Eternity Road (13 page)

The Ohio looped away to the north, and after a couple of days they lost sight of it. A giant highway crossed above. It had partially collapsed and blocked Wilderness Road. “Used to be a tunnel through here, I guess,” said Shannon. Cottonwoods on both sides of the rubble were marked with the parallel lines. Stay straight. “We climb over and continue on the other side,” he said.

Within a half-mile, they plunged into heavy forest and Wilderness Road petered out. “Did we go the wrong way?” asked Silas, standing glumly at the head of a half-dozen horses.

“They’re headed for Beekum’s Trail,” said Shannon. “It isn’t far.”

A thick canopy shut off the sunlight. They moved single file through bushes and thickets. The trees, which were mostly elm and black oak, were marked every fifteen or twenty yards, and Chaka began to develop an appreciation for Landon Shay’s foresight.

Ruins appeared. Brick walls, hojjies, an old church, a factory, some shops. Some of the structures were crushed between trees, mute testimony to their age. A metal post had been pushed over, bearing a rectangular sign. Silas wiped it with a cloth.

700 MADISON

“It’s a street sign,” Silas explained. “There are quite a few of them on display in the Imperium.” A few minutes later, they found a second sign, bigger, with an arrow under the legend:
ALBEN BARKLEY MUSEUM
.

The arrow pointed
up
.

“Strange name,” said Chaka.

They picked up Beekum’s Trail late next morning. It was narrow and heavily overgrown.

“Who was Beekum?” asked Avila.

“A legendary bandit,” Silas explained. “He supposedly collected tolls from anyone who passed here. Tolls or heads.”

“He was killed by Pelio,” said Quait. The equally legendary Argonite hero.

They crossed a tributary of the Ohio on a rickety bridge and stopped to catch some fish for the midday meal.

Beekum’s Trail curved north and the forests began to change. The familiar red cedars and white oak and cottonwoods held their own, but new trees filled the woods now, of types they had never seen before. The Ohio reappeared on their left and they camped several consecutive nights along its banks.

These were pleasant evenings, moonlit and unseasonably warm, filled with easy conviviality. They were now in their third week, and everyone was becoming more or less accustomed to life on the open road. On March 7, they came to the place where the great river threw a branch off to the north. “That’s the Wabash,” said Shannon. “Keep an eye open. There’s a ford just ahead, and that’s probably where they were heading.”

They found two sets of markings, both on cottonwoods, pointing into the river.

“He likes cottonwoods,” said Flojian.

Shannon took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Shay’ll use them wherever he can,” he said. “Makes it easier for us to know what we’re looking for.”

Chaka was studying the river. “That’s a long way across.”

Shannon smiled. “It’s not as deep as it looks.”

“Not as deep as it looks?” she said. “It looks pretty
deep
.”

It wasn’t the depth so much as the current that gave them trouble. Toward the middle of the river it became quite swift. Piper stumbled and went down and was almost swept away with her rider, but Quait and Avila came to the rescue.

When they reached shore, they quit for the day, wrung out their clothes, and enjoyed a fish dinner.

The trail now moved north along the Wabash, past a sign on a low brick wall:
HOVEY LAKE STATE GAME PRESERVE
. The river was narrower than the Ohio, a placid stream covered each day until late morning with mist. There was no road. The weather turned wet and cold, as if crossing the Ohio had put them into a different climate. The first night they found shelter in a barn. Sleet fell in the morning, and miserable conditions persisted for five consecutive days. The good cheer they had felt during their week on the Ohio dissipated.

On the thirteenth, as they crossed another giant roadway, the weather broke. The sun came out, and the day grew warm. To the west, the new road soared high out over the Wabash, and stopped in midair.

Chaka sat on Piper, watching Silas try to sketch the scene into his journal. “Not a bridge to travel at night,” she said.

They rode into a glade bounded on the far side by a low ridge. Shannon brought them to a halt. “This is worth seeing,” he said.

Chaka looked around and saw nothing. The others were equally puzzled.

“The ridge,” said Shannon.

It was long and straight, emerging from the trees to their right, passing across their line of advance, and disappearing back into the forest. It had a rounded crest, covered with grass and dead leaves. Otherwise, it was remarkable for its lack of noteworthiness.

“It’s not really straight,” said Shannon. “It only looks that way because you can’t see much of it. In fact, it makes a perfect circle. Seventy miles around.”

Avila leaned forward in her saddle. “The Devil’s Eye,” she said.

One of the horses was nuzzling Chaka.

“You’ve heard of it?” Shannon looked surprised.

“Oh yes. I knew it was out here somewhere, but I didn’t expect to see it.”

“The ridge is always the same height. Sometimes the land drops away and it
looks
higher. And sometimes the ground rises and the ridge disappears altogether.”

“What’s the Devil’s Eye?” asked Chaka, feeling a chill work its way down her spine.

Avila dismounted and shielded her eyes. “It’s supposed to be the place where the Roadmakers conjured up a demon to help them look into Shanta’s secrets. So they could steal her divinity.” She looked uncomfortable. “I always thought it was probably just a loose configuration of hills. That people were exaggerating about the geometry.”

“Oh, no,” said Shannon. “Nobody exaggerated about this place.”

“How’d it get here?” asked Flojian, his voice hushed. “It can’t be natural.”

Shannon let them look, and then led them back into the woods, following the ridge. They were riding upslope, and consequently the summit was getting lower. Beyond the crest, the tops of several ruined buildings came into view.

Chaka guided her horse close to Shannon. “Do
you
know what it is?” she asked, hoping for a more mundane explanation.

He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Silas could have identified Christianity as a major religion of the Roadmaker epoch. But his information was limited to the few volumes that had survived into his own age. He could not have known, for example, that, of the long panoply of supernatural names mentioned in the Scriptures, only the Devil’s lived on.

The ridge was matted with leaves and dead grass, and sprin
kled with black cherry trees and yellow poplars. It was almost flat now, muscling into a rising slope. An old road crossed and curved in toward the ancient buildings.

Three of an original group of six or seven were still standing. Two were gray stone structures, half a dozen floors, windows punched out. The third was constructed primarily of large curved slabs of the kind of material that looked like glass but couldn’t have been, because it was still intact. All of the walls within six feet of the ground were smeared with arcane symbols, reversed letters and upside-down crosses and crescent moons and flowing lines. “They’re supposed to suppress local demons,” Avila said.

The glass building was about ten stories high. On the roof, a large gray disk had fallen off its mount onto the cornice and seemed on the verge of plunging to the terrace below. Rows of double windows lined the upper floors. At its base, wide pseudo-glass doors opened onto the terrace.

There was also a barn and a greenhouse, of more recent vintage. But they too looked long abandoned.

“Ever been inside any of them?” asked Quait.

Shannon shook his head. “Bad luck, inside the loop.”

“You don’t really believe that,” said Chaka.

“No. But that’s what the Tuks say.” He shrugged. “I never saw any reason to go in.”

Quait was beginning to steer them toward it. “I wonder what its purpose was,” he said.

“Religious,” suggested Avila. “What else could it have been? Still, it doesn’t make much sense, even in those terms. It’s not very inspirational, is it?” She shook her head, puzzled. “You’d expect that any ceremonial use would take place at the center. It would be, what, twenty-some miles across? So from the center, even assuming the trees didn’t block your view, you still couldn’t see the ridge. The effect at best would be that of standing in an open plain.”

The ground dropped away again and the ridge reappeared. Silas spotted a spring and reined up. “Why don’t we break off for the day?” he said.

“It’s a little early,” suggested Shannon. “You don’t really want to stop
here
, do you?”

He did.

Quait was reluctant. Not because he was superstitious; he just didn’t believe in pushing his luck. He would have been perfectly happy to get well away before dark. But he didn’t want to give in publicly to fright tales. And apparently neither did anyone else, although the horses seemed unsettled.

Finally, Chaka took the plunge. “It
might
be haunted,” she said. “It’s possible.”

Silas smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right, Chaka.” He glanced around at the others as if he expected their moral support. “There’s nothing here to worry about.”

They all looked off in different directions.

So they made camp at the foot of the ridge, and within the hour were seated around a fire, finishing off venison that had been left over from the noon meal. The night had grown cool, and the general mood was subdued. There was no loud talk; Quait’s walloon stayed strapped to a saddlebag; and the occasional laughter had a hollow ring. Silas tried to lighten the atmosphere by commenting on how easily people are taken in by their own fears. If anything, his remarks deepened their gloom. Quait sat during the evening meal facing the long wall so nothing could sneak down on him.

The buildings were hidden by a combination of forest and ridge.

“Does anybody know anything more about this place?” asked Silas. “How about you, Avila?”

Avila shook her head. “The official position of the Order is that the Devil’s Eye is of no consequence, an artifact like any other artifact. But we know that some of the Roadmaker ruins retain a life force, that there are stirrings, and possibly unholy activity. The common wisdom, although no one in authority will admit it, is that there
might well be
a diabolical presence.” She tried a smile. “I don’t want to unnerve anyone. But the Mentors would be horrified to know that we were here.”

“Damn,” said Shannon. “That’s just what I was trying to tell you.”

“What about it, Silas?” asked Quait. “Are there devils in the world? What do
you
think?”

“No,” he said. “Certainly not.”

Flojian was sitting wrapped in a blanket, his face moving in the firelight. “The truth is,” he said, “that we don’t know the way the world works. You’d like a nice mechanical cosmos, Silas. Cause and effect. Everything very mathematical. Supernatural forces need not apply. But we don’t really know, do we?”

The fire crackled and the trees sighed.

Quait wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep, but he was suddenly aware of Chaka shaking him gently.

“What is it?” he whispered.

There was a glow above the ridge. Barely discernible, but it was there. “There’s a light in the glass building.”

He climbed out of his blanket and pulled on trousers and a shirt.

“What do we do?” she said.

“What would
you
recommend?”

“I think we should clear out.”

Quait tried to look amused and confident. “There’s a natural explanation.” He strapped on his holster. “But I think we better wake the others.”

Minutes later, they all stood on top of the ridge, looking at two illuminated ground floor windows.

“Something’s moving in there,” said Flojian.

The angle didn’t allow them to make out what it was.

“Let it go,” advised Shannon. “It has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

“It has everything to do with why we’re here,” said Silas. “We’re here to learn about the Roadmakers.”

“Silas,” he said patiently, “it’s probably just a couple of people like us, holed up. You go in there, it might be a fight.”

“The
ridge
,” said Silas. “Maybe there’s a connection with the ridge.”

“That’s unlikely,” pursued the forester.

“But who knows?” Silas started down the side of the hill. “I’ll be back.”

Chaka joined him. Quait asked them to wait and went back to the campsite for a lantern, which he left dark.

“All right,” Shannon said, checking his weapon and shoving it into his holster. “Let’s go. But I hope nobody gets his idiot head blown off.”

“No, Jon,” said Silas. “If we walk into something, I’d rather some of us be outside. And I’d like you to be in a position to lead the rescue. Okay? Stay here. If we don’t come back, use your judgment.”

Shannon looked unhappy.

It was dark on the hill. Quait stepped into a hole and Silas tripped over a vine. Nevertheless, they made it safely to the bottom of the ridge and crossed the fifty yards or so that separated them from the buildings.

A dozen stone steps, bordered by a low wall, led up to the terrace. “Horses in the barn,” said Quait, detouring to take a look. There were three. With a wagon.

They crept up to the lighted windows and looked in.

The lamp was bright, and it burned steadily. It stood atop a side table, illuminating an armchair. But they saw no sign of a flame. There were several other pieces of furniture in the room, including a sofa. A cabinet held a set of unbound books.

“What do you think?” said Silas. His fingers lingered near his gun. He wasn’t used to the weapon, and Quait had noticed he walked with a mild swagger when he wore it. Tonight, though, the swagger wasn’t there.

Quait tried the windows. They were locked.

“I’d like to know how that lamp works,” said Chaka.

They watched for a while, but the room stayed empty. They returned at last to the front, climbed the steps, and crossed the terrace. There’d been four doors. Three were still in place; the fourth was missing, its space protected by a piece of thick gray canvas. Beyond, Quait could see a shadowy lobby, and the silhouettes of chairs and tables.

An inscription was engraved across the face of the building:
THE RICHARD FEYNMAN SUPERCOLLIDER
.

“Who was Richard Feynman?” Chaka asked.

Silas shook his head. “Don’t know.”

Quait glanced back up at the ridge. Shannon and the others were invisible, but he knew they were there watching. “Stay put,” he said, and padded over to the sheet of canvas.

Chaka and Silas were already following him. He tried unsuccessfully to wave them back, and slipped through the opening.

Had Chaka not been present, Quait would have looked a bit more, hoping to find a less direct way in. But the horses in the barn suggested the occupant was human rather than demonic. He wasn’t going to pass up a chance to play a heroic role by fumbling around looking for back doors.

A long counter stretched half the length of the rear wall. He moved a few steps away from the entrance, away from the glass so that he was not silhouetted against the stars. The floor was thick with dirt and leaves. There were two other doorways leading into the area and a staircase immediately to the left.

“Hello,” he called softly. “Anybody here?”

The wind sucked at the canvas.

He satisfied himself that the lobby was empty, and moved into a corridor. The walls were dirty white, pocked, and streaked with water stains. Doorways opened on either side, most into bare rooms. Other spaces, like the one they’d seen from outside, were loaded with Roadmaker furniture.

At the end of the corridor he turned left, toward the light that he could see leaking under a door.

He checked each room as he went by, saw no one, and pushed finally into the illuminated room. He was surprised by a surge of warm, dry air, although no fire was visible. The heat seemed to be coming from a series of pipes protruding from the wall. He was so absorbed by the device that he was not aware someone had come in behind him.

“It’ll burn you,” said a voice.

Idiot. Quait spun around and looked into the muzzle of a Makar bear rifle.

His gaze moved slowly from the weapon to a pair of narrow, irritated eyes. Little man, bald rounded skull, thick forearms, gray-black beard. Sharp white teeth. “I mean no harm, friend,” Quait said.

“And you’ll do none.” Gravelly voice. “Take the gun out very slowly and put it down or I’ll kill you where you stand.” To Quait’s discomfort, the man sounded jittery.

“Take it easy,” Quait said. “I’m no threat.” He eased the weapon out and dropped it onto a sofa.

“I can see that.” The man took a long minute to consider him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

“My name’s Quait Esterhok. I’m just passing through. It’s cold outside. I came in looking for shelter. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Over there.” He wanted Quait in the middle of the room.

Quait complied. “Who are
you
?” he asked.

The bald-headed man kept the weapon aimed at a point between Quait’s eyes.

“Look,” said Quait. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.” He took a tentative step to get out, but something in the man’s expression warned him to go no farther.

“I don’t see many visitors,” the bald man said. “Who’s with you?”

“Nobody.”

He glanced at one of the chairs. “Sit.”

Quait sat.

“Nobody travels this country alone, Esterhok. Now, I think your chances of getting out of here without a couple of holes in your carcass are going to improve considerably if you tell me the truth.”

“I wouldn’t lie to a man holding a gun,” Quait said.

While they stared at each other, Chaka called his name. “You okay, Quait?” she cried. And, lower but still discernible, “Where’d he go, Silas?”

Quait grinned at his captor. “I’m okay,” he called. “But stay where you are. There’s a man here with a gun.”

“Tell them to come in here where I can see them.”

“No,” said Quait. “I won’t do that.”

The man wiped his face with his sleeve. He wore a crumpled gray shirt and baggy black trousers. “You in the hall,” he rumbled. “Come in here now, all of you, guns down, hands up, or I’ll kill this one.”

That brought a long silence. The bald man backed into a corner of the room so he could cover both Quait and the doorway.

“Don’t shoot anybody,” said Chaka. She came in, hands raised. Silas followed directly behind.

“What are you,” sputtered Silas, “a lunatic?”

“That’s an open question, I suppose.” The bald man glanced into the corridor. “Is there anyone else?”

“No,” said Quait. “You’ve got everybody.”

“I hope so. If there are any surprises, I’m going to start shooting. And you three will be first. Now, what are you doing in my house?”

Quait tried to explain. Silas, true to his nature, had focused on the handful of unbound volumes in the cabinet. Suddenly he sighed. “Ilion Talley,” he said. “Where did you get
these
?”

The bald man eyed him suspiciously. “How did you know my name?”

“
You?
” said Silas. “I was talking about the author of these books.”

“
I
am he.”

Silas frowned and pursed his lips. “Ilion Talley’s dead.”

“Oh, not as dead as some would like.”

“Are
you
really Talley? Of Masandik?”

“Of course, you nitwit. Who else would I be?” The rifle wavered and his voice softened. “You know of me, then?”

“Everyone knows the Mechanic,” said Silas. He was staring hard at the bald man. “I do believe…” he said. “I believe it really is you.” He clapped his hands. “Wonderful. This makes the entire trip worthwhile. Whatever else happens.” He plunged forward, completely forgetful of the weapon.

Talley hesitated and then, if he’d had a mind to shoot, it was too late. Silas was by him, pumping his hand. “Marvelous,” Silas said. “We met years ago, but I was very young and you’d have no way of remembering. My name’s Silas Glote.”

Quait knew the Mechanic’s reputation. Ilion Talley had been renowned throughout the five cities as a philosopher, artist, and engineer. He had designed and overseen the construction of Masandik’s superlative water and sewage system, with its state-of-the-art pumps; he had sculpted the magnificent
Lyka
for her temple at Farroad; he had devised the modern repeating rifle.

“And you’re not dead,” said Silas.

“Apparently not.” Talley laid the weapon on a table.