Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road (v1) [rtf]

by Emily

  "So what kind of marks?"

  "Trees, maybe," he said.

  "In what way?"

  "Just carve a couple of notches. They'd try to travel on the old highways. In fact, if you look at the sketches, that's what they're doing." The highways, of course, even the giant ones, were overgrown, the asphalt often buried beneath the cen­turies, covered with vegetation. To Shannon's forebears, when they were establishing the settlement that would eventually become Illyria, the great green lanes, gliding across hilltops and rivers and forests, were a mystery, associated with supernatural forces. The modern Illyrians knew better.

  They were constructed with a layer of asphalt laid over concrete. Hard as rock. The technique made for stable road­ways, but even after a foot or more of soil was added to make a surface, they were uncomfortable for horses and other beasts. Especially in those places where the cover wore thin and the asphalt became exposed.

  The highways were convenient to modern travelers. They provided crow's-flight passage through the wilderness. There were no steep climbs or dead ends, save perhaps for an occa­sional missing bridge or collapsed foundation.

  "So they'd do what?" asked Chaka. "Where do we look for notches? We couldn't inspect every tree along the side of the trail."

  "I'll tell you how I'd do it. Whenever we changed direction. Or whenever the road forked, or whenever I thought someone would be tempted to wander off the wrong way, I'd leave a mark. And every now and then I'd do something to confirm it was still the right trail."

  "You think Shay would have done that?"

  "I think he'd have an obligation to do it. And to make sure everyone knew he was doing it."

  Chaka's eyes shut, opened again, and her expression changed. "What about the Tliks? How big a threat would they be?"

  He shrugged. "The local ones should be okay. Take some stuff with you to give them. They like guns but I don't think I'd offer any. Maybe some trinkets. Cups. Cups are good. Espe­cially with pictures. Mottos. Things like that. And bracelets. They'll probably keep their distance as long as you keep mov­ing and don't approach a village. If you do see them, try to look as if you're passing through and you do it all the time. Right? Show no fear, and say hello." He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with more tea.

  Chaka nodded. "This city is in the sea. Or on the edge of a sea. You know anything at all about it? Or about anything remotely like it?"

  "There's a city in the north. Chicago. And a sea up there. But the city's supposed to be spooked." He wasn't eating much, had in fact eaten shortly before Chaka's arrival. But he nibbled on a piece of beef to be sociable. Chaka, on the other hand, was hungry. "I've never been there." He glanced at the drawing. "But if that's what it really looks like, people would expect it to be haunted. Wouldn't they?" A log fell into the fire and sparks flew. "But you never really know. Roadmaker ruins are rest­less."

  She smiled. It was a warm smile, a little tentative, and it told him he'd succeeded at what he'd hoped to do: frighten her. "Jon," she said, "I'd like to try to find this place. My brother died out there somewhere, and I think I was lied to about the way of it. I know this is asking a lot, but I'd be grate­ful if you'd reconsider."

  She was hard to say no to, but he did. "It's just a way to waste a lot of time and effort," he said. "And maybe get your­self killed. Take my advice, Chaka: Don't do it."

  She looked steadily at him, and he suspected she was trying to decide whether he was adamant. "In that case," she said, "I wonder if I can hire you for a few days."

  Flojian had been uneasy since his conversation with Chaka. The Mark Twain had been given away to injure him, to send a message to the wayward son. I am leaving this extraordinarily valuable find to a person I hardly know, in preference to you. Further­more, I know its existence will create trouble, and you are welcome to that. And I have even arranged that you be the instrument of the transaction.

  Damn him.

  And damn Milana too. If she could have simply accepted her gift with grace and gone away, it would have been over.

  Flojian tried to bury himself in his work, but he was too restless to think about new shipping schedules and mainte­nance problems. He gave up late in the morning, told his assis­tant he was going to take the rest of the day off, and rode into town. He wandered listlessly through the markets for two hours, stopping occasionally for something to drink. When fatigue and appetite began to overtake him he rode back out through the gates and stopped at the Crossroads Tavern (which was not really located on a crossroad) for some lunch.

  He was a regular and favored customer at the Crossroads. The host sat him at a corner table, back in the shadows, where a candle flickered fitfully in a smoked red globe. A waiter brought cold brew while Flojian considered the menu board and settled on beef stew. You can't go wrong with the basics, he told himself. It was midafternoon, and there were only a handful of customers. But sound travels well in a nearly empty room, and Flojian found himself listening to a group of two men and a woman several tables away.

  "—Second expedition." That was the phrase that caught his attention. It was part of a sneer delivered by the younger of the men. He was mostly belly, blond, shaggy, overflowing his chair. "It's crazy." He stabbed a fat index finger in the air. "They'll kill themselves."

  The second man wore a purple shirt with a white string tie. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, but his otherwise good features were spoiled by a hangdog look, a combination of cruelty and cringing. "How will they know where they're going?" he said.

  "1 guess they've figured out the route the other one took," said the woman. She was middle-aged, well dressed, and had had a little too much to drink.

  Flojian examined his stein. It was ornate, inlaid with mid­night glass tears. Nice, actually.

  The hangdog shook his head and addressed the belly. 'Gammer, the other one didn't come back. You'd think they'd learn."

  Gammer looked bored. "I figured you'd be first in line to go, Hok."

  "Not me. There aren't any idiots in my family."

  Gammer grinned. It was a lopsided grin, rendered cruel by vacuous eyes. "I didn't think you knew your family."

  Flojian took a long pull from his brew.

  "What really happened on the first expedition?" The woman's question.

  "What's-his-name, the guy who came back, he left them." Gammer tore off an end of bread, dipped it into his stew, and pushed it into his mouth. While he chewed, he jabbed his fork toward the back of the room. "They got in trouble and he left them. That's why he never said anything."

  "I think there's more to it," said Hok. He finished his drink and offered to pour another round for everybody. The woman passed. "Look, that thing they brought back, the book, they say it's worth a couple of sacks of gold. Big sacks. I tell ya, it doesn't take much imagination to see a fight breaking out among them, winner take all. This what's-his-name—"

  "Endine," said the woman.

  "Yeah, Endine, he was the winner. The guy who came home. Maybe he murdered the rest of them."

  Flojian banged his stein down. He got up and faced them. The tavern fell silent. "You're a liar." He threw a silver coin onto the table. It rolled about a foot. "Endine wouldn't abandon anybody."

  Hok tilted his head and grinned a silent challenge. Flojian started in his direction, but the host hurried over to make peace.

  Word came in the middle of the night. It was brought by one of the attendants, who was kneeling by her bed with a taper. "Avila. The boy is dying. They need you."

  Her heart sank.

  "The father waits downstairs."

  She threw the spread aside. "Wake Sarim."

  "We've already attended to that. He'll meet you in the sanctuary."

  She rinsed quickly at the basin, slid into her robe, fastened her sash, and drew on a black cloak, for the night was cool. She had no stomach for what lay ahead.

  She gathered a supply of agora, which would ease the child's passage into the next world, for she knew the case
offered no hope of recovery unless the Goddess intervened. But the Goddess had not acted in many years. Avila wondered what had happened that she had been so completely aban­doned.

  She knew what the Kiri would say: Your faith is being tested. Believe and do your duty, and all will be well. But all was not well.

  The father waited in the reception room. He sat, head sag­ging, eyes devoid of every quality except pain. When Avila entered, he rose but could not speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks. She helped him to his feet, and held him. "Mentor," he said, "we are going to lose him."

  "He is in Shanta's hands now," she responded. "Whatever happens, she will be with him."

  He wiped his eyes. When he seemed to have steadied, she took his arm. "Come with me," she said softly.

  They left the sitting room, went down a stairway, and passed into a long marble corridor illuminated by lanterns. Murals depicted Shanta in her various aspects, creating life, sending the rain, protecting the child Tira against the ser-

  pent, appearing in blood-covered clothes to inform the Illyri-ans that she had fought beside their sons at the battle of Darami.

  They passed between twin columns, suggesting the God­dess's support for the world, and ascended into the sanctuary.

  The sanctuary was oval-shaped, dominated by a small unadorned altar. The only light in the room came from a bra­zier, which contained the Living Fire, brought to the Illyrians by Havram, who had it from the Holy One herself. So long as these flames brighten my chapel will they give strength to your spirit and to your body. Nourish them and live forever in me. Sarim, broad, gruff, devout Sarim, was waiting. He held an unlit torch, which she took from him.

  "Blessed be the eternal light," she said, and pressed the torch into the father's hand. He took it, and she helped him hold it over the brazier until it caught.

  Moments later, they passed out of the Temple into the streets. It was a windy night. The torch, in Sarim's grip, flick­ered and blazed and Avila's cloak tugged at her shoulders. Sarim and the father walked side by side. Avila, a few steps behind, bowed her head and prayed fervently.

  Goddess, if it be your will—

  His name was Tully. He was nine years old, and afflicted with a wasting disease that had not responded to her array of medicines, poultices, and palliatives. She had seen it before, the graying of the skin, the loss of weight, the aching joints. And the gradual deterioration of the will to live. Usually, the victims were elderly.

  Tully had been coming to the Temple for almost four months. At first reluctant, and anxious to be away to join his friends, he had not responded to her ministrations. In time the impatience in his eyes had broken and given way to sadness. The boy had grown to trust her, and he fought the disease with courage. But despite all she could do, he grew weaker with each visit. The parents brought with them a childlike faith that broke her heart.

  Be with him in the ordeal to come.

  He had been a bright, green-eyed child filled with laughter

  when she'd first seen him. Now he was wasted and out of his head, and his fevers raged all the time. "Help him, Mentor," the mother had pleaded.

  Tully was covered with damp cloths, in an effort to contain the fever. But his eyes were vacant. He was already effectively gone.

  Avila could not restrain her own tears.

  Shanta, where are you?

  She accepted the torch from Sarim and held it for the father. He took it desperately and plunged it into the pile of sticks and coals in the brazier at the side of the bed. They began to burn.

  From the front of the house, where relatives were gathered, Avila heard muffled sobs. She took the boy's wrist and counted silently. His pulse was very weak.

  She could not bring herself to look into the eyes of either parent. Instead, she laid the emaciated arm back atop the sheet, but did not let go of it, and bowed her head.

  Mother Shanta, I never ask any boon for myself. I know that you are with me now, and are always with me, and that is enough. I will accept without complaint whatever your judgment for me. But please save the child. Do not let him die.

  She watched the hopes of the parents fade, watched the boy's struggles weaken, watched the relatives file one by one into the room to take their leave. The wind worked at the win­dows and the frail flame in the brazier sputtered and gasped.

  Whatever your judgment—

  "Mentor?"

  "I do not know." She resented their importunities. Why did they demand so much of her, as if the divine power were hers to wield?

  In the hour after midnight, the thin body ceased its strug­gles, the labored breathing stopped, and Avila closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. The mother tried to gather him to her breast and the father slumped against the wall, whispering his son's name as if to call him back.

  Shanta, accept to your care Tully, who lived only a handful of years in this world.

  On the way back to the Temple, Sarim asked whether she was all right. "I'm fine," she said. And then, after a couple of silent minutes: "What's the point of a god who never inter­venes?"

  6

  The young Avila had loved riding along the banks of the moonlit Mis­sissippi with her father, hoping that Lyka Moonglow would put in an appearance.

  No one has seen her for a long time, Avila. She's shy and prefers to come when no one is about. But your grandmother once saw her.

  There had been times when Avila was sure she'd also seen Lyka, a quick burst of iridescence skimming the dark waters, a glowing curve much like a smile in the night. But she'd under­stood that the adults were amused by her claims even while they pretended to be amazed by them. In those days, the skies and the forest had been full of divine power, voices speaking to her, unseen hands turning the inner workings of day and night.

  It was a vision she'd never forgot, even when tensions had risen in the family, and she'd run off to Farroad where for three years she'd danced and played for the men who worked the river.

  Men had fought over her in those days. And one, whose name she'd never known, a young one not yet twenty, had died. She'd knelt in the street that night with her arms full of blood and felt for the first time the presence of the Goddess.

  What more natural than that Avila Kap would, at the somewhat late age of twenty-two, enter the Order of Shanta the Healer, and dedicate herself to a life of service to gods and men?

  It had been a fulfilling existence. During the early days she'd heard divine footsteps beside her in the dark streets as she hurried to assist stricken families. But in time the sound had faded, like voices in a passing boat. On the night that Tully had slipped away, she'd returned to her cubicle, warm against

  the chill rain, and had lain awake well into the dawn, sensing nothing in the dark, no power, no spirit lingering to heal the healer, no whispered assurance that there was purpose to it all.

  She was alone. They were all alone. What had the young man, the one they called Orvon, said at Silas's seminar? We may be seeing only what we wish to see. She had sensed in him a desire to believe, and a smoldering anger.

  But if no god went with her into the night, how was it that the medicines worked?

  But then, why did they not always work? She knew the dog­matic answer, of course: It was not always Shanta's will that a cure be effected. But then, if the matter depended on Shanta's will, why bother with the medicines and the curatives at all?

  During the two weeks that elapsed after Tully's death, Avila Kap had been locked in a dark struggle of the soul. She felt her old self slipping away, everything she believed in, everything she cared about.

  She now knew she was going to leave the Order. It was not an easy choice. The world outside was hostile to ex-priests. Even persons who paid little heed to their religious obligations seemed to feel a duty to show their moral uprightness by mis­treating those servants of the gods who had abandoned their posts. But she could no longer pretend to believe.

  The real issue now was simple: What could she find to replace the Order, to g
ive meaning to her life? She was well educated and could support herself easily enough. But she did not wish to devote herself exclusively to making money.

  In other times, when she'd faced difficult choices, she'd retired to the green chapel, which was named for the variety and profusion of plants that lined its walls and surrounded its altar. Invariably she'd come away with a solution. Now, however, she remained in the community areas or in her quarters. And when other late-night calls came, she went out as she always had, clinging to her dying faith as tightly as the families she visited clung to their dying fathers and wives.

  Silas hired four people to begin the task of making copies of Connecticut Yankee. Each worked on a separate volume, of course. (Esthetics prohibited multiple types of handwriting in a single book.) Later, when they had several copies to work with, they would expand the operation. Eventually, Silas expected, a hundred or more bound volumes would circulate through the five cities.

  There'd been a brief debate about modernizing the lan­guage. Silas had argued that they retain the original, in that it was still easily readable. He also believed no one could do it justice. The board had squirmed a bit, but conceded the point.

  There were original copies of the other two extant Mark Twain fragments, from "The Facts in the Case of the Great Beef Contract" and Life on the Mississippi. Now, with the addition of a complete Connecticut Yankee, there was a large enough body of work to begin a serious evaluation of the Roadmaker writer. Silas wondered what lessons Mark Twain, standing with him in Illyria, would have drawn from the ruins of his civilization.

  Silas had written over thirty commentaries on various aspects of ancient and modern literature, ethics, and history. Only one, "Brave New Hyperbole," had ever been committed to permanent form and placed in the library. (Now, years later, the title embarrassed him.) "Hyperbole" argued that Huxley's book was in fact a speculative fantasy rather than an accurate depiction of Roadmaker technologies and ethics. He wasn't sure he was right, but he trembled at the possibility that civi­lization could descend to such horror.