Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

Rubble filled the forest for miles. They passed a row of connected identical brick houses, two stories high, wedged among sweetgums and red cedars. They saw occasional pseudo-metal posts and tangles of corroded machinery. In the middle of a glade they found an old stone bench, imprinted: COURTESY OF PETER’S CLOTHING. They also paused beside a marker: TO ST MARY OF THE WOODS, 2 Ml.

An arrow pointed the direction. Toward the Wabash.

“Saint Mary is one of the aspects of their deity,” Silas explained. “It was probably a temple site or a shrine.” And he gazed wistfully about. “There is so much to see here. It’s a pity we have so little time.”

“What do we know about Saint Mary?” asked Chaka.

Silas shrugged. “Not much.”

“In fact,” said Avila, “almost the only things we do know about the religion of the Roadbuilders is what we’ve been able to gather from The Brothers Karamazov.”

“And from some of the surviving signs outside their churches, where they exhibited didactic sayings for the edification of the faithful.” Silas looked like a kid in a bazaar. “There’s a collection of them in the library, to which we should be able to make a few additions when we get home.” He looked off toward the river. “Saint Mary was the female aspect of an omnipotent god,” he continued. “We suspect she represented the deity’s creative power and compassion.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” They were on horseback, riding through the late afternoon. The woods smelled of approaching spring. “Avila’s right,” continued Silas. “We know what Dostoevsky tells us.

We know they had orders of holy men, and that there was a sharp division between the religious authorities and the faith of the common people. We know they believed that people pass through this life and face a judgment after death. We know they struggled with the problem of evil.”

“And what is the problem of evil, Silas?” asked Flojian.

They were moving slowly, not off-road, but in the presence of many roads, looking for Shay’s telltale marks. “That, in a world governed by a benevolent divine power,” Silas said, “the innocent suffer.”

“That children die,” said Avila. “That prayer does not work. That, in our most desperate moments, despite the promises of the scriptures, we are quite alone.”

Flojian sighed. He wore a black cape that lent him a moderately dashing appearance. Moderately, because he never seemed to enjoy himself. The world was an ill-lit, gloomy place, and one had to struggle along as best one could, obey the rules, and put a good face on everything. He was therefore a believer in those things that did not require effort or sacrifice, and a skeptic where the results showed up on a profit and loss statement. Defying the gods tended to irritate people and was therefore bad for business. Flojian’s reflexes kicked in. “You sound bitter,” he told Avila.

“I don’t mean to be,” she said. “I’m sorry. Let it go.”

Later she confided to Chaka that she’d promised herself to stay out of religious discussions. “They just get people upset,” she said, “and they never lead anywhere.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of it,” said Chaka.

“I know. It’s hard to get away from.”

They made camp in the shelter of a stone wall, surrounded by a jumble of concrete and iron, half buried, broken up and pushed aside by old-growth trees. A nearby glade marked where an ancient courtyard had been. From the glade they could see sheared-off buildings rising above the trees. Where the rubble had fallen, mounds had formed.

Shannon had been tending the horses. Now he came in behind them. “Got something,” he said.

He took them back through a stand of dogwoods and showed them a marker, a gray stone on which someone had carved the name Cris Lukasi, a crude rendering of the Tasselay, and the date March 23, 297. Cris Lukasi had been one of the members of the original expedition.

“A survival expert,” said Shannon. He frowned. “I don’t want to offend you,” he told Flojian, “but I think it was criminal that somebody didn’t keep a record of that journey. Where the bodies were. These people deserved that much, at least.”

“They did keep a record.” Flojian’s eyes blazed. “And my father spoke to the family members about everybody who was on the expedition. He told them what he could. He did what he could.”

“What happened to the record?” asked Chaka gently.

“It was part of the anuma. Burned on the day of the cremation.”

“Did you know him?” Chaka asked Shannon.

“Lukasi? No. I never met him. But I know he died far from home. In a place he didn’t have to come to. That’s enough for me.” one might talk to a casual friend. But the comments lacked the warmth that might indicate he was interested in moving to a new level. Nevertheless, his eyes transmitted a different message.

She watched him while he worked. His hair kept getting in his eyes, and sweat ran down his jaw and dripped onto his shirt. She was spending too much time thinking about him lately, and that wasn’t a good idea. She kept comparing him with Raney. It was an odd thing about Quait: He had not struck her at first as particularly handsome. But he seemed to be getting better-looking as time went on. That, she assumed, resulted from his being the only young male within a considerable distance.

They cleaned their weapons, did some laundry, and sat late around the campfire.

Next day, the road angled in an easterly direction, away from the river, and soon they were deep in forest again. The weather turned cold and wet, Chaka developed a fever, Silas’s back gave him more trouble, and Quait sprained an ankle trying to calm a horse that had stepped in a hole.

The horse broke its leg before they got it under control and they had to shoot it. Quait, obviously hurting, suggested maybe they should shoot him as well. Avila patched him up as best she could and they took over an old barn and built a fire. Wet cloths kept Chaka reasonably comfortable. But everyone knew how dangerous a fever on the trail could be. Quait stayed close to her and helped where he could.

Rain poured through the roof. Avila broke out her pipes, and Quait his Walloon. They played and sang through the early part of the evening, while the weather beat against the ancient barn. Quait wasn’t particularly skilled, but he gave it everything he had, and when things went wrong, he was the first to laugh. This was the night Chaka would remember later as the moment she admitted to herself that she was in love.

It was March 21, the equinox, a day sacred to Shanta. The river was back, although Shannon explained that it wasn’t the Wabash, but a tributary. “This is about as far north as I’ve been,” he added. It was still cold and rainy, and they were a somber lot, tired, hurting, and beginning to talk about going home.

The river ran through a gray mist that all but concealed the forest on the other side. Shay’s signs pointed to a bridge just ahead. But the bridge was very high, and parts of it were missing.

“We can’t cross that.” said Silas.

All that remained of the middle of the bridge were a few connecting beams and a walkway. The walkway just stuck up there in the sky.

“We should quit here for the day,” said Shannon. “Give the horses a rest. Tomorrow we can figure out the next step.”

Nobody argued. There were no convenient buildings this time so they put up a couple of lean-to’s and crawled in. Avila checked her various patients and pronounced them fit, but insisted they take advantage of the early halt to sleep. “You especially,” she told Chaka, who had thrown off her fever. “In this weather it wouldn’t take much for you to go another round.”