Ian Watson - Early in the Evening

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Early, in the Evening - a story by Ian Watson

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Early, in the Evening

a short story by Ian Watson

Foreword

"Early, in the Evening" was published in the April 1996 issue of

Asimov's Science Fiction. It's a story which occurred to me all of a

sudden when a friend said to me, "So I'll see you early evening,

then," and I thought to myself: but the evening isn't early, it's fairly

late on in the day. Stories quite often occur to me this way, ordinary

reality turning inside out and upside down, then I let the story tell

itself, taking off into whatever far region it chooses, in this case the

whole history of the world and human evolution reversed within less

than 3000 words, but with a sense of place and characters (I hope).

In Consciousness Explained (consciousness being a bit of an

obsession of mine) Daniel Dennett suggests that we are all fictional

characters, telling ourselves an ongoing narrative which constructs

our life and establishes who we are. Our existence depends on the

persistence of narrative. Consciousness is the product, not the

source, of stories. Furthermore, words fight it out within us for a

chance of expression. We do not so much choose our words; within

contextual constraints the words choose themselves. So, far from

being something non-essential -- mere entertainment -- the creation

and consumption of stories is rooted deep in our very existence and

consciousness. In "Early, in the Evening" that consciousness is

progressively lost as our story un-tells itself.

This is all rationalisation after the event. The story came first, and

told itself to me as the characters and ideas deployed themselves,

each giving rise to the other. And maybe the story has a different

meaning. Maybe it muses about death.

Nor did I quite intend, when I started writing these words, that this

would be what I would say about the story.

Early, in the Evening

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Early, in the Evening - a story by Ian Watson

Even early in the morning St Thomas's Church consisted of a nave and

chancel. However, Father Hopkins waited until almost noon before

delivering his Snowdrop Sermon. By then the church had undergone

numerous extensions and renovations. A south aisle had been added,

followed by a north aisle. The chancel had been rebuilt. Then a tower had

arisen -- otherwise how could Hopkins have rung a bell to summon his

flock? North doorway and chancel arch were remodelled. A south porch

was added. Windows became larger as the sun rose higher. Buttresses

strengthened the walls.

A substantial setting for his sermon!

From the pulpit Hopkins proclaimed to his congregation: "Snowdrops

push up spears through iron soil. They enter a world which is, as yet, so

scantily populated. There's so much free space wherein to be the first to

flower, thus the first to die.

"What does the snowdrop know of the riot of Summer?" he preached.

"What does it know of the subsequent heat? Would that hot riot of the mid-

months be a snowdrop's idea of hell? Or does the snowdrop inhabit an

eternally recurring hell of vacant cold?

"How time-bound is the snowdrop, never to know the full cycle of the

year in the way that people perceive a full year -- !" He faltered, perplexed

by which tense to adopt. "In the way that people used to perceive..."

Those in the congregation -- the Lucases and the Randalls, the Smiths and

the Bakers and the Baxters and others -- were tired from their morning's

toil. Since it would be another five hours or so until the development of

radio, let alone television, Hopkins was their consolation, even if the bleak

cheer which he offered lacked entire conviction.

"Used to perceive," Hopkins repeated. "Time has betrayed the Earth, and

all thereon who dwell -- who evolved here throughout millions of years --

Maybe it was a little early in the day for talk of evolution. Yet several in

his audience nodded understandingly.

Jonathon and Margaret Lucas, the eleven years old twins, fidgeted.

Jonathon complained to his father Richard: "Why do I have to gather

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Early, in the Evening - a story by Ian Watson

muck every morning?"

Margaret pestered her mother Elisabeth: "Why do I have to weed every

day?"

Jonathon dug his sister in the ribs. "That's just in the mornings, stupid."

"I'm not stupid! I'll be doing better than you in school this afternoon."

"Why do we have to go to school, Dad? What's the use?"

"Would you rather spend all day collecting dung?" Richard whispered

grimly.

"How could I spend all day?" asked the boy with irksome logic. "There's

no muck left lying about later on."

"In that case," retorted his father, "you must collect muck while it's

available."

"It's shitty."

"Watch your tongue! You just gather those droppings to scatter on the

fallows after they've been ploughed. That's your task, Son. We all have

tasks."

"We needn't -- "

Up in the pulpit, which was still carved of stone, Father Hopkins blinked.

Unaided as yet by spectacles, he peered towards the box-pew which the

Lucases were sharing with the Baxters.

"Sufficient unto the hour is the toil thereof!" he called out. "Believe me,

lad. All of you harken to me: our mundane lives are so much more

comprehensive now than ever they were before. Our lives are so much

more extensive, even universal, by the grace of Gaea. Each day we

embrace such a gamut of experiences. What does the snowdrop know of

such rich diversity, such a varying pageant? Isn't this how we should view

our plight?"

Was Hopkins the same priest as once he had been, before the treason of

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Early, in the Evening - a story by Ian Watson

time? Hopkins retained an oratorical bent, as well as a duty of care.

However, he had abandoned all Christian theology. Jesus and God the

Father and the Holy Ghost were irrelevant to what had occurred. Gaea, on

the other hand, might be germane.

A few days earlier Hopkins had attempted to explain how and why this

might be.

"Evolution," he had declared, "is undergoing a strange recapitulation. Do I

mean evolution as such? Forgive me, that is silly talk! It is our history

which is undergoing recapitulation day by day. Our recent social history in

all its circumstances." Hopkins had been a leading light of the local

Historical Society, and indeed come evening-time he still was.

"Throughout history," he confided, "the concept of God evolved. It is in

this sense I suggest that God might well now be viewed, ahem, as

devolving into Gaea -- as a more primitive power of seasons and crops

reasserts Herself. Should we not find this suggestive? As for the

miraculous nature of what besets us, alas, sophisticated theology outgrew

the magical -- "

"Mummy, why do I need to spend the mornings weeding the same old

weeds? Why can't we sleep in and get up late? Why can't we wait till we

can drive to the supermarket -- ?"

In the morning it was always early. Roughly eight hundred years early. In

the morning the Lucas's home was a thatched hovel of mud-and-wattle. So

were most of the other devolved houses each behind fence or hedge,

though the stockaded Manor with its ox-stalls and barns and buttery was

of sturdy stone.

Fields of long narrow strips extended to the great woodland where pigs

foraged. Sheep and cattle grazed the common meadow. Geese honked

around the fish ponds.

Mornings could be an optimistic time for many souls. People were full of

expectation for later in the day, though first there was hard labour. Ewes to

milk. Butter to churn. Fallows to plough, manure to scatter. Wood to cut.

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Ian Watson - Early in the Evening

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