Island in the Sea of Time (58 page)

“Best we get out of the way, I suppose,” he said.

She nodded, and they stood to one side as the others came down—crew and cadets by squads, and the wounded, limping or on stretchers. He tried to look each one in the face and print the features on his memory forever, returning their greetings with solemn nods. The crowd spilling up the dock behind him, filling it and Broad and Easy streets behind him, was almost equally respectful, parting for the ambulances . . . and nobody begrudged the precious remnant of gasoline they burned.

“
Eagle
departing!” the boatswain’s voice barked.

A pipe shrilled, and the ship’s bell rang three times and once again. Marian Alston stood at the top of the gangplank, crutches under her arms. She blinked as a voice called from among the cadets and crew crowding the dock:

“Three cheers for the skipper!”

Cofflin joined in the three crashing shouts, self-conscious but loud as he felt his wife’s fingers squeeze his. Alston nodded, then drew herself up slightly and saluted the dock; those who’d sailed south with her answered in snapping unison. Swindapa came up to steady her as she maneuvered slowly down the gangplank, then sank into a wheelchair beside the Chiefs.

“Christ, we’re a matched pair,” she muttered, as they endured the necessary formalities.

“Not all that long, I hope,” he said.

“The medic says it was a nice clean puncture—blade went in with the grain of the muscle, not across it. Should heal without any loss of function.”

When the street emptied somewhat, their partners wheeled them about and began pushing them up it.

“You up to that, Martha?” Cofflin asked anxiously.

“Jared, I’m pregnant, not ill,” she replied tartly, then stroked his head for an instant. A smile went between her and Swindapa.

Cofflin’s head turned to Alston. He swallowed. “There . . .” He cleared his throat and began again. “There aren’t any words except
thank you
, and that isn’t enough,” he said. “And, ah—”

Alston’s broad-lipped mouth quirked. “You’re welcome, Jared.”

He turned in his chair and reached out a hand. “Look, I mean it. I owe you Martha’s life, and our child’s. That’s one hell of a big debt. When you need me, I’ll be there, whatever it is. All right?”

She took his hand in reply; it was narrower than his, the fingers long and slender, with a grip like steel wire in his big fisherman’s paw.

“I was doin’ my job . . . but I may take you up on that, someday.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a while before we can go after Walker and finish the job,” she went on. “We aren’t ready. Weren’t ready for what we just did, but we were lucky.”

Martha snorted. “I don’t believe in unearned luck,” she said.

“Earned or unearned, we were still lucky.” She looked down at her leg. “Well,
I’m
not going anywhere for a while. Spring, then.” Alston looked over her shoulder and smiled. “By the way, you should probably thank ’dapa here, too. She saved
me
, at least.”

The Fiernan beamed. “Yes, I did—Marian was hurt, and all at once Moon Woman filled my bones with fire and my liver with strength. . . . We’re here.”

The two women watched the Cofflins negotiate the stairs; someone had put in a ramp for the chair. Swindapa frowned slightly as she pushed Alston’s back down Orange toward the junction of Liberty and Main.

“They didn’t say much when they saw each other,” she said.

“Well, they’re Yankees,” Alston replied, smiling. “They like to squeeze all the use they can out of a word, or an expression.” Then she yawned. “Tired.”

“Of course you are. Home soon, and you’ll get better fast.” She shook her head. “You need lots of sleep, and—” She continued in her own language. Alston looked over her shoulder and raised her brows. The Fiernan continued: “Someone to . . . keep your spirit warm. Cuddle, you’d say. Everyone knows that speeds healing.”

Alston laughed. “I believe it may,” she said. “It very well may, ’dapa.”

Her head turned eastward, and her voice went harsh and flat for an instant. “And I’m going to need all my strength. Yes indeed.”

 

With the Tartessians acting as go-betweens, the formal meeting with Daurthunnicar was delayed several days for ceremony’s sake. When all was arranged the sun was nearing the edge of the world, on an evening that fell clear and warm for autumn.

“Glad of the delay,” Walker said, looking critically at the quarterhorse stallion. “Bastard here needed to get his land legs back.”

The horse still wasn’t fit for hard work; standing idle in a cramped stall in
Yare’s
hold all the way across the Atlantic had lost it some condition. Still, it had enough energy to try to rear a little. Walker slugged it down with a hand on the bridle, pulling up and back as it rolled an eye and stamped.

“None of that, Bastard,” he said. “You’re not some yuppie’s pet now.”

He’d been raised a cowboy on an old-fashioned working spread, and didn’t have sentimental illusions about horses. They were near-as-no-matter brainless, often malicious, and dangerous, a primitive, less valuable form of organic pickup truck. Rich hobbyists could afford to spend years coaxing a horse into doing tricks; when you worked the range, you needed it to do what you wanted, right then and there. Walker swung into the Western saddle and looked behind. His followers were drawn up, except for the few on the ship; he’d left them the firearms, save a Colt and shotgun for himself, but everyone wore island-made armor and carried spear, sword, crossbow. They marched across the fields in good order, following a beaten track that ran down to the beach. Isketerol walked at his stirrup, with his cousin and a clump of men from the ships.

The
rahax
came a third of the way to meet him, standing tall in his chariot; a considerable concession, implying that Walker was a guest of rank, rather than merely a suppliant. The American swung down from the saddle, put his hand to his heart and bowed.

“Greetings. The favor of your gods—” he listed them, which took a while—“and great good luck be with you always, Daurthunnicar son of Ubrotarix,
rahax
of the Iraiina.”

The shrewd little eyes in the heavy, bearded face blinked at him. After a long moment, he nodded. “Come, you are peace-holy in my steading, welcome beneath my rooftree. Be my guest, drink and eat of my bounty, and we will talk.”

“Okay, boys, we’re guests,” he said, turning to his followers. “Keep your hands off the women, unless you hear me say different, and watch your manners. This is tricky and I don’t want any of you queering the deal.”

Jared Cofflin reached out and cut the ribbon. Above him the vanes of the new windmill began to turn with a rumbling of gears. Water gushed from a thick pipe onto the sloping inner face of the holding tank. Cheers rang out behind him, first from the crews who’d built the pumping engine, then from hundreds of islanders behind them, most of whom had spent pick-and-shovel time on the basin that would hold the water. The big wind machine was much like the eighteenth-century Old Mill in outline, a round cone of beams and planks on a circular base of mortared stone, ending in a timber circle twenty feet above.

Steel ground on steel from within. The wind was brisk out of the north, carrying scudding tatters of iron-gray cloud with it, from a dark horizon. A few spatters of cold rain came flicking into their faces.
Hard to believe it’s November already.
It seemed longer than eight months since the Event; and it seemed sometimes as if it were still a dream, that he might wake any morning to the sounds of cars and television.

Cofflin turned to face the crowd, leaning on his stick to spare the healing knee. Coleman allowed that, as long as he didn’t overdo it. He smiled inwardly; Alston was still on strict bed rest, and snarling abominably. Swindapa must be a saint.

“When the rest are finished,” he said, pointing to the foundations of five more spaced along the earth berm of the reservoir, “we’ll have twenty-four-hour running water again throughout the town. Three cheers for Ron Leaton and Sam Macy and their teams!”

The cheers were long and heartfelt.
Twenty-four-hour flush toilets again, by damn
, Cofflin thought, grinning. That was one thing few people could get used to doing without.
And the composting sewage works is so useful
. The engineer and the carpenter waved and smiled themselves.

“Civilization, brick by brick,” he said to the two men and their workers, as the gathering broke up.

“Plank by plank,” Macy said, looking pridefully at the structure.

“Gear by gear,” Leaton said with equal conviction. “And those cogwheels are six feet across, the main ones. The bevel gears weigh a hundred and fifty pounds each.”

“Good piece of work,” Cofflin said, clapping them each on the shoulder. “Now, when can we get the whole project wrapped?”

 

Walker fired the last shot and held the shotgun to his face, blowing into the open breech. The first rifled slug had killed the aurochs, but he’d put the whole six-round magazine into the beast, all at the head. What was left looked as if something very large had chewed on it, and then spat it out again. The locals were suitably impressed.

He walked around the animal. It had stood a good seven feet at the shoulder, and the hump was still level with his eyes now that it had collapsed upright. “Wild cattle” didn’t give any idea of its size and ferocity; it made a bull bison look like a Jersey milker.
Sort of like a cross between a cow and a rhinoceros,
he thought. Blood pooled out on the sere yellow leaves and dead grass that carpeted the little clearing. The oak trees roundabout still bore a few leaves, but mostly their huge gnarled limbs reached for the sky like a giant’s arthritic fingers from the massive moss-covered trunks. It was chilly enough that the Iraiina were all wearing thick leggings and double tunics as well as their usual kilts and cloaks. The American wore mackinaw and ski pants, and a cap with earflaps. He didn’t want to blend in too much. A touch of mystery helped with his purposes.

All hail the wizard-chief
, he thought.

Thumbing more shells into the breech of the shotgun, he looked around. Some of the Iraiina chiefs looked as though they’d prefer to be running just as far and as fast as they could; they made covert signs with their fingers, spat aside, stared out of pale faces. The half-dozen young warriors who’d sworn service with him looked terrified but even more proud as they drew knives and advanced to begin skinning and butchering the ton-weight of animal. After a moment one of them came over to him with a slice of the heart; the man’s arms were red to the elbow.

“Yours is the hunter’s right, lord,” he said to Walker.

“My thanks, Ohotolarix,” Walker said and took a piece between his teeth, cutting it off with his belt knife and chewing the hot rank meat.

Tough as boot leather
, he thought. The chiefs’ followers were building a fire. He chewed with relish.
Well begun, half done.

 

“There’s nothing men have ever made more beautiful,” Cofflin murmured.

“
Men
in the generic sense, yes,” Martha said, nodding agreement with the sentiment.

It was raining outside, freezing rain that turned to glistening treacherous black ice underfoot; the big sheet-metal building drummed to the beat of it. Even with the steampowered compressor thumping and shedding heat in one corner, the interior was chilly. The huge shed had been built for storing boats overwinter; now it was used for building them. Saws whined and drills whirled, filling the air with the fresh sappy scent of cut wood. The ribs of the schooner curled up from the keelson like the skeleton of some sleek sea beast cast ashore, embraced by the cradle that held them in place while the frame was spiked and treenailed together. The interior braces were mostly in place, and the shell of planks was starting to go on. A crew heaved at a line as they watched, and a big curved shape of oak went up on a pulley rigged from the roof and swung down to where the deck would be. Other hands reached up and guided it down. Already the half-built ship looked as if it yearned for the water, to turn its sharp prow southward and race for the unknown seas.

“How does she shape?” Cofflin called up. “Everything looks good from here.”

Marian Alston came out from behind a rib and climbed down the board staircase stiffly, limping over to them with a roll of plans in one hand.

“Shapes like the beauty she is,” she said. “We’ll have her ready to come down the slipway by the beginning of February, and then we can fit her out and mount her sticks and start on the next.”

“Fast work,” Cofflin said.

“The next one will go a lot faster, with what we’ve learned. And Leaton’s made up some more compressed-air power tools. It’d take a year, if we were usin’ hand methods only.”

“Decided what to call her yet?” he said.

“Well, that’s not entirely my say-so . . .” Alston began.

Cofflin snorted. “The hell it isn’t, after what you did.”

“
Frederick Douglass,
I thought. He worked as a caulker in a shipyard for a while, you know, before he got free. And
Harriet Tubman
for number two.”

Martha nodded. “Excellent choices, Marian,” she said, sighing and sinking back on an upturned bucket. Her stomach curved out the loose dress she wore. “More sore anktes.”

“You work too much, Martha,” Alston said.

“Hell, those are my lines,” Cofflin grinned. He tilted his head up and looked at the bulk of the schooner. “I envy you something . . . straightforward like this.”

“Speaking of straightforward,” Alston said, tapping the rolled plans into her other hand, “I’ll need to make some promotions when we commission the schooners. Bump Ortiz and Hendriksson to lieutenant commander and give them each a couple of ensigns and lieutenants. I have my eye on some of the upperclassmen for that.”