Telling the Map

by Christopher Rowe

  Shady Grove was the little town a few hundred yards down the gravel road that bisected the Start Village. Maggie had caught a glimpse of it from Mr. Sapp’s houseboat as they landed, and saw that it consisted of a handful of houses and a store. It reminded her of the Green River towns back home, and indeed, she’d caught the scent of a waterway on the wind blowing up from the south.

  Michael gently took her by the arm and nudged her into motion. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what ‘very specific way’ the director is going to have us race tomorrow.”

  They picked their way among the tents and shelters that made up the village, once pausing to let six riders in identical red and white kits roll past, on their way out for a training ride. Maggie was more interested in their machines than in the people riding them—she’d never seen bikes so obviously manufactured in a factory rather than a workshop like their own. She wasn’t worried about the efficacy of hers and Michael’s racing bikes, though. Their mother had claimed the bicycles their father built equaled any in the world.

  “Did you see the maple leaves on their jerseys?” asked Michael, staring after the retreating riders. “That was the national team of Canada. Hundreds of miles away at the closest. Far side of the Great Lakes.”

  “The lakes are clear,” Maggie said absently. “All of the waterways north of the Ohio are.”

  “Yes,” said Michael. “Which means they don’t know the tricks of crossing.”

  Maggie snapped her fingers. “Of course,” she said. “That’s it. The reason that we’ve been selected for the American team is that the race goes across Kentucky. And what riders in the world know more about navigating the Commonwealth than us? We’re guides.”

  Michael listened intently, nodding. “That makes sense,” he said. “But what will it mean on the road? Will we be sent ahead on attacks to sound out the waterways? Held back to protect a team leader riding for the general classification?”

  They came to a row of enormous buses, the red and white stripes prominent on the one parked closest to the road. “I guess we’re about to find out,” said Maggie.

  The interior of the bus smelled of ammonia and alcohol, and was absolutely spotless. It was cooler than the outdoors, certainly cooler than the interior of the tent they’d been assigned, and lit by electric lamps, as the windows that lined the sides were shaded with fine mesh screens manufactured right into the glass.

  Lydia Treekiller sat at a long, narrow table folded up from an interior wall. A bald man sat opposite the director, his back to the twins. Two women and two men in cycling kits sat in comfortable-looking chairs bolted to the carpeted floor, and the bald man, when he turned, directed the twins to two of these which were empty with a nod of his head. Maggie and Michael exchanged looks, sharing the same vague feeling of recognition on seeing the man’s hooked nose that they had felt that morning when they first saw Lydia Treekiller.

  “Rule number one,” said the director. “Never be late. Not for a start, not for a meal, not for a team meeting.”

  Michael bristled at that. “We came as soon as the soigneur told us.”

  “Rule number two,” continued Lydia, as if Michael hadn’t spoken. “Make no assumptions. Only act on information you’re sure of. Follow orders to the letter. This is a dangerous course, and second-guessing either the race directors or me can lead to a lot worse fates than being the lanterne rouge.” She looked at Michael, then. “I didn’t say you were late. But it’s interesting that you thought you were. Are you, frequently?”

  Michael looked at Maggie, who answered. “No,” she said. “We’re both very punctual.”

  Lydia turned her gaze to Maggie and raised an eyebrow. “Do you always speak for him?”

  “No,” said the twins simultaneously.

  “I can speak for myself,” said Michael, anger rising in his voice.

  “It’s just that sometimes it’s best if he doesn’t,” Maggie added.

  To her surprise, the ghost of a smile flickered across the older woman’s stern features. She turned back to the clipboard lying on the table before her.

  “The rest of the team rules are in the packets that David will distribute when we finish up here.” She didn’t pronounce the name the way the twins were used to hearing it, accenting and lengthening the second syllable.

  “David Bonheur!” gasped Maggie. “You won the Tour de France!”

  The bald man with the hooked nose looked over at her without expression, then slowly raised two fingers. “I won the Tour de France twice,” he said.

  “Right,” said Lydia, tapping her clipboard with an ink pen. “Introductions, since some of you are new to the team. I’m Lydia Treekiller, team manager and director sportif. David is my second, and will drive the number two car behind the race. Now, each of you give your names and briefly describe your backgrounds. Nicholas, you’re our man for the general classification, so you start.”

  The man seated farthest from the bus door was wearing a different jersey than the other three riders. It was orange and there was a seal prominent over his chest, a black circle around a seven-pointed yellow star flanked by branches of some tree Maggie couldn’t identify. Seven more yellow stars encircled the seal, and a lone black star, also with seven points, was over the man’s heart like a badge. He stood uncomfortably and nodded at the team manager. “Yes, aunt,” he said. “I’m Nicholas Langdon. I time trial a little. I can climb a little.” With that, he sat down.

  Lydia Treekiller shook her head. “Yes,” she said, “he is my nephew. But he is also a dual champion, of both the Cherokee Nation and the State of Oklahoma. He would be here, and he would be America’s hope for the overall win, even if someone else was directing, eh, David?”

  The Frenchman did not respond.

  Next was a tall black woman in the same kit as the others, the kit, Maggie imagined, that she and Michael would also be wearing in the days to come, blue with red and white stripes prominent, as well as white stars at the shoulders. “Samantha. I’m a roleur, good for anything. I’m happy to play domestique for Nicholas. I’ve done it before.” She grinned at Lydia’s nephew when she said it.

  The other two were also domestiques, team riders who would sacrifice their own chances for the good of the team leader, protecting him from the wind and seeing that he always had bottles and food on the hard roads ahead. Telly was a quiet man, older than the rest of the riders, from Wisconsin. Jordan, the other woman, had dyed her hair a bright green and had more piercings than Maggie had ever seen in real life. She was from one of the big cities in Pennsylvania.

  “You four know each other from the national circuit,” Lydia Treekiller said, “but our sprinter and our climbing specialist are new to the scene. The state of things here in Kentucky means that championships haven’t been run for a long while, but I assure you that if there was a jersey to be won, it would be on either Michael’s or Maggie’s shoulders. They’re self-trained, but they have an excellent background, and have been dominating area races since they were children. Isn’t that right?”

  She didn’t seem to be indicating that one or the other of them in particular should do the talking, so naturally it was Maggie who answered.

  “Our mother was World Champion three times,” she said. “And we use her training methods Dad taught us growing up.”

  The Wisconsin man, Telly, suddenly smiled. “You’re the children of Maria Galdeana. My oldest brother raced with her in Europe when he was first starting out.”

  “Yes, yes, professional cycling is a small world,” said Lydia. “We all have connections with one another.”

  And they mostly seem to have to do with our mother, thought Maggie, and knew Michael was thinking the same thing.

  Lydia unrolled a map across the table, a larger version of the one that had been included in the letter the twins had received two days before, though somehow it seemed much longer than that. It showed the race route starting at Paducah, turning southeast, then east, then north and east to the town of Mayfie
ld in the northern reaches of the Commonwealth. Unlike the map they had received, though, there was a second, shorter line forming a loop near Lexington.

  “Yes, you all see it,” said Lydia. “The race has been extended. Four road stages but now a time trial in the heart of the Bluegrass. The race organizers have made some bargain with the Horselords, who want to show off their holdings to the Viewers at Home. So, five racing days in all, starting tomorrow at noon with one of the most challenging. David?”

  The bald man pulled a sheaf of papers from a leather satchel at his feet and handed copies around to the riders. At a glance, Maggie saw that the paper she held was a course description, complete with elevation profile, of the first part of the race.

  “Tomorrow is short,” David said, “and flat. Shorter than any such stage would be in most places, but of course this race presents certain unique . . . challenges.” Here he looked up at the twins, but then thumped the map on the table with his forefinger. “Hardly a bump in the road to speak of in terms of climbing, 138 kilometers, though as you can see from the profile it is a false flat, and climbs gradually all day, first away from the Ohio, and then from these other two rivers.”

  Michael interrupted, incredulity loud in his voice. “These other two rivers that happen to be the Cumberland and the Tennessee, flowing straight beneath the Girding Wall and out of the Voluntary State.”

  David shrugged. “Yes. Rivers polluted with the invisible machines of their Governor, which you Kentuckians say draw a man’s soul from him before killing him. The racing will be difficult.”

  Lydia was staring levelly at Michael, but did not comment on his intrusion on David’s briefing. The Frenchman spoke on.

  “The road surfaces are poor compared to what most of you are used to, but there will be no local traffic to contend with. We have enclosures, though apparently the route is little used even without them. There are no significant turns. The greatest danger in racing terms, besides crossing the two rivers, is the wind from the southwest, which has the potential to split the peloton into echelons. We must be very diligent and watch for gaps. If they appear, we must be in the front of them, and ride hard to put time into our opponents. If we find ourselves behind such a gap, we must close it as quickly as possible and so save energy for the finish.”

  Lydia showed them a photograph of the finishing area. “The road narrows at the finish, but it’s still clearly the place for a bunch sprint. So we’ll be riding for Michael tomorrow, with Jordan, Telly, and Samantha leading him out in that order. Maggie, you’ll stay with Nicholas and keep him out of trouble.”

  Maggie was surprised by this, as she would have thought that her long experience riding with her brother would make her a natural choice for the lead-out train, but she didn’t say anything, being distracted by what she saw in the background of the photograph Lydia held.

  “The finish,” she asked, “is it at the Obelisk?”

  Lydia nodded. “Its shadow falls across the finish line, and the race will camp on its grounds tomorrow night.”

  The green-haired woman, Jordan, asked, “What’s the Obelisk?”

  “You’ll see tomorrow,” said Lydia. “If you’ve seen the Washington Monument in the national capital you’ll think you’re seeing its twin rising out of the western Kentucky flatlands. Its history is . . . problematic.”

  “It was built as a monument to a traitorous evildoer, she means,” said Michael. “Before it was called the Obelisk it was called the Jefferson Davis Memorial. He was born in the village there, Fairview.”

  Maggie remembered her father talking about the Obelisk, as Michael obviously did. “It’s been repurposed, though. The Davis name is anathema in the Commonwealth, and mention of him has been stripped from the Obelisk and its grounds for a long time. It’s meant to be for remembrance now, and for ways of remembering. A great man of letters, Robert Penn Warren, was born not far from the Obelisk, too, so some people have tried to rededicate it as a monument to writing.”

  “Not everyone has forgotten Davis, though,” said David. He was reading from the closely lined text of the next day’s stage bible. “We’re supposed to look out for, I don’t know this word, Reenactors?”

  Michael cursed, and Maggie let out an involuntary sigh of dismay.

  “What? What are they?” asked David.

  “A dying breed, thankfully,” said Michael, and when he didn’t explain further, everyone on the bus turned and looked at Maggie.

  “They call themselves ‘living historians,’” said Maggie. “Our father said they have a triumphalist and reactionary view of the past. They celebrate the darkest days in American history, fetishizing their own discomfort and ignoring the greatest crimes of the New World in favor of pretended glory.”

  David shook his head. “They are some kind of self-blinded masochists, then?”

  “Our father always said it’s one thing for people to lie to themselves,” said Michael, “but that tyranny arises when you demand that others believe the lies as well. That’s what Reenactors want, to erase history.”

  “Or edit it, at least,” said Maggie. It was strange to hear Michael speaking of their father in such a neutral way. Perhaps the race would help ease his sense that their father had abandoned them. Maggie could only hope—growing up, their father had been a hero to Michael, and no fall was greater than one from on high.

  Lydia spoke up. “Who they are is less important for our purposes than what they might do. The organizers are afraid they’ll stage some kind of demonstration in the road, or otherwise disrupt the race, trying to celebrate the Obelisk’s original honoree. There’s little we can do about it besides be on the lookout. Hopefully local law enforcement is up to the task of putting down a few neo-Confederates.”

  “So long as local law enforcement aren’t neo-Confederates themselves,” said Telly. “This is the South.”

  “No,” said Maggie. “Kentucky was only culturally southern the way you’re thinking for a century and a half or so after the Civil War. The Commonwealth started out as the west. And now we’re the Border State.”

  Chapter Five

  The team meeting went on for another hour, with Lydia and David detailing the rosters of the other teams. In addition to themselves and the Canadians the twins had seen, there were eight other teams riding the Race Across Kentucky. A few were additional national teams: Mexico, Quebec, Cuba, and California. The remaining four were Nicholas’s former tribal formation, the Cherokee team, and three trade teams sponsored by companies interested in advertising their activities to the Viewers at Home.

  When the meeting broke up, Lydia told Michael to take his sprint train out onto the open roads to practice the final five kilometers of a sprint finish under the directorship of David, who would pace them on a team motorcycle. Nicholas left quietly, saying something about going on a solo training ride and seeing something of Paducah. Maggie was looking over an area map, plotting out a route for a training ride of her own, when Lydia asked her to stay on the bus for a moment.

  “If this is about Michael’s temper,” said Maggie when the two of them were alone, “he’s got it under control. He’s just not used to working under a director sportif, yet. He’ll prove a good teammate, I promise.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Lydia, “but it’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” She pulled an envelope out from inside her jacket and studied it a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face, before handing it over to Maggie. “I want you to tell me what you know about this.”

  The letter was addressed to Lydia at the national training center in Colorado, with a postmark a month past. The return address read simply: M. Galdeana, Nashville.

  Maggie’s hand trembled. “This, this is some kind of hoax. A bad joke.”

  “That’s what I thought when I found it. Then I opened it. Read it.”

  The envelope had been roughly torn open along the fold, as if opened by someone in a hurry. Maggie slipped a single sheet from inside, unfolded it, held
it up to the light, and read:

  My dearest Lydia,

  It is my great hope that this letter finds you active and productive. Though we have not seen one another in many years, I followed your career closely after I left competition. I was thrilled when you won the Nationals, and adding a third Silver to your collection of Worlds medals was an extraordinary accomplishment, especially on that course, against that field.

  You are probably surprised to be receiving this letter, as the news of my drowning in Kentucky no doubt reached you not long after it occurred. My information about the wider world is limited, but I know that I am considered dead by my friends and family. It is of my family that I wish to speak.

  My children, Margaret and Michael, may be known to you, at least as names on the lists of elite American cyclists. It is my understanding that you will be directing the national team in the renewed Race Across Kentucky in a month’s time.

  The organization of this race is known to me, and I can tell you in advance that the route will require local knowledge. I am writing to ask you that you include my children on your team for the race. They are more than qualified as athletes, and in fact are the only racers in the Commonwealth who have both the talent to ride in a competitive international field and the skills to navigate the unique hazards of a road race in Kentucky.

  I ask that you do me this great favor out of remembrance of the comradeship of the road we once enjoyed. But, Lydia, if that is not enough, I regretfully remind you of your promise to me on Mount Mitchell.

  Respectfully yours,

  Maria

  Maggie placed the letter on the table, unconsciously smoothing it as she did so, and sat in the chair David had vacated without invitation.