The Rosetta Codex

by Richard Paul Russo

  He dug the grave in the cool, predawn light. The stars above gleamed brightly in the dark blue sky, and he was reminded of the stars that shone down upon him as he lay cold and shivering in the boat the night he had escaped from Petros and the others. Such a long time ago.

  By the time he finished, he was tired and sweaty. He tossed aside the rock he’d used, and stood. The grave was shallow, but he didn’t have the strength or the tools to dig any deeper. Cale dragged the body to the grave and pulled it in face up; the limbs were just beginning to stiffen. He left all of the blue stones in Sproul’s vest. He wanted to keep the book, but it seemed somehow dangerous. With some reluctance, he removed the book from his rucksack and laid it on Sproul’s chest, then covered the body with dirt and rock.

  Cale stood over the mounded earth, wondering if there was some ritual he should perform, words he should speak. Wondering if anything like that mattered, and if so, for whom. The dead or the living?

  He looked up and out at the sun, which hung just above the foothills. East . . . head east. It had become like a chant, almost inescapable. East. Where else was there for him to go? Nowhere. He shouldered his rucksack, glanced one final time at Sproul’s grave, then set forth into the rising sun.

  SEVEN

  The following days seemed like an interminable fugue state; Cale wondered if he had contracted Sproul’s illness, and if he, too, would die.

  Two days after he had buried Sproul, Cale completed the desert crossing and reached the low hills Sproul had been guiding them toward. He was nearly out of water and weak from hunger, but just before sunset he heard bubbling sounds, and followed them to a small creek that emerged from a tumble of rocks, flowed above ground for several dozen paces between clumps of grasses and low ferns, then disappeared into rock again. The water tested clean; drinking revived him somewhat, and he made camp for the night on the other side of the hill.

  By the light of Ambrose, which was not quite full, Cale returned to the stream and waited in ambush. As he expected, animals came to drink, in ones and twos, taking turns as if on a schedule. Eventually a lone campobar—a slow and slow-witted animal half Cale’s size, with mottled fur and heavy-lidded eyes—lumbered to the edge of the stream, settled its heavy haunches on the already crushed grasses, and lowered its head to the water. Cale sprang from the shadows with knife drawn, wrestled the dazed creature to the ground, and cut its throat.

  Two mornings later, his rucksack filled with smoked meat, Cale set off over the dry hills. The heat here was just as great as out on the open desert, but as he continued he began to sense moisture in both the ground and the air, an impression confirmed by a gradual increase in the variety and abundance of plant life. Isolated clumps of grass became long strips and wide patches; spiny, skeletal brush gave way to succulents, and then to dense bushes dotted with green and violet berries. Near midday he came upon a dark, clear pool in a deep stone basin; an hour later he crossed a shallow stream running through a jagged ravine. Both times the water tested safe.

  By late afternoon the moisture in the air had become a light ground mist or fog, and a peculiar haze had developed overhead, obscuring the sun and smearing its outline. He crested a low ridge and stopped, gazing out upon an extensive marsh stretching far in all directions, its boundaries lost in the denser fogs that shrouded it.

  The marsh was beautiful but disturbing, and too much to take in all at once—stands of tall, drooping tree ferns unlike any he had ever seen before; pockets of meshed leaves and branches that floated atop the water, drifting with the fogs; islets of mud and grass and squat trees whose roots rose above the surface; aquatic creatures that revealed themselves with ripples or tiny splashes, the occasional flip of an appendage, the surfacing of a pair of translucent eyes; and the broken limbs of dead trees reaching up from the water as if in futile supplication.

  Cale descended the other side of the ridge and approached the marsh. The haze and mists sucked the light out of the air so that the marsh appeared to be in a state of perpetual dusk. A sour, pungent odor of rotting vegetation wafted to him and the air was cool as well as damp. He knelt on a bed of blackened moss and unpacked the water tester. When he added the drops from the second tiny bottle, a deep red swirl appeared in the tube of marsh water—unsafe.

  He headed north, keeping the water on his right; he didn’t like the marsh, didn’t like the chill it produced, but one way or another he had to get around it. An unsettling silence hung over the still waters; darkness fell earlier than he expected.

  That night, seated before a fire he’d built for warmth both physical and psychological, he watched the silent ground lightning arcing out across the black waters in thin filaments of golden fire. A haunting cry from some invisible creature called throughout the night, each time from a different area of the marsh. He slept fitfully.

  Late the next morning, the faint disk of the sun barely visible in the haze above the marsh, Cale spotted a boat far from shore, drifting between the islets and floating green mats, an open skiff manned by two figures. He stopped and watched them for some time, confused—they appeared to be drifting aimlessly with unseen currents, for Cale did not see either of them paddle or otherwise attempt to control the boat. He eventually called out to them, but there was no response. They drifted generally north and west, so he kept pace with them, walking slowly along the shore as they gradually came nearer. Twice more he beckoned, but they still did not respond.

  The skiff disappeared for several minutes behind a densely thicketed isle. At first Cale thought they might have tied up, even disembarked, but eventually the boat reappeared; the bow swung around as it cleared the isle, caught in some current, and headed almost directly toward him. An older man and a boy not much younger than Cale sat stiffly upright in the skiff. As the boat neared, he saw why they had not responded—they were both at least several days dead. They were propped up and bound to poles mounted on the seats. Their clothes were torn and filthy, their exposed flesh slashed and punctured, but their eyes, which were kept open by slivers of wood, were hideously intact, and seemed to stare directly at Cale.

  Another invisible current caught the boat and spun it slowly around, the two figures now mercifully facing away from him. The skiff drifted away from shore, now headed south and east. Cale shivered, then with legs shaky and weak turned and resumed his way north. He did not once look back.

  After that, he stayed far from the shore, and didn’t make any more fires at night, though he kept the marsh in sight as a landmark. Two days later, he finally reached the marsh’s northern limits. The dark waters and swampy ground ended at a long stretch of uneven, rocky terrain, which in turn transitioned to a field of waist-high grasses bending and hissing in a gentle warm breeze. Cale walked into the field, savoring the warmth of the sun that eased away the marsh’s chill. The grasses parted before him with each stride, then sprang back into place once he had passed.

  For the first time in many days he felt at ease and content. In the middle of the field he unshouldered the rucksack, drank some water, then lay on his back, the grasses warm and soft. Bright blue sky above, edged with puffs of white cloud; comforting whisper of the grasses surrounding him; solid earth beneath. No hurry, he told himself. No hurry to get anywhere, no hurry to end this wonderful feeling. He closed his eyes, basking in the sun like a lazy desert creature, and dozed, mentally drifting, half awake and half asleep, and fully at peace.

  East again, and wondering how far he had to go, how many more days, or weeks. Cale had a destination in mind—the Divide, or Morningstar—but it didn’t feel any more real than the days when he had traveled in the mountains with no destination at all. Grasslands became rolling hills, then more grasslands, then another barren wasteland, an arid expanse of what might once have been some vast inland sea. He saw no way around it, so at dawn he set forth, bark-like layers of dried mud cracking and crumbling under his boots.

  Sometime later, a distant figure moved out on the eastern horizon, a speck in the midday sun, mov
ing from south to north. After two more hours of walking, the figure wasn’t much larger, but Cale now changed his route—toward the southeast—hoping to avoid the distant traveler. Almost immediately, however, the figure changed course as well, as if to intercept him; again Cale altered direction, and again the traveler changed course. Accepting the inevitability of their meeting, Cale gave up and marched on, now with knife in hand.

  Another two or three hours and the figure resolved into two—one man large and bent, pulling a kind of barrel on wheels; another man, thinner and wearing a straw hat, crouched inside the barrel. Just before sunset, Cale’s shadow long and thin across the barren earth, he met the two men.

  The man pulling the cart was an imbecile. He squatted in the harness and turned his expressionless face to Cale, his jaw slack and his watery eyes dull. His clothes were filthy rags, but his feet were shod with finely worked leather boots. The other man, barefoot and wearing only shorts, scrambled out of the barrel and waved gaily at Cale.

  “Well met, fellow traveler.” The man scuttled forward and shook Cale’s free hand. “My name is Aliazar. And yours?”

  “Cale.” He carefully sheathed the knife at his waist, within easy reach.

  Aliazar nodded in approval. “That is my brother, Harlock. You needn’t say hello to him, for he doesn’t speak.” Then he leaned forward and whispered in Cale’s ear. “He’s an idiot, but I don’t like to say that before him. He probably wouldn’t understand, but he might, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Life is difficult enough for him.” Aliazar’s breath was warm and foul. He straightened and pointed to a bleached, leafless tree a ways to the north. “We were going to make camp for the night there,” he said. “Will you join us?”

  The tree was dead, though still upright. Aliazar built a large fire against its trunk, and by the time darkness fell, the entire tree was ablaze, a flaming beacon in the night. They had to move back from the intense heat. Desert creatures appeared at the edge of the light, gazing at the burning tree as though worshipping their preternatural god. Harlock sat swaying before the fire, humming.

  “Perhaps he will have a vision,” Aliazar said. “He has them, sometimes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He tells them to me.”

  “You said he didn’t talk.”

  “Only then. While he’s in the middle of a vision he starts to speak and he tells me what he sees. You would be fortunate to hear him.” Aliazar sighed and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I think he’s seeing the future.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mmm. He told me we would be meeting you, for instance.”

  “He did?” Cale wasn’t sure if he should laugh, or be distressed.

  “Well, I think so,” Aliazar said. “Someone that might have been you.” He vigorously scratched his scalp under the straw hat. “I’ve been waiting for some days now to encounter a solitary traveler. So I was not surprised to see you.”

  “What did he say about me?” Cale asked. “Or about this solitary traveler.”

  “Nothing, really. A king in disguise, he said. But I imagine that was some sort of riddle. Unless you are a king.”

  Cale smiled. “No.”

  They ate, Aliazar retrieving food and cooking utensils from the barrel, which appeared to contain an incredible assortment of goods. Harlock ate messily with his fingers from a bowl of stew that his brother gave him. When the meal was finished, Aliazar heated a pot of mulled wine and poured them each a cup, including one for Harlock, who gulped his wine, draining the cup in seconds, and held it out to be refilled. Aliazar obliged, grinning at Cale. “He likes to take a drink.” After drinking the second cup as quickly as the first, and having his cup refilled once more, Harlock returned his attention to the blazing tree, sipping slowly now.

  A few minutes passed, and Harlock stopped humming, though he continued to sway from side to side. He dropped his cup, then tilted his head back, eyes wide and rolling, and cried out, a long, loud, and mournful wail.

  “Here he goes,” said Aliazar. He watched his imbecile brother with rapt attention.

  Harlock reached toward the flames, the wail continuing. Cale knew he had to be imagining it—an effect of the firelight, perhaps—but Harlock seemed to grow, his arms and hands lengthening, neck and head elongating as he stretched toward the heat and light. The imbecile’s skin shone, taking on a glowing golden cast, and he trembled before the blazing tree, mouth open and tongue moving in and out as though searching desperately for water. Then he began to speak.

  “Metal burns . . . metal burns . . . metal burns . . .” His voice trailed off, but he continued to repeat the same two words, now silently mouthing them.

  Harlock lowered his arms, and his head came back down so that he gazed into the heart of the fire. His eyes were barely open now, and he appeared drugged or entranced or otherwise caught up into some other level of awareness.

  Cale turned to Aliazar, but the man remained completely focused on his brother.

  Harlock began to speak again, and though his voice was soft, the words were clear and distinct.

  “A screaming comes across the black and starless night. Fades. Night? Always night, always day. Artificial light . . . artificial darkness . . . artificial life. A jewel around a star. Inside the jewel. . . .

  “Silence. You enter, unmasked. The chamber has no end. Pale azure lights, the dense shadows of immense forms, massive instruments of . . . ? Energies to tear the universe, to break down the stars. Or . . . ? Resurrect the dead. Resurrect the living.

  “I am at your side.”

  He stopped speaking. Frothy saliva dripped down his jaw. A hand rose, then fell again. He whimpered, coughed, and resumed.

  “A great chariot awaits. You carry the stone with you. The key.

  “The screaming again. The earth opens, eternal fires come forth. You ride within the chariot, lightnings trail in your wake.

  “I am at your side. She is at your other side. She has no face.

  “You carry the stone . . . you carry the stone.

  “The jewel. We enter unmasked . . . I leave masked. You carry the stone and bring the great machines to life.

  “You tear my head from my neck.

  “You carry the stone.”

  The imbecile cried out, arched his back with arms thrown out to the side, then collapsed and huddled against the ground, eyes closed.

  Aliazar turned to Cale. “He’s finished.”

  When Cale woke the next morning, Aliazar and his brother were gone. Bewildered, he wondered briefly if he had imagined them. The tree was a blackened, skeletal ruin, gray smoke rising into the pale blue sky; wheel ruts in the dried mud curved away from the tree and headed north. He felt drugged, and guessed that Aliazar had put some narcotic in his wine. He sat before the smoldering tree, still disturbed by the imbecile’s vision.

  Cale wondered if anyone could truly see the future. It seemed unlikely. Glimpses, perhaps. A possible future, maybe. He could not believe that the future was completely predetermined. Some of the anchorite’s religious writers seemed to believe in such a future, but just as many did not, so it appeared to be an open question. For himself, he did not see much purpose in pressing on with life if everything was predetermined.

  Still, the imbecile’s words, the intensity of his voice, were impossible to ignore. Cale would not forget those visions; he did not want to forget them. He felt they had some connection to this world, if not the future itself. He thought he could use them as guideposts or warnings. Something to keep him focused and cautious, and help him through all the unknowns that lay ahead.

  He rose to his feet and surveyed the land around him. No one in sight, no signs of human life anywhere except a scattered cloud of dust far to the north, the wake of Aliazar and Harlock’s passage. Alone again, but Cale was glad they were gone.

  EIGHT

  The village was laid out along the western bank of the river, about forty small dwellings that appeared to be well-constructed and well-maintained.
Nearby were several large, cultivated plots striped or otherwise patterned with various shades of green and yellow. From his vantage point in the foothills, Cale watched distant figures moving about the village and plots. There was a safe, comfortable feel to the place, but he was wary—he would observe for at least two days, maybe three, before approaching.

  Early in the afternoon, Cale nodded off in the heat, fragments of a dream trying to gain hold. A noise intruded, shattering the dream, and he jerked fully awake, scrambling to his feet while at the same time trying to identify the sound he’d heard. He froze, staring at a young woman who stood a few feet away with a weapon trained on him. The weapon looked like a tiny bow rigged to a hand-held apparatus with a small arrow poised to be fired from it.

  The woman seemed to relax slightly. “You’re younger than I thought,” she said.

  Cale didn’t move, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t think she was much older than he was. The woman lowered her weapon, and a hint of smile worked into her mouth.

  “You’ve been up here all day,” she said. “Alone. What are you looking for?”

  “Just watching,” Cale replied. “To see if it was safe.”

  She nodded as if what he said made perfect sense. “Not planning to attack us, then?” A bit more of a smile, now.

  “No,” Cale said.

  “Good, then,” she replied. “Let’s eat.”

  From a pack she’d stashed partway down the hill, she produced a variety of foods, more than enough for both of them, and refused to let him share any of his. Her name was Lammia Sarko, and she was taking her turn as one of the village sentries. Although slightly shorter than Cale, she was strong and lean and he was certain she could overpower him even without her weapon. They ate, drank some diluted wine, and sat looking out on the village as the sun rose hot and bright above them. Lammia was talkative, and Cale was content to listen.