by Robert Reed
A week later, he was packing to leave, tired of his vacation and of the tiny apartment. The mail came before he left, one of the letters postmarked from Oregon. He recognized Pete’s handwriting on the envelope, big letters full of confidence and a surprising grace. Inside was a note that read:
I used to think you were my surrogate child, the one Elaine and I never had. But I think we both know who my child is. Anyway, sorry for the scene. Believe me, I was as surprised as you. Which, I suppose, has been the attraction all along. I never know what your father will do. You’ve got to admit, he keeps things interesting.
I hope things work out for you. And stay out of trouble. And here’s our itinerary, in case you want to cross paths sometime soon.
Best wishes. Pete.
The itinerary was on a single sheet of photocopy paper, in Dad’s writing, always small and precise. Cornell nearly threw it in the trash. Then he thought of hiding it. “God, who’s the paranoid here?” Finally he put it in his pants pocket, and while riding beneath the Bay, no one nearby, he pulled out the paper and unfolded it and studied the dates, some vague thought lurking at the back of his mind.
A secret even to him.
10
This time the desert crossing was relatively easy. Relatively swift. Cornell kept the two highest peaks on the Rumpleds in line—Porsche’s trick—making the Breaks on the third day, dropping into them and meeting no one until the arroyo and the dry waterfall. There weren’t as many people as before. He walked two bodies to the edge, examining the suspended highway. In New Reno, at least three times, authoritative people had ordered him to join the vanguard. “As fast as you can get there, or faster.”
A red-furred mind and five bodies were nearby, every eye on him. A sixth body, newborn, was hanging from the mind, elaborate braids supporting its back and head. This wasn’t any human baby. Its proportions were too adult, the eyes hard and wary. Chewing on a slice of dried meat, its teeth made a chump-chump-chump sound. The face showed a vague smile when Cornell asked, “How long to reach the front?”
No answer.
“Can I make it by dark?”
Two other people were back on a little delta of water-worked sand, broken spears and old sacks scattered around them. They seemed alert, intensely curious.
“Well,” said Cornell, “I’ll find out for myself.” But when he dragged his mind toward the ramp, the red bodies drew spears with fancy obsidian blades. Artifacts? They seemed to be. And a male voice whistled, “To pass, you pay the toll.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. You know that.”
Cornell glanced at the others. They were anxious but unsurprised. He asked the man, “What kind of toll?”
“What’s in those sacks?”
Nothing special. He had a ration of greasewood nuts and the usual dried meats, but wasn’t there food below? The toll-taker found a shiny stone mixed with the nuts. A gemstone, or quartz. Cornell’s semester of introductory geology was inadequate. And now the red-furred man was asking, “How was your crossing? Was it easy?”
“Yes.”
“You were lucky.”
Cornell swallowed with one throat, then another. “Maybe,” he allowed. “I suppose.”
Three fingers squeezed the prize. “So this is your good luck charm?”
He hesitated, then said, “Sure.”
And more hands claimed a sack of dried rat meat, several mouths saying, “I knew you were lucky. I could tell.” He wiped the charm against his mind and faces, saturating himself with good fortune. Then the faces glared at Cornell, suddenly suspicious. “What? You think I’m unfair?”
Be careful, he thought.
And a black spearhead swished past a nonexistent nose, bodies shouting, “Go away. Go.” Even the newborn tried to say those words, sloppily and slowly, chewed meat spilling from its mouth.
Cornell worked fast, positioning his mind as he’d seen others do it, bodies above and holding fast, wearing harnesses and fingers gripping strategic knots. He was nervous, almost jittery. Hands pushed the mind, and it tilted, sliding onto the worn planks. Curling toes slipped, then held. Just one head turned to look back at the toll taker. If the man tries anything, he told himself, I’ll run. I can’t fight him here.
But the tolltaker had lost interest in him.
The other people were approaching, one saying, “An easy trip across. I heard him.”
“You can see the charm’s luck,” said the other. “I can smell it.”
But the rock was just a rock. Cornell moved faster, one of the old braces creaking under him. This was a bumpy and haphazard highway, and he felt safer here than above.
“Let me touch it,” someone shouted.
“Me,” said the other.
“Get back,” snapped the red-furred man. “Stay away.”
“Just a touch,” said a woman’s whistles.
Then came a thump, curses and a second thump; but Cornell was too low to see them fighting, and after a little while he couldn’t hear them over the clean dry sounds of wind.
He camped alone at night setting his mind into a little basin at the base of a great white cliff. Sometimes, for no clear reason, he would wake and feel the chill air, smelling people nearby and sometimes hearing them squeak and warble as they dreamed. Here the glitter of the stars seemed subdued, the sky squeezed between the cliffs. Once he tasted moisture on a breeze. From below? Every time he woke, Cornell tried to feel the alien presence below, wanting some kind of confirmation that all this effort and sacrifice had a worthy goal, but he felt nothing. Nothing he could point towards and say, “There you are.”
The dry canyon had been built by floods that had shattered rocks and thrown boulders into high mounds. There were gravel beds on the flat stretches. Almost nothing grew here. The last of Cornell’s greasewood nuts were breakfast. Not long after dawn, he had one body climb to the crest of a tremendous rock pile, and it gazed at the country below. There was a sense of frozen motion, energies suspended but not lost. Cornell’s slow progress seemed inconsequential. He had never felt so small, his senses overwhelmed by this stone wilderness. His bare feet made the loose stones chink with a dry porcelain sound; his exhalations smelled of fatigue poisons and nuts; the canyon remained oblivious of him, sleeping now, awaiting the next thundering flood.
Strangers were moving upstream. Sometimes they said, “Hello,” in passing. Some gave Cornell odd stares, bodies missing and their minds exhausted by shifts that had run too long.
The canyon bent and narrowed to a chute, very straight and steep; here was a second greasewood highway, wider than the first and better built. The ramp hugged one wall, gray wood fixed to gray rock, and it seemed to dissolve into the rock before reaching the bottom. Someone charged past him, heading down with her bodies trotting after her sliding mind. Eventually she vanished into the grayness. It was dusk when he reached the bottom, the thicker air holding on to the day’s heat. He camped, dreamed of food, then woke and continued once again.
A blond mind and bodies came up the mindworn trail, and Cornell asked, “Where’s the camp? How far?”
She had three bodies, all of them in the harnesses. And one body was little better than half-grown.
“Two days further,” she answered him.
“That far?”
“Maybe a day and a half,” she allowed.
“You’re heading home?”
Heads nodded. Cornell imagined having just three bodies, having to cross the open desert with nothing else. Yet suddenly, without prompting, she asked, “Do you like venison?”
He blinked, and she added:
“Of course it’s not real venison. The animals aren’t much bigger than rabbits, frankly.” A pause, then her tiniest body said, “I’ve got plenty. Don’t worry.”
He took what he could eat now, no more, and she breathed and rested, watching him chew on the dried smoky meat.
“Good?”
He said it was, not quite lying. Then as she began to leav
e, he thought to say, “Find a shiny rock. Then carry it as if it means something to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“People above are looking for lucky charms.”
And she laughed. Three bodies short and a long journey home, and she pointed out, “Nobody will believe I’m lucky.”
Yet he wished her luck all the same, waving his hands as she turned and moved away.
The sun climbed above the canyon, pale against a strange anemic blue. Cornell thought of Porsche, wondering how she was managing. He thought of asking passersby, but he lacked the courage. What if it was bad news? Or worse, what if it was wrong news? Even good people could be mistaken, and until he saw Porsche—until she spoke to him and touched him—he could believe anything with a perfect innocence.
The air tasted damp, tinged with honest rot Copper-colored bugs hovered above the sandy ground. Smaller bugs landed on his mind, trying to drink blood. He swatted at them and pushed his pace and was rewarded with another dry waterfall. Bodies on the brink, he looked down on a great white mass of clouds, patches of yellow-green showing through them. The forest. He sniffed, smelling vegetation and a rich watery aroma. Hearts raced as he positioned his mind beside the last greasewood ramp, then he eased onto it, feeling himself suspended over nothingness and hearing the wood creak, almost softly, as if to quietly warn him that it felt very, very tired.
Soon Cornell was immersed in clouds, a new chill permeating his flesh. He couldn’t see far, couldn’t think clearly. Instincts surfaced, telling him this wasn’t his country. He should climb back to the desert again, no delays. Cornell was meant for drought and impoverishment; here he was a cactus set in a banana grove.
The ramp and fog-clouds ended together. Cornell found himself on a lush slope above a wide valley—a postcard scene with the wrong shades of green. He had trouble with distances, with proportions. The distant trees would look modest on earth; here they were sequoias, mammoth trunks rising to a tangle of limbs and spruce-colored needles. And closer was a grassy, mossy foliage, yellow stalks with tiny cobalt flowers on their tips and flying bees hovering, alertly chewing at the petals.
The foliage bent as he moved through it, reminding Cornell of prairie grass. And he recalled riding with his father and Pete, looking at the cornfields, wondering how it must have seemed to the first pioneers on that endless pasture.
This was how it felt.
Amazing. Frightening. Delicious.
There was water—a mountain brook that looked as big as a river—and a broad smooth path running parallel to it. Cornell stayed on the path after dark, listening to the water and thinking how it was different than at home. Higher pitched, brittle. Then he smelled smoke and saw a flickering curtain of light. Bodies moved against the curtain. Several people’s bodies, he sensed, and he knew Logan’s by their silhouettes. Six bodies now, the newborn nearly as tall as its siblings.
“What’s your business?” someone snapped. Large bodies stepped in front of Cornell. “What do you want?”
“An assignment,” he replied.
Suspicious stares became suspicious smiles, the man turning just one body to shout, “This one wants work.”
Logan’s bodies turned together. The voice, animated and perpetually tense, came from every mouth. “Well, well. Locke, is it?”
“Novak.”
Faces became puzzled, then brightened. “I know you. Cornell? Let’s find your schedule.” One body dug through a sack full of parchment sheets, pulling out several of them. “Back early? Just in time, Novak. Hungry? We’ve got meat on spits, if you want. But between you and me, if I shit venison once more…” He gave a high-pitched laugh. “Anyway, I suppose you’re tired. Yeah, let him pass. He’s a solid fellow, a real find!”
What to do? Cornell decided on silence and false respect, nodding submissively. Then he said, “Sir?” and motioned with a single hand. “Do you know where I can find Porsche Neal?”
“Ah! Neal?” Eyes opened, reflecting firelight. Then the inner lids closed, and Logan said, “Alan. Who drowned today?”
Cornell felt himself become rigid, aware of his surroundings and the icy shock moving through him.
“It wasn’t Neal,” someone said.
And Logan laughed. “Oh, I know that.” Hands sorted the parchment sheets. “I’m doing bookkeeping, that’s all.”
Cornell didn’t speak, didn’t move.
“Ever do any rock climbing, Novak?”
“No,” he lied.
“Too bad.” His hands fought with the frayed edges and old tears. “So go help your lady friend, I suppose.” A giggle. “She’s at the tree—”
The tree.
“—and tell her, will you, we need plenty of boards tomorrow. As many as she can squeeze out. Understand?”
“Sure.”
Again he shuffled the files, and he pulled one out and squinted, saying, “Oh, him,” and folded it once before casually tossing it into the fire.
Alan asked, “Who was that?”
Logan paused—each body perfectly still—then laughed and said, “I’m not sure.” And with that he reached into the flames, snatching out the withering, unreadable piece of skin. There was a little rain of ashes, and the hand was burned. But what mattered was that Cornell had seen it happen. One of the subordinates approached him, telling him:
“You’ve got an assignment. Go.”
But Logan said, “No, wait.”
Cornell wished he had left, the chance missed.
One mouth sucked at the burned fingers. Another asked, “What are they saying on the other side? You’re honest. What’s the chatter these days? Tell me.”
He remembered F. Smith’s misplaced, innocent confidence in Logan. “Nothing,” he offered. “I didn’t hear much of anything, really.”
“But they know we’re close, don’t they?”
A vague shrug of the shoulders.
Logan took that as a yes. “They ask about casualties?”
“No.”
Alan said, “Told you. They understand.”
Someone else remarked, “If we had better stuff to work with…”
“Let them come over for a day,” groused a third man. “Just let them see what we’re up against.”
Logan was stuffing his files back into their sack, heads shaking, one mouth saying, “It doesn’t matter. The first First Contact, and everything’s forgiven.” The voice was confident, almost loud, working to build confidence in everyone. Perhaps some of the original Logan was showing—the talented, heroic leader. Yet a second mouth, at the same exact instant, seemed to mutter something else. Something like, “We’re fucked.” The same person speaking in two simultaneous voices, as if from two minds, his war-weary bodies standing stoop-shouldered against the strong flickering wall of yellow fire.
The tree, Cornell learned, was the long trunk of a dead tree. It had uprooted at its base and toppled in the recent past, its sapwood dried by the elements. Porsche’s team was camped near it. He woke one of them, and her guarding body pointed the way.
“There’s a ramp to the top,” she said. “Now good-night.”
He climbed the ramp with five bodies, making little noise, and his schoolboy excitement slipped into a schoolboy worry, a sudden lack of confidence causing his legs to slow and his hearts race. He felt like an idiot for investing this much emotion in a platonic relationship, if it even was a relationship. Then he saw her. There was a long white gash in the trunk, and he saw a mind and a pile of sleeping bodies. “Porsche?” he said. Then, “Hello?” Bodies stirred—five of them, he counted—and a single blinking face said:
“What?”
And he said, “I’m back…Cornell…?”
“But you’re early.” A laugh, big and strong. Then she snapped, “What in hell are you doing here now, love?”
That made him pause.
Porsche came at him with every body, knocking his bodies over. Then she was on top of them, saying, “I’m leaving tomorrow. It’s all arranged. I was going
to hurry and catch you before you came on shift, giving us time together. Know what I mean?”
He laughed with relief.
“Hey, don’t enjoy this. I’m not letting you enjoy this.” She punched him with fists, laughing with him. Then they wrestled on the hard wood, ending up kissing and not enough lips between them to do it well. Too many sharp teeth, and they nipped each other, Cornell saying through the salty blood:
“Sorry.”
“Go to hell.” She laughed.
“Do you have to leave? Are you as nuts as Logan?”
A pause, a look. Then she said, “I wish I could stay a while. I do.” She paused for a long moment, then added, “We’ll talk tomorrow. In the morning.”
Cornell said nothing, staring up at her faces, his smiles unconscious and his hands picking at her fur, combing it and caressing the wrong-shaped rumps and faces, feeling wondrous just to have this moment, this place and her and this strange perfect instant.
That next morning Porsche taught him how to do the work. “You’ll learn fast,” she promised. “Provided you brought your brain.” Her crew supplied lumber to the crews below. This valley ended with its little river pooling, then streaking down a deep curling gorge. A world’s worth of granite stood ahead of them, most of it baby-ass smooth and tough to work on. “We’ve had losses,” she warned. “Bodies fall. Sometimes minds.”
“How did you lose a body?” he inquired.
“A bite got infected. One of the last predators did it.” A pause, then she warned him, “This isn’t the desert. Moisture and heat don’t do your cuts any good.”
He described Logan from last night. “Is he always nuts?”
“Most of the time, no. But sometimes he’s worse.” She was concerned but not gloomy. “Basically, people here are willing and able. You don’t cross the desert unless you’re motivated, and most of us routinely put in double shifts. You’ve seen our organization. It’s almost nonexistent. But we’re excited enough to take risks—reasonable risks—because sometime, somewhere, someone is going to find a real native.”
