She ran towards the bank of the river as the grey sky pressed in around her.

 One thing can be said about the apocalypse: At least a girl can cry uncontrollably in the street without garnering much attention. God howled at the sky until strength failed her, then she folded in on herself and howled at the pavement below her feet. When the sobs subsided, she became aware of a hand on her back. She wiped the snot from her nose and glanced behind her to see Galen Couch, sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry I upset you, my dear.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, still sniffling “It was really the massive asteroid hurtling toward earth that did it.”

Around them, London was bustling with its usual chaos. Not even doomsday could dampen the frenetic energy that had abounded for millennia on the banks of the Thames. Though no one was speeding off to jobs or appointments today. Instead people rushed to see loved ones, meet with friends, drink their last pints, gorge on their favorite foods, and confess long-repressed feelings of desire now that time was short and consequences non-existent. Lucky bastards, she thought. No one will remember us in a week, but at least you’ve got people who think of you now.

Couch’s hand was still on her back, warm and solid. With his other hand he fished a monogrammed handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and pressed it to her palm. God wiped at her face, wondering idly who had stitched his initials into the silk. 

“I’ve gone and spoilt it all, haven’t I?” God ventured, her voice thick. She handed the handkerchief back to Couch, who was looking up at her patiently.

“Not to worry dear,” he said. “Your party’s not over yet.” He glanced down at the crumpled hanky in his hand and after a moment, threw it into the river. The two of them watched as the dark water pulled the fabric back and forth and eventually swept it downstream. “Now why don’t I fix us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me all about your book?” 

Author's note: Lindsay Taylor is a US American anthropologist currently completing a masters in Heritage Studies at the University of Cambridge. With an omnivorous appetite for books, Lindsay’s influences stem from a diverse range of literary genres, though she is particularly fond of anything in which magic spells are cast, orcs are defeated, or animal companions conversed with. She extends her thanks to Inci and Abby for being supportive yet constructive in their criticism and to Los Campesinos! for inspiring the title.

Editor's note: When Lindsay came up with "Fires of Delphinus", I wasn't surprised that she was able to capture the exact zeitgeist, the distress and loneliness of the crazy times we live in, in such a bite-sized short story. Because she's talented like that and I'm immensely proud to be involved in this project. She's also one of the most level-headed and warm people I know and will be dearly missed in Berlin.
Another huge thank you goes to Gustavo Barroni for the absolutely magnificent illustration he created for this story. It truly rocks!