Resnick, Mike - Winter Solstice

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WINTER SOLSTICE

by Mike Resnick

It is not easy to live backwards in time, even when you are

Merlin the Magnificent. You would think it would be otherwise,

that you would remember all the wonders of the future, but those

memories grow dim and fade more quickly than you might suppose. I

know that Gallahad will win his duel tomorrow, but already the

name of his son has left me. In fact, does he even have a son?

Will he live long enough to pass on his noble blood? I think

perhaps he may, I think that I have held his grandchild upon my

knee, but I am not sure. It is all slipping away from me.

Once I knew all the secrets of the universe. With no more

than a thought I could bring Time to a stop, reverse it in its

course, twist it around my finger like a piece of string. By force

of will alone I could pass among the stars and the galaxies. I

could create life out of nothingness, and turn living, breathing

worlds into dust.

Time passed -- though not the way it passes for you -- and I

could no longer do these things. But I could isolate a DNA

molecule and perform microsurgery on it, and I could produce the

equations that allowed us to traverse the wormholes in space, and

I could plot the orbit of an electron.

Still more time slipped away, and although these gifts

deserted me, I could create penicillin out of bread mold, and

comprehend both the General and Special Theories of Relativity,

and I could fly between the continents.

But all that has gone, and I remember it as one remembers a

dream, on those occasions I can remember it at all. There was --

there someday will be, there may come to you -- a disease of the

aged, in which you lose portions of your mind, pieces of your

past, thoughts you've thought and feelings you've felt, until all

that's left is the primal _id_, screaming silently for warmth and

nourishment. You see parts of yourself vanishing, you try to pull

them back from oblivion, you fail, and all the while you realize

what is happening to you until even that perception, that

realization, is lost. I will weep for you in another millennia,

but now your lost faces fade from my memory, your desperation

recedes from the stage of my mind, and soon I will remember

nothing of you. Everything is drifting away on the wind, eluding

my frantic efforts to clutch it and bring it back to me.

I am writing this down so that someday someone -- possibly

even _you_ -- will read it and will know that I was a good and

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Resnick, Mike - Winter Solstice

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