Of course they hadn't told him about the gold. It was on the road, a little place in Parowan where truckers knew they could stop in because the iron mine kept such crazy shifts that the diners never closed. They even had some coffee there, hot and bitter, because there weren't so many Mormons there and the miners didn't let the bishop push them around. In fact they even called him judge there instead of bishop. The other drivers didn't talk to Deaver, of course, they were talking to each other when the one fellow told the story about how the Mormons back in the gold rush days hoarded up all the gold they could get and hid it in the upper rooms of the temple where nobody but the prophet and the twelve apostles could ever go. At first Deaver didn't believe him, except that Bill Home nodded like he knew it was true, and Cal Silber said you'd never catch him messin’ with the Mor mon temple, that's a good way to get yourself dead. The way they were talking; scared and quiet, told Deaver that they believed it, that it was true, and he knew something else, too: if anyone was going to get that gold, it was him.
Even if it was easy to get here, that didn't mean anything. He knew how Mormons were about the temple. He'd asked around a little, but nobody'd talk about it. And nobody ever went there, either, he asked a lot of people if they ever sailed on out and looked at it, and they all got quiet and shook their heads no or changed the subject. Why should the Lake Patrol guard it, then, if everybody was too scared to go? Everybody but Deaver Teague and his two friends.
“Real pretty,” said Rain.
Deaver woke up. The sun was just topping the mountains; it must've been light for some time. He looked where Rain was looking. It was the Moroni tower on top of the mountain above the old capitol, where they'd put the temple statue a few years back. It was bright and shiny, the old guy and his trumpet. But when the Mormons wanted that trumpet to blow, it had just stayed silent and their faith got drowned. Now Deaver knew they only hung on to it for old times’ sake. Well, Deaver lived for new times.
Lehi showed him how to use the underwater gear, and they practiced going over the side into the water a couple of times, once without the weight belts and once with. Deaver and Lehi swam like fish, of course—swimming was the main recreation that everybody could do for free. It was different with the mask and the air hose, though.
“Hose tastes like a horse's hoof,” Deaver said between dives.
Lehi made sure Deaver's weight belt was on tight. “You're the only guy on Oquirrh Island who knows.” Then he tumbled forward off the boat. Deaver went down too straight and the air tank bumped the back of his head a little, but it didn't hurt too much and he didn't drop his light, either.
He swam along the outside of the temple, shining his light on the stones. Lots of underwater plants were rising up the sides of the temple, but it wasn't covered much yet. There was a big metal plaque right in the front of the building, about a third of the way down. THE HOUSE OF THE LOAD it read. Deaver pointed it out to Lehi.
When they got up to the boat again, Deaver asked about it. “It looked kind of goldish,” he said.
“Used to be another sign there,” said Rain. “It was a little different. That one might have been gold. This one's plastic. They made it so the temple would still have a sign, I guess?”
“You sure about that?”
“I remember when they did it.”
Finally Deaver felt confident enough to go down into the temple. They had to take off their flippers to climb into the steeple window; Rain tossed them up after. In the sunlight there was nothing spooking about the window. They sat there on the sill, water lapping at their feet, and put their fins and tanks on.
Halfway through getting dressed, Lehi stopped. Just sat there.
“I can't do it,” he said.
“Nothin’ to be scared of,” said Deaver. “Come on, there's no ghosts or nothin’ down there.”
“I can't,” said Lehi.
“Good for you,” called Rain from the boat.
Deaver turned to look at her. “What're you talkin’ about?!”
“I don't think you should.”
“Then why'd you bring me here?”
“Because you wanted to.”
Made no sense.
“It's holy ground, Deaver,” said Rain. “Lehi feels it, too. That's why he isn't go ing down.”
Deaver looked at Lehi.
“It just don't feel right,” said Lehi.
“It's just stones,” said Deaver.
Lehi said nothing. Deaver put on his goggles, took a light, put the breather in his mouth, and jumped.
Turned out the floor was only a foot and a half down. It took him completely by surprise, so he fell over and sat on his butt in eighteen inches of water. Lehi was just as surprised as he was, but then he started laughing, and Deaver laughed, too. Deaver got to his feet and started flapping around, looking for the stairway. He could hardly take a step, his flippers slowed him down so much.
“Walk backward,” said Lehi.
“Then how am I supposed to see where I'm going?”
“Stick your face under the water and look, chigger-head?”
Deaver stuck his face in the water. Without the reflection of daylight on the surface, he could see fine. There was the stairway.
He got up, looked toward Lehi. Lehi shook his head. He still wasn't going.
“Suit yourself,” said Deaver. He backed through the water to the top step. Then he put in his breathing tube and went down.
It wasn't easy to get down the stairs. They're fine when you aren't floating, thought Deaver, but they're a pain when you keep scraping your tanks on the ceil ing. Finally he figured out he could grab the railing and pull himself down. The stairs wound around and around. When they ended, a whole bunch of garbage had filled up the bottom of the stairwell, partly blocking the doorway. He swam above the garbage, which looked like scrap metal and chips of wood, and came out into a large room.
His light didn't shine very far through the murky water, so he swam the walls, around and around, high and low. Down here the water was cold, and he swam faster to keep warm. There were rows of arched windows on both sides, with rows of circular windows above them, but they had been covered over with wood on the outside; the only light was from Deaver's flashlight. Finally, though, after a couple of times around the room and across the ceiling, he figured it was just one big room. And except for the garbage all over the floor, it was empty.
Already he felt the deep pain of disappointment. He forced himself to ignore it. After all, it wouldn't be right out here in a big room like this, would it? There had to be a secret treasury.
There were a couple of doors. The small one in the middle of the wall at one end was wide open. Once there must have been stairs leading up to it. Deaver swam over there and shone his light in. Just another room, smaller this time. He found a couple more rooms, but they had all been stripped, right down to the stone. Nothing at all.
He tried examining some of the stones to look for secret doors, but he gave up pretty soon—he couldn't see well enough from the flashlight to find a thin crack even if it was there. Now the disappointment was real. As he swam along, he began to wonder if maybe the truckers hadn't known he was listening. Maybe they made it all up just so someday he'd do this. Some joke, where they wouldn't even see him make a fool of himself.
But no, no, that couldn't be it. They believed it, all right. But he knew now what they didn't know. Whatever the Mormons did here in the old days, there wasn't any gold in the upper rooms now. So much for the future. But what the hell, he told himself, I got here, I saw it, and I'll find something else. No reason not to be cheerful about it.
He didn't fool himself, and there was nobody else down here to fool. It was bit ter. He'd spent a lot of years thinking about bars of gold or bags of it. He'd always pictured it hidden behind a curtain. He'd pull on the curtain and it would billow out in the water, and here would be the bags of gold, and he'd just take them out and that would be it. But there weren't any curtains, weren't any hideyholes, ther
e was nothing at all, and if he had a future, he'd have to find it somewhere else.
He swam back to the door leading to the stairway. Now he could see the pile of garbage better, and it occurred to him to wonder how it got there. Every other room was completely empty. The garbage couldn't have been carried in by the water, because the only windows that were open were in the steeple, and they were above the water line. He swam close and picked up a piece. It was metal. They were all metal, except a few stones, and it occurred to him that this might be it after all. If you're hiding a treasure, you don't put it in bags or ingots, you leave it around looking like garbage and people leave it alone.
He gathered up as many of the thin metal pieces as he could carry in one hand and swam carefully up the stairwell. Lehi would have to come down now and help him carry it up; they could make bags out of their shirts to carry lots of it at a time.
He splashed out into the air and then walked backward up the last few steps and across the submerged floor. Lehi was still sitting on the sill, and now Rain was there beside him, her bare feet dangling in the water. When he got there he turned around and held out the metal in his hands. He couldn't see their faces well, because the outside of the facemask was blurry with water and kept catching sunlight.
“You scraped your knee,” said Rain.
Deaver handed her his flashlight and now that his hand was free, he could pull his mask off and look at them. They were very serious. He held out the metal pieces toward them. “Look what I found down there.”
Lehi took a couple of metal pieces from him. Rain never took her eyes from Deaver's face.
“It's old cans, Deaver,” Lehi said quietly.
“No it isn't.” said Deaver. But he looked at his fistful of metal sheets and realized it was true. They had been cut down the side and pressed flat, but they were sure enough cans.
“There's writing on it.” said Lehi. “It says, ‘Dear Lord heal my girl Jenny please I pray’.”
Deaver set down his handful on the sill. Then he took one, turned it over, found the writing. “‘Forgive my adultery I will sin no more’.”
Lehi read another. “‘Bring my boy safe from the plains, O Lord God’.”
Each message was scratched with a nail or a piece of glass, the letters crudely formed.
“They used to say prayers all day in the temple, and people would bring in names and they'd say the temple prayers for them,” said Rain. “Nobody prays here now, but they still bring the names. On metal so they'll last.”
“We shouldn't read these,” said Lehi. “We should put them back.” There were hundreds, maybe thousands of those metal prayers down there. People must come here all the time, Deaver realized. The Mormons must have a regular traffic coming here and leaving these things behind. But nobody told me.
“Did you know about this?”
Rain nodded.
“You brought them here, didn't you?”
“Some of them. Over the years.”
“You knew what was down there.”
She didn't answer.
“She told you not to come,” said Lehi.
“You knew about this, too?”
“I knew people came, I didn't know what they did.”
And suddenly the magnitude of it struck him. Lehi and Rain had both known. All the Mormons knew, then. They all knew, and he had asked again and again, and no one had told him. Not even his friends.
“Why'd you let me come out here?”
“Tried to stop you?” said Rain.
“Why didn't you tell me this?”
She looked him in the eye. “Deaver, you would've thought I was givin’ you the runaround. And you would have laughed at this, if I told you. I thought it was better if you saw it. Then maybe you wouldn't go tellin’ people how dumb the Mormons are.”
“You think I would?” He held up another metal prayer and read it aloud. “‘Come quickly, Lord Jesus, before I die’.” He shook it at her. “You think I'd laugh at these people?”
“You laugh at everything, Deaver.”
Deaver looked at Lehi. This was something Lehi had never said before. Deaver would never laugh at something that was really important. And this was really important to them—to them both.
“This is yours?” Deaver said. “All this stuff is yours.”
“I never left a prayer here,” said Lehi.
But when he said yours he didn't mean just them, just Lehi and Rain. He meant all of them, all the people of the Mormon Sea, all the ones who had known about it but never told him even though he asked again and again. All the people who belonged here. “I came to find something here for me, and you knew all the time it was only your stuff down there.”
Lehi and Rain looked at each other, then back at Deaver.
“It isn't ours,” said Rain.
“I never been here before,” said Lehi.
“It's your stuff.” He sat down in the water and began taking off the underwater gear.
“Don't be mad,” said Lehi. “I didn't know.”
“You knew more than you told me. All the time I thought we were friends, but it wasn't true. You two had this place in common with all the other people, but not with me. Everybody but me.”
Lehi carefully took the metal sheets to the stairway and dropped them. They sank once, to drift down and take their place on the pile of supplications.
Lehi rowed them through the skyscrapers to the east of the old city, and then Rain started the motor and they skimmed along the surface of the lake. The Lake Patrol didn't see them, but Deaver knew now that it didn't matter much if they did. The Lake Patrol was mostly Mormons. They undoubtedly knew about the traffic here, and let it happen as long as it was discreet. Probably the only people they stopped were the people who weren't in on it.
All the way back to Magna to return the underwater gear, Deaver sat in the front of the boat, not talking to the others. Where Deaver sat, the bow of the boat seemed to curve under him. The faster they went, the less the boat seemed to touch the water. Just skimming over the surface, never really touching deep; making a few waves, but the water always smoothed out again.
Those two people in the back of the boat, he felt kind of sorry for them. They still lived in the drowned city, they belonged down there, and the fact they couldn't go there broke their hearts. But not Deaver. His city wasn't even built yet. His city was tomorrow.
He'd driven a salvage truck and lived in a closet long enough. Maybe he'd go south into the New Soil Lands. Maybe qualify on a piece of land. Own something, plant in the soil, maybe he'd come to belong there. As for this place, well, he never had belonged here, just like all the foster homes and schools along the way, just one more stop for a year or two or three, he knew that all along. Never did make any friends here, but that's how he wanted it. Wouldn't be right to make friends, ’cause he'd just move on and disappoint them. Didn't see no good in doing that to people.
BY FOOLS LIKE ME
Nancy Kress
HOPE CREEPS QUIETLY into my bedroom without knocking, peering around the corner of the rough doorjamb. I'm awake; sleep eludes me so easily now. I know from the awful smell that she has been to the beach.
“Come in, child, I'm not asleep.”
“Grandma, where's Mama and Papa?”
“Aren't they in the field?” The rains are late this year and water for the crops must be carried in ancient buckets from the spring in the dell.
“Maybe. I didn't see them. Grandma, I found something.”
“What, child?”
She gazes at me and bites her lip. I see that this mysterious find bothers her. Such a sensitive child, though sturdy and healthy enough, God knows how.
“I went to the beach,” she confesses in a rush. “Don't tell Mama! I wanted to dig you some trunter roots because you like them so much, but my shovel went clunk on something hard and I … I dug it up.”
“Hope,” I reprimand, because the beach is full of dangerous bits of metal and plastic, washed up through the m
iles of dead algae on the dead water. And if a soot cloud blows in from the west, it will hit the beach first.
“I'm sorry,” she says, clearly lying, “but, Grandma, it was a metal box and the lock was all rusted and there was something inside and I brought it here.”
“The box?”
“No, that was too heavy. The … just wait!”
No one can recognize most of the bits of rusted metal and twisted plastic from before the Crash. Anything found in a broken metal box should be decayed beyond recognition. I call, “Hope! Don't touch anything slimy—” but she is already out of earshot, running from my tiny bedroom with its narrow cot, which is just blankets and pallet on a rope frame to keep me off the hard floor. It doesn't; the old ropes sag too much, just as the thick clay walls don't keep out the heat. But that's my fault. I close the window shutters only when I absolutely have to. Insects and heat are preferable to dark. But I have a door, made of precious and rotting wood, which is more than Hope or her parents have on their sleeping alcoves off the house's only other room. I was born in this room, and I expect to die here.
Hope returns, carrying a bubble of sleek white plastic that fills her bare arms. The bubble has no seams. No mold sticks to it, no sand. Carefully she lays the thing on my cot.
Despite myself, I say, “Bring me the big knife and be very careful, it's sharp.”
She gets the knife, carrying it as gingerly as an offering for the altar. The plastic slits more readily than I expected. I peel it back, and we both gasp.
I am the oldest person on Island by two decades, and I have seen much. Not of the world my father told me about, from before the Crash, but in our world now. I have buried two husbands and five children, survived three great sandstorms and two years where the rains didn't come at all, planted and first-nursed a sacred tree, served six times at the altar. I have seen much, but I have never seen so much preserved sin in one place.
The End Of The World Page 24
