After the Decline

“Every soul has an innate want to see blue oceans and forests teaming with life. Few of those are willing to make the necessary sacrifices.”

- Old Earth Proverb, BD (Before The Decline)

Sacrifice. Now the human species took it in spades. But not the kind of sacrifice that was required before The Decline, that of luxury and power, or simply a well-mown lawn, but the kind that takes lives. Deaths by starvation, by thirst, by sheer loss of will. The latter cause was the fate that befell Sol, Lakmeh’s friend, whose body she stood over now, wasting precious moisture as she wept.

Sol’s emaciated skeleton was to be deposited in the far pits, amongst the other less fortunate, where he would be preserved in the festering brine. There was nothing else to be done - burning bodies was too risky for the already feeble atmosphere, and the shifting tides of sand and salt meant everything buried would eventually be uncovered.

As Lakmeh said goodbye to yet another soul lost in New Earth, she touched the locket in her badly-sewn pocket. That tiny, heart-shaped thing was a grim reminder of the human race’s profligate past, of her own ancestor’s mistakes. Gold, like so many others, was a resource to be pillaged by Old Earthers. Enormous quantities of energy and non-human lives lost, all so a daughter could have her trinket, a husband a symbolic ring, a dog an adorable name tag.

But the locket was more than just gold, it was a symbol. A secret. To reveal it would be to ruin Lakmeh’s family, the last thing she could hold on to. She kept it hidden. It was thought by the people that a heart-shaped locket which survived The Decline would reveal the meaning of it all - the extinctions, the over-extractions, the desertification, even the corruption of the air around them. It was the prospect of a single answer, a reason as to why and how Old Earthers let go of their planet so readily, that nurtured the determination of so many souls who would otherwise be lost.

Lakmeh surveyed her surroundings gravely. She had seen the old photos of woodlands and grasslands, of magical wildlife. This wasn’t it. Sure, there was green, a sickly coat of green algae that covered the rocky surfaces and depths of thick, salty marsh that blighted the landscape. Where the marshes had evaporated in the thin, dry air, caked salt flats, rocky surfaces and ancient rubbish remained, white and dead. The few survivors around her helped to lower Sol into the nearest pool of brine. Lakmeh wasn’t sure if she could take this hit. Sol was was the last person she had made herself vulnerable to. In the end her company was not enough to stop him from simply letting go.

For months, Lakmeh had resisted the burning urge to open the locket since her grandmother had gifted it to her in the hours before her death. The suggestion of what the locket might contain (or might not contain) was too overwhelming for someone who fought daily to survive. The gravity of its hypothetical contents weighed heavily on her conscience.

Her grandmother had taught her the same thing her own grandmother had before her.

“Lakmeh, this cursed gift must never be opened. You must keep it hidden and safe always, and pass the same burden on to your own kin.”

“But why must we keep it?” Lakmeh had asked, “Can’t we just throw it away?”

Her grandmother took her by the shoulders and stared, panicked, into her eyes.

“To discard it would be to hand it to those who would blame us for The Decline. For our family’s sake, no one must ever see the contents of this locket.”

So she had slipped it into the pocket at her left hip, and it hadn’t left her side since. Now in this moment of despair and loss, she toyed with the idea of opening it. She sunk to her knees, face in hands, weeping for Sol, for her grandmother, for the fish, the birds, the insects, the whales, the trees. Locket in her palm, she held her hand out to the nearest survivor whose eyes suddenly widened with manic disbelief.

“The sacred locket? You offer this to me freely?” He said, reaching for her hand.

As the survivor took the locket he lifted it high above his head.

“People of New Earth,” he projected, his voice ringing with confidence and faith.

“Here lies our answer, our solution, our peace. This is the Sacred Locket, that which holds the secret of Old Earth. I prese-”

“Who are you to wield this gift?” A survivor interrupted. “I have more years than you on this godforsaken land, I should be the one to open the locket.”

Reaching for his hand, she snatched at the locket, and now they both held on, wrestling fingers.

A number of other survivors had gathered, eyes fixed on the clasped hands, feverish energy brewing among them. A ragged man suddenly bolted toward the battling duo, tackling them to the ground, while the locket was flung toward the growing congregation.

An instant eruption of flailing limbs and angry shouts ensued. A frenzied madness took over the mob, and the locket was lost amongst their writhing bodies. Lakmeh was aghast, horrified at what she had unleashed. But as she reached into her pocket, she felt the rough edges of two small squares of coated paper, forced into a heart shape for generations.

She walked away from the chaos, looking down at the locket’s contents that she had carefully extracted before giving it away. On one piece was an old photograph and on the other a small, handwritten passage.

“We are what’s left of The Decline. We, who had the means and privilege to survive. We, who could not sacrifice our luxury for the sake of the planet, who saw political engagement as unnecessary beyond corruption, we, who used our power and wealth to our own interests. It is now our responsibility to continue to survive, and to make a better world.”

Lakmeh studied the photograph. Seventeen solemn faces looked back at her. The only survivors of Old Earth. They were her ancestors, but they were the ancestors of all of them. They had each watched the decline while they favoured their greed over change, presuming immunity from environmental destruction. In a way they were right - they were immune, in their privilege they had survived when the less fortunate had not. It was now their responsibility to make it right - all of them. Lakmeh stopped. She could not turn her back on the mob, not now that she knew what they all shared. Guilt and shame. A history of irreverence, not evil, was the catalyst for The Decline. She turned around and faced the now despairing mob, faced her past and her future, as they all must.