The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  Shan and Asagao figured three at a time was as much as they could rightly handle, and not if those all came at once. So two years had passed when they got the third member of the second group. She was a fourteen-year-old from New York. They met her at the Pocatello airport and drove her back to their place.

  To start with, Juanita was a handful and a half, nervous as a trapped bobcat, often sullen, sometimes exploding in screams and curses that shocked the ranch hands. They had learned patience and firmness, though. The youngsters already there had gotten to a point where they too were a steadying, calming force. Above all, the married couple was, and also the beautiful land, open air, honest labor, hearty food. It helped that this was summer; Juanita didn’t have school to cope with as well. Soon she was turning into quite the little lady.

  One day Asagao asked her to come along, the two of them alone, and help pick berries in a hidden nook of the hills, more than an hour away on horseback. They packed a lunch and took their tune. On the way home, shy young dreams began to reach lips. Asagao well knew how to keep talk aflow without pushing.

  Yesterday a thunderstorm had broken a hot spell. The air was full of wayward breezes and soft smells. Light was lengthening from the west, but still held that upland brilliance which made the mountains seem almost next door and yet left you feeling what a vastness you looked across. Clouds towered white into dizzying depths of blue. The valley rolled in a thousand shades of green, twinkly with irrigation, on and on toward the orchards and ranch buildings. Red-winged blackbirds darted and cried over the pasture, and cattle near the fence line lifted large eyes to watch the horses pass. Leather squeaked, hoofs plopped, riding was oneness in a lazy sweet rhythm.

  “I really would like to learn about your religion, Mrs. Tu,” Juanita said. She was a dark, thin girl who walked with a limp. Her father used to beat her, as he did her mother, till at last she put a kitchen knife in his shoulder and ran off. In the saddle she was on her way to centaurhood, and corrective surgery was scheduled for later this year. Meanwhile she did her share of chores, assigned to allow for the handicap. “It must be wonderful if—“ she flushed, glanced aside, dropped her voice—“if it’s got believers like you and Mr. Tu.”

  Asagao smiled. “Thank you, love, though we are quite ordinary, you know. I think you had better get back into your own church. Of course we’ll be glad to explain what we can. All our children have been interested. But what we live by can’t actually be put in words. It’s very alien to this country. It might not even be a religion by your standards, but more a way of life, of trying to get in harmony with the universe.”

  Juanita gave her a quick, searching regard. “Like the Unity?”

  “The what?”

  “The Unity. Where I come from. Except they—they couldn’t take me. I asked a guy who belongs, but he said it’s ... a lifeboat as full as it can carry.” A sigh. “Then I got lucky and got found by—for—you. I think prob’ly this is better. You’ll fix me to go live anyplace. The Unity, you stay with it. I think. But I don’t know much about it. They don’t talk, the members.”

  “Your friend must have, if you heard about it.”

  “Oh, word gets around. The dope dealers, now, they hate it. But I guess it’s only in the New York area. And like I said, the higher you go in it, the less you tell. Manuel, he’s too young. He grew up in it, his parents did too, but they say he’s not ready yet. He doesn’t know much except about the housing and education and—well, members help each other.”

  “That sounds good. I have heard of such organizations.”

  “Oh, this isn’t a co-op exactly, and it’s not like, uh, the Guardian Angels, except for what they call sentinel stance, and— It’s sort of like a church, except not that either.

  Members can believe anything they want, but they do have—services? Retreats? That’s how come I wondered if this was like the Unity.”

  “No, can’t be. We’re simply a family. We wouldn’t have any idea how to run anything larger.”

  “I guess that’s why the Unity stopped growing,” Juanita said thoughtfully. “Mama-lo can only keep track of so much.”

  “Mama-lo?”

  “The name I’ve heard. She’s kind of a—a high priestess? Except it isn’t a church. But they say she’s real powerful. They do what she wants, in the Unity.”

  “Hm. How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know. A long time. I heard the first Mama-lo was the mother of this one, or was she the grandmother? A black woman, though I hear she’s got a white woman works close with her, always has had.”

  “This is fascinating,” Asagao said. “Do go on.”

  Evenings after dinner were usually for being together. Foster parents and children talked, played games, sat quietly reading. Sometimes they watched the single television set, but only by mutual consent, subject to adult overrule. A person who wished to be alone could withdraw to his or her room with a book or pursue a hobby in the little workshop. Thus the hour was late when Tu Shan and Asagao walked out. They ranged widely and were gone long. Nevertheless they spoke in Chinese. To be sure, their dialect of it still came most easily to them of the tongues they had mutually mastered in their centuries.

  Night lay cool and still. Land reached shadowy, treetops loomed darkling beneath the extravagant stars of the high West. Once an owl hooted, repeatedly, before ghosting past.

  “They could so well be our kind.” Asagao’s tone shivered. “Something built up slowly, over generations, yet centered on one or two individuals, who talk about being mother and child but remain mysterious and work in the same style. We two were chiefs, under one title or another, of different villages; our businesses in the cities were incidental. Hanno made his businesses into his power, protection, and disguise. Here may be a third way. Down among the poor, the rootless, the disinherited. Give them leadership, counsel, purpose, hope. In return they will provide you your little kingdom, or queendom; and there you can Uve safe, hidden, for mortal lifetimes.”

  “It may be,” Tu Shan replied in the slow fashion that was his when he thought hard. “Or perhaps not. We will write to Hanno. He will investigate.”

  “Or should we do that?”

  “What?” He checked his stride, startled. “He knows how. We are countryfolk, you and I.”

  “Will he not keep these immortals underground, as he has kept Wanderer and us, as he would keep that Turk did the man not stay aside on his own account?”

  “Well, he has explained why.”

  “How sure are we that he is right?” Asagao demanded. “You know how I have studied. I have talked with that learned man, Giannotti, whenever he examined us again. Do we truly need to go on beneath our masks? It was not always necessary for us in Asia. It never was for Wanderer among his wild Indians. Is it in America today? Times have changed. If we made ourselves known, it could well mean immortality for everyone within a few years.”

  “Maybe it would not. And what then would people do to us?”

  “I know. I know. And yet—r Why must we take it for granted that Hanno is right? Why shouldn’t we decide for ourselves whether he is the wisest because he is the oldest, or else has grown set in his ways and now is making a horrible mistake, out of needless fear and ... utter selfishness?”

  “M-m-m—”

  “At worst we die.” Asagao lifted her head against the stars. “We die like everybody else, except that we have had so many, many years. I am not afraid to. Are you?”

  “No.” Tu Shan laughed a bit. “I dislike the thought, yes, I admit that.” Sobering: “We do have to tell him about this Unity thing. He has the means, the knowledge, to find out. We don’t.”

  Asagao nodded. “True.” After a moment: “But once we nave learned whether or not these are like us—”

  “We owe Hanno much.” Entry to this nation, through Tomek’s influence over a certain Congressman. Help in getting acquainted with it. Establishment here, once they realized that American cities would never be for them.
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  “We do. We also owe humanity much, I think. And ourselves. Freedom to choose is our right too.”

  “Let us see what happens,” Tu Shan proposed.

  They walked on a while in silence. A bright rapid star rose in the west and crossed the lower constellations. “Look,” Tu Shan said. “A satellite. This is an age of marvels.”

  “I believe that is Mir,” she answered slowly.

  “What? ... Oh, yes. The Russian one.”

  “The space station. The only space station. And the United States, since Challenger—“ Asagao had no further need to speak. As long as they had lived together, they could each often follow what was in the other’s mind. Dynasties flourish and fall. Empires do, nations, peoples, destinies.

  5

  “—And may holiness be with your good angels. Let the Fire burn strong and the Rainbow bear peace. Go now toward God. Fare you well.”

  Rosa Donau raised her hands in benediction, brought them over her bosom, and bowed to the cross that stood on the altar before her between the red and the black candles in their lily-shaped holders. Opposite, her fellow celebrants did likewise. They were a score, male and female, mostly dark of skin and gray of hair, elders of the families that would be living here. The service had lasted an hour, simple words, chants to a drum-beat, a sacred dance, hypnotic in its very restraint and softness. The gathering departed without speaking, though several threw her wide smiles and a number signed themselves.

  She remained for a time, sought a chair and a deeper calm. As yet, the chapet was sparsely furnished. Behind the altar hung a picture of Jesus, more gaunt and stern than was common although his hand was upraised in blessing. Painted directly on plaster, the Serpent of Life encircled Mm. It was flanked by emblems that could be of the loas or the saints, however you wished. The symbols right and left could be luck, magic, sanctity, or—just encouragement, she knew; lift up your heart, honor with bravery the life that is in you.

  Here was no doctrine but the sacredness of creation be- cause of the Creator’s presence in it, no commandment but loyalty to your kindred of the spirit. The animistic, pantheistic imagery was only a language for saying that. The rites were only to evoke it and to bind the kindred together. You could believe whatever else you thought must be true. Yet not since she was a maiden, fourteen hundred years ago, had Aljyat felt such power as lingered here.

  Within her, if not in the altar or the air. Hope, cleansing, purpose, something she could give instead of forever taking or squandering. Was that why Corinne had asked her to lead the consecration of this building?

  Or was Corinne simply too occupied with the question of who, or what, laired behind that innocent-seeming call to the long-lived? She had certainly gone close-mouthed. Al-iyat knew merely that she soon learned the Willock named was no more than an agent under the impression he was handling matters for a scientific outfit. (Could that even be true?) Maybe Corinne had asked those contacts of hers in the government, police, FBI, whoever and wherever they were, to look into the matter. No, probably not; too dangerous; it might alert them to the fact that Maraa-lo Macan-dal was not all she seemed...

  Well, not to worry, she had said; and a hard life did teach a girl how to concentrate on what was close to hand. Aliyat sighed, rose, blew out the candles, turned off the lights as she left. The chapel was on the second floor. Besides making it fit for use, workers had rebuilt the rotting staircase to the hallway outside it; but otherwise, so far they were occupied elsewhere. A naked bulb glared on peeling, discolored plaster. This was a nasty district, way down on the lower west side. However, here the Unity could cheaply acquire an abandoned tenement bouse for its members to restore to decency. She couldn’t help wondering whether there would ever be more such undertakings. Let it get bigger and it would become too noticeable, and beyond the control of that pair whose cover and stronghold it was. Nonetheless, people who belonged were bound to grow up, marry, have children.

  She descended to a jumble of equipment and materials in the lobby. The night watchman rose to greet her. Another man got up too, young, big, ebony-hued. Aliyat recognized Randolph Castle. “Good evenin’, Missus-lo Rosa,” he rumbled. “Peace an’ strength.”

  “Why, hello,” she replied, surprised. “Peace and strength. What are you doing here so late?”

  “Thought I’d walk you back. Figured you might stay on after the rest had left.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Just bein’ careful,” he said grimly. “We don’t wanna lose you.”

  They bade the watchman goodnight and went out. The street was poorly lit, its murk apparently empty, but you never knew what might wait in those shadows and taxis didn’t cruise the area. Her place wasn’t far, a light housekeeping room in the Village. However, she was glad to have formidable company.

  “Wanted to talk with you anyway,” he said once they had started off. “If you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. That’s a main part of what I’m for, isn’t it?”

  He must force the words out. “No pers’nal troubles this time. It’s for ever’body. Only I don’t know as how we can tell Mama-lo.”

  Aliyat brushed fingers across his clenched fist. “Go on,” she urged gently. “Whatever you say will be safe with me.”

  “I know. Oh, I know.” She had heard his confession of wrongdoing and helped him set matters right. After a number of hollowly thudding footfalls: “Look, Mama-lo don’t relize how bad this area is. None of us did, or I guess we wouldnYve bought into it. But I been findin’ out.”

  “Crime, drug dealing. We’ve handled those before. What else?”

  “Nothin’. But these dealers, they’re mean. They know ‘bout us an’ they don’t intend we should get no foothold here, no ways.”

  Chill struck through her. She had met absolute evil in century after century, and knew its power.

  Once she had laughed this presence of it off. “Who cares, as long as we keep our own people clean?” she said. “Let others wreck themselves if they want. You smuggled in booze and ran speakeasies during Prohibition. I did pretty much the same. Whafs the difference?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know better than to ask that,”

  Corinne answered. She paused. “Well, you’ve been trying hard to steer clear of everything wicked. Listen, dear. The stuff that’s coming in these days is different. We say nothing in the Unity against taking an occasional drink, we use wine in some of our ceremonies, but we teach our members not to get drunk. You cannot not lose your mind to stuff like crack. And ... the old gangsters could get vicious enough, I’m not sure now that I should ever have condoned their business, but compared to the dealers today they were the Holy Innocents.” Her fingers writhed together. “Today it’s like the slave trade come back.”

  That was years ago, when things were only starting to get bad. Aliyat had learned since then. And the Unity took action at each of its settlements. A solid band of dwellers who kept watch, called the police whenever they Had information, set an example, helped the lost find the way home to humanness, and stood together in half-military wise: they could make a neighborhood unprofitable, actually dangerous, for pushers.

  “I been threatened, myself,” Castle said. “Other guys have too. I think, we really think, if we don’t pull out, the mob’s gonna try an’ blow us away.”

  “We can’t abandon the project,” she told him. “We’ve sunk more than we can afford to lose into it. The Unity isn’t rich, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. So what can we do?” He straightened. “Fight back, tha’s what we can do.”

  “People aren’t allowed to defend themselves in New York City,” she snapped.

  “Uh-huh. Only—well, sure, we can’t tell Mama-lo. We can’t let her know. She’d have to forbid, wouldn’t she? No matter what we’d lose. But if some of us was ready to fight back, an’ word o’ that got aroun’ underground, why, maybe we’ll never have to. How ‘bout that? You been aroun’ a lot. What do you think?”
r />   “I’ll need to hear a great deal more. And, yes, think hard.” Already Aliyat suspected what her decision would be.

  “Sure. We’ll talk whenever you can spare the time, Missus-lo Rosa. We’re dependin’ on you.”

  On me! she thought, and pride thrilled.

  They walked mute thereafter to the entrance of her home building. She gave him her hand. “Thanks for being so honest, Randy,” she said.

  “Thank you, Missus-lo.” In this brighter illumination, his smile gleamed. “When can we meet again?”

  Temptation blazed. Why not at once? He was strong and handsome in his rugged fashion, and it had been a long time, and ... she wondered if she had at last become able to give of herself, whole-heartedly, without hate or contempt or even suspicion.

  But no. He might be shocked. Certainly many members would be, if they found out. Better not chance it.

  “Soon,” she promised. “Right now I have some record-keeping chores to finish. In fact, I’d better put in a couple of hours tonight, before I go to sleep. Soon, though.”

  6

  From the lounge where he sat, turning over the pages of a British magazine without the text especially registering on his mind, Hanno could see into the foyer. Twice a woman entered and his heart jumped; but she went on toward the elevator. The third time proved the charm. She spoke with the clerk at the desk, turned, and moved hesitantly his way. At once he rose from the leather of the armchair. It crossed his mind that long residence in this country might not have given a Russian Western habits of punctuality; and a Russian perhaps hundreds of years old—