Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

Karik had not shown him any evidence that he could find Haven, or that Haven even existed. Instead, he had asked him to trust his judgment. I know where it is, he’d said. I have a map. You’ll want to be there when we find it.

Polk’s fortress was said to be tended still by scholars, descendants of the original garrison, men and women who had cared for the contents, who restored what they could, who meticulously recopied the texts as paper crumbled.

Haven.

If it did not exist, it should. And therein, to Silas’s mind, lay the root of his doubts. If Abraham Polk had not existed, someone would certainly have invented him.

For Chaka Milana, the news of Karik Endine’s death conjured up images of her fourteenth birthday. Her brother Arin had taken her to her favorite spot, a quiet glade fronting on one of the Roadmaker buildings, and had painted her portrait.

She had wanted him to do that as far back as she could remember. But she had been too shy to ask, too afraid he would laugh. On that cool, late winter day, however, he’d posed her on a slab of granite in front of a broken wall and an arch whose spandrel was engraved: MEMPHIS CHAMBER OF COMMERCE—2009.

The spot was special because Memphis had burned. Much of its ruins were ashes. But here, the little arched building with its fluted columns was whole. And lovely.

“Chaka, please keep still.” Arin peered at her, tilted his head while he measured the quality of the light, nodded, and returned his attention to his canvas.

“Are you almost finished?”

“Almost.”

They had speculated as to what a chamber of commerce was, and what its functions might be. She liked the stylized characters, with their flares and tails. When she looked at them, a wind from another era blew through her.

When she arrived at the service, Karik’s body had been placed on a pyre at the water’s edge and covered with a funeral cloth. The corpse was surrounded by wood cases containing his personal belongings, his anuma. These were the items which would accompany him on his final journey. The ceremonial torch had been unsealed, and the emblem of the Tasselay, the Cup of Life, fluttered on an emerald banner.

Guests filled the house and grounds. Singly and in pairs.

they mounted the low platform that had been erected in front of the pyre, paid their respects to Flojian, and gazed thoughtfully at the body.

“I think that’ll do.” Ann flourished his brush, dabbed his signature in the lower right corner, and stood aside. Chaka jumped off the rock and hurried to look.

“Do you like it?”

He had captured it all: the granite, a couple of the Roadmaker letters, the failing late afternoon light. And Chaka herself. He’d added a degree of poise and an inner illumination that she persuaded herself were really there. “Oh, yes, Ann. It’s lovely.” He smiled, pleased, his amiable features streaked with paint. It was a family joke that Ann inevitably used himself as the prime can—

“Happy birthday, little sister.”

She was thinking how it would look on the wall of her bedroom when she saw that a shadow had darkened his green eyes. A casual visitor could not have been blamed for concluding, from the size and demeanor of the crowd attending the service, that Karik Endine had been blessed with a loving family and a large body of devoted friends. Neither was true. There were no kin other than his son and a couple of neglected cousins. And it would have been difficult to find anyone in Illyria, or for that matter in any of the five League cities and their various suburbs and outposts, who would have thought himself part of Karik’s inner circle.

Among those who had known him in better times, he had become an object of curiosity and pity, whose death was seen as a release. But they came out of loyalty, as people will, to the old days. Some felt an obligation to attend because they were connected in some way with Flojian. Others were curious, interested in hearing what might be said about a celebrated man whose achievements had, at the very least, been mixed. These were the people who arrived to celebrate his life, to wish him farewell on his final journey, to exchange anecdotes with one another, and to drink somber toasts to the man they realized, at last, they had never really known. As was the tradition on such occasions, no one gave voice to personal reservations about the character of the deceased. (This happy custom arose not only from courtesy to relatives, but from the Illyrian belief that the dead man lingered among them until the priest officially consigned him to eternity.)

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Ann wiped his hands and pretended to study the painting. “Nothing’s wrong. But I do have something to tell you.” He’d been standing a long time, more than an hour. Now he sat down on the grassy slope and patted the grass, inviting her to join him. “Do you remember Karik Endine?”

“Yes, of course I remember him.” He had been an intense little man who seemed always out of breath, who visited the house and locked himself away with her father and her brother. When she was a little girl, he had patted her on the head, but even then she could see he was distracted and anxious to be away.

“He thinks he knows where Haven is. He wants me to go with him

to find it.”

She knew about Haven, knew that it was a story and not a place.

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid, Chaka.”

“I thought it was made-up.”

“Maybe it is. Karik doesn’t think so.”

“So where is it?”

“In the north somewhere. He doesn’t really want to say where. But he says he knows how to get there.”

He was so handsome that morning. “How long will you be gone?”

“About six months.”

“It seems like a lot of trouble to me. What’s the point?

“It’s a piece of history, Chaka. Think what might be there.”

“The treasures.”

“Yes. Maybe there really was an October Patrol, and maybe they really did save part of the Roadmaker world.” He bent toward her.

“Abraham Polk probably is made-up, and maybe the whole story’s a fabrication. But there might be some truth to it. We won’t know unless we go look.”

She asked whether she could go, too. He’d smiled that gorgeous smile and ruffled her hair.

“He never really lived in our time.” The speaker was round-faced, bearded, ponderous. “One might almost say he really lived with the Roadmakers. In this house, he was only a transient.”

Even Chaka knew that Karik had in fact taken to the house and remained unseen in it for nine years. The remark struck her as unfortunate, and she had to work to restrain a smile.

Others expressed similar sentiments, and it became dear to Chaka after a time that no one seemed to have had a recent personal experience to relate. Karik Endine had been a man at a distance, someone glimpsed at the periphery of vision. It seemed that nobody had ever gone to lunch with him. Or shared an intimate hour. Nobody said, he was my friend. Nobody said, I loved him. Something else was missing in the tributes. There was no mention of the mission to Haven. It was as if it had never happened.

Flojian tried to look mournful but after a while he gave it up and simply walked around wearing a blank expression that probably masked his relief that the old man was gone. He’d shunned an academic life like Karik’s for one that seemed more useful, and certainly was more lucrative: He operated a pair of ferries and a service that used horses to drag flatboats back upstream. The villa had been in the family for four generations, but it had fallen into neglect and disrepair during Karik’s tenure. It had been Flojian’s money that had restored it, and subsequently furnished and maintained it. His father had been a dreamer. Flojian saw nothing wrong with that, but it required men of purpose and action like himself to create a world in which dreamers could live. Chaka had gone to see Karik shortly alter her father’s death. She’d never understood precisely what had happened to Arin. So she went to his cottage and knocked on the door, determined to ask him. He’d let her wait a long time, and it had become a war of nerves until Karik gave in and opened up.