The Golden Specific (29 page)

“Yes,” Sophia found herself saying. She felt a spasm of tension in her chest. “First and last, I hope.”

The old man smiled. “There is nothing to fear. Simply follow the middle path at each juncture. This is my third visit.”

“And did you find what you were looking for?”

“Always.” The stranger produced a scroll of paper from inside his tattered shirt.

“I confess to harboring some skepticism.”

“Young man,” he replied with a shake of his head, “the maps require some interpretation, and not a little patience. But they are the truest, canniest pieces of wisdom and prophecy I have ever known. It's no wonder the papacy fears this place. If someone had lost Heaven and came to ask for a map back, they would get it. Believe me. No matter what you have lost, Ausentinia will help you find it.”

 30 

Two Maps, One Year

S
OPHIA
GASPED
,
THE
part of her that sat in the farmhouse with Errol and Goldenrod tensing with excitement while the part of her that traveled through the map continued to converse with the traveler on the bridge.

The old man smiled. “Are you from Murtea, sheriff?”

“I am.”

“Tell me your name so that I might find you the next time I am there. I will come to see what guidance your map from Ausentinia has given you.”

“Alvar. Alvar Cabeza de Cabra.”

The old man offered his dry, withered hand. “Juan Pedrosa, of Granada. I will look for you, Alvar, and I hope your map will be auspicious.”

“Thank you. Safe travels.” Cabeza de Cabra walked on, pausing once to turn and watch the retreating figure of the old man, who walked slowly with his staff. Then he proceeded along the path before him. It ran straight over a hill. On the other side it split three ways; Cabeza de Cabra took the middle path. He walked along until it split again, taking the middle path once more. As he walked, the way grew less dusty, and the grass on either side grew greener and taller. At the next juncture, the middle path took him through a small grove that obscured the hills, and then it began to ascend in earnest. The trees grew more densely and filled the air with a quiet rustle. Fig, lemon, orange, and olive orchards covered the hillsides, while maples and a few elms shaded the trail. As he climbed, the woods became piney, the air sharp with the scent of sap. Always taking the middle way, Cabeza de Cabra walked tirelessly, until almost an hour had passed. Then he crested a hill and paused to look out over the valley.

The city of Ausentinia lay at its heart, the copper roofs winking in the bright sun. The steep hillsides were ribboned with narrow trails. Hurrying along the descent, Cabeza de Cabra soon arrived at the low stone wall of the entrance.

The people he passed on the streets nodded politely. Cabeza de Cabra touched his forehead in return, taking in the buildings made of a tidy red brick and shingled with black wood or hammered copper. The houses had window boxes filled
with flowers, and Cabeza de Cabra heard the deep, rolling sound of some stringed instrument from one open window and the splash of running water from another. He reached a street lined with stores, most with copper globes hung above the signs: map stores.

The one nearest him had a broad, many-paned window, and a middle-aged woman was cleaning it pane by square pane with a look of concentration. Seeing him, the woman stopped what she was doing, studied him, and then indicated that he should enter. Cabeza de Cabra opened the door, setting off a tiny bell. A round silver table in the center of the room held a standing globe. The innumerable little drawers that lined the walls had glass fronts, so that the rolled papers in each were visible.

“Good morning, Alvar,” the woman said. She wore a brightly colored apron, and her plump face was slightly pink.

“Good morning,” Cabeza de Cabra replied with some surprise. “How do you know my name?”

“It is one of the things we know, those of us with maps to give,” she said with a little wave of the hand. “You might say that my map shows you visiting me this fine morning in April.”

“I see.”

“But you are here not about my map. You are here to find your own.”

“Yes, I—I have lost something. Something very dear to me.” Cabeza de Cabra cleared his throat. “Something I cannot live without.”

“I understand,” the woman said gently. “It was the plague cleric who made you lose your faith, was it not?”

Cabeza de Cabra was again surprised. He took a deep breath and regarded the floor for a long while. “Yes,” he finally said.

“I have the map that you require.” She walked along the wall of drawers, standing on tiptoe to peek into one, bending slightly to peer at another. “Ah, here it is.” She opened one halfway down and drew out a scroll of paper tied with white string and what looked like a rolled-up piece of fabric tied with blue string. “This,” she said, handing him the paper, “is your map. It may be a long and difficult path, but it will guide you.”

“Thank you,” Cabeza de Cabra said.

“And you may have heard that we do not accept coin or currency?” At his nod, she gave him the roll of cloth. “This is the payment you will make some time in the future, as your own map describes.”

“What is it?”

“I believe it is a map that is yet to be written.” She smiled. “You will write it someday.”

Cabeza de Cabra shook his head. “Very well, though all of this is beyond my comprehension. If I still believed in the teachings of the clerics, I would call it witchcraft.”

“What a good thing you don't, then—at the moment.”

“I suppose so.” He touched his forehead. “Thank you.” He turned to leave the shop, pausing a moment on the street to watch the woman return to her task at the window. Then he walked on, passing the way he had come, until he found himself once again at the stone wall bordering the city. Reaching into his shirt, he withdrew the scroll of paper and opened it. On one side, a map labeled “A Map for the Faithless” showed
a long route through strange lands—the Broad Plains of Privation, the Glaciers of Discontent, the Eerie Sea. Drawn in a faint, unsteady hand with black ink, the peculiar landscapes bloomed across the heavy paper like haphazard stains. On the reverse were written the following directions:

Beaten on the edge of a threat; broken by the sound of loathing; destroyed by the dearth of mercy. I am no more than a whisper at the edge of the world, and you may never find me.

You will travel for almost a year through the Desert of Bitter Disillusion, finding no relief in the pious waters offered you. When you see the three faces, your more arduous journey begins. Two of the faces will be empty. The third face, which binds the other two, will have twelve hours. Follow the three faces wherever they lead you, across the many Ages, for your search lies with them. You will traverse the Broad Plains of Privation and find passage across the Glaciers of Discontent. As the glaciers give way to the Mountains of Dawning Hope, you will find yourself entering the fifth Age of your journey. There, you will pass into the Limitless Plains of Learning, and find meaning where there was none before. When you see the first snowfall on the Eerie Sea, you will be ready.

Let the three faces go on alone. Put down roots in the Forest of Belief, and make the map as the Eerie teach you. Let the gold you have saved serve a new purpose. Let the story it tells restore you. Let the map it makes shield you
from the summer sun. A wanderer you have long eluded will join you, and bring you death. There, in that place, and after these travels, you may find what you seek.

—1892, June 30: 8-Hour 37—

A
S
THE
SHERIFF
contemplated the Ausentinian map, Sophia drew herself partially out of the memories to study it more slowly.
Three faces? Twelve hours?
The face with twelve hours could be a watch or a clock, but she had no idea about the two others. Perhaps three clocks, but only one with a face? The portion of the directions that stood out to her clearly involved the Eerie Sea. She did not understand the prophetic riddles any more than she understood the man whose memories she shared, but it was clear from what she knew about his future that this map had somehow led him all the way to another Age—to the Indian Territories, and then to the Eerie Sea. Surely the map that he was meant to make with the Eerie was the very one she now was reading.

It was marvelous, and beyond comprehension, but the map from Ausentinia had drawn a tidy circle: sending Cabeza de Cabra from Ausentinia to the Indian Territories, prompting him to write a map, and guiding Sophia through that map back to Ausentinia itself. “Incredible,” she whispered.

She lifted her finger from the cloth, dimly aware of movement in the room. Goldenrod stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, her expression troubled. “Errol,” she said.

The falconer opened his eyes. “What is it?”

“There are four more riders coming this way.” She paused. “But these are not pursuing us. They bring captives.”

Errol rose to his feet. He did not ask how she knew. “Plague victims. They take them to a site of quarantine along this road.”

“We must help them,” she said simply.

After a moment he replied. “Very well.”

Sophia rolled the beaded map and stowed it hastily into her satchel. “What can I do?” she asked.

“You can stay in that corner,” Errol said, “until this is over.”

“If you would,” Goldenrod told him, “wait to loose your arrows until the horsemen flee.”

“Flee what?” Errol asked, readying his quiver at the window.

“The dust from the road.”

He gave her a look. “I think it more likely they will run from their captives than the dusty road.”

“If you loose arrows from the farmhouse, they will come toward it.”

“Lamentably, I cannot loose arrows from anywhere else while I am in the farmhouse.” He stood by the window holding his bow.

A faint crease of exasperation furrowed Goldenrod's brow. Then she went to the other window that looked out over the road and stood still, waiting. She watched Errol rather than the road.

Sophia crouched in the corner, hugging her knees. How she wished that Theo was with them! He would be making her laugh, making it seem that the approaching danger was a
thing he had planned because he thought it would be funny. But without him there, nothing funny came to mind.

When she heard the slow shuffling of horses and people, she leaned to peer out through Goldenrod's window. Four horsemen with gleaming masks and white cloaks rode past, just as the Eerie had said. They wore heavy golden crosses strung on chains. Behind them were ten, twelve, perhaps more people of various ages tied together at their waists and strung, as if on a leash, to one of the horse's halters. The people stared at nothing, listlessly, vacantly. One of them suddenly sat down, and around her the rest followed suit. The rider whose horse held the leash yanked. He rode onward, dragging the prisoners.

“Good God,” Errol muttered.

“Wait,” Goldenrod whispered urgently.

Errol loosed an arrow, striking the horseman's shoulder. The other three riders turned, momentarily confused, and in a moment looked as one to the farmhouse. Errol loosed another arrow, striking a second rider, and as his horse veered, dust began to rise behind them. The cluster of captives was lost in a yellow cloud. As the last two riders advanced toward the farmhouse, the cloud became a funnel. Sophia's eyes opened wide. It was a weirwind, narrow and tall as the spire of a church. The rider closest to it turned in his saddle. His horse skidded as the rider faced the weirwind. The next moment it swallowed them, and they disappeared into the edifice of wind and dust as if entering another world. The other rider turned to look behind him, and when he saw the weirwind he whirled, digging in his heels.
“Brujos!”
he shouted.

He galloped toward the farmhouse, sword raised. Errol ran to meet him. Sophia crouched in the corner and listened as metal met metal. “So eager to meet death,” Goldenrod commented. She watched for some minutes. The sound of clanging metal stopped.

Sophia dared to look through the window and saw Errol standing with his sword drawn. The man lay strewn before him, immobile. The weirwind was gone.