21

Flojian wanted to kill them all.

There was, in Quait’s mind, sufficient justification. But he could not bring himself to execute twelve helpless men. (Two, including the captain, had died of gunshot wounds; and the one Chaka had thrown overboard was missing.) Chaka was repelled by the notion and pointed out that Avila would not have allowed it. Flojian reluctantly backed off.

They settled on a more symbolic vengeance.

Using the crew as a workforce, they dumped the ship’s guns into the river. Flojian then struck her colors, put them with the baggage, and ran the Peacemaker aground. The wheel was removed and the hulk was burned.

The companions discovered Shay’s familiar markings a quarter mile downriver. Six of their horses showed up, including Bali, Lightfoot, Piper, and, to their surprise, Mista. They loaded the ship’s wheel on the stallion. The crew were left bound by the seashore. Flojian tossed them a dull knife as he rode away.

That afternoon, on the south shore of yet another body of water whose limits lay beyond the horizon, they built a pyre for Avila. As part of the ceremony, they offered Peacemaker’s wheel to her and inserted it into the pile of fagots, along with t:he ship’s colors. Each came forward to describe the various benefits that had been obtained from having known Avila Kap, and why her passage through this life had been a blessing. They drank to her, using water from the lake, and announced their pleasure that she had gone on to her reward and was now free of the troubles of this plane of existence. This time, however, the pretense of joy derived from the completion of a valued life broke down. Chaka sobbed openly. And the agony in Flojian’s eyes burned itself into Quait’s memory.

At the moment the sun touched the western rim of the world, Chaka held a torch to the bier. The flames caught quickly, spread through the twigs and grass, and quickly blazed up around her.

“What frightens me most,” Flojian said, staring at the inferno, “is that she abandoned her vows. She is now facing the god she denied.” His voice shook and tears came again.

“I think you can rest easy,” said Chaka. “The gods are kinder and more understanding than we think. Shanta must have loved her just as we did.”

Quait shook her. “Storm coming,” he said. “Looks like a bad one.” The western sky was filled with silent lightning. She could smell the approaching rain. “There’s a cave a half-mile south,” he continued. “It’s pretty big. We can wait it out in there.”

Flojian was awake. Still awake, probably.

They loaded the horses and rode out singly, Quait in front and Flojian at the rear. They moved through a patch of cool green forest, crossed a spring, and climbed the side of a ridge.

Chaka drew alongside Quait and lowered her voice. “It’s time to give it up,” she said. “Go home. If we still can. Before we lose anybody else.”

The thunder was getting loud. -

“If we give it up now,” said Quait, “everything will have been for nothing.” He reached over and took her arm. “I think we have to finish it now. Whatever that takes. But nothing’s changed. If you elect to go home, I’ll go with you.”

“What about Flojian?”

“He’s beaten. I don’t think he cares anymore what we do.”

“What can we possibly find,” Chaka asked, “that’s worth the price?”

A wall of rain moved out of the dark. It caught them and drove her breath away. Water spilled out of Quait’s hat onto his shoulders.

“Not much farther,” he said.

Chaka was making her decision. She wanted no more blood on her hands. Tomorrow they would start back.

The rain pounded the soft earth, fell into the trees.

They rode with deliberation, picking their way among concrete and petrified limbers and corroded melal. The debris had been softened by lime: Earih and grass had rounded ihe rubble, spilled over it, absorbed ils sharp edges. Evenlually, she supposed, nolhing would be left, and visitors would stand on the ruins and not know they were even here.

Quait bent against the rain, his hat low over his eyes, his right hand pressed againsl Lightfoot’s flank. He looked worn and discouraged, and Chaka realized for the first time that he too had given up. That he was only wailing for someone to say the word, to lake responsibilily for admilting failure.

The ridge ended abruptly. They descended the other side and rode through a narrow defile bordered by blocks and slabs.

“You okay?” he asked Flojian, speaking loudly to get over the roar of the siorm.

“Yes,” Flojian said. “Couldn’l be better.”

The cave was a square black moulh rimmed by chalkslone and half hidden by bracken. They held up a lamp and could not see the end of it.

“Plenty of room,” said Chaka, bringing up the rear. She was drenched. “Pily we don’l have any dry wood.”

“Aha,” said Quait. “Never underestimate the master.” A s:ack of dead branches had been piled inside. “I took the precaution when I was here earlier.”

While Flojian and Chaka took care of the animals. Quait built a fire and put tea on. Then they changed into dry clothes. They didn’t talk much for a long time. Quait sal, wrapped in his blanket, warm and dry. It was enough.

“Thanks,” said Flojian.

Chaka understood. She embraced him, buried her cheek against his. He was cold. “It’s okay,” she said.

Later, she recorded everything in the journal, and pin-pointed the site of Avila’s cremation. She knew that, if she lived, she would one day revisit the place.

It was hard to guess what the grotto had originally been. It was not a natural cave. The walls were tile. Whatever color they might once have possessed had been washed away. Now they were gray and stained, and they curved into a high ceiling. A pattern of slanted lines, probably intended for decorative effect, cut through them. The grotto was wide, wider than the council hall, which could accommodate a hundred people; and it went far back under the hill. Miles, maybe.

Thunder shook the walls, and they listened to the steady beat of the rain.

Quait had just picked up the pot and begun to pour when thunder exploded directly overhead. He lifted his cup in mock fealty to the god of the storm. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we should take the hint.”

The bolt struck a corroded crosspiece, a misshapen chunk of dissolving metal jutting from the side of the hill. Most of the energy dissipated into the ground. But some of it leaped to a buried cable, followed it down to a melted junction box, flowed through a series of conduits, and lit up several ancient circuit boards. One of the circuit boards relayed power into a long-dormant auxiliary system; another turned on an array of sensors which began to take note of sounds in the grotto. And a third, after an appropriate delay, threw a switch and activated the only program that still survived.

Sleep did not come easily. Chaka watched Flojian drift off Quait sat for a long time, munching berries and biscuit, and drinking tea and talking about not very much in particular How these experiences reminded him of life in the military, except that death seemed to be more unexpected. How cold it was in this part of the world. (“I know we’ve traveled north, but it’s the middle of April. When does it get warm here?”) How effective the wedges had been. He’d dug his out of the baggage and would not be caught again without it. And then, abruptly, as if he wanted to get it on record: “You really think we should start back?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. While we can still find our raft.”

“That settles it, then. Okay. I don’t think anyone can say we didn’t try. We’ll run it by Flojian in the morning. Give him a chance to argue it, if he wants.”

“He won’t.”

The fire was getting low, and she could hear Flojian snoring lightly. “It’s not as if we have any reason to think we’re close,” she said.

The thunder began to draw away, and the steady clatter of the rain grew erratic, and faded.

“You’re right, Chaka,” he said. It was his final comment for the evening.

Quait had lost twenty pounds since they’d left Illyria two months before. He had aged, and the good-humored nonchalance that had attracted her during the early days had disappeared. He was all business now. She had changed, too. The Chaka Milana who lay by the fire that night would never have wandered off lightly on so soul-searing an adventure.

She tried to shake off her sense of despair, and shrank down in her blankets. The water dripped off the trees. A log broke and fell into the fire. She dozed off.

She wasn’t sure what brought her out of it, but she was suddenly awake, senses alert.

Someone, outlined in moonlight, illuminated by the fire, was standing at the exit to the grotto, looking out.

She glanced over at Quait. His chest gently rose and fell; Flojian lay to her left.

She’d been sleeping on her saddlebag. Without any visible movement, she eased her gun out of it. Even after yesterday’s demonstration, she was still inclined to put more faith in bullets than wedges.

The figure was a man, somewhat thick at the waist, dressed in peculiar clothes. He wore a dark jacket and dark trousers of matching style, a hat with a rounded top, and he carried a walking stick. There was a red glow near his mouth that alternately dimmed and brightened. She detected an odor that might have been burning weed.

“Don’t move,” she said softly, rising to confront the apparition. “I have a gun.”

He turned, looked curiously at her, and a cloud of smoke rose over his head. He was indeed puffing on something. And the smell was vile. “So you do,” he said. “I hope you won’t use it.”

He didn’t seem sufficiently impressed. “I mean it,” she said.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He wore a white shirt and dark vest with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow at his throat. The ribbon was sprinkled with white polka dots. His hair was white, and he had gruff, almost fierce, features. There was something of the bulldog about him. He advanced a couple of paces and removed his hat. And he spoke with a curious accent.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“I live here, young lady.”

“Where?” She glanced around at the bare walls, which seemed to move in the flickering light.

“Here.” He lifted his arms to indicate the grotto and took another step forward.

She raised the gun and pointed it at the middle of his vest. “That’s far enough,” she said. “Don’t think I’ll hesitate.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” The stern cast of his features dissolved into an amiable smile. “I’m really not dangerous.”

She took a quick look behind her. Nothing stirred in the depths of the cave. “Are you alone?” she asked.

“I am now. Nelson used to be here. And Lincoln. And an American singer. A guitar player, as I recall. Actually, there used to be a considerable crowd of us.”

Chaka didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It sounded as if he were trying to distract her. “If I get any surprises,” she said, “the first bullet’s for you.”

“It is good to have visitors again. The last few times I’ve been up and about, the building’s been empty.” „

“Really?” What building?

“Oh, yes. We used to draw substantial crowds. But the benches and the gallery have gone missing.” He looked solemnly around. “I wonder what happened.”

“What is your name?” she said.

He looked puzzled. Almost taken aback. “Don’t you know?” He leaned on his cane and studied her closely. “Then I think there’s not much point to this conversation.” His voice was deep and rich, and the language had a roll to it.

“How would I know you? We’ve never met.” She waited for a response. When none came, she continued, “I am Chaka of Illyria.”

The man gave a slight bow. “I suppose, under the circumstances, you must call me Winston. Of Chartwell.” He delivered an impish grin and drew his jacket about him. “It is drafty. Why don’t we retire to the fireside, Chaka of Illyria?”

If he were hostile, she and her friends would already be dead. She lowered the weapon and put it in her belt. “I’m surprised to find anyone here. No offense, but this place looks as if it’s been deserted a long time.”

“Yes. It does, doesn’t it?”

She glanced at Quait, dead to the world. Lot of good he’d have been if Tuks came sneaking up in the night. They’d felt so secure in the cave, they’d forgot to post a guard. “Where have you been?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve been here several hours. Where have you been?”

He looked uncertain. “I come and go,” he said at last. He lowered himself unsteadily to the ground and held his hands up to the fire. “Feels good.”

“It is cold.”

“You haven’t any brandy, by chance?”

What was brandy? “No,” she said. “We don’t.”

“Pity. It’s good for old bones.” He shrugged and looked around. “Strange. The place does seem to have gone rather to the dogs, as the Americans would say. Do you know what’s happened?”

“No.” She didn’t even understand the question. “I have no idea.”

Winston placed his hat in his lap. “Yes. We seem to be quite abandoned,” he said. Somehow, the fact of desolation acquired significance from his having noted it. “I regret to say I’ve never heard of Illyria. Where is it, may I ask?”

“Two months southwest. In the valley of the Mississippi.”

“I see.” His tone suggested very clearly that he did not see. “Well, I know where the Mississippi is.” He laughed as if he thought that remark quite funny.

“But you really do not know Illyria?”

He peered into her eyes. “I fear there’s a great deal I do not know.” His mood seemed to be darkening. “Are you and your friends going home?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “We are looking for Haven.”

“Haven?” He blinked. “Where on earth is that?”

“We don’t know, Winston.”

“Well, then, I suspect you’re going to have a bloody awful time finding it. Meantime, you’re welcome to stay here. But I don’t think it’s very comfortable.”

“Thank you, no. You haven’t heard of Haven, either?”

Winston nodded and his forehead crinkled. There was a brooding fire in his eyes. “Is it near Toronto?”

Chaka looked over at Quait and wondered whether she should wake him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Where’s Toronto?”

That brought a wide smile. “Well,” he said, “it certainly appears one of us is lost. I wonder which it is.”

She saw the glint in his eye and returned the smile. They were both lost.

“Where’s Toronto?” she asked again.

“Three hundred kilometers to the northeast. Directly out Highway 401.”

“Highway 401? There’s no highway out there anywhere. At least none that I’ve seen.”

The cigar tip brightened and dimmed. “Oh, my. It must be a long time.”

She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “Winston, I really don’t understand much of this conversation.”

“Nor do I.” His eyes looked deep into hers. “What is this Haven?”

She was not shocked at his ignorance. After all, Mike hadn’t known either. “Haven was the home of Abraham Polk,” she said hopefully.

Winston shook his head. “Try again,” he said.

“Polk lived at the end of the age of the Roadmakers. He knew the world was collapsing, that the cities were dying. He saved what he could. The treasures. The knowledge. The history. Everything. And he stored it in a fortress with an undersea entrance.”

“An undersea entrance,” said Winston. “It must be a fair distance from here. How do you propose to get in?”

“I don’t think we shall,” said Chaka. “We are going to give it up and go home.”


Winston nodded. “The fire’s getting low,” he said.

She poked at it and added a log. “No one even knows whether Polk really lived. He may only be a legend.”

Light filled the grotto entrance. Seconds later, thunder rumbled. “Haven sounds quite a lot like Camelot,” he said.

Camelot? He must also have read Connecticut Yankee.

“You’ve implied,” he continued, after taking a moment to enjoy his weed, “that the world outside has been destroyed.”

“Oh, no. Only the cities have been destroyed. The world is doing fine.”

“But there are ruins?”

“Yes.”

“Extensive?”

“They fill the forests, clog the rivers, lie in the shallow waters of the harbors. Yes, you could say they’re extensive.

Some are even active, in strange ways. Like this one.”

“And what do you know of the British?” She shrugged. “I don’t know the British, sir.”

“Well, that will probably make the Americans happy. You say everything is locked away in this Haven?”

“Yes.”

“On which you are about to turn your back.”

“We’re exhausted, Winston.” She had by now concluded that Winston was related to Mike and the entity or entities in the bank. He was real, but not a man. He looked like a man, but he talked like someone misplaced in time. She was beginning to recognize the trait.

“Your driving curiosity, Chaka, leaves me breathless.”

Damn. “Look, it’s easy enough for you to point a finger. You have no idea what we’ve been through. None. We have three people dead.”

Winston looked steadily at her. “Three dead? I’m sorry to hear that. But the prize sounds as if it might be of great consequence.”

“It is. But there are only three of us left,” she said.

“Chaka, history is never made by crowds. Nor by the cautious. Always, it is the lone captain who sets the course.”

“It’s over. We’ll be lucky to get home alive.”

“That may be true. And certainly it is true that going on to your goal entails great risk. But you must decide whether the prize is not worth the risk.”

“We will decide. My partners and I.” Her temper was rising. “We’ve done enough. It would be unreasonable to go on.”

“The value of reason is often exaggerated, Chaka. It would have been reasonable to accept Hitler’s offer of terms in 1940.”

“What?”

He waved the question away. “It’s no matter now. But reason, under pressure, usually produces prudence when boldness is called for.”

“I’m not a coward, Winston.”

“I’m sure you aren’t. Or you would not be here.” He bit down hard on his weed. A blue cloud drifted toward her. It hurt her eyes and she backed away.

“Are you a ghost?” she asked. The question did not seem at all foolish.

“I suspect I am. I’m something left behind by the retreating tide.” The fire glowed in his eyes. “I wonder whether, when an event is no longer remembered by any living person, it loses all significance? Whether it is as if it never happened?”

Flojian stirred in his sleep, but did not wake.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Chaka.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Winston got to his feet. “I’m not comfortable here,” he said.

She thought he was expressing displeasure with her.

“The floor is hard on an old man. And of course you are right: You and your comrades will decide whether to go on. Camelot was a never-never land. Its chief value lay in the fact that people believed in certain qualities associated with it. Perhaps the same thing is true of Haven. Maybe you’re right to turn back.”

“No,” she said. “It exists.”

“And is anyone else looking for this place?”

“No one. We will be the second mission to fail. I don’t think there will be another.”

“Then let it be buried, Chaka of Illyria. Let it be buried with your lost companions.”

She backed away from him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why do you care?”

“Why did you come so far?”

“My brother was with the first expedition. I wanted to find out what happened to him.”

“And the others?”

“Quait? He’s a scholar. Like Silas.” She took a deep breath. “We lost Silas. And Flojian came because his father’s reputation was ruined by the first expedition.”

His eyes grew thoughtful. “If those are your reasons for coming, child, then I advise you to go back. Write the venture off and invest your money in real estate.”

“Beg pardon?”

“But I would put it to you that those are not the reasons you dared so much. And that you wish to turn away because you have forgot your true purpose.”

“That’s not so,” she said.

“Of course it’s so. Shall I tell you why you undertook to travel through an unknown world, on the hope that you might, might, find a place that’s half mythical?” Momentarily he seemed to fade, to lose definition. “Haven has nothing to do with brothers or with scholarship or with reputation. If you got there, if you were able to read its secrets, you would have all that, provided you could get home with it. But you would have acquired something infinitely more valuable, and I believe you know what it is: You would have discovered who you really are. You would learn that you are a daughter of the people who designed the Acropolis, who wrote Hamlet, who visited the moons of Neptune. Do you know about Neptune?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“Then we’ve lost everything, Chaka. But you can get it back. If you’re willing to take it. And if not you, then someone else. But by God, it is worth the taking.” His voice quivered and he seemed close to tears.

Momentarily, he became one with the dark.

“Winston,” she said, “I can’t see you. Are you still there?”

“I am here. The system’s old, and will not keep a charge.”

She was looking through him. “You really are a ghost,” she said.

“It’s possible you will not succeed. Nothing is certain, save hardship and trial. But have courage. Never surrender.”

She stared at him.

“Never despair,” he said.

A sudden chill whispered through her, a sense that she had been here before, had known this man in another life. “You seem vaguely familiar. Have I seen your picture somewhere?”

“I’m sure I do not know.”

“Perhaps it is the words. They have an echo.”

He looked directly at her. “Possibly. They are ancient sentiments.” She could see the cave entrance and a few stars through his silhouette. “Keep in mind, whatever happens, if you go on, you will become one of a select company. A proud band of brothers. And sisters. You will never be alone.”

As she watched, he faded until only the glow of the cigar remained. “It is your own true self you seek.”

“You presume a great deal.”

“I know you, Chaka.” Everything was gone now. Except the voice. “I know who you are. And you are about to learn.”

“Was it his first or last name?” asked Quait, as they saddled the horses.

“Now that you mention it, I really have no idea.” She frowned. “I’m not sure whether he was real or not. He left no prints. No marks.”

Flojian looked toward the rising sun. The sky was clear.

“That’s the way of it in these places. Some of it’s illusion; some of it’s something else. But I wish you’d woken us.”

She climbed up and patted Piper’s shoulder. “Anybody ever hear of Neptune?”

They shook their heads. “Maybe,” she said, “we can try that next.”

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