by Allen Steele
It took the better part of the day for the Helen Waite to make its journey down the West Channel. Besides the captain, there were only two other crewmen aboard: Waite’s teenage nephew, and a rather clumsy middle-aged man who, Parson realized after awhile, was borderline retarded. Neither were very curious about their passenger; Donny spent most of his time in the pilot house, learning the river from his uncle, and José was only too happy to let someone else shovel coal for a change. Yet late in the afternoon, while Donny was inspecting the tow-ropes and José took his turn stoking the engine, Parson went forward and spent a few minutes with the captain. George was an easygoing gentleman, with few questions about his passenger. He only knew that he was an acquaintance of his old friend Dana who was down on his luck; by the time the Clarksburg lighthouse appeared off their starboard bow, Parson had learned everything he needed to know.
The Helen Waite nudged the Clarksburg pier just as the five o’clock whistle on the millhouse roof blew, signaling the end of the workday. Parson helped José tie down the tug and barges, then he went aft to collect his belongings. He was about to step off when, much to his surprise, Captain Waite stopped him at the railing and put ten wood coins in his hand. Ten dollars, a day’s wages for working on his boat, minus passage from Leeport to Clarksburg. It wasn’t much, but it would get him room and board for the night at a wharfside inn George recommended. Again, a small act of kindness from someone whom he barely knew.
The Laughing Cat was little more than a flophouse for itinerant millers and down-on-their-luck fishermen, but it offered a single bed, a bath—so long as no one else on the second floor used up all the hot water—and two square meals a day. Parson got his first taste of creek crab stew that evening; it was the only thing on the menu he could afford, and even the fresh-baked corn bread and pint of sourgrass ale that went with it couldn’t wash the taste from his mouth. He left the table while the local drunks were still coming in, and later that night he found himself standing in the alley, clutching his stomach and praying that the guy occupying the outhouse would hurry up and die so he could do the same.
He skipped breakfast the next morning, opting instead for a mug of hot coffee. After leaving his pack and rifle with the innkeeper, he walked around the harbor to the mill. Since Captain Waite had told him the foreman’s name, it didn’t take Parson very long to land a job, stacking lumber for two dollars an hour.
It was gut-busting, mindless labor that left his arms and back sore, his hands blistered, with splinters in his palms. He was still getting used to Coyote’s lower atmospheric pressure, so often he had to sit down and catch his breath. It paid his rent at the Cat, though, and once he bought a pair of shag-hide gloves the job went much easier. While he worked, he remained quiet, picking up bits and pieces of local lore from the other guys on the line; it didn’t take long for him to learn how to imitate the local drawl, which effectively masked his British accent. He’d taken the name John Carroll—a misspelling of his first name, along with his mother’s maiden name—and whenever anyone asked him where he’d come from, he told them that he was originally from New Boston; he was young enough to pass for a second-generation Coyote native, and the northern Midland colony was far enough away that no one ever made any uncomfortable associations.
During his lunch hour, he ate redfish sandwiches on the wharf while gazing across the Mill River at the foothills of the Black Mountains. Every day, carts bearing cut timber came down Thunder Ridge; he knew where the roads were now, and how they led to the logging camps deep within the mountains. The wilderness beckoned to him, yet he went on collecting his daily pay, spending only as much as he needed to get by and hiding the rest inside a hole he’d cut inside the mattress of his bed. When the time was right, he’d buy the supplies he needed, then head for the high country.
Parson originally intended to stay in Clarksburg until the end of summer, but circumstances forced his hand. He’d been there almost four weeks, well into the month of Uriel, when one day he heard at the mill that a gyro had landed in town earlier that morning. Word had it that several proctors from Liberty were in town, along with the first officer from the starship that had arrived last month, and that they were searching for a crewman who’d gone missing.
Not wanting to attract attention to himself, Parson waited until the lunch whistle blew before he returned to the Laughing Cat. After gathering his belongings, he left what he owed the innkeeper on the dresser, then he made his exit through the window. He took the risk of stopping by a general store a few blocks away, where he spent his savings on various items he needed: woolen socks, dried fruit and jerked meat, a fire-starter kit, a small axe, and a couple of water bottles. He then made his way through the alleys and side streets until he reached the outskirts of town, where he managed to hitch a ride on a timber wagon heading back into the mountains.
The road led up the eastern slope of Thunder Ridge. Sitting in the back of the empty wagon, his feet dangling over the side, Parson gazed down upon Clarksburg for the last time in what would be many months to come. For a few moments, he almost regretted his decision; the town had been good to him, and more than once he’d been tempted to stay through winter. Yet he valued his freedom more than the comforts of civilization, and he knew that, if he remained here, it would only be a matter of time before he’d be arrested as a deserter.
The town vanished behind the trees, and before long he couldn’t even see the smoke rising from the mills where, only a few hours earlier, he’d been stacking boards still warm from the saw blades. At the top of the ridge, a half mile past the high towers of the wind turbines, he spotted an abandoned logging road. He called to the drayman and asked him to stop, then he hopped off, taking his pack and rifle with him. The driver regarded him with curiosity, but didn’t ask questions; he merely shrugged and shook the reins of his shag team, and the wagon slowly trundled up the road, leaving his passenger behind. Parson took out his compass, checked his bearings against a hand-drawn map of the mountains. He pulled his pack and rifle across his shoulders, then he took a deep breath and started walking up the road, following directions Dana Monroe had given to him several weeks ago.
Somewhere up here was another person who sought the same thing as he did. The time had come to find him.
The old logging road led several miles northeast along the top of Thunder Ridge before it ended in a steep trail descending into a deep valley that lay between the ridge and Mt. Shapiro, the easternmost flank of the Black Mountain Range. It didn’t take long for Parson to discover why the road wasn’t being used any longer.
Making his way downhill, he came upon a broad expanse where every tree larger than a sapling had been felled. Acre upon acre, mile upon mile, of old-growth rough bark and blackwood, chopped down and carried away, leaving behind only a wasteland of stumps and brush. Deep furrows in the ground showed where shags had hauled logs to the ridgetop, to be loaded aboard wagons. From what he’d learned while working at the mill, he knew the loggers had abandoned this part of the mountains after it had become more trouble than it was worth to harvest wood from this particular area; by then, they’d found other sites closer to the Mill River, from which they could pump water to fill the flumes they’d built to carry logs most of the way down from the mountains.
Yet it was one thing to hear of such a thing, and another to see the results. A forest, ancient long before humankind had learned how to build starships, had disappeared. In its place were stumps large enough to serve as dinner tables for parties of eight, and heaps of decaying ashes where smaller limbs had been burned. A pair of swoops circled high upon him, screeching their dismay at his intrusion, but otherwise the mountainside was quiet and still. For the first time since he had begun his journey into the mountains, he didn’t hear songbirds, or detect the furtive movements of small animals. The forest inhabitants had long since fled this side of the valley, seeking refuge in places which hadn’t yet felt the hand of man.
And so you’ve come here, to take what little we h
ave? Again, he heard Dana Monroe’s voice; not accusatory, simply stating a bald fact. And to this he’d replied with some blithe remark about the rain.
How arrogant he’d been. How stupid he must have sounded.
It was late afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten since early that morning, yet despite his hunger and fatigue, he couldn’t bring himself to rest here. This place felt too much like a cemetery. Instead, he continued hiking down into the valley, hoping that he would escape this place before the time came for him to make camp for the evening.
Fortunately, the desolation ceased before he reached the bottom of the valley. Now the trail was much narrower, becoming little more than a footpath. Near a shallow brook that meandered across the valley floor, Parson came upon the remnants of a logging camp: rotting platforms where tents had once been erected, with a couple of abandoned outhouses standing nearby. Although Uma had disappeared behind Mt. Shapiro and dusk was beginning to settle upon the valley, he didn’t want to camp here, so he searched the brook until he found a place where he could step across on dry rocks without getting his boots wet.
Within a small hollow surrounded by tall trees, he made camp for the night. It was more difficult than he’d imagined. Although he’d taken a course in wilderness survival while training for the Columbus mission, the fact remained that it had been little more than a weekend camping trip in what remained of the French Alps. This time, though, Parson didn’t have the luxury of a heated tent or a bottle of wine to go with a dinner of processed rations. He struggled to tie a plastic tarp across a couple of trees, and once that was done he had to scrounge in the darkness before he found enough dry tinder to build a fire. Even then, the fire he made cast more smoke than heat; it went out twice before he learned that simply shoving more twigs and leaves upon the embers did more harm than good, and in the end he had little more than a weak blaze by which to warm his feet while he chewed some dried fruit.
Even as he huddled against the cool wind that drifted through the valley, though, he gazed up at the night sky. Bear had risen above Thunder Ridge, its rings casting a silver halo across the tree branches, the planet itself a giant blue eye that stared down upon him, not with malevolence, but with godlike curiosity. The high clouds disappeared, exposing stars so brilliant that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch them. He easily located some of Coyote’s companions—Hawk, Snake, Eagle—but it took a while for him to find a wan white star, unremarkable from any of the lesser suns in the firmament.
Somewhere near Sol, invisible to the naked eye, lay Earth. Not for the first time, Parson found himself having second thoughts about what he’d done. It was one thing to desert the Columbus once it reached Coyote, yet now that he’d actually carried out his scheme, he’d come to realize that heading off into the wilderness to live off the land was far more difficult than he’d expected. It wouldn’t be long before summer came to an end, and by then he’d have to learn how to survive by his own wits. Shelter, food, warmth: all the simple things he’d once taken for granted, he would now have to…
From somewhere to his left, a twig snapped.
He froze, remaining perfectly still as he listened to the darkness. For a few seconds, he heard only silence. Then there was a faint rustle, as if something was moving through the underbrush.
Careful not to make any sudden movements, Parson slid his hand across the ground, searching for his rifle. Locating it, he slowly pulled the gun into his lap and disengaged the safety. The rifle made a faint beep as he switched on the infrared sight; the sound apparently startled whatever lurked nearby, for there was another furtive sound among the leaves, this time a few yards closer.
Holding his breath, Parson silently counted to three. Then, in one swift movement, he leapt to his feet, bringing the rifle stock to his shoulder and aiming the barrel to his left. Squinting through the scope, for a half instant he caught an amber-filtered glimpse of a tiny face, almost monkey-like, peering at him with enormous eyes through the foliage. A high-pitched ka-cheep! and then the face vanished, leaving behind only a couple of branches that whisked back and forth where it had once been.
For an instant, Parson was tempted to fire. Then he took a deep breath, and his finger relaxed within the trigger guard. Still holding the rifle to his shoulder, he searched the perimeter through the scope. He saw nothing, though, save for trees and overgrowth. Whatever had come to visit him had been scared away.
Parson lowered his gun. At least it wasn’t a boid. He’d heard stories about these giant avians, how they hunted by night and were capable of ripping a man apart with their beaks and claws. They were supposed to be indigenous mainly to the lowlands, though, and unlikely to be encountered up here in the mountains.
Yet the same people who’d told him about boids, at the mill or over drinks at the Laughing Cat, had also told tales about something else that infested the high country. Creatures that looked a little like monkeys, but were far more intelligent. Gremlins, treecrawlers, night-thieves…they had many names, and sometimes they visited the campsites of those who ventured into the mountains, and took whatever they could carry away.
Before he went to sleep, Parson took the precaution of closing his pack and placing it behind his head. Once he’d wrapped his blanket around himself, he rested his rifle next to him and put his hand over it; his hat and poncho, he laid against his side. Everything he had in the world was within hand’s reach; if anything crept up on him, he’d know about it.
Nonetheless, it took a long time for him to fall asleep. He gazed at the dying campfire until his eyes finally closed of their own accord. His first night in the Black Mountains was uneasy, his dreams dark and disturbing.
Morning came cold and damp, with slick dew upon the ground. He woke up thirsty and craving a hot cup of coffee, and cursing himself for having neglected to buy any before he fled Clarksburg. Yet the first thing he noticed was that his tarp was missing. Sometime during the night, it had simply vanished; even the cords with which he’d tied it to the trees were gone.
The loss of the tarp was a nuisance, but worse was the realization that something managed to get so close to him without waking him. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he swore to himself that he’d be more careful in the future. His fire had long since gone cold, and there was little reason to start it again; he had a meager breakfast of jerked lamb, and wondered again how he’d feed himself once it and his supply of dried fruit was gone. Then he packed up his bedroll and headed out.
It didn’t take long for him to find the trail he’d followed since he entered the valley; it led to the west, away from the abandoned logging camp he’d found yesterday. As it wove its way through the woodlands, once again taking him uphill toward Mt. Shapiro, it became apparent that the path hadn’t been forged by loggers. It was much too narrow, nor were there any indications of anything having been cut down; no stumps, no signs of brushfires. It didn’t look like a game trail, though; if animals had made it, they would have left scat, yet as hard as he looked, Parson didn’t see anything that looked like turds.
This made him wary, so after a while he took his rifle from his shoulder and carried it in his hands, its safety cocked but never far from his right thumb.
By midday, the trail had led him up the lower slopes of Mt. Shapiro. Stopping to look back, he could see the way he’d come, the eastern side of the valley marked by the ragged scars of the logging operations. Again, he was blessed by dry weather; the day was bright and cloudless, with Uma casting its warmth upon him. He’d stopped to remove his poncho and rest his back against a granite outcropping when he heard a new sound.
From somewhere not far away, someone was singing.
He couldn’t make out the words, yet it was definitely a voice, carried through the trees by the warm summer breeze. Not quite believing what he was hearing, Parson followed the sound, keeping his rifle at the ready.
The trail led uphill for another few hundred yards, then leveled out on a narrow plateau. Here he came upon a clearin
g where the trees had been taken down. About an acre in size, it had been cultivated as a small farm field; tall stalks of corn grew chest-high, and nearby were rows of other crops; soybeans and potatoes, from the looks of them, and also trellises upon which tomatoes ripened in the summer sun. At the far end of the clearing was a compact log cabin, with a cord of wood stacked against the stone chimney, and a porch out front upon which a large brown dog sunned himself.
A short distance away, a lone figure worked the field. At first Parson thought he was a scarecrow; hunched over, his back turned to Parson, he wore a long black robe, its cowl pulled up over his head. As the garden hoe in his gloved hands swung up and down, digging a long furrow in the soft ground, his song came to him:
I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger,
A-traveling through this world of woe,
But there’s no sickness nor toil nor danger,
In that bright world to which I go…
Coming closer, Parson’s foot came down upon a discarded corn husk. It made a loud crunch beneath the sole of his boot. Aware that he was intruding, he halted. On the cabin porch, the dog raised his head; he searched the clearing until he spotted Parson, then jerked to his feet and bayed a warning.