Eternity Road

by Jack McDevitt

  They were taken to a warm hut and given fresh water, more food, and a pitcher of wine. They washed, changed clothes, and went out to explore the hamlet.

  The Oriki were anxious to talk. They were happy to see Shannon again. Had his friends been to Oriki country before? What were their homes like? Were they aware that the land ahead was haunted?

  Chaka explained they’d been on the road for almost a month, and that they’d never been this far north before. She was happy, she said, to be among friends and in comfortable quarters.

  Where were they going?

  Haven was a concept that did not lend itself easily to explanation. The Oriki had no notion of the collapse of civilization. And they did not read. So Avila eventually settled by telling her hosts simply that she intended to look at the world. And to visit her neighbors.

  Mori introduced them to the Ganji, who was both chief and shaman.

  The Ganji was about seventy, with a wispy gray beard and an appearance so ordinary that he could easily have passed as an Illyrian grocer. Later, the only characteristic that Chaka remembered was a pair of alert green eyes that seemed peculiarly mischievous in a man of his position and years.

  He informed them that a celebratory dinner would be held that evening in their honor in the Hall of the World. He understood they were leaving the next day, and hoped to make their visit memorable.

  The Hall of the World did not rise above the treetops. It was nevertheless an impressive, rambling, log-and-brick structure that occupied the south side of the settlement. It was mostly one vast room, a meeting place designed to accommodate the entire Oriki population if necessary. The interior was lined with fireplaces and filled with tables rising in amphitheater style from the center. Weapons, animal skins, drums, and tapestries hung on every square foot of wall. Woven mats covered the floors, and a gallery looked down from the rear of the hall. There were no windows to break up the general gloom, but lamps glowed cheerfully in wall brackets, and candles were set on the tables. To Chaka, who was accustomed to a relatively elegant architectural style and the quiet and orderly pace of life in Illyria, the hall possessed a semi-barbaric flavor. She was not certain what to expect, despite Shannon’s assurances.

  A substantial crowd of about two hundred had already assembled. A drumbeat picked up as Chaka and her companions filed down to the central area, matching their pace with a military rhythm. A chant began, accompanying the drumbeat, and people chortled and beat their hands on the tables. “They’re wishing us a happy journey,” Shannon assured her.

  Chaka enjoyed the attention, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her hosts were somewhat condescending.

  “Well,” said Shannon, “it’s true they do feel superior. They think we’re decadent. Luxury-loving.”

  Mori escorted them down through the various levels of the chamber to a large round table set at the center of the hall. It was decorated with bits of bunting and flowers and standards. “You’ll be eating with the Ganji himself,” he said. Stewards arrived immediately to fill their cups with wine.

  They were scarcely seated when the sound of the drum changed. The beat became more majestic, pipes and flutes joined in, and the crowd fell silent and rose. Shannon signaled and the six companions also stood up. In the manner of their hosts, they bowed their heads.

  The Ganji came in from the back of the hall. He moved down the central aisle, stopping now and then to shake a hand or whisper to someone. He seemed very much like one of the new brand of politicians that the Republic had produced.

  When he reached his table, he surprised Chaka by remembering everyone’s name. He greeted each in turn, expressed his fondest hope that they would find the meal satisfactory, assured them the wine was the finest that could be obtained, and guaranteed that they would enjoy the entertainment. It seemed odd that a man of such mundane appearance could lead these people effectively. But when the hall had filled and he stood to speak, she understood. His voice was warm and compelling. The Ganji was born to command.

  She never learned his name. “The position is eternal,” Shannon explained. “When a Ganji is appointed, he gives up his own name. Or she does: There have been a few women. But the intent is that there be only one Ganji, for all time. When you take the job you lose your self and merge into the line.”

  The Ganji welcomed the audience, and invited them to join him in greeting their visitors. He asked each guest to stand while he explained that person’s importance. Silas was a scholar and a man of great wisdom; Shannon roamed the wide forests, keeping safe those entrusted to his care; Avila was a physician of considerable skill; Quait was a warrior; Flojian was a maker of boats; and Chaka a tamer of horses.

  “Where did he get that?” Chaka whispered to Shannon, who shrugged and tried to look innocent.

  The crowd cheered each member of the company in turn, rattling their wooden dishes and pounding on their tables. They chanted the name each time the Ganji finished his description. Sometimes they got it right. Quait came out as Queep Esterhonk. But no one cared.

  “Our guests are going north,” the Ganji said, “into the dark land. Let us wish them good fortune. And if it happens that, during this life, they come this way again, they will know they can find refuge with the Oriki.” More applause, while Chaka wondered precisely what he was implying.

  “He’s good,” Flojian whispered to her. “Some of the people back home could take lessons from this guy.”

  Shannon commented to the Ganji that it was the first time in his life he’d ever sat at a head table. “I didn’t even make it at my wedding,” he said, and the Ganji roared with laughter and slapped his cup on the wooden board.

  Silas rose to speak for the companions. He said that it was good to find friends waiting in a part of the world he had not visited before. And he hoped that, when any of the Oriki came to Illyria, they would look him up. (He’d had some reservations about that comment, but Shannon assured him it was okay, that everyone understood it was only ceremonial.)

  When he was finished, there was more cheering, and the food arrived. Great quantities of steaming pork and beef were carried to the tables, and carrots and potatoes and yams. And wine and ale.

  “We could do some trading with these people,” said Flojian, examining a carafe. “Some of these pieces are quite nice. It’d command a decent price at home.” He showed it to Avila. “Don’t you think?”

  “It might command a decent price here, too,” she replied. “Don’t be too sure the Oriki don’t know the value of their work.”

  The Ganji led their table in a prayer of thanksgiving to Shanta, and the diners fell to.

  A group of musicians with drums and stringed instruments filed out onto a dais and began to play. The music was soft and slow, like a moonlit wind or a wide river in late summer. During the meal, people came from all over the hall to introduce themselves, embrace the travelers, and wish them good fortune.

  The result was that the companions were probably the last persons in the hall to finish their meals. When they did, an entertainer appeared and led the crowd in a series of rollicking songs celebrating the twin arts of drinking and fornicating.

  “Back home,” said Flojian, obviously embarrassed, “someone would call the police.”

  “Stay with it,” said Shannon. “We’re in their country. Let’s not do anything to offend anyone.”

  A comedian followed. He did a series of jokes, most of which Chaka didn’t quite understand. But she heard one that poked fun at the size of the Ganji’s ears. She glanced at him, shocked, and noticed that his ears were somewhat large. More important, he was laughing as hard as anyone.

  The musicians, who had left off for the comedian, picked up with a raucous tempo. Dancers appeared, attractive young men and women, clothed mostly in anklets and rings and bracelets. They leaped onto the tables, which had by now been cleared of all except drinking cups, and moved sinuously and gracefully through the firelight, paying special attention to the visitors. Chaka found herself face to
face, so to speak, with a male member of the troupe. But she bore up with good humor and nonchalance, surprised that it was possible to combine so effectively the exotic and the absurd.

  The Ganji caught her eye, smiled benignly, and raised his cup to her. Then, as if nothing out of the way were happening, he turned to Silas. “I wish I could go with you.”

  A gorgeous female dancer with long chestnut hair, a neckband, and a pair of anklets, had caught the old man’s attention. He tried to answer without losing his concentration. “Why is that, Ganji?”

  The Ganji looked puzzled. “For the same reason you go. There is much mystery in the land. I would like some answers.”

  “I’m not certain we’ll get any.” Silas smiled pleasantly at the Ganji, but his eyes never left the chestnut-haired dancer. “If we do, we will certainly make it a point to come here again.”

  “I suspect,” said Shannon, grinning, “we’ll make it a point to come back in any case, Ganji. The Oriki offer many delights to weary travelers.”

  “Thank you,” said the Ganji. “You are always welcome among us, Jon. As are your friends.” His expression hardened. “Be careful. The country north of the Wabash is very strange.”

  He was about to elaborate, but he apparently thought better of it. Instead he glanced toward Chaka, smiled, and spoke to Shannon. Shannon listened, looked her way, and said no. He said a great deal more, but the no was the only thing she could hear. When the dinner had ended, she asked him what it was about.

  “He noticed you were interested in the dancers,” he said. “He wondered whether you might have wished to join them.”

  She must have reddened, because he laughed. “Chaka, the dance has spiritual significance as well as entertainment value. I’m sure he was only concerned for your soul. Visitors have been known to participate, but they are rarely asked. Consider it an honor.”

  12

  Rubble filled the forest for miles. They passed a row of connected identical brick houses, two stories high, wedged among sweetgums and red cedars. They saw occasional pseudo-metal posts and tangles of corroded machinery. In the middle of a glade they found an old stone bench, imprinted: COURTESY OF PETER’S CLOTHING. They also paused beside a marker: TO ST. MARY OF THE WOODS, 2 MI.

  An arrow pointed the direction. Toward the Wabash.

  “Saint Mary is one of the aspects of their deity,” Silas explained. “It was probably a temple site or a shrine.” And he gazed wistfully about. “There is so much to see here. It’s a pity we have so little time.”

  “What do we know about Saint Mary?” asked Chaka.

  Silas shrugged. “Not much.”

  “In fact,” said Avila, “almost the only things we do know about the religion of the Roadbuilders is what we’ve been able to gather from The Brothers Karamazov.”

  “And from some of the surviving signs outside their churches, where they exhibited didactic sayings for the edification of the faithful.” Silas looked like a kid in a bazaar. “There’s a collection of them in the library, to which we should be able to make a few additions when we get home.” He looked off toward the river. “Saint Mary was the female aspect of an omnipotent god,” he continued. “We suspect she represented the deity’s creative power and compassion.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” They were on horseback, riding through the late afternoon. The woods smelled of approaching spring. “Avila’s right,” continued Silas. “We know what Dostoevsky tells us. We know they had orders of holy men, and that there was a sharp division between the religious authorities and the faith of the common people. We know they believed that people pass through this life and face a judgment after death. We know they struggled with the problem of evil.”

  “And what is the problem of evil, Silas?” asked Flojian.

  They were moving slowly, not off-road, but in the presence of many roads, looking for Shay’s telltale marks. “That, in a world governed by a benevolent divine power,” Silas said, “the innocent suffer.”

  “That children die,” said Avila. “That prayer does not work. That, in our most desperate moments, despite the promises of the scriptures, we are quite alone.”

  Flojian sighed. He wore a black cape that lent him a moderately dashing appearance. Moderately, because he never seemed to enjoy himself. The world was an ill-lit, gloomy place, and one had to struggle along as best one could, obey the rules, and put a good face on everything. He was therefore a believer in those things that did not require effort or sacrifice, and a skeptic where the results showed up on a profit and loss statement. Defying the gods tended to irritate people and was therefore bad for business. Flojian’s reflexes kicked in. “You sound bitter,” he told Avila.

  “I don’t mean to be,” she said. “I’m sorry. Let it go.”

  Later she confided to Chaka that she’d promised herself to stay out of religious discussions. “They just get people upset,” she said, “and they never lead anywhere.”

  “You’re not doing a very good job of it,” said Chaka.

  “I know. It’s hard to get away from.”

  They made camp in the shelter of a stone wall, surrounded by a jumble of concrete and iron, half buried, broken up and pushed aside by old-growth trees. A nearby glade marked where an ancient courtyard had been. From the glade they could see sheared-off buildings rising above the trees. Where the rubble had fallen, mounds had formed.

  Shannon had been tending the horses. Now he came in behind them. “Got something,” he said.

  He took them back through a stand of dogwoods and showed them a marker, a gray stone on which someone had carved the name Cris Lukasi, a crude rendering of the Tasselay, and the date March 23, 297. Cris Lukasi had been one of the members of the original expedition.

  “A survival expert,” said Shannon. He frowned. “I don’t want to offend you,” he told Flojian, “but I think it was criminal that somebody didn’t keep a record of that journey. Where the bodies were. These people deserved that much, at least.”

  “They did keep a record.” Flojian’s eyes blazed. “And my father spoke to the family members about everybody who was on the expedition. He told them what he could. He did what he could.”

  “What happened to the record?” asked Chaka gently.

  “It was part of the anuma. Burned on the day of the cremation.”

  “Did you know him?” Chaka asked Shannon.

  “Lukasi? No. I never met him. But I know he died far from home. In a place he didn’t have to come to. That’s enough for me.”

  Landon Shay’s markers led them out onto a northbound road that paralleled the Wabash. They camped along the river and took advantage of a warm spell to do some fishing and swimming.

  Flojian had been complaining that his knees were aching, and Silas had pulled something in his back. So when Avila suggested they take a day off, no one resisted.

  The weather stayed pleasant. Avila gave Silas a back rub and found an herb that generated heat for Flojian’s aching muscles. Quait, Shannon, and Chaka spent several hours brushing down the horses.

  There had never been a time, since the day she’d met him in the Senate library, that Chaka had not been aware of Quait’s interest. He had been careful, however, to remain noncommittal. This reservation puzzled her, and was becoming almost annoying. Occasionally he’d mention that he was glad she was along. That he enjoyed spending time with her. Much the way one might talk to a casual friend. But the comments lacked the warmth that might indicate he was interested in moving to a new level. Nevertheless, his eyes transmitted a different message.

  She watched him while he worked. His hair kept getting in his eyes, and sweat ran down his jaw and dripped onto his shirt. She was spending too much time thinking about him lately, and that wasn’t a good idea. She kept comparing him with Raney. It was an odd thing about Quait: He had not struck her at first as particularly handsome. But he seemed to be getting better-looking as time went on. That, she assumed, resulted from his being the only young
male within a considerable distance.

  They cleaned their weapons, did some laundry, and sat late around the campfire.

  Next day, the road angled in an easterly direction, away from the river, and soon they were deep in forest again. The weather turned cold and wet, Chaka developed a fever, Silas’s back gave him more trouble, and Quait sprained an ankle trying to calm a horse that had stepped in a hole.

  The horse broke its leg before they got it under control and they had to shoot it. Quait, obviously hurting, suggested maybe they should shoot him as well. Avila patched him up as best she could and they took over an old barn and built a fire. Wet cloths kept Chaka reasonably comfortable. But everyone knew how dangerous a fever on the trail could be. Quait stayed close to her and helped where he could.

  Rain poured through the roof. Avila broke out her pipes, and Quait his walloon. They played and sang through the early part of the evening, while the weather beat against the ancient barn. Quait wasn’t particularly skilled, but he gave it everything he had, and when things went wrong, he was the first to laugh. This was the night Chaka would remember later as the moment she admitted to herself that she was in love.

  It was March 21, the equinox, a day sacred to Shanta. The river was back, although Shannon explained that it wasn’t the Wabash, but a tributary. “This is about as far north as I’ve been,” he added. It was still cold and rainy, and they were a somber lot, tired, hurting, and beginning to talk about going home.

  The river ran through a gray mist that all but concealed the forest on the other side. Shay’s signs pointed to a bridge just ahead. But the bridge was very high, and parts of it were missing.