Eternity Road

9

Unexpectedly, a holiday atmosphere developed. Inns were strategically placed along River Road, so it was possible with good planning to sleep every night in a warm bed. They ate well, drank a little too much, and sometimes partied too late. They frequently paused and occasionally even wandered off onto side tracks to examine archeological sites. On one occasion they stopped for lunch at the home of one of Quait’s former military comrades.

They looked at the massive anchor near Piri’s Dam, sinking into a forest of sugar maples, trailing a chain that no man could lift. They viewed a restored cannon near Wicker Point, wondering what forgotten war it had seen; and visited the Roadmaker Museum in Kleska.

They passed ancient walls and foundations. Hojjies lined the sides of the road, where they’d been dragged when Argon cleared its highways more than a century before. They came in countless shapes and sizes, some small, some immense. Many were partially buried by accumulating earth.

They spent as much time walking as in the saddle, and they rested frequently. Quait, who’d had some experience with long-distance campaigning, understood how easy it would be to exhaust both horses and people, particularly in this case, where Silas and Flojian were accustomed to a sedentary existence. Silas had begun limping after the first day. But he’d fashioned a walking stick, refused to take extra time in the saddle, and by the end of the week seemed to be doing fine.

Quait enjoyed being the only young male in a company with two attractive women. Avila’s charms were by no means inconsiderable, and his appreciation for them did not replace but found a comfortable niche alongside his passion for Chaka.

She stood about an inch taller than he, dark-eyed and mysterious. That she had been a priest added to her exotic aura.

Meantime, Chaka demonstrated an impressive range of abilities. She was an accomplished forester and marksman. She was at home around horses, and seemed capable of walking everybody else, even Quait, into the ground. Although she had been distracted during the first couple of days, a more amiable spirit had emerged once they were well under way.

Cold rain settled in as, on the ninth day, they approached Argon. Had he been with his detachment, Quait knew what the mood would have been. But only Flojian showed any inclination to grumble, and he usually caught himself quickly and stopped. They reined up at Windygate, the last accommodation below the city, and consequently their final evening in beds. They checked in, relired to their rooms, and scrubbed down, luxuriating in the hot water. At dinner that evening, Quait detected a sense of expectancy and possibly of nervousness. Tomorrow they would connect with Wilderness Road, which would take them east, away from civilization. Into the eternal forest.

This was also the evening during which they got into an altercation with an oversized cattle trader who’d had too much to drink. His throat was scarred and he needed dental work. His face looked as if he’d been hit by a plank. But he visibly drooled over Avila. Quait, walching from his chair, felt his muscles bunch and remembered a remark a comrade had once made: Never pick a fight with a three-hundred-pounder who has broken teeth.

The cattle trader was sitting at the next table. He grinned at Avila and raised his stein in an elaborate toast. “How about you and me, gorgeous?” he asked. “Shake off these creeps and you can have a man.”

Before Quait could respond, Flojian leaped to his feet with both fists clenched. “Back off,” he snarled.

Avila iried lo inlervene. “I can handle this myself,” she said.

The trader casually set his beer down. “Stay out of it, dwarf,” he told Flojian. He grinned at a friend as if he’d just said something amusing, and signaled for somebody to refill his stein. The friend was only moderately smaller, but every bit as ugly. A boy hurried over and poured cold beer until it overflowed and ran down onto the table.

The trader turned his snag-toothed stare on Flojian, daring him to say more.

“You owe the lady an apology,” sputtered Flojian.

“The lady needs a man,” he sneered. “If you want to show what you can do, porkchop, I’m right here.”

Damn, Quait thought. He got up.

But Flojian, to his surprise, knocked the beer into the trader’s lap. That was a mistake, of course. Quait knew that if you have to initiate hostilities against a dangerous opponent, do it with a view to taking him out with the opening salvo.

The trader roared to his feet, wiping his soaked trousers, and came around the table after Flojian. Flojian went into what he thought was a fighter’s crouch. But Quait had to give him credit: He didn’t back away.

Everything happened at once. The trader cocked his right fist, which looked like a mallet for driving tent pegs; Quait borrowed the pitcher from the young man (who had hovered within range to watch the action) and brought it down over the trader’s head; and Avila broke a chair across the shouders of his companion, who had got up a little too quickly. The battle was effectively over from that point. The waiters, who also served as peacekeepers, arrived armed with short clubs. Quait got knocked in the head for his trouble, and the trader (who no longer knew where he was) absorbed a solid blow to the shin. He was taken to the back for repairs and later returned to his table, still glassy-eyed.

As was common practice in that relatively civilized time, the peacekeepers announced to both sides there would be an additional charge for their trouble, apologized if they had seemed to use undue force, and implied that further hostilities would be treated severely. The evening proceeded as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Later, Avila found her opportunity to take Flojian aside. “I appreciated your defending me in there,” she said.

Flojian stared back at her. ‘I’d have done the same for any woman.” .

Wilderness Road was a Roadmaker highway, twin tracks through the forest, rising into eastern hills and fading finally the horizon. It was built on a foundation of concrete and asphalt, which was usually buried by as much as a foot of loam. Often, however, the loam had worn away and the concrete gleamed in the sun. That the highway was still usable, after all these centuries, was a tribute to the engineering capabilities of its makers. Chaka tried to imagine what it had looked like when it was new, when hojjies rolled (by whatever means) along its manicured surface. Behind them to the northwest, the towers of Argon loomed in the midafternoon haze.

They camped on the roadway that night, enjoyed rabbit stew provided by Chaka and Quait, and listened to the sounds of the forest. Avila produced a set of pipes, and Quait a Walloon (a stringed instrument), and they serenaded the wildlife with ballads and drinking songs. Silas made the first field entry in his journal, and Avila dispensed with her nightly prayer to Shanta.

That was a difficult decision, because she knew hazards lay ahead, and all her instincts demanded that she place her life in the hands of the Goddess. But she rebelled. My hands, she thought. It is in my hands, and if I’m going to get through this, I’d better remember it.

Flojian was feeling extraordinarily good about himself. He had twice stood up to loudmouths now. Not bad for a man who reflexively avoided conflict. He had been replaying the incident while they traveled, watching himself challenge the giant, discovering the special kind of joy that an act of courage can bestow. When things go well.

His father would have been proud. As Avila had been proud.

Flojian had always ascribed his problems with his father to the fact that Karik had simply not thought much of his son. Flojian had taken no interest in the Roadmaker mysteries, no interest in their cities, no interest in the past. He had never walked through the ancient corridors in which his father had spent most of his intellectual life.

His mother had died when he was two, and Karik had never found time for the child. He’d grown up moving around among aunts and cousins. Your father’s excavating a Roadmaker church in Farroad, they would tell him. Or, they found some odd hojjies south ofMasandik, and he’s trying to figure out what they are. So he’d resisted the Roadmakers and the Imperium and the library and everything else his father believed in. Just as well. It was all nonsense anyhow. Ironic that he would wind up on this idiot expedition. But the suspicions that had for years engulfed his father’s reputation also cast a shadow over Flojian, and consequently over the business. He saw no real choice. Nevertheless, Karik would have approved of his presence. And that fact annoyed him.

There was a sense of excitement that evening, of finally being on the quest. Tomorrow they would reach the League frontier, and shortly thereafter encounter the first markings left by Landon Shay. The adventure was beginning, and there was an almost mystical sense of crossing out of the known world.

This was also their first night under the stars. Flojian drew the watch while the others drifted off to sleep. Armed with a revolver, he slipped into the darkness, checked the animals, and circled the camp. The threats posed by highwaymen or by renegade Tuks had receded in recent years, but he was not one to take security for granted. He noted off-road avenues of approach, but did not believe anyone could get close without alerting the horses.

When he returned to the fireside, only Avila was still awake.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. He still felt uncomfortable in her presence, but he was determined to tolerate her.

“No, thank you.” Her face was ruddy in the firelight. “Big day tomorrow.”

Flojian nodded.

“May I ask you a question?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Are you a believer?”

“In the gods?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the sky. The moon was a misty glow in the treetops, and the stars looked far away. “Yes,” he said. “Without them, there’s no point to existence.”

She was silent for a time. “I’d like to think they’re out there somewhere,” she said at last. “But if they are, they’re too remote. They shouldn’t complain if we neglect them.”

“Even the Roadmakers believed,” said Flojian. “They left chapels everywhere.”

“What good did it do them? They’re gone. Everything they accomplished is gone.”

The fire was getting low, and Flojian threw a fresh log onto it.

“Despite their power,” she said, “and despite their piety, they were only hostages to fortune. Just like us.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All the striving it must have taken to build their world.” She sat up, drew the blanket around her shoulders. In the trees, something moved. “There’s nothing left except concrete and an assortment of junk that won’t decay.” Her eyes fastened on him.

“You have to believe in something,” said Flojian. “If not the gods, what?”

“Nights like this,” said Avila. “Good food. Good friends. And wine to dull the edge of things.”

Yes, there’s that hill to the cast, and the line of river over there. And here’s where Arin must have stood. Silas made a notation in his journal, and they moved on.

The river was the Ohio, which wandered down from the northeast to join the Mississippi at Argon. It was a majestic, wide stream with forest pushing into the water along both banks. She could see downed bridges in both directions.

Most of the roads in League territories had been generally cleared of hojjies. But now the ancient vehicles began to grow numerous. One hojjy contained a pile of apparently indestructible toys buried under the dust in the back seat. Flojian found another with a case that was made from a leather-like material, but which could not have been leather because it was still pliable and in good condition. When they opened it, they found writing instruments and metallic devices and disks like the ones on display in the museums. They also found a notebook cover with the imprint EXECU-TRAK. But there was only dust inside. “Pity,” said Silas. “They were able to make everything permanent except paper.”

At about midday, another road came out of the woods and looped up to connect with them. Chaka unfolded the map Shannon had drawn for her. “This should be it,” she said. “There’s a marked tree here somewhere.” As they spread out to look, she heard a familiar voice, and saw Jon Shannon sitting on a fallen log. “It’s over here,” he said.

Quait drew his gun.

“Don’t shoot.” Chaka slid out of her saddle and hurried forward. “It’s Jon.” She embraced him. “You’re a long way from home,” she said.

He nodded and she introduced him around. Shannon shook everybody’s hand.

“This is where it starts,” he said. He pointed at a tall cottonwood. Three lines were carved into the trunk at eye level, parallel to Wilderness Road.

“What does it mean?” asked Flojian.

“It means you’re on the right road. Keep straight. Whichever way you’re traveling.” He untied three horses and led them out of the woods. A broadbrimmed hat kept the sun out of his face, which seemed devoid of expression.

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Chaka. “Are you coming with us?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I’d like to come along, if the offer’s still open.”

“Why?” asked Quait.

He shrugged. “Not sure. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Silas glanced around at the company. “Anybody object?”

“I’ve known Jon a long time,” said Chaka. “He’s just what we need.”

Quait wondered whether the competition had just arrived. But Shannon looked as if he knew his way around the woods. “Okay by me,” he said.

The Ohio looped away to the north, and after a couple of days they lost sight of it. A giant highway crossed above. It had partially collapsed and blocked Wilderness Road. “Used to be a tunnel through here, I guess,” said Shannon. Cottonwoods on both sides of the rubble were marked with the parallel lines. Stay straight. “We climb over and continue on the other side,” he said.

Within a half-mile, they plunged into heavy forest and Wilderness Road petered out. “Did we go the wrong way?” asked Silas, standing glumly at the head of a half-dozen horses.

“They’re headed for Beekum’s Trail,” said Shannon. “It isn’t far.”

A thick canopy shut off the sunlight. They moved single file through bushes and thickets. The trees, which were mostly elm and black oak, were marked every fifteen or twenty yards, and Chaka began to develop an appreciation for Landon Shay’s foresight.

Ruins appeared. Brick walls, hojjies, an old church, a factory, some shops. Some of the structures were crushed between trees, mute testimony to their age. A metal post had been pushed over, bearing a rectangular sign. Silas wiped it with a cloth.

“It’s a street sign,” Silas explained. “There are quite a few of them on display in the Imperium.” A few minutes later, they found a second sign, bigger, with an arrow under the legend: ALBEN BARKLEY MUSEUM.

The arrow pointed up.

“Strange name,” said Chaka.

They picked up Beekum’s Trail late next morning. It was narrow and heavily overgrown.

“Who was Beekum?” asked Avila.

“A legendary bandit,” Silas explained. “He supposedly collected tolls from anyone who passed here. Tolls or heads.”

“He was killed by Pelio,” said Quait. The equally legendary Argonite hero.

They crossed a tributary of the Ohio on a rickety bridge and stopped to catch some fish for the midday meal.

Beekum’s Trail curved north and the forests began to change. The familiar red cedars and white oak and cottonwoods held their own, but new trees filled the woods now, of types they had never seen before. The Ohio reappeared on their left and they camped several consecutive nights along its banks.

These were pleasant evenings, moonlit and unseasonably warm, filled with easy conviviality. They were now in their third week, and everyone was becoming more or less accustomed to life on the open road. On March 7, they came to the place where the great river threw a branch off to the north. “That’s the Wabash,” said Shannon. “Keep an eye open. There’s a ford just ahead, and that’s probably where they were heading.”

They found two sets of markings, both on cottonwoods, pointing into the river.

“He likes cottonwoods,” said Flojian.

Shannon took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Shay’ll use them wherever he can,” he said. “Makes it easier for us to know what we’re looking for.”

Chaka was studying the river. “That’s a long way across.” Shannon smiled. ‘It’s not as deep as it looks.”

“Not as deep as it looks?” she said. “It looks pretty deep.” It wasn’t the depth so much as the current that gave them trouble. Toward the middle of the river it became quite swift.

Piper stumbled and went down and was almost swept away with her rider, but Quait and Avila came to the rescue.

When they reached shore, they quit for the day, wrung out their clothes, and enjoyed a fish dinner.

The trail now moved north along the Wabash, past a sign on a low brick wall: HOVEY LAKE STATE CAME PRESERVE. The river was narrower than the Ohio, a placid stream covered each day until late morning with mist. There was no road. The weather turned wet and cold, as if crossing the Ohio had put them into a different climate. The first night they found shelter in a barn. Sleet fell in the morning, and miserable conditions persisted for five consecutive days. The good cheer they had felt during their week on the Ohio dissipated.

On the thirteenth, as they crossed another giant roadway, the weather broke. The sun came out, and the day grew warm. To the west, the new road soared high out over the Wabash, and stopped in midair.

Chaka sat on Piper, watching Silas try to sketch the scene into his journal. “Not a bridge to travel at night,” she said.

They rode into a glade bounded on the far side by a low ridge. Shannon brought them to a halt. “This is worth seeing,” he said.

Chaka looked around and saw nothing. The others were equally puzzled.

“The ridge,” said Shannon.

It was long and straight, emerging from the trees to their right, passing across their line of advance, and disappearing back into the forest. It had a rounded crest, covered with grass and dead leaves. Otherwise, it was remarkable for its lack of noteworthiness.

“It’s not really straight,” said Shannon. “It only looks that way because you can’t see much of it. In fact, it makes a perfect circle. Seventy miles around.”

Avila leaned forward in her saddle. “The Devil’s Eye,” she said.

One of the horses was nuzzling Chaka.

“You’ve heard of it?” Shannon looked surprised.

“Oh yes. I knew it was out here somewhere, but I didn’t expect to see it.”

“The ridge is always the same height. Sometimes the land drops away and it looks higher. And sometimes the ground rises and the ridge disappears altogether.”

“What’s the Devil’s Eye?” asked Chaka, feeling a chill work its way down her spine.

Avila dismounted and shielded her eyes. “It’s supposed to be the place where the Roadmakers conjured up a demon to help them look into Shanta’s secrets. So they could steal her divinity.” She looked uncomfortable. “I always thought it was probably just a loose configuration of hills. That people were exaggerating about the geometry.”

“Oh, no,” said Shannon. “Nobody exaggerated about this place.”

“How’d it get here?” asked Flojian, his voice hushed. “It can’t be natural.”

Shannon let them look, and then led them back into the woods, following the ridge. They were riding upslope, and consequently the summit was getting lower. Beyond the crest, the tops of several ruined buildings came into view.

Chaka guided her horse close to Shannon. “Do you know what it is?” she asked, hoping for a more mundane explanation.

He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Silas could have identified Christianity as a major religion of the Roadmaker epoch. But his information was limited to the few volumes that had survived into his own age. He could not have known, for example, that, of the long panoply of supernatural names mentioned in the Scriptures, only the Devil’s lived on.