Pathspace
The Space of Paths
Volume 1 of
The Metaspace Chronicles
Copyright © 2014 by Matthew R. Kennedy
All rights reserved.
For Renee.
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Acknowledgments
Rare is the book that emerges from a vacuum. Most books have multiple inputs, and this one is no exception. I would like to thank the following people who made it possible.
Chapter title quotes are generally from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land and Other Poems.
Beta readers and proofreaders Jan, James, Susan, and William.
Artist Irina Pechkareva for the cover image: “fractal-galaxy-spiral” at publicdomainpictures.net.
Thank you all.
Prologue
“the rational and enlightened mind”
To satisfy the rational and enlightened mind, I shall not claim that the aliens who visited Earth in 2083 deliberately wrecked our civilization. The Gifts they gave us seemed almost miraculous, and fixed so many problems, problems that were poisoning our world. All they asked in return was to catalog our world's DNA in case it held medical or other advantages they could use or trade at other worlds.
The problem was, the Gifts of the Tourists were perfect examples of Clarke's Law – any sufficiently developed technology is indistinguishable from magic. Though we thought of them as game-changing technology, the Gifts were magic as far as we were concerned.
The thing about magic is, you need magicians to maintain it. And that was the whole problem. We were too far behind, and they left us with no tech support. After they left their Gifts began to fail, wrecking the systems we had incorporated them into. Civilization fell, and nations splintered into kingdoms and city-states. Things got bad, and could only improve by one of two ways. We could struggle back up the technological mountain by recreating the earlier technology, and say goodbye to the failing magic.
Or some of us could learn to be wizards.
Chapter 1
Lester: “fear in a handful of dust”
“You're late.” Gerrold shoved the sack of oats at him. “What were you wasting time with this time? Off ogling the smith's daughter again?”
Lester flushed, and not from the heat of the late afternoon. “I had to fetch Ma some more carrots for the stew.” He didn't mention that the smithy was on the way back from Granny's vegetable patch. “We should plant our own garden.”
Gerrold turned his head and spat tobacco, managing to miss the watering trough. “We're not having that argument again. Make yourself useful for a change. Take this back to the stable and fill the bin.”
Lester accepted the sack from him. “Why isn't Drew helping you?”
“Your brother's getting the rooms ready for guests. Almost time for the evening coach from Denver. The sacks are too heavy for your brother. You know that.”
Half-brother, thought Lester, trudging around the front of the inn to the stable. But he didn't say it. Life was hard enough without stirring all that up again. It wasn't Ma's fault that his real father had been foolish enough to complain when the army marching through had appropriated his crops. He supposed he should be grateful that Gerrold had taken them in after the ugliness that followed.
He passed his mother on the way to the stable. The weariness on her face made him set down the sack and take over the task of pumping the water from their well. That, and the guilt that came from knowing he should have been home earlier. She had enough to do preparing dinner before the inevitable travelers arrived. “I'm sorry,” he said, pulling out the first bucket and sliding the next one under the spigot. “I didn't realize it was so late.”
She just smiled and shook her head. “She is pretty, isn't she?” she said, watching him pump the second bucket full. “But I heard from Cora that Burton's already asked her to the harvest dance,” she said, when he didn't answer. “You might have better luck with one of the Arnham sisters. Did you get those carrots?”
“Left them by the front door,” he replied, pushing the second bucket to one side and reaching for the third. He finished pumping in an awkward silence broken only by the squeaking of the old pump handle. Carolyn was pretty all right. But he had about as much of a chance with her as these buckets were likely to fill themselves. “Smith said in the old days water used to come into houses all by itself,” he said, making conversation.
She just smiled wanly. “That would have been something to see,” she said. “Did the carrots cut themselves up for stew back then, too?”
He shrugged. When the third bucket was full he picked up two of them while she managed the remaining one, and followed her into the inn.
Drew was in the kitchen when they got there, dropping off his broom and dustpan. “You're late,” the ten-year-old told him. “Dad was looking for you an hour ago.” He made no move to help Lester pour water into the inn's cauldron. Just stood there brushing back red hair from his forehead. “You're in trouble.”
Lester frowned but said nothing. It was lucky for Drew that Gerrold also had red hair, so different from their mother's own blonde tresses. One day, he'd have to tell Drew why they didn't look like brothers, but the story was sad enough without inflicting it on him in anger. Sad...but also necessary. One day Drew might have to know not to stand up to armed soldiers when he had an attractive wife in his house. If their mother's first husband had just let the soldiers take what they wanted from the fields and burn the rest, they would still have a farm, and Drew's hair would be lighter.
All water under the bridge, and no way to call it back. Lester had been only eight himself at the time. He closed his eyes, remembering how ashamed he'd been to obey his mother and hide in the cellar while the soldiers did what soldiers often do in such situations.
Mary had more smarts than her late husband. The men from Texas had let her and Lester live when they were finished with her. Afterwards, while he was helping her bury his father, Lester had promised himself he'd find those men someday and kill them all. As if he had any chance of that. He shook his head, but he couldn't shake out the sight of their leader, a tall redhead with a cruel smile and a small scar over his left eyebrow. I'll remember you, at least.
“Yes you are too” Drew insisted, misinterpreting the head shake. “Dad said – “
“Shut up! I already talked to him.” He's not my Dad. Not yours, either. You don't know how lucky you are not knowing that yet. Then he remembered the oats and turned and left the kitchen.
Life could be worse, he told himself, lifting the sack and trudging back to the stable. The town council hadn't let her keep the farm, not with only herself and a child to work it, but at least Gerrold had taken them in. The widowed innkeeper had been only too happy to have the extra help, and appeared to genuinely care for their mother. Pain faded, but memories remained.
Gerrold was in the stable when he brought the oats in. “What happened to you?” his stepfather growled. “No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear another excuse. If you were any lazier, you'd suffocate from not bothering to breathe. Now hurry up and get back out front. You're lucky the coach is late today.”
He heard the horses by the time he was halfway to the front of the inn. Clem, the regular driver, was just pulling up as he got there. The older man waved at him affably from his seat.
“How's it going, Les?” Clem coughed as the dust from behind caught up with him, while his horses clattered to a stop in front of the watering trough.
“As fun as ever. Any news from Denver?”
Clem shrugged. “The usual. More rumors of war with Texas again. You know how it is. Things ne
ver change.” He swung down from his seat and opened the door of the coach. “Inverness! Ten minutes to stretch yer legs, if yer going on to the next stop.”
First out of the coach was Preacher Jones, mumbling thoughtfully as he strolled to the inn, Bible clutched under his arm in lieu of baggage. Behind him came Nellie Sanders, no doubt come from the capitol with a fresh army of rumors and scandalous whispers. Burton Tolbert reared his truculent snicker of a face behind her. His eyes said he had heard some of her stories on the way down from Denver. The dull glass marbles passed over Lester dismissively, erasing him from existence like a squirrel at sunset as Clem grunted Nellie's suitcase down from the roof of the vehicle.
The last person out of the coach was an unknown personage, an old man of middling height who carried a staff. He was aged like oak, older but harder, with no sign yet of infirmity. His alert eyes fixed on nothing, but seemed to see everything. The gray of his beard matched his cloak, nearly blending into it.
Lester's eyes widened at this last apparition, for strangers came seldom to Inverness. It was a stepping stone, a place no one lingered, save the returning locals. No doubt the old man would orbit the coach and reenter, his legs duly stretched. It came as some surprise, therefore, when the man strode straight for the inn as if he meant to stay the night. Lester's own eyes flicked a glance to Clem about the remaining baggage, but the other just shook his head. Two of the coach's occupants elected to remain within, which answered his unspoken question.
Seeing his assistance was not required, Lester followed the four into the inn, trying not to look at Burton, who sat at a table with Nellie. Preacher and the old man scattered to separate tables of the common room, Jones electing to be nearer the kitchen and the stranger in the far corner. The old man leaned his staff in the corner and sat facing the door. From time to time he glanced at it, as if he were expecting someone to join him.
Lester trudged into the kitchen. The sun was still up, and dinner two hours away. But surely they were thirsty from the road. He saw his mother cutting the carrots, her practiced hands quick, the knife flashing in the slanted rays from the window.
“There's a stranger, from the coach,” he said. “Dressed in gray, with a tall staff for walking. Do you know him? I've never seen him before.”
He almost missed her sharp intake of breath. She set down the knife and ducked her head around the corner for a peek. When she came back into the kitchen her face had closed like a book. “I've seen him before, but not for a while. A long while.” She seized a towel and kneaded it, as if her hands were sweaty from the heat of the day, before picking up the knife again. “Go fetch ales from the coldbox,” she said. “He'll want a little salt in his, and don't ask him for money. The usual for the others.”
He stared at her. “Salt in his beer?” He knew it was a hot day, but you salt the stew, not the drinks. “Why doesn't he have to pay for his drink?”
“Or his dinner either,” she said. “No time for questions. Just get the drinks. Maybe if we're lucky he won't stay for dinner.”
Shaking his head, he stumped down the stairs to the basement. What was all that about? The ancient glow-tubes still had some life in them. By the dim radiance they provided he threaded his way between stacks of boxes to where the old coldbox squatted in the corner.
As always, he wondered how the thing could be so warm on the outside, and forever cold on the inside. This one was failing like the glow-tubes. No longer could it freeze water into ice as he'd been told it had decades before. But still the fog rolled out over the edge when he lifted the top of it, and the bottles he lifted from it were almost cold as ice in his hands. He pulled out six of them and took them back up to the common room.
His mother had four wooden mugs on a tray waiting for him when he emerged from the basement. He pulled the cork from one of the bottles and took it out to Clem while she cut up a couple of chickens and some potatoes for the stew.
Clem had already climbed back into his seat when he got outside. Lester handed up the bottle. “Who's the old man with the staff?” he asked the aging driver.
“Someone you should steer clear of, if you know what's good for you,” Clem told him, handing him a coin. “But don't you worry, he won't stay long. Never does.”
Lester frowned. “But you've seen him before, haven't you?” he pressed.
The driver nodded and picked up his reins. “Once in a while,” he admitted. “Thanks for the ale. Time for me to get moving or I'll be late for the next stop.”
Lester stepped back and watched him drive off before going in to get the tray of drinks for the guests. So many questions, and no one seemed willing to part with the answers. Like, why was the coach made of metal, instead of wood like the houses? Why had the driver's seat been originally enclosed, then the metal cut away from in front of it? Why were there traces of yellow paint still peeling from the sides of the old vehicle, and bits of colored glass on the back near the top and bottom of the rounded, boxlike shape?
He returned to his chores. In the distance, the back of the coach dwindled, until SCHOOL BUS could no longer be read.
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