The Golden Space (41 page)

“We may not have much to offer her,” Merripen said. “I don’t know what will happen.”

“Yes, you do. You’ll do what they asked you to do. Go down there and talk to people. They’re relieved. They feel they’ve been given another chance, even though they won’t admit it outright. They’re reconciled. They’re starting to accept themselves, and then they’ll be ready for your new project, and theirs.”

Merripen raised his eyebrows. “What new project?”

“Yours. The one that you’ll all begin when you’re ready. The next transformation, the next Transition. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it—I know you have. But you have to build a society first. We haven’t had one for a while, only isolated people running after their own lonely dreams.”

“What about Leif, and Peony, and the others? Do you think they’ll come here?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew replied. “They’ll have to decide that when I tell them. If they don’t leave, they’ll die there, you know, one way or another.” He paused. “Is there anything you want me to say to them?”

“Just tell them I found my children.”

Andrew rose and went down the hill toward his hovercraft. Merripen watched him get in and float away down the road and up the far slope until his craft disappeared over the top.

The wind touched him, whipping his hair; clouds sailed across the sky. Dust danced in the streets below, and trees swayed. The wind caressed him and lifted his spirit; his mind soared above the slope, then dipped, returning to him again.

Children were only one way of facing the future. It’s that uncertainty, he thought, or taking what is to come into our own hands by becoming our own posterity.

The shield was down. Everything was before him again, he realized with surprise.

The Golden Space

He was awake. He moved his toes slowly and pressed his fingers against his palms until he could feel warmth returning to his hands. He opened his eyes and stared blindly. Lifting his arms, he pushed against the flat surface above him until it shifted and fell with a clatter. He smelled dirt. He blinked and saw a patch of dark gray in the blackness overhead.

Sitting up, he removed the bands and wires from his arms, legs, and chest, then took off the circlet binding his head. Above him, a wind whistled, then died. He took a breath, tasted dust, and began to cough.

Soon he felt able to stand. He got up and stamped his feet, raising dust; he coughed some more. He folded his arms over his bare chest; he would have to find something to wear.

As he stumbled through the dark, he stretched out his arms and felt a wall. He ran his hands along it, feeling grit and bumps and then an empty space. He moved toward the space cautiously. He could see nothing; he shuffled forward and bumped his knee against an edge. He put out his hands, touching something smooth and hard—a tabletop. As he ran his fingers along the surface, he felt another object. He lifted it, feeling the rounded bumps at one end, and then recognized it.

A cry escaped him. He dropped the bone and staggered backward, lost his balance, and fell. Choking and gasping for air, he drew up his legs, then forced himself to stand. He was holding a piece of torn fabric in his hand; he must have fallen on it. He wrapped it around his waist and crept back to the outer room.

Why was he here? He reached up to rub his chin and felt his thick, matted beard. How long had he been suspended? He walked forward until his toes met a step. Crouching, he began to climb the steps, feeling his way with his hands as he went. His knees scraped against shards; his palms pressed against pebbles.

The opening in the roof had not widened when he reached the top step. He squatted and pushed at it, then pulled himself through the narrow space. He wriggled out and sat in the dirt, head bowed.

It was warmer outside; he was no longer shivering. The hazy sky was glowing faintly. He turned his head and glanced over his shoulder.

A grassy, leaf-strewn mound was behind him, covering part of the roof. He stared at the spot where his ship should have been, and trembled; he would be helpless. The roof was almost level with the ground; to his left, masses of earth sloped, forming a hill.

The village was gone. He covered his eyes; his shoulders shook. He heard whistling and chirping nearby; birds were singing their morning songs. A low moan accompanied them, the deep, strangled voice almost drowning out the delicate melodies, and Domingo realized that he was weeping.

The dawn came swiftly, appearing as a gray light over the misty blue hills in the east. It became a pale glow and was followed by a swollen red eye. Fog lay over the hills in long streamers.

His beard was wet; beads dampened his chest. His stomach rumbled. He would have to decide what to do. He could wait here, but the weedy ground, the clumps of trees and bushes, and the buried temple all showed that this place had been forgotten and abandoned. He had no food and no water. No one was likely to find him if he stayed. No one. He shivered. Was there anyone left to find him?

Domingo cleared his throat. The hollow, rasping sound startled him, echoing in his ears. He struggled to compose himself. He would go back inside and find what he could and then decide what to do. He would not think any further ahead than that.

He had been crawling in the dust, feeling for objects, before he thought of searching the platform which had held his suspended body. There, sealed in a drawer hidden in the side, he found clothes and a small pocket light. The light was dim, but bright enough to show him that every room except one was blocked by rubble.

He put on the clothes, noting that the shoes were too tight, and went into the next room, trying not to look at the bones. The skull on the table grinned at him in the faint light. Mounds of debris had settled in the corners of the room; pieces of metal were in the dirt. He gritted his teeth in dismay; his materializer had been destroyed.

He left the room and climbed back to the roof. The day had grown warmer. Domingo sighed; at least he had not awakened in winter. He had no weapon. He would have to find water. That would keep him alive for a while, and then … and then …

He had told himself that he would not think any further ahead than that. He gazed at the wooded land, trying to orient himself, struggling to remember where he might find a creek or a river. The trees near him were tall and leafy, with thick trunks; he wondered how long they had been growing here. He would have to look at the stars tonight and see what they told him. Had the Big Dipper lengthened, or become a wedge? Would he even be able to see it? He did not know whether it was early or late summer, or how far the equinoxes had precessed. He hoped the sky would be clear, and was suddenly afraid of what the heavens might show him.

He thought: I’m going to die. He would have no way now of extending his life; the forgotten village showed him that. Even if he found a stream and learned how to fish and hunt, he would die; he would age. It would never come to that; a disease would kill him first, or a wild beast. Blood rushed in his ears and his head throbbed while his heart beat a protest.

He saw the small hand holding the wand, raising it toward him. He had known it would happen and had not fought it; he had chosen his fate, expecting death. Eline had rendered justice, in her way, leaving him to see his legacy. Perhaps she, too, had eventually been judged. He left the roof and walked toward the forest.

The forest had grown dark; when Domingo looked up through the boughs, he saw heavy, gray clouds. He heard a distant trickle and hurried toward it, cracking twigs under his feet and stirring the leaves. The end of his shirt caught on a tree limb; he tore it away. Burrs stuck to his pants. He stumbled on until he reached the brook.

The water sang as it rushed over a pebbled bed and lapped against rocks. He scrambled down the mossy bank, crouched, and drank, lapping at the water.

He sat up when he was done, wondering now if he had been careless. But the water had tasted clean and fresh. He would have to find something to eat. The water had quieted his stomach, but he felt faint. Mushrooms grew under the trees nearby, but some might be poisonous. He thought of making a pole and line and trying to fish, and almost laughed out loud; he had no skill at that. Perhaps hunger would sharpen his wits and give him the skill.

The thought sobered him. He stood up and decided to follow the creek. He would have to make a weapon; perhaps he could find a sharp stone.

He heard thunder as he reached a bend in the creek. The rain dotted the silvery water and pattered against the rocks.

He tried to sleep under a tree. Its boughs sheltered him from the intermittent rain, but his hair and clothes were damp, and the air had grown colder. Leaves rustled; two bright eyes were watching him. He started up, and they vanished.

He dozed uncomfortably, hearing the pinging of the rain in the brook. A voice sang in the forest; a clap of thunder silenced it. A sheet of rain came down, wetting him as he clung to the tree. The rain subsided, and Domingo heard the high- pitched voice once more.

He could not see in the dark. He called out, but the voice did not answer. Bowing his head, he tried again to sleep. A dream came to him: A friend guarded him; he tried to see who it was, but the dark shape remained indistinct. He was safe. He slept.

By morning, Domingo was shaking; his teeth chattered. The rain had swelled the brook, which now covered much of the bank near him. Aching, he hung on to the tree as he stood; his knees wobbled.

He staggered as he began to walk, his shoes pinching his blistered feet. His legs carried him along, making him lurch. He shivered and stumbled on until his knees gave way and the ground rushed into his face.

He lay very still for a long time. His cheeks were burning; his face was hot under his beard and a weight seemed to press against his chest. Slowly he realized that it was growing dark. Someone was with him; he felt a presence. He cried out and thought he heard an answering sigh. The ground was soft and wet; its coolness soothed him. Then he began to shiver once more. He was ill; he could feel the fever drawing on his flesh, consuming him. The fever ebbed and flowed, coursing over him in waves.

Domingo heard the voices. The villagers were here in the forest. He listened to their whispers and the chatter of their voices, unable to make out the words. They were hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to die.

Someone touched his hand. He drew in his breath; his lungs burned. Strands of light fluttered near him as he heard a musical whine.
Come with me.
The voice was inside him. The shining streamers became a loop, then a helix.
Come.
The fire in his lungs subsided, and his head cleared. He got to his feet, feeling as though someone were lifting him. He was having delusions; the illness was affecting his mind. He tried to resist, but the invisible hands steadied him.

He walked among the trees, letting himself be guided by his unseen companion. He was traveling away from the brook and would soon be lost in the forest, yet the darkness calmed him and he felt no fear. The sounds of night were muffled; owls hooted and crickets chirped distantly. A dark shape rose before him, growled, and melted away.

The trees parted before him. He was at the edge of the forest, gazing over a black plain. The night hid the plain’s features; the starless sky was a void.
Stay,
the voice whispered.

Domingo sank to the ground. His fever returned. A light rain fell, sprinkling droplets on his upturned face. He would die in the open. He thought of the voices his villagers had heard inside themselves. Some part of himself had led him here.

He reached out and touched slender stems; he smelled the scent of wildflowers. He clutched at the blossoms, pressing them to his face, and then dropped into the fragrant bed.

The sun awoke him, its warmth penetrating his throbbing head. He brushed blue petals from his beard. His neck was stiff and his lungs were filled with fluid. He rasped as he breathed. He coughed, bringing up phlegm, and nearly choked.

He felt too weak to rise. He could no longer smell the flowers, and his pain had settled in his chest. Calmly he wondered how long he would live. He turned his head and gazed through slim stalks at the grassy green meadow. In the distance, a large white sail fluttered in the breeze.

Domingo forced his head up. The sail became a white pavilion supported by golden poles. He extended a hand. A robed figure left the pavilion and walked toward him slowly; he thought he saw two smaller figures behind it. The vision swam before him. Was it part of a last delusion? Was his mind only easing his death, or did others still live? He clung to the hope as his lungs flooded. The white-robed figure seemed to be running now. He fought for air, clawed at the flowers; a red mist covered his eyes, then turned black.

The stranger lay inside the transparent carapace, arms folded over his unmoving chest. The woman stood before him, then turned back to the pavilion. The girl and the boy had come back outside; their bare brown bodies gleamed with sweat as they raced around the carapace, then ran toward the woman. The boy threw himself on the ground; the girl settled slowly next to him, brushing a streak of dirt from her tiny breasts. The woman sat down, smoothing the folds of her white robe.