The Rosetta Codex (4 page)

Cale was surprised by their generosity. Or was it guilt?

He stood and turned, and through the trees he could see slivers of the lake, the water like floating pieces of chipped stone. He would be glad to leave the lake behind.

The sky was a little lighter now. Dawn, then. A faint breeze blew in under his coat; he shivered, then pulled the coat tight, sealing it. He remembered the warmth beneath the blankets and Aglaia's smell and the feel of her warm smooth skin under his fingers. Maybe this was better for both of them. He shook his head; it was something to tell himself. It might be better for him, eventually, but he wondered if she would ever be able to get away now, if she would ever get to Morningstar.

The rucksack was heavy, but the straps were padded and did not cut much into his tender shoulders. Cale limped out of the clearing and headed south, away from the village and the lake and the last twelve years of his life.

 

He could have taken the roadway and trail, but he did not want to chance meeting any of the villagers, as unlikely as that was, so he stayed in the dense woods and hiked on without rest. The sun rose, and wide shafts of golden light angled through the trees, lighting the way and providing a faint warmth. Cale was only vaguely aware of his surroundings; he walked in a trance of dull pain and numbed thoughts, his feet
avoiding holes and loose rocks without conscious direction.

Near midmorning he came across a narrow stream of cold, clear water. Cale cleaned off the dried blood and dirt, cuts stinging; he drank deeply, then filled the water flasks. Although he felt no hunger, he ate some of the cheese that had been packed for him, and chewed painfully on a piece of dried fish. He sat beside the stream for some time, dizzy again. He watched the water flow past him, listened to it bubble over stones and roots, breathed in the warm aroma of tiny pale blue flowers that spread their petals to the sun. Then he shouldered the rucksack and continued on.

The sun was almost directly above him when he encountered a well-traveled path through the trees. He stood at the crossroads, fighting against the pain and weariness, looking along the path in both directions, trying to think. Deciding he was far enough from the village by now, he stepped onto the trail and followed it south. For a time the land rose, though not steeply, and the trees grew taller and farther apart. The air cooled, most of the sunlight blocked by the dense branches, but the woods were peaceful and quiet and the whisper of the breezes through the leaves high above him was comforting.

He crested the mountain and began to descend; the trail wound back and forth down the steeper southern slope. The trees became sparser and the sun warmed the hillside. A flock of loud, cawing terratorns flew by, casting dozens of moving shadows across his path. Unseen creatures scuttled beneath the undergrowth as he walked past, leaves and twigs shivering as they sped away from him. The warmth and the steady movement eased away some of the pain, soothed the ache in his muscles.

The trail emerged from the woods and intersected a wide dirt roadway heading east and west, heavily rutted by the wheels of carts and wagons. Here the roadway curved around the hillside on an outcropping of rock, and the view to the south was expansive, overwhelming in its breadth. Cale overlooked a mountainside that descended to meet lower hills in the distance, which in turn became flatlands that extended as far as he could see. To the east, the mountains continued and curved around to the south, bordering the eastern reaches of the plains; the mountains continued to the west as well, but ran parallel to the flatlands. He could not make out where either of them ended.

The sun hung low in the sky, coloring the narrow strips of cloud with magenta and bloodred. Cale saw no one on the roadway in either direction, and heard not even the faintest sounds of travelers. Blackburn had told him to go east. He looked again in that direction, where, according to Blackburn, the Divide lay, and presumably the city of Morningstar.
Better places than this,
Blackburn had said. He wondered.

He adjusted the pack on his shoulder, drank from one of the flasks, then turned to face the setting sun and headed into the west.

He was several weeks in the mountains, gradually making his way west. The days grew cooler, the nights often freezing; mornings now he woke up to frost, or puddles completely iced over. But no matter how cold the nights were, the insulated bedroll kept him warm and dry.

The first snow found him atop a ridge of uneven black rock, looking out over mountains that stretched beyond the range of his sight. The flakes were light and cool and soft as they landed on his skin; they tasted fresh and dry, even as they melted on his tongue.

A shiver worked through him—not from the cold, but from a momentary touch of fear.
A terrible winter,
Blackburn had said. Cale turned to the south, but could no longer see
the end of the mountains in that direction, either. He should have headed south to begin with, he thought, or maybe even east, as Blackburn had told him. Too late now. He slowly turned full circle, searching all directions. He had to get out of the mountains, and soon. For no reason that he could articulate, continuing to the west seemed his best option; the south had once been, but no longer.

That first snow did not stick, the skies cleared, and for the next three days there was bright sun and mild afternoons. More than that, it seemed that the highest mountains were now behind him, with the peaks gradually declining before him. Then another icy front blew through with dark roiling clouds, and a cold heavy snow fell, and kept falling for two days, laying a bed of hard and dirty ice upon the ground. Winter had finally arrived.

He came across another road, rutted and uneven and poorly traveled, and he followed it for several days as it wound through the mountains. Food grew scarcer, or more unrecognizable—he was reluctant to eat plants he had never seen before. Game, too, became more difficult to find, though he feasted one day from a pond well-populated with yellow, fat crawling creatures twice the size of his foot that were slow to move and easy to catch. He spent the following morning and afternoon smoking as much meat from them as he could carry, then moved on.

Two days later, in the cold early morning, he came upon a dead man hanging upside down from a tree beside the road. His shirt fell around his armpits and neck, exposing a belly crusted with thin ragged lines of dried blood, and his swollen arms and hands hung down so that the broken fingers nearly touched the ground. Black and brown stingflies
crawled in and out of the man's blackened mouth and nostrils, and his eye sockets had been torn and gouged, though Cale could not determine whether that had been done by scavengers or by those who had killed him; either possibility seemed equally plausible.

An hour down the road, Cale passed another dead man hanging from a tree. Perhaps the two dead men were warnings; but for whom, and why? Travelers on the road, or those who might live around here? Perhaps both. Better to be safe, he decided. He left the road, and continued on through the dense, cold woods.

 

Snow fell for days without letup. Cale soon found himself struggling through drifts that reached his thighs and occasionally his waist. If there was a trail or roadway anywhere, it was impossible to locate. There was no sun, the sky an almost featureless gray and white above him, and he lost all sense of direction. Downhill was the only direction he followed now. If he could get out of the mountains, if he could reach the flatlands he had once been able to see, it might be warmer, there might be less snow or no snow at all. He thought often about Blackburn's warning about this winter—that it would be terrible, long, and cold, that to survive it he would need to find shelter to wait out the worst of it. He should have been prepared.

Time passed strangely, as though he had entered some alternate world where it stopped or became nonexistent. Sound, too, seemed to vanish except for the huff of his breath and the crunch and sliding of snow as he pushed through it. The trees became brown and white skeletons, paralyzed by ice.

Cale came across a shallow cave and camped inside for two days, drying out his clothes before a fire and trying to stay warm in his bedroll. His mind was numb with hunger. One morning, bundled in the bedroll and looking at the cold ashes of the fire, a clear and certain thought formed—
If I stay here, I'll die.

He dressed in dry clothing, packed everything carefully, then left the cave and pressed on through the still falling snow.

 

The ground leveled and the sky brightened as he stepped between two trees and into a clearing. His heart sank when he saw he was on the floor of a narrow valley, mountains rising again on all sides.

The snow wasn't as deep here, barely above his knees, but that was little compensation for the despair he felt as he looked at the ascending slopes all along the valley. Then, far down the valley, a thin column of rising smoke caught his eye, its source a third of the way up the opposite hillside. From this distance he could not make out any details, but he thought he could see a dwelling of some sort sheltered by a rock overhang.

An hour later he stood directly below the dwelling, watching the smoke rise from a round metal chimney, curl around the overhang, then continue to rise until it merged with the clouds above. A steeply roofed cabin nestled against a rock cliff face that angled out from the slope, providing some shelter. The windows were shuttered. Off to the side was a small shack.

It took him nearly an hour to climb up the hillside through the snow. Darkness was falling. The flat shelf upon
which the cabin rested was larger than he had first thought. Cale listened intently, but all he heard was the snapping of a branch, the hiss of snow sliding across stone, and a faint whistle of wind. The cabin was nicely sheltered, protected from the wind and the worst of the snow, a pocket of quiet and calm.

He stepped up to the cabin door and knocked. No response. He knocked harder and called out. “Hello! Anyone here?” When there was still no response, he tried the door, but it was barred or bolted. “I just need a place for the night,” he said loudly. “I need some rest. I'll leave in the morning.” Cale banged on the door one final time, then turned away and approached the shack.

The shack wasn't locked. Inside were gardening tools and shelves filled with boxes and two small wheeled carts; a damp, earthy odor. Wood was stacked several rows deep against the back wall. Cale shut the door. In the dry and quiet darkness, exhaustion overwhelmed him. He stood motionless, hardly thinking, went back outside to relieve himself, then returned and laid out his bedroll. He undressed, hung his clothes on the tools to dry, crawled into the bedroll, and dropped immediately into sleep.

When he woke, it was light outside, but the storm had worsened, and even here in the shelter of the overhang the wind whipped the snow in a frenzy of chaotic patterns, occasionally twisting upward so that the snow seemed to be returning to the clouds from which it had fallen. Cale stood in the doorway and watched the storm. The cabin was unchanged—windows shuttered, door secure, smoke rising from the chimney. Someone was inside, he was certain of that, but he couldn't do anything about it. He also couldn't
do anything about the storm; he closed the door against it and retreated to the back, where it was slightly warmer. He wasn't going anywhere in this weather.

Later that day there came a pounding on the shack door, and a voice shouting above the storm. “Come on out!” A woman's voice, he thought.

Cale pushed open the door and looked out. A figure bundled in a heavy coat, head wrapped in scarves, stood a few paces away and pointed an object at him. Probably a weapon.

“You're hardly more than a kid,” the woman said. She shook her head. “Pack up your things, then come on inside. But don't get too close to me or I'll burn a hole right through you.”

Cale believed she wouldn't hesitate. He quickly gathered his belongings, then walked ahead of her to the cabin, opened the door, and stepped into the warmth of the interior.

Aside from a number of shelves filled with books, the cabin was surprisingly bare. One large chair, two smaller ones at a plain wood table, a sleeping mat in the corner. A large wood stove, atop of which steamed a kettle, a basin, a few basic cooking utensils. Oil lamps, two now lit with all the windows shuttered. A stack of wood. No decorations on the unpainted walls other than a single disturbing icon—the figure of a naked man nailed with arms spread to two crossed pieces of wood.

The woman removed her coat and scarves, then tucked the weapon into her belt. She was much older than he had expected, thin, with wrinkled, weathered skin. Hair short
and coarse and almost completely white. Eyes that now looked kindly upon him.

“I'll make us some tea,” she said.

 

She was an anchorite, she told him, and she had lived in the cabin for six years. It had been built long ago by an old man who had given it into her keeping when he decided it was time to go off and die.

She had no name. Or rather, she had given up her name when she had left civilization and come here to . . . well, what she came here to do was her own business, she told Cale. When he asked her if she had come from Morningstar, she said she had come
through
Morningstar, but would not elaborate.

“I've left all that behind,” she told him.

“Why?”

She shook her head.

 

Three days after Cale arrived, the woman announced what they both had already silently accepted—that he could stay until the worst of the storms were over. That would be at least seven or eight weeks, she informed him. Possibly much longer.

If he stayed, she told him, he would have to agree to certain conditions, though they were not many. When she asked for silence, even if it was for an entire day, he would comply or leave. He would bring wood from the shack each day and help with the cooking and keeping the cabin clean.
He would not go naked in her presence. Anything else she might ask of him—and she did not expect there would be much—he would comply or leave. Did he agree? He agreed.

“The days will seem long,” she said. “But reading helps pass the time, and it is edifying as well. You may read any of these books.” She gestured at the bookshelves around the cabin. “The only books you may
not
read, the books you
will
not touch, are those in this case.” She stepped to the small, three-shelf bookcase beside her chair, brushed her fingers lightly across the dark, worn spines. “These are sacred texts.” She turned back to him. “But everything else is open to you.”

“I can't read,” Cale admitted.

The woman seemed surprised. “Not at all?”

Cale shook his head. “I think I could once, a little. A few words. When I was young.”

“Can't write either, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “Not even your name?”

“No.”

She sat in the chair and looked at him, shaking her head to herself. Then she got up and paced back and forth from one end of the cabin to the other, brows furrowed. Cale wondered what was distressing her. He couldn't read, but it didn't trouble him much, and it was not her problem.

“I can't do it,” she finally said, looking at him.

“Do what?”

“Teach you to read.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

“But you
should
be able to read. You're an intelligent young man, I can see that. But I lack the patience to teach you.”

“That's all right.”

The anchorite shook her head. “No, it's not all right.” She sighed again, then nodded slowly. “What I
will
do, though, is read to you,” she said.

 

The storms drove through the mountains, one after another. The valley, narrow with steep slopes, was relatively sheltered, the cabin even more so, but still there were times when the wind shook the cabin and rattled the stove pipe and screeched through the tiniest gaps in the walls. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do.

She read to him, and new worlds opened up all around him. She read from books of stories, excerpts of novels and epic poems; from books of science and history and art; from philosophical inquiries into the nature of human beings, the reality of the universe, and the meaning of existence.

She recited poetry by Sartorian, Emily Dickinson, Anwar Munif, T. S. Eliot, and the Widows of Landsend.

She spent one evening singing the Hive Chants of Marker's Colony, swaying slightly with eyes closed and arms outspread as if in supplication. Cale felt mesmerized, though the words made no sense, jumbled together without logic, without meaning, yet flowing naturally from one to another with feeling and purpose.

History: “An Analysis of the Insurrection of Cygnus 7,” by Bronso of Ox.
Angels of Expansion
, by Mia Motono.
Exiles
, author unknown.

Archaeology: Two slender books speculating on the nature of the Jaaprana aliens, who had apparently become extinct long before human beings had begun their expansion
outward from Earth, and whose existence was evidenced only by scattered ruins on several worlds humans had themselves later colonized.

Science:
The Interrogatories of Samuel
, questions about the nature of physical reality answered by other questions.
Man, Machine, and the Sarakheen
, concerning the biomechanical advances made by the Sarakheen, human beings who turned themselves into cyborgs.