Myths of the Modern Man by Jacqueline T Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

pointed to the First Century, and I was either in Britannia or northern Gaul. I think Britannia.
    What did these boys know of the stars? Had they given them Celtic names? Was Hercules really Cuchulainn to them? There was Ares, the Greek god of war. The Romans called him Mars. I went to the red planet named for him, on a long and mind-numbing journey, the hallmark of my resume. These celestial figures draped in the dark night above me were not Celtic myths, nor were they myths believed in my day. However, in my Third millennium we still did not bother to rename them. Call Hercules, oh, say, Steve. Call Andromeda something else, something more modern, like series number XKO77993-29? Why not? We long ago gave citizens of my country Social Security numbers, without which we couldn’t get a job or open a bank account. We gave people numbers, but left the cold constellations in the sky their adopted ancient names, their names of ancient gods to whom no one prayed any more. Sailing above us like a slow merry-go-round in a dance around the North Star they were allowed more personality and individuality than we allowed ourselves.
    They were not in the exact positions now that I had remembered them in from my boyhood in the late 21st Century, because of the wobble of the earth on its axis. Polaris was not the North Star yet, as it would be in my time.
    These two Celtic men might have been acquainted with Mars, I suddenly realized. The Roman legions worshipped him as their protector and inspiration. They brought him to Britannia. If Cailte and Taliesin did not now that now, they soon would. Mars would indeed become very familiar to them. His likeness was emblazoned on Roman shields, temples, and invoked on the carved tombstones of Roman dead.
    Taliesin glanced up at the sky, perhaps to see what I was looking at, or for. Where was his Avalon, his Celtic paradise? Up there? Or did it lie nearby, in some misty bog, hidden by trees and draped in twisted ropes of mistletoe? Was it much closer and more attainable than my heaven was for me? One need only be brave and die a good death to find Avalon. In these dark days, dying was easy and bravery the only key to survival.
    “ Please watch over me, Lord, and help me to be strong,” I prayed inside myself, a recent habit I’d acquired. They did not know about my God. Was He here with me, even in this time? I could not point to Him like Ares and trace His design. But I did not feel alone. I smiled into my hand. I had left my small gold crucifix at home. If Cailte or Taliesin or a Roman soldier saw it hanging from my neck, they would all recognize its shape, but it would mean something completely different to them. It was not for them a symbol of redemption. It was a symbol of torture and punishment for crimes against Rome.
    Despite this, even Cailte and Taliesin, though they thought they knew and hated the enemy, they knew really nothing about the Roman Empire, that grand and magnificent creation. They did not know how far it reached, or how omnipotent its power at this time in history. They did not know how long its influence would reach into the future. We owe so much of our own identity in my time to that civilization of laws and military authority, of civil disobedience against it, and marble and blood. Even the Celts were part and parcel to it, but did not know it. They only knew the Romans from their temples and their javelins.
    Their beautiful, symmetric temples to vengeful gods.
    Usually the Romans looked the other way when their conquered vassals practiced some strange, quaint religion apart from theirs, if they prayed to a cloud or were frightened by lightning, or took physical infirmities, the color of mud, or the drying up a cow’s udder as some sign. They could be tolerant.
    There were only two instances in Roman history when religion became so big a threat to their authority and the smooth operation of Rome, Inc., that they felt compelled to massacre the believers. The first was