New Found Land

by John Christopher

  There was a wrenching sound of the peg coming out; it too whistled past Simon’s ear. Brad twisted and heaved again; at first ineffectually but then he disappeared over the top. His voice came down: “I’ll make the rope secure. Hang on.”

  There was a long interval before he spoke again: “I think it’s okay. You first, Simon. You’re lighter.”

  Hesitation was not going to improve things. He gave a sharp testing tug on the rope and started climbing, his feet treading the wall. It was not all that difficult, providing he could keep his mind closed to the drop. That wasn’t easy, though.

  Pain shot through his right hand and he gave an involuntary yelp of pain: his fingers had been trapped between rope and stone. But that meant he was nearly there; he looked up to see the parapet’s edge clear-cut against the sky. He reached for it, found a grip, and heaved convulsively. Brad helped him over the top and he collapsed thankfully on the other side.

  As he got up he said to Brad: “What did you use to anchor the rope?”

  “There wasn’t anything. I just dug in my toes against the bottom of the parapet.”

  He was glad he hadn’t known that earlier. At least there were two of them to haul up Bos, though even so it was a strain. Once he had joined them, Simon could take stock of the situation.

  All it was possible to make out in the dim light was that the top was level and had quite a number of buildings on it. The parapet stretched out of view in either direction. It must enclose a considerable area: enough to house a small village. Brad said: “Any suggestions what we do next?”

  It was an unusual query to come from him. His voice had a note of exhaustion. It was obvious the climb had taken a lot out of him. Simon was conscious of a similar reaction, of feeling at a loss about what to do next. Bos, though, said, matter-of-factly: “She is somewhere up here. We must look till we find her.”

  • • •

  The first building they tackled had an open door, and it wasn’t difficult to establish that it contained what a sound of snoring had already suggested—a score or so of sleeping men. The second proved identical. After a row of these huts, they came on smaller ones. The first was an ablutions room, with stone basins on either side and a pool in the centre.

  Subsequently they found storerooms, a kitchen, and next to it, a messroom. Simon began to get discouraged again, and it even occurred to him to wonder if the information about her being here had been correct; supposing she were, the chances of finding her without their being discovered first did not seem high. Then Bos gripped his arm, whispering, “Look.”

  He peered into the darkness and saw a building much bigger than any they had so far encountered, higher as well as broader. Bos led the investigation, and they found a doorway with a bead curtain that jangled slightly as they pushed through. They passed from the room inside to a second and a third; they seemed to be well furnished. But empty. Simon whispered to Brad: “Nothing here. Shall we move on?”

  “Over there,” Brad whispered back, “—isn’t it a staircase?”

  The stairs creaked alarmingly under their feet. There was a landing at the top, and rooms on either side. To the left there was a sound of rhythmic breathing; Simon and Bos peeped in and saw about a dozen pallet beds. At that point Simon became aware Brad was not with them, and turned to see him beckoning from the entrance to the room opposite.

  This room had just one bed and one sleeping figure. It would be marvellous if it were Lundiga, Simon thought; except it couldn’t possibly be. Then the figure moved, flinging out an arm and turning over in bed. Blonde hair gleamed in the faint moonlight.

  Leaning over her, Bos whispered urgently: “Lundiga . . . wake up, girl!”

  She shifted but did not respond; she had always been a heavy sleeper. Bos shook the outstretched arm. “Wake up. It’s us.”

  She sat up abruptly, grabbing at his wrist. “What . . . who?” She came wide-awake. “Is it you, Bos?” She was incredulous. “And Simonus? And Bradus!”

  Brad said: “Quiet, Lundiga. You’ll wake them.”

  She paid no attention. “How did you get here? Were you brought?” The tone of incredulity deepened. “In the middle of the night?”

  “We climbed the pyramid,” Brad said.

  “Climbed? Why?”

  “Not so loud,” Brad pleaded. “The thing is, we can get you out of here. But for Odin’s sake, whisper.”

  As Lundiga started to speak again, in a voice only slightly lower, Simon heard a patter of feet. He swung round, but they were already on him, and he was borne down by clutching arms. Soft flesh pressed against his face. There was a general babble in which he distinguished Bos’s voice raised in anger, and Lundiga’s also raised but speaking Aztec. He had just worked out that the bodies holding him down were female when the pressure relaxed and he was able to get up from the floor. There were girls everywhere. Lundiga spoke again, and they scurried from the room. Turning to them, she said: “I have sent for lamps. And food and drink. You will need refreshment if you have climbed the pyramid!”

  They looked at her. Brad shook his head.

  “I don’t understand the setup, but you’ve got rid of them. Now let’s get out while we have the chance.”

  “Get out? Why?”

  He said in exasperation: “Because you’re in danger here. We all are. You must know that.”

  Lundiga shook her head emphatically. “I am in no danger. Nor are you. There was no need for your climbing—you only had to speak to the guards. I was expecting you to come. I sent messengers to Palzibil to fetch you.”

  Bos spoke patiently. “I do not know what lies they have told you, Lundiga, but you must not believe them. They plan to sacrifice you to their cruel gods.”

  “Sacrifice me?” She laughed. “I do not think so!”

  Brad said: “Listen. I heard what the Chief Priest at Palzibil said when he ordered his guards to take you. He claimed you as a bride of the god. And that’s exactly what they call the girls who are sacrificed: brides of the gods. Look, we haven’t time to argue. Just accept that I know what I’m talking about, and let’s get going.”

  She smiled affectionately at him. “You know a great deal, Bradus. I have never known anyone who knew so much. But even you do not know everything. I have learned things since I was brought here. It is true the girls who are sacrificed are called brides of the gods. But those are the lesser gods. There is a greater god they worship, compared with whom even the God of War and the Rain God are nothing. He is called Ipalnemohuani, which means the One by Whom We Live. He is like your Christian god, because they say he made all things. They worship him, but they do not offer him sacrifices.”

  Brad said: “You seem to have learned the language pretty thoroughly to have picked all that up.” He sounded disgruntled.

  Lundiga shrugged.

  “The priests talk with me, and at other times I talk with my serving girls. It passes the time. And I think it is good to know the language of the people who are to worship me.”

  “Worship you!”

  “Yes. The brides of the other gods are sacrificed, because it is easy to find new ones. But no bride has ever been chosen for Ipalnemohuani. That is because legend says that his bride will have hair of gold. And that is why I have been chosen to be his bride, and to be worshipped along with him.” She giggled. “I do not think it will be so bad, being a goddess!”

  They were interrupted by the return of the serving girls, bringing food and drink on gold trays. They also brought lamps and set them up in niches along the walls. Simon was able to see that the furnishings were sumptuous, with a vast amount of gold leaf.

  Bos drained his pot, and had it refilled. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said: “I do not know about this goddess matter. The true God has no wife, though He has a mother. But we know these are heathens, and at least they seem to be looking after you well. Though I think it a poor prospect if you must spend the rest of your days up here in the sky.”

  Lundiga shook her head
. “I do not have to do that. I shall stay here only until they have built me a palace. There is to be a summer palace also, in the hills.” She waved a careless hand. “And others, I think, in other parts of the empire.”

  “It sounds pretty good,” Simon said, “but you won’t really be a free agent, will you? In a way you’ll be a prisoner.”

  Her smile had just a touch of condescension.

  “A goddess is not a prisoner, Simonus. These girls are my servants but the priests also serve me. Even the Arch-Priest. Whatever I wish, I can have. When I asked for you three to be brought, messengers were at once sent to Palzibil.”

  “Terrific,” Brad said drily.

  “It is even better than you think.” She favoured him with another fond look. “I am to be the bride of Ipalnemohuani, but the God Who Made All Things has no body. I have told the Arch-Priest I require a human consort, and in this too my wish is a command. That is why I sent the messengers to Palzibil. You will share my good fortune. I will have a palace built for you, Bos, and Simonus—a palace each, if you wish.”

  She cast another warm and possessive glance at Brad.

  “But Bradus—Bradus will share my throne, and be my consort!”

  • • •

  Eventually Lundiga dismissed them. She needed sleep, she said, yawning, because there was to be a rehearsal of her part in the full moon ceremony later that day, and she needed to prepare herself. They retired to the room the servants had prepared for them. The mattresses were down filled. Bos dropped on his and grunted approval.

  “So fortune smiles on us again. We have found Lundiga, safe and well. And she says she will give us palaces to live in. She is a good girl.”

  Dawn was breaking through the windows. Lying down, Simon realized how tired he was. Yawning himself, he said: “A palace for you, Bos, and one for me. But the big prize goes to Bradus. He gets to marry a goddess.”

  Brad said: “Shut up.”

  “And the really big question,” Simon went on, “is: does that make you a god? I figure it should.”

  “I said shut up!”

  The note of real anger got through the haze of weariness. Simon looked at Brad and saw how tight his face was. He said: “Don’t get steamed up. It’s just a joke.”

  “Not to her.”

  Simon thought about that. “Well, no, maybe not. But the wedding won’t take place yet awhile. You’re both a bit young. You’ll have time to wriggle out of it.”

  “I’m getting out, now.”

  “Out of Tenochtitlan? Let’s think about it; in a day or two.”

  Brad shook his head stubbornly. “Now. Right away.”

  “There’s no sense in that.”

  “Isn’t there? Right now she’s asleep, and she’s had no time to give instructions. She will when she wakes up. We’re going to be guarded; certainly, I am. Those messengers she sent to Palzibil weren’t to ask if we wanted to come here—they were to bring us.”

  “Come on,” Simon said, “you’re taking it too seriously. This is Lundiga we’re talking about—the Lundiga who saved us on the island, who was with us all those months. She may have some funny notion about making you her consort, but she’s not going to try forcing you into anything.”

  “It’s also the future bride of Ipalnemohuani we’re talking about. A goddess. You heard what she said: ‘It is good to know the language of the people who are to worship me.’ She’s living the part already.”

  “That’s just a phase. She’s too level-headed.”

  “ ‘Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ One of your English lords said that, and I think he had something. You can’t get more absolute than a goddess. Anyway, I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Even if you should be right, we can always find a means of getting away.”

  “Climb down the pyramid, you mean, like we climbed up? I’d rather walk out, while I can.”

  His arguments were logical but not, Simon thought, entirely rational. While he was racking his brain for something else to say, Bos said slowly: “You are serious in this, Bradus. Because of Lundiga, you are determined to run away?”

  “Yes.”

  “The pouch with my vine roots is in that place where we were living.”

  “We can pick it up, and the rest of the gear as well. She’ll sleep till noon. The rehearsal’s not till this afternoon.”

  There was a pause, before Bos said: “It is time they were planted. The soil here is good, and the climate too.” The look he gave Brad was almost pleading. “And I do not think you need me any longer, Bradus, do you?”

  Simon saw a look of unhappiness cross Brad’s face fleetingly, but he quickly grinned. “Of course I don’t. I don’t need either of you. ‘He travels the fastest who travels alone,’ as Kipling said.”

  Bos gave a troubled shake of the head. “I do not know of this man Kip Ling. But if you did need me . . .”

  “No,” Brad said. “Plant your vines, Bos. I’ll be better off on my own. And in fact you can do me a favour by staying. You can tell Lundiga I’m heading south, and get her search parties pointed in the wrong direction.”

  Simon’s mind swam with tiredness. The urge to lie down and sleep was almost overwhelming; the idea of setting out on the trail again, by contrast, one of the most unappealing he could recall. He said: “It only needs one for that. We’re relying on you, Bos.”

  “You will go with Bradus?” The broad face with its grizzled stubble of beard showed relief.

  Brad said: “No need. In fact, you’re not wanted.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Simon said. “When she finds she can’t have you, she’ll realize how good-looking I am. I don’t fancy being the husband of a goddess, either. Let’s go.”

  “Now, look . . .”

  “We’re wasting time, and you can’t stop me.” He turned to Bos. “One other thing. When those vines of yours have grown and fruited, and you’ve pressed wine from the grapes, lift the first glass to us.”

  Bos smiled, nodding. “That I will, Simonus.”

  9

  ALL DAY THEY HAD SLOGGED through barren country—bare rock and coarse sand with patches of arid scrub—under a savage sun. They had seen no living thing apart from lizards, hovering vultures, a rattlesnake poised and watchful. Thirst was constant and maddening; from time to time they moistened their lips from the gourds they carried. Only moistened: they did not know when they would next find a waterhole. A couple of times already they had come close to death from thirst, and third time might not be so lucky. Simon, when he pressed the gourd briefly against cracked lips, shook it before putting it back on his belt. Less than half full; a lot less.

  They had learned not to talk on the march: silence conserved energy. Brad, as he had done all along, had the advance position, with Simon a yard or so behind. It was Brad who had plotted their course along the Gulf coast, northeast along the Rio Grande; then the break west through mountainous country in search of the westward-flowing Gila River.

  Simon had been content to let him make the decisions, and make the running, too. It was his country; he who had a destination in view. And despite the difficulties and dangers, the plan had worked so far, even to the extent of their finding the Gila . . . or some other wide river that flowed into the sunset. It was Brad, too, who had provided the drive to keep them going. Simon was aware he owed his life to that. The first time they had run out of water, a few days after heading into the hills, he had been ready to lie down and die. Brad had kept him moving; in the end almost dragging him along.

  When hazards did not threaten, boredom was the enemy: the tedium of putting one foot in front of another, of plodding on. It was possible, Simon had discovered, to disconnect a part of his mind from his surroundings—to be, even while sweating under the relentless sun, at ease in the cool shade of a Roman villa, chatting with Lavinia while big red fish swam in the pool at their feet. Or, further back still, to be in that world which had the same physical contours as this and yet was so dif
ferent, watching a cricket match from the pavilion, padded up to go in, meanwhile eating a bowl of strawberries and cream . . .

  The strawberries and cream were a mistake. His dry mouth tried to salivate and failed; and his mind, rejecting the daydream, shunted him back to present reality. They had come over a rise and the way ahead was downhill. His eye scanned the horizon automatically. It registered what it saw, and transmitted the information to his brain. But this, too, his mind rejected: it could not be true. And yet it was—the distant gleam was no illusion. How could Brad have failed to see it?

  He croaked: “Look . . .”

  Brad halted and turned slowly, almost painfully, towards him.

  “No,” Simon said. “In front . . .”

  Brad still did not look that way. “What?”

  “It’s the sea.”

  • • •

  It took them the rest of the day to get there; as they looked at breakers crashing onto shingle, the sun’s disk was half lost in the waves, casting a crimson path towards the shore. Simon found a ledge and sat down, while Brad stood staring at the ocean. From the moment they had glimpsed the sea, there had been a reversal in their roles, with Simon eagerly pressing forward, Brad dragging behind.

  “We’ve made it,” Simon said.

  “Yes.” Brad’s voice was listless.

  “I don’t think I really believed we ever would.”

  Brad said nothing.

  “And you saw there’s a river, a couple of miles north? Fresh water. It might be worth doing some fishing. We might catch us a salmon. Or a sardine—I’m not fussy.”

  It wasn’t much of a joke, but even if he didn’t think it rated a smile, Simon felt Brad could have made some sort of acknowledgement, instead of just staring at the sea. He felt himself getting annoyed, but controlled it. Concentrate on what matters, he thought: we’ve done it, and it was no pushover.

  He said: “This is a poor spot for bivouacking. There’ll be more shelter by the river. I saw trees.”