The Unfinished Land

by Greg Bear

  Widsith bowed. “I am honored,” he said.

  “I have heard from Maeve and from Guldreth herself that great change cometh, and the old ways must adapt. The boy is new. He knoweth not his beginning, and his end is not determined. But you will serve his destiny now more than your own. Guldreth said as much. We had many good talks over the years. Now, she is traveling . . . I know not where. Perhaps to fetch Hel.” She clasped Widsith’s hand and smiled at him, then closed her eyes.

  Yuchil escorted them out of the wagon. Widsith was crying, and Reynard was dismayed until he thought, until he understood, that the difficult ways of Tir Na Nog, the devious rules and strange duties, had appealed to many here, to Widsith, to the Travelers—and to Anutha herself.

  And now that was passing, and rapidly.

  They returned to the fire and the night.

  * * *

  Yuchil climbed down from the wagon hours later. “The scout is dead,” she said. “The poison hath taken her. She was very strong, and carried out her duty. I wish her spirit to move swiftly and depart this island whilst it still can.”

  Two Journeys

  * * *

  THEY BURIED THE scout in the deepest dirt they could find, and placed a spiked cross over the grave, with Calafi and Yuchil having carved farewell messages along the forward edges.

  Andalo laid a dagger on Anutha’s grave and with a forefinger, drew a line across his chest and down from his nose to his navel.

  Nikolias convened all the Travelers around the wagons, and urged Widsith and Reynard to come forward. “You perhaps do not know our ways in the krater lands,” Nikolias said.

  Widsith said he did not, never having gone farther than this.

  “Some Travelers never leave, serving always the Crafters, whilst others, like our clan, ride the trods and bring out news, such as we receive, and take in more news the krater land servants are curious to hear.”

  Reynard asked, “What will we find in the krater lands?”

  Calafi nudged him. “Thou’lt see soon enough!” she chided.

  “I want warning,” Reynard said resentfully.

  “Nothing can so prepare,” Calafi said.

  “The young man wanteth answer, such as we can give,” Nikolias said. “The extent of our journeys taketh us to where Travelers who serve Crafters have built marvelous cities. Lately, the cities are sad, many in ruins, their inhabitants gone or dead. Those who have escaped tell of great discord. The results we see around us. Waves of Crafter change make the woods suffer and die. Even as far as Zodiako, Crafter plots are out of balance.”

  “What of the outside worlds, the finished lands?” Sany asked, focusing on Widsith. He finished his bowl and set it down. “Have they changed?”

  “As always, there is cruelty,” the Pilgrim said. “In all my travels, there hath rarely been peace. I am not convinced even in their best times Crafters know how to make a peaceable kingdom.”

  Nikolias said, face stern, “No report returned by such as thyself ever told of a paradise or realm where we would rather live than here.”

  Yuchil and Calafi brought more bread, cut it, and passed it around. The young warriors moved in to receive their shares. They looked curiously and slyly at Reynard, assessing his age and position. He returned their study with cautious composure, reluctantly aware that he was indeed under consideration for some sort of trade—perhaps sacrifice!

  Nikolias instructed them all to prepare for the next part of the journey. “The trods must know us. Trods that have been stretched and smoothed hundreds of thousands of times are no longer just roads. They acquire pride—and sometimes judgment. They become highways of words.”

  Yuchil looked to Nikolias. “First words are first mothers,” she said.

  “Amen,” Nikolias said.

  Reynard stopped chewing his bread and looked between them, as if they might also sprout wings and fly.

  From the last wagon climbed four children, all around ten or eleven years of age. Their raiment was black and loose, and they wore beautiful boots and belts embroidered in tarnished silver and trimmed with brownish red cord. Even in their youth, they looked on Widsith and Reynard with some disdain, and on Kaiholo and the giant with respect but no cheer. Calybo and Valdis they ignored, as if they could not see them. Two of the children walked ahead of the troop, looking left and right at the sides of the path, and down at their feet, stepping carefully.

  To the other pair, Nikolias barked out orders. “Care for the horses and inspect the wagons! And prepare our guests.”

  These youths groaned at being so tasked. Andalo spoke short and sharp, and another held out ropes, with which the children ingeniously bound Kaiholo, Widsith, and Reynard to their saddles. Without a horse, Kern held out his hands and a young Traveler tied them together. Valdis and Calybo were left unbound.

  “Never did like Eaters,” said one boy, looking back at them with a curled lip. “Too much behind ’em, and nothing ahead I need.”

  Nikolias conferred with the other wagon drivers in low tones.

  Widsith said to Reynard, “We expected to be met by Crafter servants. They are not here, and so we must make a decision. I think we are being taken through a cline, and not by choice.”

  “What is a cline?” Reynard asked.

  Unhappily, Kaiholo said, “A nasty turn of weather, or a place where things can go very wrong.”

  Kern said, “They would keep you on your mount. And they fear I may thrash and injure.”

  Nikolias ordered all but the first of the wagons to turn about, and all but seven of the armed young men. Each of these tied a red ribbon to their sleeves. None of the children but for Calafi remained with the one wagon.

  “He is sending them back,” Widsith said. “Wish ye to return with them?”

  Kern said no. Kaiholo seemed to seriously consider the prospect, but shook his head.

  Nikolias conferred with Yuchil, and she made it clear she, also, wanted to venture on. They all watched as the troop split and all but one of the wagons were drawn back along the trod.

  Calafi, Sany, Andalo, and Bela patted the horses and whispered to them. The Eater mounts seemed calm under their attention, and that impressed Reynard.

  “Get thee beside me,” said Andalo, pointing to Reynard. Calafi led his horse forward, and the others formed two lines ahead of the remaining wagon. Again, the road before them seemed to grow and widen. A breeze rustled the dry leaves of the treetops.

  Reynard watched the road with sweating fear. “Where are we going?”

  “Into the sun,” Calafi said.

  Nikolias said, “On this margin around the krater lands, our trods conflict with Crafter magic. We must beware and keep control.”

  The trees parted further, like ladies gathering up their skirts at a dance, and the road was now as wide as five horses or two of the big wagons. Reynard blinked at unexpected glare as the sun moved backwards above the overarching branches, the light falling and shifting like the tide between two seas, and his head spun as the wagon wheels rolled smoothly over a white, glittering path. He closed his eyes and wished for oblivion, any sort, even death. For they were moving in a way that wrenched his stomach and stiffened his spine until his shoulders wished to crack and split wide.

  He slumped in the saddle, but the ropes held and kept him from falling. Calafi giggled and patted his calf. The rest watched Widsith, who was also experiencing difficulties, and while he leaned back, and his head rolled and his eyes closed, the armed young Travelers adjusted their hats and made small talk, the horses nickered and advanced, and the wagon rolled on.

  * * *

  “The worst part is over,” Nikolias said as Reynard sat upright and focused his vision. “We are through the cline.”

  Reynard squirmed in the saddle. His legs and butt were sore, as if they had gone many miles, and now there were no trees to define the path, but only rocky terrain and low rolling hills covered with sere scrub. They might have come to a different country! Far to the south, a high ja
gged ridge rose in a wide blue-gray wall, floating, it seemed, on a sea of mist tinted golden-yellow by the low sun. Overhead, clouds coiled like a great flat skein of hair or wool, the center hovering and a wisp dropping like an incipient water spout or tornado below the far horizon.

  The girl squinted up at him, then pointed across to Widsith, who was still leaning, snoring faintly, and she gave him a broad, toothy grin. “Thou dost win the game!” she said.

  Widsith lifted his head, then coughed and sniffed. “Need to clear my nose,” he said.

  “Then blow!” Calafi said disdainfully.

  “Calafi, be kind,” Yuchil said. “Loose his hands and loan him a rag.”

  Calafi crossed to Widsith’s horse and loosened the bindings, then drew out a thoroughly filthy rag from the folds of her robe, no doubt used to clean the noses of horses, and dangled it to him with delicate fingers. He took it, blew quick and sharp, and handed it back.

  She wrinkled her nose and tossed the rag onto the rocks.

  Reynard thought to look over his shoulder and see if Valdis was still with them. She was, behind Kern, and unchanged, though her horse seemed thinner. All the Eater mounts had been affected, worn and in need of a rest.

  Calybo was not visible. He assumed the high Eater had left, as he had promised . . . And felt a sense of loss. He would have asked many more questions! But that seemed an impertinence, perhaps another heresy.

  “Five great mountains radiate the chafing waste southeast of Agni,” Nikolias said, pointing to the distant ridge. “Know’st a cline, boy?”

  “No, sire,” Reynard said. He studied the trail they were riding and found it none too peculiar—just a well-beaten dirt track, cleared of the largest stones, he thought, but neither especially wide nor especially smooth.

  “The trod hideth its quality,” Yuchil said, passing to gather the ropes from those who had been bound.

  “And well it should. A cline marks the irregular boundary near where the ridges join, and beyond which Crafters shape their weather. Soon we enter their lands and breathe their airs. We do not wish to argue, and so subdue our own magic.”

  Reynard nodded as if he understood, which he did not. “How far is their reach?” he asked. “Across the island, or beyond?”

  Still dizzy, Widsith leaned his head forward. “Thou knowest the answer to that already. I go where their servants tell me, and bring back reports.”

  “Across the world, then,” Reynard said.

  “All for nought if they are fighting, or already dead,” Kern said.

  They moved on across the rocky expanse into dusk. A far line of low trees became obvious through the persistent layer of mist, burned and broken. Thick and cloying smoke rose from another ruined forest to their left, up to the sky, where it took hold of the sharp crescent of a new-risen moon and choked it in ghastly orange.

  “What about the boy? Seek’st thou payment for him?” Nikolias seemed to enjoy provoking Widsith. “He seemeth more in demand than thee.”

  “He may be,” Widsith said, implacable. “But his ignorance is thy safety.”

  Nikolias shook his head. “Methinks his ignorance is a curtain that soon will rise, and what say we then?” He spat into the dirt beside the path, looked around at the others, then at the colorful wagon, and finally at Valdis, shaded and still on her horse, paying no mind to anything, it seemed.

  “What makes so much smoke?” Reynard asked. “There hath been a great fire!”

  Yuchil said, “We have heard of such, seldom seen it. That is the burning of incomplete worlds. In this land, Crafters draw or write out drafts and enact them like plays, and not just plays for players but for nature as well. Thou know’st this, Pilgrim. It is why thou sail’st and return, to make report on those drafts that are set and finished and can be freed. No fault of ours or the Crafters, blessed be their ways, blessed be their successes . . . and no failures.”

  “How do drafts not set and fixed, how do those get burned?” Reynard asked.

  “Like kindling rolled up and set alight,” Nikolias said, “be they people or cities, animals or plants. This burned forest may be some draft or other, some fledgling of history unmade, burned through, and an ember, seeking to live, got loose—a burning man or woman or eagle or raven. Dost smell burned flesh?”

  Reynard shook his head.

  “Then perhaps it is merely a draft, a Crafter manuscript, and not people that today smoketh the sky,” Nikolias said.

  Reynard thought to ask for another cloth to cover his mouth and nose, but the others did not seem to need it, and soon the air cleared and they passed into a desert of brown sand, shaping wide dunes where nothing grew and nothing more could burn. The wagon seemed to have no problem crossing the sand—perhaps the trod was still active, though hidden. But after a mile of desert, they came upon a hardpan where the ground was marked by patterns, streets and buildings in outline, as if an entire city had been laid out by architects, and walls erected to form buildings, and people had lived in those buildings, and somehow had all been pressed down like flowers between weighted boards—pressed into the flatness, leaving only charcoal impressions shot through with silvery gray. The horses’ hooves did not raise any dust.

  Nikolias halted the wagon. The horses shivered, then drooped their heads to whuff at the flat gray and black ground. “Here, the trod ends and the krater lands begin. We use other landmarks to guide us,” he said.

  Calafi appeared as if by magic near Reynard’s horse, looked up at him, and tossed her red hair. “I did so dream it. This flat land was once an entire long tale,” she said, as the others walked or rode forward to listen. “Of a place, a people, a time. They grew and fed and loved and birthed, and their children were hearty, and they were on their way to being made real and fixed, but a high Crafter scuffed them down with pumice and black chalk.”

  “Was this thy land, Calafi?” Sany asked, smiling at the others. “Didst thou dream of a home and mother and father?”

  Calafi frowned hard. Nikolias listened but did not chide or defend. Instead, he said, “A fine dream,” then looked around with narrowed gaze and pointed an arm. “There be a few still in trace.”

  Calafi ran to where he pointed and stood on what might have been shadows—now part of the stony surface. “They fell flat!” she exclaimed. “What stamped them down? I know! A Crafter lost a contest with his fellows!”

  “Crafters be neither male nor female,” Bela said resentfully, touching his ribbon.

  She ignored him. “Soon after, other Crafters burned that one in his krater, then set his ashes into a jar. This flat land be all that stays of it, methinks.”

  Nikolias said, “Whatever the truth of it, the lands here are uneasy, so be on guard.”

  “Against what?” Sany asked.

  Calafi said, with another twirl, “Spirits and waves of lost creation!”

  “No surprise,” Widsith said. “What with Spaniards and war in the air, something hath decided to bring creation full circle, and might make Crafters front their own art.”

  Calafi now ran to Widsith with her fingers shaping claws, but Nikolias called for her to stop and she grimaced, then backed away. A fierce scowl darkened her features, and Reynard could not help thinking she was a creature possessed, for her voice was now that of a harridan or a harpy.

  “Think’st ye not this land be devoted to human story,” she churled. “Once all creatures were drawn and assigned here, and rose and fell according to the wizarding of the Crafters, who used them on fields of battle, and won or lost according to how they rose or how they fell. And outside this land, the mists rose and fell like great cloaks on the plays thus played, and humans came to think themselves supreme, and arrived to claim their privilege . . . and their gods were made here, and also rose and fell, but in the end, all were made low. And now there is a great field of pots. And who or what will rise again—be that known to any?” The girl, transformed, tried to twirl again, but her eyes vibrated, and she collapsed to one knee and lowered her he
ad. Her breath came in quick, shallow drafts, and a pale dribble of foam appeared on her lips. Her limbs shivered, and she uttered little moans.

  Reynard had seen this before—the falling sickness.

  Nikolias descended from his horse and draped a crimson cape over the girl’s shoulders. “Done now, are we?” he murmured into her ear. “Now get thee back to being a girl, and leave godly things to the dead gods.”

  As if by instinct, Reynard looked to Valdis, stiff on her mount, cold and steady—and saw a gleam in her eyes as of distant hunger or yearning, not for the girl, poor thing so grabbed and made to speak—

  But for the force that had possessed her.

  * * *

  They rode on. After a few miles on the shadowy flats, they saw another burned forest ahead, backed by the ever-distant pale mountain ridge, and Widsith asked Reynard, “Any women in thy family like unto that one?”

  Reynard had been lost in thought, but when Widsith spoke, he looked up and said, “A little like that.” He startled himself by announcing this, and he had been thinking of his grandmother, not his mother.

  “Would that woman have shared insight with this child?” Nikolias asked from his horse.

  Reynard shook his head. He did not know. To his surprise, he did not remember ever knowing. This place was tricking both mind and memory!

  Nikolias looked back and down at Calafi, who paced behind his horse, staring in alternation blankly at the sky, then at the flat, hard ground and the shadows that seemed to swim there. “Blessed be those with such connections, for they live long, and are never happy.” The girl saw his attention and smiled shyly. He nodded in return and handed down a cake wrapped in paper.

  Valdis noticed all this, but did not reveal her interest. Instead, she stared at the small of Reynard’s back, which made his muscles curl until he had to reach back and scratch.