Alexandria (51 page)

“You’re a genius,” he says.

Jack rides at the head of the caravan, next to Hargrove. The old man takes out his small notebook and a folded map and begins to study their route, checking his bearings against the ornate wooden compass in his palm.

“What’s that?”

“Compass,” says Hargrove, passing it over. “Here.”

Jack turns it in his hands and watches the little disk spin on its axis. “Why do you need it?”

“Tells you what direction you’re headed.”

“But… why do you need it?”

Hargrove laughs, sensing the brightness of the boy. “Precision. Better than the sun and stars.”

Jack reaches across to hand it back.

“Keep it. You can be my navigator.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

“You’re gonna chart our course. Here, take the map.” He veers close and passes it over as they ride. “Show me where your friends live.”

Jack lays the map across the pommel and traces his eye over the narrow valley between the coastal ranges, searching for the forked river.

“Here,” he says, pointing.

“Where?” Hargrove squints across to read it.

“North of… Elpass… Robbles.”

“Huh? Ah, I see.
El Paso de Robles
. You’re sure they’ll help?”

“I know they will.”

“Fair enough. We can use all we can get.”

Jack looks around behind him. There’s little more than twenty of them in all, and they each wear a look of deep anxiety. A couple of them ride hunched over their saddles, drifting in and out of consciousness after a long, sleepless night. One jerks awake just before he topples over, and he stiffens himself and ogles around. Only half of them carry bows—the rest are armed with a hodge-podge of old shed tools and hunting knives. He starts to wish that he had bolted with Lia when he had the chance.

“Do you have a plan?”

“Something like a plan,” says Hargrove, riding with one hand and gesturing with his other. “My hope is they won’t suspect us. That would buy us some time to lay up on the high ground and see what we’re dealing with.”

Denit rides forward and keeps pace with Jack. “I never properly thanked you.” He smiles with a kind, creaseless face.

“What for?”

“It’s a brave thing you did. May well have saved our lives.”

Jack feels ashamed to accept the gratitude, feeling at fault somehow for the whole mess.

“It’s okay.”

“Nyla said the same—she has a better eye for people than I do. Knew right away you weren’t lying to us.”

“We promised Ethan.”

“But most people wouldn’t have kept their promise.”

“Tell us more about these people,” says Hargrove. “What are their defenses like? How do they fight?”

Jack starts in on a lengthy discourse about the Temple’s methods of warfare—about blackened warriors hiding in trees and their ruthless protocols, stockpiles of weaponry, stealth attacks. Hargrove listens quietly and interjects rarely. He seems especially interested in the King.

Lia’s legs straddle awkwardly the bound plates, braced on either side of the saddle with heavy ropes. The added weight impedes their horses and the slow pace has her restless, clenching her teeth.

“How far are we?”

“A day’s ride.”

“Have you ever been there before?”

“Not since I was little. Marikez runs a route that spans a hundred and fifty miles south along the gulf.”

“What does he do down there?”

“Brings back coffee and dried fruit, grains and spices, mostly. It’s how they stay alive. They’re right along this same river, and it’s not what it used to be.”

“Why don’t they move?”

Nyla shrugs. “Tradition.”

“Do they have an army?”

Nyla considers the question, smiling a little. “Not an army, no. Just good people. My father’s done a lot to help them. They were nearly starving when he found them. Didn’t want to give up their land. They still don’t.”

“They’re friendly, though? You think they’ll help?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, Lia. We’ll be in good hands.”

“I’m worried about
Jack.”

“He’s in good hands, too. The best.”

Lia studies her face, wondering if she truly understands what they are up against. Has she seen violence with her own eyes, or just watched it on a panel of light?

A ways south, the river fans out and shallows and Nyla crosses over to the other bank, then slows to a halt and slips off her saddle.

“Let’s switch. Give this one a rest.”

They drink from the river and tighten the bundles. The river is dirty and barely flowing in places, and the banks are the parched bed of what used to be gushing water. Nyla pulls a jar of fruit out of her saddlebag and pops the top. Lia digs around and finds bread and soft cheese, and they stand on the cracked riverbank and eat, staring off at nothing.

“I’m riding back with them,” says Lia, after a long spell of silence.

“That’s not a good idea. You’ll be safer down here.”

“I don’t want to be safe. I want to be with Jack.”

“I understand. I miss Denit and Aaron.”

Lia tightens up her face, pushing back a wave of heartache.

“You love him, don’t you?”

“Always have.”

“He’s going to be all right.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know that.”

“I
believe
it,” says Nyla. “He’s pretty smart, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So is my dad. He won’t let them do anything stupid.”

“My friends are back there. I’m going.”

“I understand.” Nyla stows their things away makes no further contest.

They let the horses finish grazing on the scant pockets of grass, then saddle up and trudge along the bank. Lia stares back the way they came, looking to see if they are being hunted.

Thomas sits like a bearded old maid in his brother’s faded rocking chair, the wooden spindles white as sun-weathered bones, pitching back and forth in the hot arid draft with his journal laid out across his lap—the pages full of bisected ellipses and angular perspectives, mechanical diagrams and personal notes. His skin is burnt bright red and peeling. He flicks up his eyes without raising his head and surmises the far-off column of approaching riders, kicking up a spew of desert sand in their wake. He returns to his reading.

13 June 2456—Another good trip to the canyon with Ryan and Dad. Found evidence of recent activity, as many as fifty heads, judging by the size of the camp they left. Encountered no one. Wonder where they all went?

He turns a few pages.

18 September 2456—Another two weeks with Jacob. Weather too nice to leave. Three settlements here already, and two more since he arrived 7 years ago. Numbered on the left. We expect more to migrate down—esp. if valley keeps greening.

He looks up. They are no longer a condensed speck in the distance—each horseman now appears as its own separate moving speck. He turns the pages.

27 April 2457—Turned away again. Number 97 would rather starve than accept our help. Hostile.

He can hear the rumble of their hooves.

07 July 2457—Another early harvest. Best in 10 years, Dad says. Ryan and I finished the coop, and we’ll all ride down next week to trade with Maya. The most generous people we’ve found, though they haven’t much to give, and their records are astounding. They have carven tablets dating back 150 years or more. Hope to get etchings on next trip.

15 July 2457—Returning with a rooster and three hens. I told them my ideas. Maya and her people are fine survivors, but they do not like change.

02 August 2457—I dreamt a beautiful palace on the seaside.

Penciled below is a quick freehand of an Atlantean paradise standing high atop a cliff. He tries to recall the night he dreamt it and cannot. He coughs out a bitter laugh. He looks up. They’ve arrived.

The column breaks and fans out in an arc around the perimeter of the oasis. Their bows are drawn yet they make no move forward—only loiter around the outskirts with rigid faces. A rider to the rear brings a scope to his eye and looks at Thomas.

Thomas raises his hand and waves.

They fall back and chatter some more.

A solitary rider, the man with the scope, paces forward and stops at the base of the walkway. He squints up at Thomas. Behind him, the dusty warriors keep their bows leveled.

“Hello,” calls Thomas.

The man raises up his hands. “We mean you no harm.”

“I see that.”

“We’re looking for something.”

“Oh?”

“A city. Near here. Do you know it?”

“I might. What’s it called?”

The man hesitates. He is soaked with sweat. He looks toward his men, then back to Thomas.

“Can’t tell you if I know it,” says Thomas, “if you don’t tell me what it’s called…”

The man narrows his eyes. “Alexandria.”

“Ah
. A city, you say? Don’t know any city called Alexandria.”

“Do you know any place called by that name?”

“Only this place.” Thomas spreads his arms out and gestures to the run-down old house.

The man hitches back and looks at him cockeyed. “Don’t play games, old man.”

“I never do, Keslin.”

Keslin startles, and the recognition is like a thunderclap in his mind.
“Thomas.”

“Been a long time. We have unfinished business, you and I.”

Keslin waves his men forward and they storm the sagging front porch, quick as a flash, and Thomas makes no move to escape as they dismount and climb the steps. They knock the chair out from under him and wrench him to his feet. A scattering of warriors stays in the yard and another wing breaks off and kicks open the front door and rushes inside.

“Are you alone here?”

Thomas laughs.

They jerk his arms behind his back at a pained angle and manhandle him through the splintered doorway. Keslin elbows his way inside and looks around the dingy interior, baffled. Footsteps sound from the ceiling above as the warriors search through the attic. They turn over chairs and tables, burst open more doors, pull portraits off the wall. The commotion is rapid and short-lived—they quickly finish parsing the entire house and find no one else.

“What is this place?” Keslin asks, narrowing in on Thomas. “You’re not alone here, are you? Where are you hiding them?”

“Are you looking for the pony?”

Keslin hobbles forward and kicks him in the kneecap. Thomas’s legs buckle and the warriors lift him back up.

“The boy.
Jack.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Oh, but you do. Him and his friend.”

“You leave them the hell alone.”

“Where are they?”

“East. Sent them as far east as they can go. You’ll never find them.”

“You’re as poor a liar as ever, Thomas. Break his teeth out.”

They wrestle him to the floor—one man straddles him while another brings a booted heel down across his mouth. Thomas bucks and screams and spits out a soup of his own teeth.

“Where are they?”

Thomas’s wild scream turns to laughter and he spits his last tooth in Keslin’s face. Keslin belts him in the stomach and he reels with joyous laughter.

“What in the hell is so—”

And the ground rumbles and quakes as if the great round planet is set to rip open at the seams, and as Thomas laughs and Keslin screams, they disintegrate instantaneously in a blinding surge of furious white light.