New Found Land (15 page)

“We can pick it up, and the rest of the gear as well. She'll sleep till noon. The rehearsal's not till this afternoon.”

There was a pause, before Bos said: “It is time
they were planted. The soil here is good, and the climate too.” The look he gave Brad was almost pleading. “And I do not think you need me any longer, Bradus, do you?”

Simon saw a look of unhappiness cross Brad's face fleetingly, but he quickly grinned. “Of course I don't. I don't need either of you. ‘He travels the fastest who travels alone,' as Kipling said.”

Bos gave a troubled shake of the head. “I do not know of this man Kip Ling. But if you
did
need me . . .”

“No,” Brad said. “Plant your vines, Bos. I'll be better off on my own. And in fact you can do me a favour by staying. You can tell Lundiga I'm heading south, and get her search parties pointed in the wrong direction.”

Simon's mind swam with tiredness. The urge to lie down and sleep was almost overwhelming; the idea of setting out on the trail again, by contrast, one of the most unappealing he could recall. He said: “It only needs one for that. We're relying on you, Bos.”

“You will go with Bradus?” The broad face with its grizzled stubble of beard showed relief.

Brad said: “No need. In fact, you're not wanted.”

“Don't be silly,” Simon said. “When she finds she can't have you, she'll realize how good-looking I am. I don't fancy being the husband of a goddess, either. Let's go.”

“Now, look . . .”

“We're wasting time, and you can't stop me.” He turned to Bos. “One other thing. When those vines of yours have grown and fruited, and you've pressed wine from the grapes, lift the first glass to us.”

Bos smiled, nodding. “That I will, Simonus.”

A
LL DAY THEY HAD SLOGGED
through barren country—bare rock and coarse sand with patches of arid scrub—under a savage sun. They had seen no living thing apart from lizards, hovering vultures, a rattlesnake poised and watchful. Thirst was constant and maddening; from time to time they moistened their lips from the gourds they carried. Only moistened: they did not know when they would next find a waterhole. A couple of times already they had come close to death from thirst, and third time might not be so lucky. Simon, when he pressed the gourd briefly against
cracked lips, shook it before putting it back on his belt. Less than half full; a lot less.

They had learned not to talk on the march: silence conserved energy. Brad, as he had done all along, had the advance position, with Simon a yard or so behind. It was Brad who had plotted their course along the Gulf coast, northeast along the Rio Grande; then the break west through mountainous country in search of the westward-flowing Gila River.

Simon had been content to let him make the decisions, and make the running, too. It was his country; he who had a destination in view. And despite the difficulties and dangers, the plan had worked so far, even to the extent of their finding the Gila . . . or some other wide river that flowed into the sunset. It was Brad, too, who had provided the drive to keep them going. Simon was aware he owed his life to that. The first time they had run out of water, a few days after heading into the hills, he had been ready to lie down and die. Brad had kept him moving; in the end almost dragging him along.

When hazards did not threaten, boredom was the enemy: the tedium of putting one foot in front
of another, of plodding on. It was possible, Simon had discovered, to disconnect a part of his mind from his surroundings—to be, even while sweating under the relentless sun, at ease in the cool shade of a Roman villa, chatting with Lavinia while big red fish swam in the pool at their feet. Or, further back still, to be in that world which had the same physical contours as this and yet was so different, watching a cricket match from the pavilion, padded up to go in, meanwhile eating a bowl of strawberries and cream . . .

The strawberries and cream were a mistake. His dry mouth tried to salivate and failed; and his mind, rejecting the daydream, shunted him back to present reality. They had come over a rise and the way ahead was downhill. His eye scanned the horizon automatically. It registered what it saw, and transmitted the information to his brain. But this, too, his mind rejected: it could not be true. And yet it was—the distant gleam was no illusion. How could Brad have failed to see it?

He croaked: “Look . . .”

Brad halted and turned slowly, almost painfully, towards him.

“No,” Simon said. “In front . . .”

Brad still did not look that way. “What?”

“It's the sea.”

•  •  •

It took them the rest of the day to get there; as they looked at breakers crashing onto shingle, the sun's disk was half lost in the waves, casting a crimson path towards the shore. Simon found a ledge and sat down, while Brad stood staring at the ocean. From the moment they had glimpsed the sea, there had been a reversal in their roles, with Simon eagerly pressing forward, Brad dragging behind.

“We've made it,” Simon said.

“Yes.” Brad's voice was listless.

“I don't think I really believed we ever would.”

Brad said nothing.

“And you saw there's a river, a couple of miles north? Fresh water. It might be worth doing some fishing. We might catch us a salmon. Or a sardine—I'm not fussy.”

It wasn't much of a joke, but even if he didn't think it rated a smile, Simon felt Brad could have made some sort of acknowledgement, instead of just staring at the sea. He felt himself getting annoyed,
but controlled it. Concentrate on what matters, he thought: we've done it, and it was no pushover.

He said: “This is a poor spot for bivouacking. There'll be more shelter by the river. I saw trees.”

Brad still said nothing. Simon stood up and took a couple of steps. Brad had not stirred.

He said sharply: “Come
on,
Brad.”

Brad followed Simon reluctantly. It was an easy walk to the mouth of the river, and they continued on inland to the grove of trees. There, having found a good place for spending the night under one of the bigger trees, Simon took the gourds and replaced the tepid brackish water in them with fresh water from the river. He had left Brad sitting beneath the tree and found him in the same position when he returned. He drank from the gourd Simon offered him, but did not speak.

Simon said: “I feel a bit more ready to chew that lousy pemmican. The fish can wait till breakfast.”

Brad put the gourd down in silence. Simon's earlier irritation came back, more strongly. The whole idea of pressing west had been Brad's. He himself would have been content to settle in any of half a dozen spots on the way, where the pickings had
looked fair and the natives friendly. He thought of Bos, who by now would probably have gathered his grapes and made his wine from them. Bos had not been such a fool as to abandon a good situation on somebody else's whim.

All that had happened since—the hardships, thirst and near starvation, blistered feet when shoes wore out, sunburn and fever and treacherous Indians . . . all these had been consequences of pandering to Brad's obsession. He could have been in Tenochtitlan still with Bos, living a life of ease. He felt he had earned something better than silent brooding now the trek was over.

He was framing a cutting remark when Brad said suddenly: “I'm sorry about today.”

Simon felt there was not a lot he could say to that, and waited. The dusk was thickening; a crescent moon hung in a patch of deep purple sky clear of foliage. A new moon, like the one the night they climbed the pyramid. How many moons ago was it—seven, eight? They had long since stopped keeping track of time.

Brad went on: “I know it's not rational. I think I even understand what it's about—partly, anyway—
but it doesn't alter things. The fact is . . . when we left Britain behind us to cross the Atlantic, it was different for me. I was going home. Perhaps not really home, but home country. And it's not, of course: how could it be? But it kind of knocks me out, realizing it.”

Simon said: “But at the beginning . . . when we were in Algonquian territory . . . that was nearer where you'd lived, surely? And you were all right there.”

There was another silence, which Simon let run, before Brad said: “When my parents divorced, Dad went to live in California, as I told you. It's a long way from Vermont. I visited him there a couple of times. The summer before last would have been a third time, but Mom and Hank had just married and she wanted me to go with them to Europe. We agreed I would stay with Dad for Christmas. But when Christmas came, we were with Bos and Curtius, on our way to Rome.

“I guess it was homesickness that made me think of doing a Christopher Columbus in the first place. The fact of New England's being so different didn't bother me that much. It was California I was set on; that's why I kept pushing for it. I knew Dad wouldn't
be there—wasn't anywhere in this world—but I thought if maybe I could find the patch of coastline where his house had been . . . Actually, I don't know what I thought. As I say, it wasn't rational.”

Simon said: “The way you figured it, this is southern California. The spot you were aiming for is maybe three hundred miles north of here.”

Brad nodded. “Sure.”

“We can make the last bit easily, now we've reached the sea.”

“No,” Brad said. “It's no help. I don't want to see that patch of coastline now. It would make it worse, not better. It's something I should have realized sooner. I've been a complete fool.”

Simon thought about his own spells of nostalgia. Those had lessened with the passing of time, but it had been different for him. He had been on his home ground, which had probably made the immediate shock of switching into this alternate world greater. For Brad it had been something happening on a vacation, thousands of miles from home. The basic reality had not sunk in. In one part of his mind there had always been hope of a way back. Until now.

“We should have stayed in Tenochtitlan,” Brad
said. “Lundiga was an excuse; I see that. I've dragged you here for no good reason. I'm sorry about that, too.”

“Well, we're here,” Simon said. “And not doing badly, really. Interesting-looking country, nice climate.”

Brad didn't answer.

Simon said: “Do me a favour will you?”

“What?”

“Eat your pemmican. Wherever we go next, I don't want to have to carry you.”

Brad forced a smile. “All right.”

•  •  •

Brad was restless during the night. At one point Simon heard him get up, and he was missing for about an hour. In the morning he looked tired and subdued, though he did respond when Simon spoke to him. They dropped hooks in the river but without success, and resorted to pemmican again.

When they were through chewing, Simon said: “I don't fancy trying to cross the river at this point. It looks deep, and that's a strong current running out to sea. If we are heading north we'd better go upstream till we find a better place.”

Brad stared broodingly at the water. He needed pushing. Simon said sharply: “Well, which is it to be? North or south?”

Brad turned away from the river. “It makes no difference. South, I guess.”

This time they walked side by side, and Simon waffled on about a variety of subjects—prospects of game, the kind of Indians they might encounter, the weather. It was talk for the sake of talking—anything to stop Brad from brooding.

He was in a really deep fit of the blues, Simon thought, and it might take some time for him to snap out of it. Their having no particular objective in view, after all the concentration on California, didn't help. And what
should
they do now, for that matter? They could head back to Aztec lands, but even apart from the problem of Lundiga he doubted if that was right. It would be good to see Bos again, but it would be a retreat, an acknowledgement of failure. There could be no going back.

No, this was as good country as any. They would maybe find an Indian tribe that would accept them, and settle to an existence of hunting, fishing, and the rest. There were worse ways of living.

He realized he had fallen
silent, and began talking: “We ought to have a better winter here. Remember that snow. I'll be happy never to see a snowflake again. Do you . . . ?”

Brad had stopped abruptly. Simon wondered if he had changed his mind, and decided he'd rather head north after all. But he wasn't looking back. Pointing west he said, in a tone of wonder: “I don't believe it.”

Simon looked where he was pointing. They stood on a ridge, with perhaps a quarter of a mile of level ground between them and the ocean shore. It stood halfway across that stretch, rising out of the bushes which had grown round it. It was in a state of extreme disrepair; near the top sky could be seen through it. But the outline was unmistakable, and one thing was certain: it had not been built either by local Indians or Aztecs.

“A classical pagoda!” The dullness had gone from Brad's voice. “A pagoda—in southern California.”

They gazed further out, at the empty waters of the Pacific. More than five thousand miles of emptiness; but at the end of that, China.

With a note of rising excitement, Brad said: “I wonder . . .”

Read on for a peek at another adventure from John Christopher!