Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

Chaka’s age, and the lack of a controlling male hand in her household, rendered her automatically suspect among the older families, who held the balance of political and economic power in the state. Therefore, Raney saw himself as a man on a white horse as well as a suitor. He was not sufficiently sophisticated to disguise this view, which Chaka found increasingly annoying with the passage of time, although she might not have been able to say why. Yet she liked him all the same, and enjoyed spending time with him.

“Raney,” she said, “do you understand what I’m telling you? It looks as if they found what they were looking for.”

“Who cares? Chaka, who cares? It’s over.” He was angry that she had put herself in danger, relieved that she had escaped without harm, frustrated that she clung to this lunatic business. “It was nine years ago. Unless Endine left a map. Did he leave a map?”

“No.”

“Instructions how to get there?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Then I think you should take the Mark Twain, be grateful, and let go.”

They’d moved into the living room. He was standing by the fireplace, his thumbs shoved into his belt, his expression in shadow. She was seated placidly in the wingback chair near the window. “Don’t you even want to see the thirteenth sketch?”

“Sure I do.” His tone softened. “I just don’t want you breaking into people’s houses. I would never have believed you’d do something like that. And you didn’t even tell me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head in dismay. Then his tone softened. “Next time you want to break into someone’s house in the middle of the night, try mine.”

The wind moved against the shutters. Out in the barn, one of the horses snorted. Chaka smiled politely, took out the sketch and showed it to him. He shrugged.

“It’s only a cliff. I suspect we could find a half-dozen like this if we went looking.”

She gazed, with resignation, out the window.

He came and sat beside her. “I’m sorry. I know this thing with Endine bothers you. I wish there were something I could do to put it to rest.”

“Maybe there is,” she said.

He looked at her, and the silence drew out between them. “You need help with another burglary?” he asked.

“I’ve been thinking about trying to retrace the route of the original expedition. I think it might be possible. If it is, would you come?”

“Are you serious? It can’t be done. We both know that.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“How, Chaka? Either we know where it is or we don’t.”

“Would you come?”

He managed an uncomfortable grin. “You find a way to get to Haven,” he said, “and you can count on me.”

The citizens of the League were not. by and large, adventurous. They loved their river valley home, they were surrounded by endless forests which sheltered occasional bands of Tuks (whose good behavior could not be counted on), and they lived in a world whose epic ruins acted as a kind of warning. If there was a unifying philosophy, it took the form of caution, safety first, don’t rock the boat. Better to keep a respectful distance. Moor with two anchors. Look before you leap.

Few had penetrated more than a hundred miles beyond the populated areas of the Mississippi. These were primarily hunters, searchers after Roadmaker artifacts (which, in decent condition, commanded a good price), and those who traded with the Tuks.

Jon Shannon engaged sporadically in all three occupations as the mood hit him. The profit was no more than fair, and certainly did not approach the income of his brothers, who had joined their father in running an overland trading company. But Shannon had freedom of movement, he had solitude, and he enjoyed his work.

Although maybe the solitude was disappearing. The world was changing with the coming of the League and its attendant peace and prosperity. The great web of forest that had once surrounded his cabin was giving way to homes and farms. He’d moved twice in the last seven years, retreating northeast, only to be overtaken each time by the wash of settlements exploding out of Illyria. Shannon had always been something of a maverick. He had no taste for the petty entertainments and ambitions of urban life. His first wife had died in childbirth, taking the infant with her; the second had tried to change him into someone else, and had eventually given up, grown bored, and moved away.

He’d loved both, in his methodical way. But he was drained now, and if he was not as happy in the vast green solitude as he had once been, he was nevertheless content. It was a calmer, safer existence, and a man could ask no more than that.

It was almost time to move on again, and that fact forced him to reflect on the course of his life, which seemed every bit as wandering and aimless as the Mississippi.

But aimless is not necessarily a bad thing.

He would retreat again, but he didn’t need do it immediately. Maybe spend another year here. That would give him time to scout the new location. There was a place twenty-five miles out that he liked. Hilltop site, of course, a couple of nearby streams, plenty of game. But the way the frontier was advancing, he wasn’t sure that was far enough. On the other hand, even that short distance would be stretching the line of communication with his clients. And therein lay the problem. If he wanted to move out and draw the wilderness around him, and not have to be bothered doing it again in a few years, he would have to make some changes in his own life. And maybe that was what he should do; he did not, after all, need money. Why tie himself to all these various expeditions and tours with people he’d just as soon not spend time with anyhow? His shoulder still ached from a bullet one of his idiot clients had put into it, mistaking him for a deer.

A horse was approaching.

Shannon watched it come out of the woods, and recognized its redheaded rider at once, although he needed a few moments to come up with the name. Chaka Milana. Tarbul’s daughter. All grown up.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, meeting her outside.

She was a good-looking woman, even after a hard ride. (He was two days out from Illyria.) The red hair she’d disliked so much as a child stood her in good stead now. She had a hunter’s eyes and a wistful expression that could get a man in deep real quick. She’d come a long way from the girl he’d last seen at her father’s side shooting geese.

“Hello Jon,” She reined up and dismounted in one fluid motion. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course, Chaka,” he said. She wore a dark gray linen blouse and a buckskin jacket and leggings. “It’s good to see you.”

She nodded. “And you.”

He helped her take care of her horse and then they returned to the cabin. He’d been adding some shelves, and the interior smelled of fresh-cut wood and resin. “I’ll put some tea on,” he said. “You want to wash up meanwhile?”

She did. He pumped a basin of water for her and heated it. She retreated to an inner room. He listened to her splashing around in there, thinking what a good sound it was. She came out in fresh clothes, and they sat down at a wicker table to tea, warm bread, and dried beef.

“You weren’t easy to find, Jon,” she said.

“How’d you manage?”

“You remember what you used to say? ‘Over the horizon plus two miles and look for a hill.’”

He laughed.

“You look good,” she said, lifting the mug to her lips and peering at him over its rim. “Jon, have you ever heard of Haven?”

“Sure. It’s a fairyland, isn’t it?”

There had always been an impish quality about Chaka Milana, a sly smile and a vaguely mischievous cast to her features, augmented by her startlingly bright red hair. Keep a cap over it, he used to tell her, or you’ll scare the deer. It was all still there, he realized, complemented now by the self-confidence that maturity brings. He was surprised she wore no ring.