Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road (v1) [rtf]

by Emily

  curved away in both directions. "It's still whole," said Talley. "All the way around. Seventy miles." "Are you sure?" asked Chaka. "I walked it once. It took a week." She glanced at Quait.

  "It's not as unsettling as it might seem, young lady," Talley said. "There are hatches every few miles. They didn't all open, but some of them still work."

  They went back and looked at the lines of cases. Quait had seen anifacts that resembled this kind of equipment, but never in such good condition, and never so many. He saw his first legible keyboard. He saw dark glass surfaces in pseudo-metal frames. The boxes were of varying sizes and shapes, all linked by a maze of cables.

  "Now," said Talley. "What is the true nature of the world? The Baranji believed these machines were used to perform experiments, and to store data. If that's so, it's reasonable to assume that everything that was learned here was put into them."

  Quait thought that sounded good, but he didn't know exactly what it meant.

  Silas was also showing mixed reactions. "Then," he said, "let's break them open and take a look."

  "That seems simple enough," added Chaka. "No. It's not simple at all. The data are not in written form." Silas's eyes narrowed. "What other form is there?" "I'm not sure how to explain it. I don't understand it myself. But they may have had a technique for encoding infor­mation in invisible fields."

  "I see," said Silas, who obviously didn't. "It's true," said Talley. "Baranji technicians worked on the problem for almost a century. I have their notes."

  Silas glanced at Chaka. "Invisible fields," he said. "It doesn't sound possible."

  Talley was unfazed. "You've seen the lamp. Don't underes­timate ancient technology."

  "How," asked Chaka gently, "do you get the machines to Rive up their information?"

  "Let me show you." He led them to the back of the room, where one of the framed glass sheets was connected by cable to a glass globe. A rock was suspended in the center of the globe, and six coils were positioned around it. The globe was connected to a wheel, over which a saddle had been mounted. Talley climbed onto the saddle, inserted his feet into a set of pedals, and began to turn the wheel. As the wheel turned, the coils moved around the rock. "This is a force bottle. The rock's a lodestone. When the copper coils rotate around the lodestone, they divert a force from it and pass that force through the cable. I don't quite understand the effect myself, but it works."

  Talley built up speed and the coils whirled. Suddenly the glass sheet, which had been dark and inert, lit up.

  Silas backed away. He heard Chaka catch her breath.

  "Incredible," said Silas. "What's happening?"

  "The generated force makes the machines work. I believe that if I can create enough of it, the machines will talk."

  Silas touched the globe cautiously as Talley left off pedaling. The light faded. "Talley," he asked, "How fast can you pedal?"

  Talley laughed. "That task would be beyond any man, Silas. But we're close to the Wabash. I'm going to build a much larger version of the force bottle, and I plan to let the river god, so to speak, sit in the saddle. When you come back, if you come back, I expea to know whatever the Roadmakers knew about creation." He took a deep breath. "Stop in and say hello. By then we should have much to talk about."

  11

  They needed the better part of a day to put the ring-shaped ridge behind them. The woods gave way to an open plain and they were eventually able to look back on perhaps twenty miles of the enigmatic construction. Chaka sat in her saddle and imag­ined the elderly mystic walking all the way around in the dark. No wonder he was half mad.

  Yet he had produced the light in the glass. They talked of little else for two days, and were so engrossed in speculation that even Jon Shannon was slow to see two Tuks ride out of a wall of forest directly into their path. Both cradled rifles in their arms. They wore stitched animal hides and fur-lined boots. The taller of the two, who was almost Shannon's size, drifted to a stop.

  His companion rode on ahead a few paces, far enough to ensure they couldn't both be taken down by a single burst of gunfire, and turned to watch. He was also big. An oversized fur hat perched casually on the back of his head.

  "It's okay," Shannon said. "They're friendly."

  He raised his hand. To Chaka's considerable relief, the two men raised theirs. Shannon rode forward; words were exchanged, and smiles appeared.

  "Old friends," commented Flojian.

  "This is Mori," Shannon said, introducing the taller, "of the Oriki clan." Mori was in his thirties, blue eyes, thick brown hair, beard, and quite handsome, in a rough-cut sort of way. He had the whitest teeth Chaka had ever seen. He bowed slightly to the women and pronounced everyone welcome.

  "And Valian, his spiritual brother." Valian removed his hat.

  His hair was also brown, but cut short. He had dark, intelligent eyes, and was maybe two years younger and twenty pounds leaner than Mori.

  They exchanged greetings.

  "Our home is nearby," said Mori. "We'd be honored if you would stay with us tonight."

  Silas looked at Shannon, and Chaka read his expression. Was it safe?

  "Strangers are sacred with the Oriki," said Mori.

  Shannon nodded.

  An hour later, in deep woodland, they rode into a hamlet. It was so effectively a part of the forest that Chaka did not immediately pick out the log dwellings, which were scattered among trees and shrubbery. There was no clearing of the land, and consequently no obvious external sign betraying the pres­ence of the people of the forest.

  A small group, composed mostly of children, gathered to greet them. Like the Illyrians, the Oriki displayed no distinctive racial type. Some were dark, some pale, but the vast majority favored a middle tone; some had flat noses, others had epican-thic folds. They looked healthy and happy, and they obviously enjoyed visitors.

  Clan members descended on the companions with offers of bread and fruit. Chaka's red hair provoked laughter. (For no readily apparent reason, red hair was the one physical charac­teristic that seemed to be missing.) Some wanted to inspect the newcomers' clothing and weapons. Others wanted only to touch the visitors. "They think we're strong," Shannon explained, "because travelers are always protected by spirits. Touching us gives them a share of that strength."

  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 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 st
yle 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 table, 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 vou 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 neck-

  band, 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 Ml.

  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."