by Allen Steele
I prayed for something else: a few more weeks of cold weather. There was another reason why we’d left the colony on short notice. The grasslands of New Florida were haunted by boids: huge, carnivorous avians, known to lurk in the tall grass and attack anything unwise enough to pass through their territory . . . and beyond Shuttlefield and Liberty, guarded by a broad circle of motion-activated particle-beam guns, all of New Florida was their domain. But the boids migrated south during winter, so for a few months it was possible to hike across the northern part of the island without worrying about them. And just as well; boids had no fear of humans, and our bamboo staffs would have been useless against them.
Still, I volunteered for the overnight watch and didn’t return to the tent I shared with Greer and Clarice until Michael relieved me shortly after midnight. Greer’s body kept me warm, as she had ever since our first night together, but it was a long time before I was able to go to sleep. I couldn’t help but remember the exchange between Zoltan and Castro.
The Savant asked the Reverend what he expected to find out there. Why had Zoltan evaded his question? What was he expecting to find out here?
I didn’t know, and it would be a long time before I learned the truth.
Daybreak came cold and bleak, with a new layer of frost on the ground. Even though we were only about twenty-five miles from the colony, it seemed as if Shuttlefield was a comfortable place we’d left far behind. A breakfast of lukewarm porridge heated over the dying cinders of our campfire, another prayer by Zoltan, then we hefted our bags onto our aching backs and continued down the trail, following the creek toward the Eastern Divide.
The day was bright and clear, and by the time Uma had risen high in the cloudless blue sky, it seemed as if the world had thawed a bit. Everyone’s spirits began to rise; the Universalists sang traditional hymns as they marched along—“Onward, Christian Soldiers,” “The Old Rugged Cross,” “Faith of Our Fathers”—while the Eastern Divide grew steadily closer, no longer a thin purple line across the horizon but now a massive buttress through which West Bend had carved a narrow gorge.
We were within the shadows of the Eastern Divide, close enough to the Monroe Pass that we could hear the low rumble of rapids, when we came upon a sign: a wooden plank, nailed to the burned stump of a blackwood tree that had been felled by lightning. I was at the front of the line, so I walked closer to read what was painted on it:
WELCOME TO THOMPSON’S FERRY
PASSAGE NEGOTIABLE—TRADE & BARTER
STOP HERE—LAY DOWN GUNS—YELL LOUD & WAIT
TRESPASSERS SHOT ON SIGHT!
Shading my eyes with my hand, I peered up at the limestone bluffs. No movement save for the breeze wafting through the bare branches of some scraggly trees that clung to the rock. The sign looked old, the paint faded and peeling. No telling how long it had been there.
“Hello!” I yelled. “Anyone there?” My voice echoed off the bluffs; I waited another few moments, then stepped past the sign.
A high-pitched zeee! passed my right ear, then a bullet chipped a splinter off the top of the sign. A half second later, the hollow bang of the gunshot reverberated from somewhere up in the rocks. I instinctively ducked, raising my hands above my head.
“Hey, cut it out!” I shouted. “I’m unarmed!”
“Can’t you read?” a voice yelled down.
“I can read . . . can’t you hear?” I straightened up, keeping my hands in sight. From the corner of my eye, I could hear the Universalists ducking their heads or diving for cover behind spider bushes. All except Zoltan, who calmly stood his ground, a little annoyed but otherwise unperturbed.
“We’re not carrying!” I couldn’t see where the shot had come from, but whoever had opened fire on me was a crack shot; otherwise, I would have been missing part of my skull. “We’re just trying to . . . !”
“We come in peace.” Zoltan barely raised his voice, yet he spoke loud enough to be heard up on the bluffs. “We mean no harm. We only want passage across the channel.” Then he turned to the others. “Come out,” he said quietly. “Let them see you.”
His followers reluctantly emerged from hiding, leaving their packs where they’d dropped them. Everyone looked scared, and some seemed ready to run back the way we’d come, but as always, their faith in their leader was greater than their fear. Soon they were all out in the open once more, their hands in plain view.
A minute passed, then a figure emerged from hiding among the boulders near the entrance to the pass: a long-haired boy, wearing a catskin coat a size too large, his trousers tucked into old Union Guard boots. He ambled toward us, a carbine cradled in his arms. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, yet his distrustful eyes were those of a man twice his age.
“Who are you?” he demanded, looking first at me, then at Zoltan.
“The Reverend Zoltan Shirow, of the Church of Universal Transformation.” Zoltan spoke before I could answer. “These people are my congregation, and this is our guide, Benjamin Harlan. I apologize for our lack of manners. We didn’t think anyone was here.”
“Huh . . . yeah, well, you got fooled, didn’t you?” His gaze swept across everyone, taking us in. “You have anything to trade, or are you just. . . ?
Then he stopped, cocking his head slightly as if listening to something we couldn’t hear. I recognized the motion; the boy had a subcutaneous implant. He murmured something beneath his breath, then looked at us again. “Okay, c’mon. Pick up your stuff and follow me.” He grinned. “Mind yourself, though. My brother’s up there, and he hasn’t shot anyone since last week.”
It sounded like teenage braggadocio, but I wasn’t ready to push it. “After you,” I said, then hefted my bag and let him lead the way.
The trail took us into the Monroe Pass, where it became a narrow shelf that had gradually eroded into the limestone. We went slowly, picking our way across slick rocks as icy water sprayed us; one false step meant falling into the rapids churning just a few feet below. The kid stopped every now and then to look back, making sure that he hadn’t lost anyone; it occurred to me that he and his brother didn’t really need to stand guard duty, because the gorge itself was its own natural fortification. Whatever they were protecting, it must be valuable. Either that, or they simply didn’t like people dropping in unannounced.
We emerged from the gorge to find ourselves on the other side of the Eastern Divide. A stony beach lay beneath the towering white wall; West Bend emptied into the East Channel, and only a couple of miles across the water lay the rocky coast of Midland.
Thompson’s Ferry was a small village of faux birch–shingled cabins elevated on stilts, with smoke rising from their stone chimneys. Goats and pigs sulked within small pens matted with cut sourgrass, and from somewhere nearby I heard the barking of a small dog. Jutting out into the channel was a small pier, against which was tied a large raft; skin kayaks lay upside down on the beach, and fishing nets were draped across wooden racks. I smelled salt and fish and woodsmoke, and in the half-light of the late-afternoon sun, the whole scene looked as gentle as a painting.
But then I heard pebbles crunch underfoot behind us, and I looked around to see a young man standing on a footpath leading up to the top of the bluffs, holding a rifle in his hands. Seeing me gazing at him, he gave me a tip of his cap. This was the sentry who’d fired the warning shot; he’d been tailing us ever since we’d entered the pass. I nodded back to him: no hard feelings, mate, just don’t use me for target practice again.
The kid led us to a lodge in the center of town, a large blackwood cabin with a sat dish fastened to its chimney. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll go get the boss.” But he was only halfway up the back porch steps when its door swung open and the chief appeared.
Six feet and a few inches tall, with a lot of muscle packed into skin that looked as weatherbeaten as his clothes and a greying beard that reached halfway down his chest, he looked as if he had been molded by the world in which he lived: stone and sand, tidewater and salt. �
�Thank you, Garth,” he murmured. “I’ll take it from here.” He stepped to the railing. “Let’s get down to the basics. Name’s Clark Thompson, and this is my place. You’ve already met my nephew Garth, and that’s Lars, my other nephew . . . they’re sort of the reception committee.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thompson.” Zoltan walked forward. “I’m the Reverend Zoltan. . . .”
“Already know who you are, Rev. We’re a long way from Shuttlefield, but word gets around.” Thompson grinned; he was missing a couple of teeth. “Even if you hadn’t split town a couple of days ago, it’s hard not to hear about someone who looks the way you do.”
Laughter from around us. I turned my head, saw that about twenty people had appeared, emerging from the adjacent cabins: several men, a few women, three or four kids, each of them as tough as Clark Thompson and his kin. A couple of men carried guns; they weren’t aiming them at us, but it was the second time that day I’d been welcomed by men with loaded weapons, and I still wasn’t quite over the first time.
Zoltan remained unruffled. “If you know who we are, then you know why we’re here.” Thompson nodded, but said nothing. “All we want is a way across the channel. We’re willing to trade whatever we can for—”
“Happy to hear it. My boys wouldn’t have led you here if you weren’t. But only a few people know about this place, and most of them are here right now. So who told you how to get here?”
“Savant Castro.” Thompson scowled as I said this; behind me, I could hear whispers through the crowd. “He told us they sometimes let people leave, if he thinks keeping ’em around is more trouble than it’s worth. I guess we qualify.”
“Maybe so . . . but Manny Castro doesn’t strike me as any sort of humanitarian.” Thompson shook his head. “Damned if I know what it is, but he’s got his own agenda.” He absently gazed up at the Divide as if trying to make up his mind. If he refused to give us a ride across the channel, we’d have little choice but to turn back; given the size of the settlement, it was obvious we couldn’t remain there. “All right,” he said at last, “we’ll get you across the channel. We’ve never said no to anyone, and I’m not about to start now.”
“Thank you.” I tried not to let my relief show.
“It’s my business. Just one more question . . . where do you think you’ll go, once you reach Midland?”
“We want to find the original colonists,” Zoltan began, and everyone standing around broke out in laughter. He waited until it subsided, then went on. “Any help you may be able to give us would be appreciated.”
“Can’t help you much there, preacher,” Thompson said. “We’ve only seen them a few times ourselves, and when we do they’re not very sociable.”
That had to be a lie. Thompson’s Ferry was the only settlement on New Florida besides Liberty and Shuttlefield; if the Alabama colonists came there at all, then it must be to trade. And when people get together to trade, they usually swap more than material goods. But we were on the chief’s good side, so I kept my mouth shut.
Thompson pointed to a spot on the beach a few yards away. “You can camp out over there. Dinner’s on the house . . . hope you like chowder, because that’s the only thing on the menu. We’ll dicker over the fare later.” He turned to his younger nephew. “C’mon, Garth. Let’s tell your aunt we’ve got guests.”
That was the end of it. Garth followed his uncle into the lodge; the crowd began to melt away, and the Universalists carried their gear to the place where Thompson said we could pitch our tents. Exhausted, I slumped down on the steps. The sun was beginning to set behind the Eastern Divide, with a stiff wind coming off the channel, but for the moment we’d found a place of refuge, and some semblance of hospitality.
And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I should have taken Jaime’s advice.
Dinner was served in the lodge, within a main room illuminated by fish-oil lamps hung from the rafters and warmed by a driftwood fire blazing in the stone hearth. Apparently the residents of Thompson’s Ferry gathered there every night, for when we trooped in through the door, we found the locals already seated at a long blackwood table that ran down the center of the room. Space was made for us at the table, and soon an enormous pot of redfish chowder was brought out from the kitchen by a pleasant older lady whom everyone called Aunt Molly. Talking nonstop, she ladled out bowls of chowder, added a thick slice of homemade bread to each plate, then handed them to the nearest person, who passed them down the line. No one began eating until everyone was served, though, and after Aunt Molly had bowed her head and said grace.
The only persons missing from the table were Zoltan and Renaldo. Zoltan had vanished into his tent as soon as it was erected, and hadn’t reappeared by the time his followers had finished setting up camp. Once more, I was mystified by his reclusiveness, even if it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. It was Renaldo’s turn to wear the black sash around his left forearm; he’d begged another bowl of chowder from Aunt Molly, then quietly went out the door with it, apparently taking it to Zoltan’s tent. Clark Thompson watched him go, but said nothing. After dinner he tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to follow him into an adjacent room.
“Pretty rude of the Reverend, skipping out like that,” he said once he’d shut the door. “Can’t say I appreciate it very much.”
“He’s like that. Sorry.” The walls were crowded with stacked barrels, with boxes and crates and coiled rope scattered here and there, surrounding a table and two chairs beneath an oil lamp. “Has to have his private time once a day. To meditate with his followers.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Thompson turned up the lamp a little higher, then sat down behind the table. “Next time he decides to meditate when my wife’s cooked a meal for him, I’m going to feed him fish-head soup instead.”
“Knowing him, he’d probably thank her for it.”
A quizzical smile. “You’re not with them? Oh, I can see you’re traveling with ’em . . . but you’re not a true believer?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Like the nose on your face. Knew it the moment you walked into town. Everyone else kept quiet, like a herd of sheep following the Judas ram. You’re the only one who spoke up.”
“I’m their guide. Sort of a job, y’know. I don’t . . .”
“That’s your business, friend.” Thompson held up a hand. “I don’t care why you’ve fallen in with these characters. What I want to know is, why did Castro send you my way?”
“I’ve told you everything I know.” I sat down in the other chair. “If it makes any difference, it was a surprise to me, too.”
“Oh, it makes a difference.” He pulled out a penknife, flicked it open, and idly began to trim his fingernails. “We’ve got about thirty people living here, and every one of them came from Shuttlefield. My wife and I, along with the boys, were aboard the Glorious Destiny. When we saw what that bitch Hernandez had in mind, we grabbed what we could and took off. Started out with just one cabin, but it wasn’t long before others followed us.”
“From other ships?”
“Uh-huh. The ones who managed to get away, that is. We’ve built this place from scratch and put in the ferry late last summer. At first it was just so we could going hunting on the other side of the channel, but every so often someone shows up who wants to get over to Midland . . . usually folks like you, fed up with Shuttlefield. Until now, though, we thought the Union was unaware of our existence.” He let out his breath. “And now you tell us that Manny Castro not only knows we’re here, but he’s even willing to provide exact directions.”
“Maybe he doesn’t consider you a threat.”
“Maybe.” Thompson silently regarded me for a few moments, as if trying to decide whether to trust me. Then he leaned back in his chair to open a crate behind him, pulling out a ceramic jug. Pulling out the cork, he passed it me. “Bearshine,” he murmured. “Sort of like whiskey, but distilled from corn mash. Be careful, it’s got a kick. Don’t worry, you won’t go
blind.”
He was right about the kick. I could have started a fire with the stuff. The booze scorched my throat but made a nice warm place in my stomach. “Like it?” he asked. “Now ask yourself, how would we be able to make corn liquor when we can’t grow corn here?”
I thought about it for a moment. “You’re getting it in trade.”
“Sure we are. And they grow corn in Liberty. That’s not where this comes from, though.” He nodded in the general direction of the channel. “We’re getting it from over there, from people who sometimes come back across. But I haven’t carried any corn on my ferry.”
“And you just said you’ve been running the ferry since only late last summer.”
“Uh-huh. That’s right.” He tapped the jug with the blade of his knife. “So where do you think this stuff is coming from?”
I realized what he was getting at. “The original colonists.”
“Yup.” He nodded. “You say you’re their guide. I take it that means you have a map. Are you carrying it now?”
I reached into my parka, pulled out the map we had been using. Thompson moved the jug aside as I spread it across the table. “Okay,” he said, pointing to our location on the east coast of New Florida, “here’s where we are, and over there is where we’ll put you off tomorrow morning.” His finger traced down the rocky western coast of Midland. “There’s a place about a mile south where you can climb up the bluffs . . . don’t worry, you can’t miss it. At the top of the ridge, you’ll find a path leading southwest.”
“Where does it go?”
“When my boys and I hacked it out, it went back about thirty miles. Haven’t been down it lately, so I don’t know if it’s been expanded since then. But here’s the important part.” He pointed farther inland to a highland region that covered most of the subcontinent. “That’s the Gillis Range, with Mt. Shaw down here. From what I’ve been told . . . and believe me, it ain’t much . . . somewhere on the other side of Mt. Shaw is where the Alabama crew is holed up.”