by Andrew Gudgel

OBITUARY
“Stumpy,” the last Aydax on Earth, died May 12, 2128.
His arrival was spectacular. Twenty-one alien ships set down on July 8, 2039. Three days later he and 668,127 of his cephalopodic companions strode forth and spread out across the planet to a mercifully brief worldwide panic. A few Aydax were murdered initially, but when it became apparent they meant no harm, the world settled into puzzlement. Then indifference. Then acceptance.
No one knew what the Aydax wanted, for we were never able to communicate with them. Theories abounded as to their origin and purpose. None were ever confirmed. Aydax wandered the Earth seemingly at random, always phlegmatic, always silent save the hissing of air through their breathing throats. Youngsters knocked them off their tentacles and recorded the act for social media. No response from the Aydax. Scientists tried communication using the entire electromagnetic spectrum, sound, gestures, chemicals. Once again, no response. The Aydax were “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” which no one on Earth was able to penetrate.
They were even more of a mystery on Albion’s shores, the UK being the one place where few Aydax came. Less than two dozen managed to find their way here, probably arriving in shipping containers (the Aydax were notorious for being able to penetrate even locked areas–to the dismay of bankers, generals and lovers). One was known to have arrived on a Chunnel train from Paris. No one knows how Stumpy (as he came to be called) made it to Cumbria, let alone the village of Coniston. Perhaps it was the draw of the Lake District. Or an interest in Ruskin, buried in St. Andrew’s churchyard. “He simply appeared one day,” said David Brown, owner of the local pub. “Stump and all.”
That stump was the mark of his individuality–a tentacle which ended a hand’s breadth below the bottom of his body. He got around good enough on the other six that the loss didn’t seem to faze him. “He was just fine like he was,” said Grace Taylor, who was walking to her primary school when Stumpy arrived in Coniston, in 2055. “I was scared of course, never having seen one of them before, but after a few weeks, he was, you know, familiar.”
Unusual for an Aydax in many ways, Stumpy spent the rest of his life in and around Coniston, rather than wandering onward, like others of his kind. “I think once he saw the beauty of the lake, he didn’t want to leave,” said Brown. Stumpy’s appearance was a boon to a village which depended on tourism. Once word got out online, the novelty of a resident Aydax doubled the number of visitors for several years. Rumors of a kidnap plot caused villagers to initiate a twenty-four-hour watch on their special guest for six weeks in 2056. Stumpy took a short “vacation” to the nearby fells in 2071, only to reappear in Coniston as the first snow of the year came down.
Even after his fame faded, the residents of the village remained as friendly as one can be to a being no-one could communicate with. A pint was drawn and set out every day for him at the local, just in case he got thirsty. His safety was eventually ensured by a tracking microdrone paid for by the local Council. And always the greeting and friendly wave on the street, never reciprocated. Or perhaps it was. Unlike many areas through which the Aydax passed, the people of Coniston had no reason to worry for the safety of their pets. While the rat population did noticeably decline, not a single cat or dog disappeared during Stumpy’s residence in the village.
And then in 2103, the Aydax left Earth. Weeks before, it was noticed their meanderings had become purposeful, tending back toward the ships in which they’d arrived. Before the year ended, Aydax “swarms” had formed, causing havoc in areas close to their ships. The panic that had gripped the world upon their arrival never reappeared, yet there was confusion, worry and for those living within a few kilometers from Aydax ships, the annoyance of thousands of individuals suddenly filling every street, yard and building. The swarms became streams, flowing toward the ships. Yet Stumpy showed no signs of leaving his adopted home.
The ships filled and then the world waited. Three days later, the ramps closed and the Aydax ships made their silent way out of the atmosphere and left the solar system. Word soon spread of Aydax who had been left behind. An informal (then formal) worldwide census counted 21 individuals, scattered across the globe. Late night and online comedians made jokes about tourists missing the boat; conspiracy theorists muttered about saboteurs being left behind. But within a year or so, it had been confirmed that the remaining Aydax were all staying within relatively small geographic ranges. Were Stumpy to be an alien saboteur, villagers argued, wouldn’t he have chosen a more strategically important location than the Lake District? The conspiracy-mongers moved on.
The first of the left-behind Aydax to die was Jorge, who wandered the south-western suburbs of Montevideo. More deaths followed from time to time, and yet Stumpy endured–until he was the last of his kind. In later years, locals claimed, he seemed to wander the churchyard of St. Andrew’s more often than before, sometimes perambulating around the building for an hour at a time.
Stumpy’s end came in the very heart of the village which he apparently loved. His body was found one morning at the fork in the road which leads either down to Coniston Water or up into the fells. Yet he faced the churchyard. Donations were made, the body coffined. A last-minute debate over his status as a parishioner was settled by no less than the Archbishop of Canterbury herself. Stumpy, his interstellar wanderings finally over, was taken through the lychgate that afternoon and laid to rest, attended by his fellow inhabitants of Coniston. *Requiescat in Pace.*
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Bio:
Andrew Gudgel is a freelance writer and translator. His fiction has appeared in Writers of the Future, Flash Fiction Online, Escape Pod, InterGalactic Medicine Show and other publications. He lives in Maryland, USA, in an apartment slowly being consumed by books. You can find him at www.andrewgudgel.com.
Philosophy Note:
This piece is a riff on my “Social Aspects Of The Aydax Phenomenon: A Literature Review,” published in the Sci Phi Journal in 2021. While the first piece considered how humanity would react to aliens with whom we couldn’t communicate, this piece is a meditation on the loss of something that’s become familiar. For interested readers, the title of the piece comes from the fact that “The Economist” always publishes their obituaries on the last page of the magazine.
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