Clockwork Angels: The Novel (29 page)

The well-built wood-and-adobe structures remained solid, although several roofs had collapsed under the weight of time and gravity. Even though Cíbola was not a paradise filled with welcoming people, even though the buildings were not constructed of precious metals and sparkling gems, he could still sense a majesty as he explored.

The empty city held a different kind of treasure, one he needed far more than he needed gold. In a courtyard that had been untouched for countless years, he found a cistern full of cool rainwater. Owen drank his fill and felt much stronger.

Combing through the abandoned buildings, he found no secret stashes of gold, no magical treasures, nor did he uncover any hints as to why these people had vanished. He felt foolish for his desire to keep chasing silly dreams.

Clay-brick granaries were mostly empty, but he found a stillsealed one filled with dried corn; it was difficult to chew, but nourishing nevertheless; later, he could cook it for better eating. In plots between their buildings, the vanished people of Cíbola had planted gardens and fields, long since gone to seed, but Owen found a wealth of wild onions, carrots, even the dried, drooping head of a tall sunflower. After days of stumbling through the desert, this was fabulous bounty.

He could live here, for a while.

Over the next several days, Owen regained his strength alone in Cíbola. From the high mesa, he could look out across the breathtaking expanse of the Redrock Desert. As the sun rose each morning, he saw the hazy purple line of mountains and was amazed at how far he had come in his wanderings—and how far he would have to journey if he ever decided to return to civilization.

The solitude embraced him, seeped into him. As far as he knew, he had the entire mesa to himself; he was the Watchmaker of this island in the sky, and it meant more to him than all of Albion.

He thought of nothing. Later, as days passed, he thought of Francesca enough that the memory no longer hurt. He slowly came to the conclusion that he had viewed her through the halo effect of his own fantasies. He had been foolish as much as she had been hurtful. Sometimes, he even wished he had kept the old, dried rose.

And he had made the halo mistake before. Even with all this time to ponder, he could barely recall Lavinia, yet at one time he’d been convinced she was his true love. He never wanted to be so deceived again. He hoped he had gained wisdom from his youthful mistakes. But given the chance, would he fall in love with illusions all over again? He was Owen Hardy from Barrel Arbor; he was who he was.

Just because he wanted to, Owen found smooth stones of just the right size and spent hours juggling. Apples would have been better, but he made do. Keeping his mind clear, he roamed from building to building, or strolled along the edge of the mesa while he kept the juggling rocks looping through the air in various patterns, like the artificial planets in the Crown City orrery.

For himself and no one else, he climbed to the adobe rooftops and walked precariously across the thin support logs, either juggling or with arms extended for balance, like the most skilled tightrope walker. He read the journal of his other-mother so many times that he memorized entire sections. This empty city was not at all like the Seven Cities of Gold that she had explored.

But he still had six more cities to find. . . .

He eventually grew determined enough to set off again across the open, mysterious terrain. He followed an overgrown path that might once have been a sweeping highway that connected the sparkling ancient civilization. It took him along the edge of the mesa, then another road extended across spotty grasslands . . . to another empty, dusty city. He found flecks of yellow paint on a sheltered adobe wall, hinting that the whole building might once have been a brilliant goldenrod color, but it was now faded.

Still, he held out hope. He wandered for weeks, traveling haunted paths across miles, following in the footsteps of a lost civilization. He discovered two more of the legendary cities—little more than villages, actually—across the fertile top of the mesa. Each one had a few supplies, crops long gone to seed, stored grain. He lost track of time, not only the hours, but days and weeks, maybe even months.

From the season, he knew that back in Barrel Arbor, his father would be preparing for winter, pressing the rest of the cider, storing apples in the root cellar. If Owen had been home, he would have helped his father trim the branches on the trees, rake the golden leaves around the cottage. Though he hadn’t realized it while he was there, Owen did enjoy that work . . . as well as planting new trees in the spring, tending the trees all summer, savoring a fresh baked apple pie.

The best way to appreciate a thing, he realized, was to be gone from it a long time.

One night, snow fell across the mesa, and winter settled in. The nights were crystal and cold in the dry desert air, but when the sun came out and painted the sky a deep, distant blue, the snow melted. Owen had everything he needed, even for winter. His traveling clothes were worn but well made. All those empty homes were available for shelter; he had wood for fire, and enough food and water to get by.

He enjoyed the company of silence and contemplation in one place. Feeling loneliness like a healing ache, he let himself miss Commodore Pangloss and the carnies, and even his time spent with Guerrero. And Francesca.

Soon enough he grew restless, wanting to explore, remembering his original dreams. Back in Barrel Arbor, he had wanted to see the whole world, and so much of it remained to be seen.

So he set off again.

One cluster of empty buildings, and another, and another, all of them abandoned, nearly forgotten . . . but because he was there, he awakened those cities into existence by
seeing them
, remembering them, and making them real again.

Five cities found. Then six. Each discovery was like blowing out a candle, and he knew in his heart that there was no magical utopia there on the sprawling mesa, like the one his other-mother had described in her travelogue, but he kept looking anyway. His optimism kept the search alive—and the search kept
him
alive.

In the heart of winter, he finally found the last of the seven cities. It was on the far northern edge of the mesa, a long point that looked out upon a deep canyon and a lovely green river far below. The adobe buildings here were neat and intact, as if someone had swept them, added fresh paint, and closed all the doors and windows before vanishing from history.

Two tall stone monoliths guarded the city, narrow sentinels erected for some unknown reason. With the sun going down and the cold deepening in the air, Owen stood in the last city. He felt sad for finding it, as if the walking and searching had worn down not just the soles of his boots, but also his hopes and dreams. There was no gold here and no people. Just empty buildings, far away from anything.

As the sun slipped down to the horizon, it fell between the cleverly built and positioned towers of rock. Sandwiched there, focused as if the pillars were a funnel, the ruddy sunset light fanned out from between the rocks and played across the ancient structures.

The dusty walls of the adobe buildings were transmuted into gold. An amazing light pooled across the ground, swept up like a wizard’s broad paintbrush to varnish all the buildings in a beautiful yellow glow more pure than the Watchmaker’s private reserve of honey. The city itself seemed to shimmer and throb.

Owen couldn’t breathe; it was the most incredible sight he had ever seen. He just stared, as if he had been transported into a treasure vault. Faced with such a sight, even the Clockwork Angels would have been wonderstruck.

Time stood still for him. The astronomical masterpiece lasted an eternity and was over in an instant. The sinking sun fell out of alignment, and the gold faded, leaving the empty city with common tan walls again.

Owen felt as if he had been given an incalculable gift, an ethereal reward after so many tribulations. He realized that if he hadn’t seen so much else, gathered so many points of comparison, he would not have appreciated the full extent of its majesty.

After his many months of solitude, Owen had learned how to measure other things, too. The treasure of this city of gold would have been so much more valuable if only he had someone to share it with.

That was when he finally knew he had to rejoin the rest of the world.

Over the next few days, he made his way back to the first empty city and refilled his packs with all the food and water he could carry, locked the return course to Endoline on his dreamline compass, and set off for the hazy mountains.

He had learned much from his first trip through the desert, and this time he consumed his supplies more wisely. He rested in canyon shadows during the heat of the day and wasted no opportunity to replenish his water.

And he survived, tougher, wiser, more confident, resilient—but at his core he was still Owen Hardy, an optimistic dreamer from Barrel Arbor.

When he reached the mining town of Endoline, he walked into the tavern and stood before the people there, much to their surprise and disbelief. The rangy hunter who had given him advice saw Owen’s darkened skin, his lean, toughened body, and the look in his eyes.

“No one ever comes back from out there,” he said.

“I did,” Owen answered. The muscles in his cheeks and mouth felt strange—and he realized he was smiling.

They treated him as a hero. The miners and the innkeeper bought him food and offered him glasses of the oily intoxicating liquor, although he contented himself with drinking great quantities of water. He slept in a soft bed and, to his surprise, found it no more comfortable than the hard ground under the starry desert sky.

They asked for his stories, and he told parts of the journey, explained the things he had seen, the wilderness he had wandered. But he didn’t tell it all.

What they most wanted to know was whether he had found the Seven Cities of Gold. Owen had reflected a great deal on his arduous trek back, however. He remembered the bright songs they had sung about the legend, the treasures, the gold, and the glory. For so long, his own beautiful dreams had sustained him, inspired by the images in the book his mother had shown him, and by the alternative account his other-mother had written about her travels. Without those stories to fire his imagination, would he ever have done . . . anything?

He had been out there himself and found his answers. He had reached the lake between the sun and the moon, he had climbed the tall mesa—and he had found the truth. With a single explanation, Owen could erase those marvelous legends, turn them to dust. He would be a killer of dreams.

Yes, he had experienced deep disappointment upon finding only adobe huts instead of solid-gold buildings, but he also recalled how powerful those dreams had been. They had given him a sense of wonder. The Seven Cities did exist, but only for those who could see them—and they were not what anyone expected. The treasure was the
hope
of finding them, not the cities themselves, a hope of what remained to be seen.

Perhaps in another one of the many possible worlds, the buildings really were made of gold instead of clay. How could he know for sure? His other-mother had certainly found them.

Unwilling to shoulder the burden of quashing everyone else’s imaginations, he answered only, “The Redrock Desert is vast, and I explored many wonderful places, but I never found the Cíbola of legend.” He gave a mysterious smile. “The Seven Cities must still be out there somewhere.”