26/08/11 Crossing the Threshhold.... into the future “SIGNS” by Liz Davey 1998 words
Porsche looked across Foredown, high on Bodmin Moor. A pale glimpse of sea shone between coastal promontories. It was a beautiful evening of fading sunshine. A soft wind blew, and the ever present smog over Plymouth released some brownish curls which drifted to the west, joining the lesser smog over Liskeard. Windmills turned silently, casting long crosses over the land. She said,
“Do you remember when we could still see the lights on the Tamar Brige from here?”
Jago looked up from the plastic sheet he was trying to straighten.
“Yeah, just about. But those stacks look as if they've been there forever now. As long as the mine chimneys... and even 'Old Tom'.” Jago waved towards the standing stone on the horizon behind them, once the tallest in Cornwall.
The solid fuel powerstation had been built in 2023 amidst much controversy. All the domestic homes now ran on wind, wave and crap power, as Faeces Recycling Centres were called with their frequent startling wafts of sulphurous fumes. People were used to going without power for hours at a time, when the uncertain batteries, bought in cheaply from Matabeleland, played up. But Government establishments had to be consistent, and ran on fossil fuels.
The chimneys belched smoke twenty four hours a day. Ranked along a plateau, they effectively obscured the view of The Sound from most vantage points in Southeast Cornwall.
The two continued to resecure the vandalised coverings of the hay mountain. One of at least thirty in the area. Surplus crops were stored in every open space. The new government catchphrase 'WASTE NOT WANT NOT' ensured that almost all of Bodmin Moor was covered in hay and wild oat mountains under this black plastic.
Jago had discovered the vandalisation. Hay going mouldy under sabotaged, torn plastic. He'd gone straight to the Communal Newsmast and plugged in. The Central Council would send teams to replace it and trace the Perps. Jago would get Duchy points, not as many as you got for reporting quarreling neighbours, but always handy. Porsche was of a generation that shied away from this social monitoring of people, but held her tongue. She supposed that all middle aged people struggled with change.
Jago had read that white plastic was the material of choice and far more likely to preserve the food and the moor, but dared not bring this up at Council. It would prove that he had access to books, rather than the Ultimate Kindles that had been around for about thirty five years and officially replaced all older forms of reading matter.
Jago suspected most non fiction books had been rewritten to fit in with the current Zeitgeist. But then, he was generally considered to be a 'Crank'; this was a new catchphrase for someone who in the olden days would have been called bit la-la, doolally, eccentric.
Porsche and Jago were planning to make a verandah at the front of their Brubeckburrow. It was next to the last of the old cottages at Minions and considered to be in a good position, worth adding to for it's Westerly views where the wreck of the Eden Project remained, (a curiosity and warning not to try to recreate the past.)
The verandah's framework was in place, made from abandoned saplings. They'd found lots of spare plastic, which shone a beautiful frosty purple under the sun. It would make a fine covering.
They walked past Wheal Cameron just as the siren sounded for end of shift. It was a crowing cockerel this week. Miners strolled out, pale faced and red eyed from staring at monitors all day. Caleb, who lived next door, was with them.
“Hola! Dig up any gold?” Jago called , tongue in cheek.
“As if!”
They all laughed, nothing was produced from the re opened mines, but they provided 'employment', keeping local people who didn't work for the Government or Councils, (Central, Local or Duchy) occupied.
Several friends walked together. Most people lived in the Brubeckburrows, developed by an environmentalist in 2016. Unlike the pioneering environmental buildings they were both quick to erect and space saving. Only the old, old cottages and stately homes remained from the past, ostensibly for Council and Government workers, but most were holiday homes for foreign dignitories. The Mayor of Rabe, in Northern Spain, was currently in the end cottage and had enjoyed being shown Porsche's pet goats. They reminded him of his great grandfathers home, a Finca in Andalucia. All these rural properties had long since been swept away in Spain.
“Have you got much food?” Caleb's mother Maggie called to Porsche.
“Yes, gram flour and carrots. I can make Moroccan pancakes. Want to join us?”
“Lovely! I've got lots of bilberrys from Golitha and of course....”
-”Cream!” Everyone cried. The huge clotted cream processing plant in Callington, six miles away, was always a source of amusement. Whatever shortages there were, cream was never one of them.
They all sat under the half finished verandah watching the sun set over small, round white brubeckburrows, dotting every remaining space on the moor. Caleb called them Babies Heads after an old man, met in a museum, told him about the Manchester steak and kidney puddings that went by this name, but everyone he told stared blankly. Why were he and Jago always so silly?
Later they were supposed to attend the latest blockbuster movie, 'Sex around Wuthering Heights' being screened out at the Communal Newsmast, or C.N.
Porsche hated films nowadays, which were all what she would have called pornographic, but that was all there was to watch. It was one of the reasons she had left Street Pastoring; she wanted to do more than hand out morning after pills and bandages to drunken people coming out of Night Spots. To try to make people respect each other and learn about their world! Study old faiths that had been banned, but still flourished underground; mostly the Moslem Religion, followed closely by Methodism, Jedi-ism and Buddhism. There were more of course.
And there was the possibility of a God, dwelling inside each person as well as existing somewhere high in the sky, charged with the faith and spirituality of believers across time, like a huge, strong battery leaking power in the form of Signs. Not like the Matabeleland batteries at all.
People were always angry and resentful when any religion was mentioned, as far back as 2011, when she'd been still a girl. They blamed it for wars, rather than their own interpretations and subsequent behaviours! And yet there were still wars, they raged constantly according to the news bulletins at the C.N. Porsche shook her head, remembering her gentle grandfather, one of the last Anglican Vicars. He'd encouraged her to look up at the sky sometimes and think about why we were all here. Could it be wrong to just explore such concepts?
Well, she was to be given the benefit of the doubt. The Central Council had today permitted her to spearhead one such project. It had been agreed she could start up a local Body and Soul Cafe. (Porsche privately called it a Church.) She took out her Personal Media Communicator and read the message for the twentieth time today. Her closest love, Jago, was to monitor her and report back to Duchy, any misdemeanors or problems likely to lead to strife. This would ensure that she did not begin to get grand ideas about her position, and also refrain from manipulating less intelligent or gullible people. She knew she was putting her head on the block-(what on earth did that mean?)- Anyway, at least the Power holders were facing up to the fact that the people still needed more than a roof over their heads, occupation and entertainment.
She and Maggie looked at one of Maggies ancient House books from the 1970's. Yellow with age and crumbling until Caleb had sprayed each page with waterproof coating used on the roofs of the Brubeckburrows. They studied floral patterns and pinewood furniture with constant fascination. Without telling the School her sources, Porsche had started the infants on potato prints, using simple cruciferae flower shapes from the oil seed rape that grew wild along all the roads. No other wild flowers existed outside museums now, and these were considered weeds. But you could go along to one of the enormous museums if you wanted to see more flowers.
Porsche and Maggie were planning more ambitious designs onto fabric after a rare visit to Exeter museum. Cushions were the goal, stuffed with the goats wool. The neighbours thought they were mad. In a world where wall art, patterns and colour could be programmed to change as often as you liked; (batteries allowing), who would be interested in stamping out rough, barely recognisable images of weeds?
Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden cacophany of bleeps, chimes and chirps. The fashion for real sound clocks was back with a vengeance, bird noises being popular this week. Porsche turned down her snoring ostrich and stood up. Eight o'clock, time for Social activities, Lucy the Historian would be walking up now. Lucy was helping her to build a picture of St Cleer in previous centuries, when warring miners marched into Liskeard on payday to drink and fight, (not much different from today) and John Wesley's outdoor preaching of the Christian gospels had contributed to the development of little buildings, chapels, across the Duchy.
Christianity had been big in those days. There was nothing like it now. No miracles, prayers answered, no Signs like the face of the Christ imprinted upon a small blue flowered weed. Porsche would have liked to have seen that before it went extinct. It was called Veronica after the woman who gave Him her handkerchief to mop his face and drop on those flowers as He struggled along carrying the heavy wooden cross.
Porsche knew about that punishment. It had been banned for hundreds of years, up until 2025. They didn't use crosses now. There were always spare, furled windmills that could be utilised. Not too often, thankfully. People got over excited when one was due,- here on Caradon Hill, usually, so more people could see it across the Eastern Duchy. She shivered. Surely crucifixion was as bad as stoning people to death? But that had been banned in 2020.
She got up to leave. Caleb and Jago were arguing about the government. Maggie was saying,
“Anyone for bilberry flummery?
“What's the flummery bit?” Jago asked suspiciously, then grinned as everyone shouted
“Cream!”
Maggie gave the two men bowls of purple sweet stuff and returned to a discussion that had been going on while Porsche had been thinking.
“You two and your Economics! It's a good hobby, but you'll never change anything. And you, Porsche, with this Spiritual stuff. You'll go the way of all the others.”
She spoke lightly, but Porsche was surprised to hear a tremor in Maggie's voice and see her eyes were shiny. Dear Maggie, she cared.
Caleb and Jago took the leftovers down to the swillsilo while Maggie watched Porsche step lightly down the lane. Lucy approached, carrying the antique reel to reel tape recorder with voice recordings of real old people remembering what their ancestors had told them about their lives, and most importantly to Porsche; their Faiths. Maggie's worried gaze moved beyond Lucy and Porsche, chatting excitedly. No signs, no symbols. No faith left. It was safer that way.
But her gaze alighted on a small weed, supposedly extinct. She'd found one earlier, just as Porsche received the go ahead for her new spiritual venture. Opened the Concise British Flora 1963 in trepidation, knowing before she found it that it was a Sign, Veronica, speedwell, the face of one to be crucified in the name of religion. More would follow. The circle would keep turning as surely as those windmills turned; shadow crosses over the barren land.
END
Thirty years into the future, this story is set on Fore down, near Crows nest, St Cleer and Minions, villages on Bodmin Moor. Minions was originally developed as a mining village and named for the tumuli there since ancient times. In 2031 a wind farm exists on Caradon Hill and the land is covered with surplus food store 'mountains' All twentieth century buildings are gone, only vernacular cottages remain, and thousands of “Brubeckburrows” which house “the Workers” Some of the old tin/copper mines have reopened, but inside the only activities are computer games on a mining theme. All wildlife (apart from some domestic animals), flowers, non crop trees, animals and birds are in Museums, the nearest in Exeter; huge cathedrals to the past set up to provide exactly the environments their 'contents' once lived in naturally. This needs a lot of electricity, hence new fossil fuel power stations.There is little medical care and no spiritual needs are recognised. Social networking is used even more extensively to monitor the people, here by the 'communal newsmast 'on Caradon Hill No quarreling is allowed. Lawbreaking is punished by public execution.
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