Scanned by Highroller.
Proofed by .
Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.
They came for him in the early hours of the morning, when the sun had not yet risen and he was weary from lack of sleep.
He did not hear them enter. He was lying on his back, staring listlessly at the ceiling, when he first grew aware of their presence in the room.
The wall lights came on slowly and remained fixed at a very low level of illumination. He saw three shadowy figures standing at the foot of the bed, watching him. The man in the middle was stout and balding; he wore glasses and a gray business suit and his face had the bland texture of a government official. His companions, on the other hand, were tall and inhuman. They appeared to be dressed in silver jump suits and they had the polished metal faces of machines.
The man leaned forward and said softly, "Howard Landry, you will please get dressed and come with us."
That was all. There was no menace in his words, only in his presence. The mechanical emissaries of the law waited patiently, their featureless faces devoid of expression. Behind them the apartment door gaped open on a narrow passageway.
Howard closed his eyes, feeling hope dwindle inside him. They had traced him so far in so short a time, to this tawdry hotel room on the outskirts of the city. It seemed the game was over. Yet he was loath to accept such a verdict.
He sighed and looked up, before saying almost casually, "I have been expecting you."
The man nodded. He even managed a weak smile of triumph in the half-light. "Our time is limited, Mister Landry. If you would be so kind?" He motioned for Howard to get out of bed.
His smooth politeness concealed a sinister motive. Howard thought the matter over for a moment, decided that he really had no choice, and climbed out of bed. He began dressing with his back to them.
He pulled on his trousers, zipped them tight, then reached for his shoes. He went through these everyday motions in the vague manner of a sleepwalker. Always in the past, when considering this moment, he had imagined it would be a time of terror. Now there was only a creeping coldness moving through his body, and a sensation of remoteness, like someone moving in a void.
He put on his jacket and said over his shoulder, "Am I permitted to ask with what am I charged?"
The man behind the glasses did not answer out of choice. And his aides could not reply, for speech was a function that had been dispensed with in their design. But their cold slit-eyes never left him for a moment.
Howard stepped in front of a cracked wall mirror. He adjusted his collar, combed nervous fingers through his long blond hair, then turned to face them. "Then by whom am I charged?" he asked.
Again his question went unanswered.
Well, he had been expecting something like that: a mysterious and noncommittal silence designed to intimidate what little courage he still possessed. Deep down he had always known that they would one day discover what he had done, and despite his best precautions, hunt him down and extract a grim reparation. Only a desperate and illogical dream had encouraged him to think he might outwit them.
The man said, "You are ready." This was an observation, not a question. "Good. Now you will please accompany us…" And he added, with just a trace of apology, "You must understand, there can be no talking between us. Anything you say—"
"I know," Howard interrupted. "May be taken down and used in evidence against me."
He had never imagined he would face them so calmly, as if the confrontation was of no real importance. But he reminded himself that they were only messengers; the punishment would come later.
The door closed behind them. An emissary fell in on either side of Howard and together they followed the other men down the passageway.
Dark-panelled walls stood mute to their passing. Howard wondered what might be going on behind them, if there could be others like himself who had sought a momentary refuge from their flight in this miserable hotel, and how long it would it be before they, too, were roused from their restless sleep and summoned before their masters.
In retrospect his actions now seemed futile, the last fitful expressions of an already beaten man. But what more could he have done? All he had needed was a little more time.
An ironic smile touched his lips. Perhaps they always won in the end, and if this was so, then what really mattered was to give them a run for their money.
The soft soughing of the emissaries' hydraulic limbs sounded sinister beside him. He kept his eyes averted from their passionless metal faces and focused on the man ahead.
They took the elevator to the rooftop. A sleek black aircar sat humming quietly in the moonlight, waiting for them. Howard felt his body tense. He knew he could have brought the weary farce to an end this moment. He could have reached the parapet in one quick burst of speed and then…
No. Even now, in spite of everything, his life still meant something to him. And his captors knew this. They motioned him toward the open door of the aircar.
Howard climbed in and sat down on the back seat, an emissary on either side. Seated so close to them he could feel the alien chill of their metal bodies pressing against him. He knew they could crush him without compunction if he tried to escape, for their strength was prodigious.
The man with the glasses sat up front. He leaned across and whispered something to the pilot. The motors purred louder and the aircar started to move.
Dawn had just begun to suffuse the horizon when they lifted off. Below and all around them unfinished tenement buildings stood out like broken teeth in the stricken mouth of the world.
Only when they were finally airborne did Howard begin to shake.
They delivered him to a high-walled building on the other side of the city. Strangers stripped him of his clothes and bustled him into a room filled with unfamiliar devices and blinding lights. They strapped him into an enormous chair, fixed electrodes all over his naked body and then wove a complex tapestry of wires to contain him.
Their ministrations caused him some discomfort and a great deal of pain, but compassion had no place in their arcane activities. They let him suffer. And when they were finished they tossed him into a tiny room lit by one bare bulb placed high up in the ceiling, and left him there to weep.
His days and nights devolved into a world of fear and confusion. For a while he lost all track of time, all concept of sequential thought. He was conscious only of his periods of suffering and the yawning rafts of silence in between. He was fed, nursed, and occasionally punished. They did their best to rob him of his identity as callously as they had robbed him of his clothes, but some stubborn streak in him refused to give it up.
Once he asked them, through a deep fog of pain, "What place is this?" And they had only laughed.
Later still, "What will become of me?" And they had answered, "That is not for us to decide."
He ceased trying to understand and let them keep their motives. His world slowly congealed into a twisted labyrinth of empty corridors, faceless metal sentries, and the solitude of his cell. For most of the time his only companion was the monitor camera set high up in one corner of the room. It hummed quietly to itself, swivelling to follow his movements and recording them for the benefit of anyone interested. And in time it began to trace the strengthening resolve in his eyes, the subtle yet firm angle of his jaw, and the way his pale hands kneaded each other as he paced his narrow cell.
They had not yet succeeded in breaking his spirit. Instead their cruel attentions had instilled in him a deep and mysterious cunning. Although much was now missing from the loom of his life, he maintained a faith in an abiding vision: he dreamed of a refuge he had heard of as a child, a place where none could follow and the past ceased to matter.
This vision burned fiercely in the dull corridors of his mind and enabled him to endure. He hoarded his strength and stumbled around the exercise yard like an old man, simulating the movements of the poor, broken creatures he had come to regard as his brothers. No guard could have guessed at the enormous reserves of energy he kept concealed.
In time they gave up their assault on his soul and left him pretty much to himself. He had ceased to be a threat to their orderly society and they no longer considered it necessary to keep him under constant surveillance. As far as they were concerned he was a broken man: their "treatment" had been successful and another rebel had been brought to heel.
He bided his time until their attention grew lax enough for him to escape. He sought the weakest link in their chain of control and got ready to act. When the moment was right he seized the opportunity and made his break.
It was some time before his absence was recorded and the faceless metal emissaries were sent scurrying after him. But by then he was several miles away from the high-walled building where he had been incarcerated and humiliated.
And still running.
The nightmare of pursuit had faded behind him.
Howard Landry entered Sanctuary at sunset, when the city shadows had become grotesque and reached after him With jealous fingers, and the darkening sky seemed heavy with the burden of his guilt.
He stumbled upon this place of refuge purely by chance, and there were some who said there was no other way of finding Sanctuary, that your need for it had to be so great that nothing else mattered.
The sudden transition took him by surprise. One moment he had been wandering, weak and exhausted and in no particular direction, conscious only of the urgent need to outdistance his pursuers. He had raised a weary foot in one world… and set it down in another.
He experienced a moment of dizziness, of nausea: a feeling of being uncoupled from the rest of the world. The hostile urban landscape disappeared as abruptly as if a sudden jump cut had been made in an old-time movie.
The moment passed and he found himself breathless and alone in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded by enormous trees. Their branches came together high overhead, forming the magnificent arched roof of a cathedral-like vault. Brilliant sunlight washed this distant canopy, but only a fraction of it filtered down to where he stood.
He had put behind a world close to nightfall, but here it seemed more like midafternoon. There were no sounds, no movement of any kind. The tranquillity was unlike anything he had ever experienced. And never before, in all his long and mostly wretched life, had he beheld anything so beautiful as this crowded forest.
A ghost of apprehension nuzzled his thoughts. He shivered with the memory of his flight and the fear that had provoked it. For a moment he imagined he could see the malevolent shape of the city superimposed over the forest. But the image proved insubstantial, like something painted on a gauze backdrop, and it soon disappeared.
When he realized where he was, Howard could not resist a smile. This could only be Sanctuary. His long search was over and he was safe from his pursuers: they could not claim him here. Wonder and gratitude overwhelmed him; he sank to his knees and wept and gave thanks for his good fortune.
No emissaries from the outside world could enter this idyllic retreat. And no matter how carefully he tried to retrace his steps he knew he would never locate his point of entry. The only way out was forward.
Sanctuary existed outside normal space and time. The State had created it as a haven for troubled citizens and enemies of the law. Its location was a well-kept secret. Legend was that the key to this much sought-after refuge could be found by anyone anxious enough to enter: one only had to be desperate enough to discover Sanctuary. And once the fugitive had crossed over, the outside world and all its vicissitudes ceased to matter.
So much for the myth. And the myth also acknowledged that Sanctuary was inviolate: no emissaries could follow him in through the twisted vortex of space and time that separated Sanctuary from the rest of the world. But if they were determined enough they could bide their time and wait for their quarry to reappear—then they could claim him. This much, at least, was the law.
Howard knew that if he chose to, he could remain here for the rest of his life. No one would complain or ask him to leave.
Now that he was no longer tensed for flight, he allowed himself to relax. The stress and strain of coping with twenty-first century society seemed very distant. He wondered idly how far the forest extended, and what lay beyond. He had heard, long ago, that Sanctuary was vast enough to accommodate many exiles like himself, with environments tailored to their individual requirements. The engineers who had designed Sanctuary were masters of science. Their knowledge and skill were prodigious, and to such people all manner of things were possible.
This and more did Howard remember and was now ready to believe. He was not a religious man, but he felt an uncomfortable need of prayer: some token words, cobbled together from necessity and reverently whispered. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands and willed the unfamiliar words to come. After a while his lips began moving soundlessly and a warm feeling overcame him. The memory of pain and punishment slipped from his mind and he was at last content.
He was keen to explore his fabled refuge and discover that part of it which moved in harmony with his spirit, but sleep suddenly overwhelmed him.
The ground was soft and warm like the body of a woman. He curled up like a child, with a smile upon his face, and was soon fast asleep. All around him the forest droned with the voices of a million tiny insects, but none came to disturb him.
When he awoke he discovered that twilight had crept into the clearing and drawn the tall trees mysteriously together. He sat up with a start, remembering where he was and what had driven him there. The daylight had waned while he slept, but the air had not yet grown cold. The night wind that whispered through the forest carried a trace of warmth, and he thought this was strange for so late in the day. And he sensed the musky perfume of distant plants.
Gradually he became aware of a rustling near the edge of the clearing. His body tensed. For a wild moment he imagined a hundred strange pairs of eyes peering at him from out of the shadows.
He told himself not to be alarmed. There was nothing here that was likely to harm him. There would be other exiles, of course: people like himself who had fled an inhospitable world. But there would be no need to fear them: the Guardians of this place would ensure that no harm befell their wards.
A section of the shadows parted and a tall figure stepped out into the clearing: an elderly man wearing faded garments and carrying a long, wooden staff. He was barefoot. Long silver hair reached halfway down his back and his grizzled beard fell to his waist. His face was deeply lined but the eyes that peered out twinkled with the memory of youth.
Howard scrambled to his feet, brushing away bits of grass and dry leaves from his drab, gray coveralls.
The old man paused a few paces away. His ancient features creased into a welcoming smile. He raised his staff and tapped the ground three times, in what Howard assumed was part of a ritual greeting. Then he stepped closer.
"Welcome to Sanctuary," the stranger said, holding out his hand. His words carried the weight and dignity commensurate with his advanced years. Howard hesitated, then took the proffered hand. The stranger's grip was firm enough to make him wince; a little more pressure and it might have snapped a branch in two.
"I heard you come through," he went on. "I was in another part of the forest. Didn't get here fast enough, though. Found you asleep, and had no mind to disturb you. So I hung around until you woke…"
Howard looked puzzled. "You heard me come through?"
The old man nodded. "Not much happens here that we don't get to know about, sooner or later." He leaned on his staff and added, "My name be Sweeney."
Howard could not help but warm to his rustic charm. "Howard Landry," he said. And then: "Are you… one of the Guardians?"
The stranger smiled. "Heavens, no! They keep well out of sight, as you'll discover soon enough. Don't know of anyone who's actually seen one, but I don't doubt they keep a watchful eye on our affairs: that's their job. Wouldn't do to have them nosing around all the time and meddling in our business, would it?" He gave a cunning wink. Then his expression grew grave and he nodded sagaciously. "I think you'll like it here, Howard. No need to worry about them any more."
Howard was caught off guard. "You know about them—about the emissaries?"
Sweeney nodded, but did not pursue the matter any further. Instead he looked around the clearing, sniffed the night air appreciatively and said, "Getting dark. You can stay here if you like: it won't get much colder than this. Never does. Or if you would prefer, you're welcome to join me and my friends. I'll introduce you to some folk who live nearby. You'll find a warm welcome, good food and wine, a cosy fire, and no finer company in all of Sanctuary, so I hear tell."
The prospect of company intoxicated Howard. He had been obsessed with flight far too long to want to spend his first night alone in Sanctuary. So he took a deep breath and said, "I'd like to come with you."
"Good." The old man turned around and without another word began walking toward the trees, punctuating his long strides with the steady tap of his staff. Howard hesitated for a moment and then hurried after him.
It was nearly pitch-dark in the forest but the stranger seemed to know his way. Bushes and branches plucked playfully at Howard as he stumbled after him; they left burrs and twigs clinging to his coverall but they did not scratch his exposed skin. Instead their touch was considerate, like a mother stroking her child.
A light loomed up ahead of them. It grew larger and was fragmented by the closely packed trees, gradually reforming into the welcome light of a camp fire.
He heard voices. They grew louder as he and the old man approached. Sweeney pushed his way through some tall ferns and stood silently on the edge of another, larger clearing. He waited politely while Howard took in these new surroundings.
There was a wood fire burning in the center of the clearing. A man and two women sat cross-legged on the far side of the blaze, facing them but not, for the moment, seeing them. They wore tattered shorts and shirts and their skin was more deeply tanned than Howard would have thought safe. Beyond them, in the deeper shadows on the other side of the clearing, was the dim shape of what appeared to be some sort of dwelling. Someone crouched there in an open doorway, like a primitive tribesman squatting at the mouth of his cave. Howard felt the weight of this person's gaze before anyone else's. For a moment their eyes locked, but he could detect no trace of hostility in the other's, only a frank curiosity.
When the old man was satisfied that he had taken in the scene, he moved forward into the clearing. Howard followed. Conversation ceased around the fire as they drew close.
Sweeney introduced him to the group. "This be Howard Landry, folks. Came through but a short time ago, in another part of the forest. I prevailed upon him to join us, and he was kind enough to accept my invitation."
The man seated by the fire was called John Lorenzo. He was bearded, with strong features and an easygoing manner. He stood up and thrust out his hand. "Welcome to Sanctuary, Howard." His voice was deep and strong and had the quality of rough-hewn timber. It was reassuring.
Howard shook the proffered hand. "You're welcome here for as long as you wish," the man went on. Howard stammered his thanks. So much hospitality so soon after his flight overwhelmed him. It was difficult for him to handle it without appearing clumsy. He hoped they would understand.
John Lorenzo introduced him to the two women, Karen and Lily. They were equally warm and friendly and they were both very attractive. They smiled and bade him welcome.
John inclined his head toward the dwelling on the other side of the clearing. "You can meet the others later, when we've had supper. In the meantime, sit yourself down."
Howard needed no further inducement. He sat.
Supper was a simple affair that went on for several lazy hours. Everyone sat around the fire and dined on a variety of fruit and vegetable dishes. The food was the most delicious Howard had tasted in a long, long time. The man called John, who exhibited many of the characteristics of a leader, opened a cask of delicious white wine and passed ceramic mugs around. After downing a copious amount of the sparkling beverage, old Sweeney dozed off quietly with a contented smile.
The fire fascinated Howard. Although it blazed brightly throughout the evening, it gave off little heat. He assumed it was meant more as a decoration, or a psychological comfort, rather than as a means of warming the clearing. He did not find this at all surprising. Such "miracles" would be commonplace in Sanctuary, where the customary laws of time and space had been made malleable by the Guardians.
The remainder of the group dined separately in their dwelling. It was only later in the evening, when they drifted down to join the circle around the fire, that Howard got to know them. Their manner, like the others, was warm and sincere. He felt very much at home and was thankful for their friendship. To have found such a refuge after so long a flight, to be in the company of such generous people, had made the pain and suffering worthwhile. Never before had he felt so happy, so free of care and so filled with life. All the ugliness had been left behind and the burden of years had sloughed away from him like a discarded skin. Why, he was young and handsome with a lifetime still ahead of him, and it seemed that he believed this for the very first time.
He was lying down and leaning on one arm, staring into the fire and thinking about these things, when the child approached him from out of the shadows. She placed a soft hand on his shoulder and moved it ever so gently in order to gain his attention.
He looked around, surprised to find such a solemn young face staring intently into his. The girl appeared to be eight or nine years old, and for an instant he was filled with an intolerable anger and a sense of injustice that those outside could have condemned such an innocent to this place of refuge. He first imagined this poor child, with her straggly blonde hair and enormous eyes, being driven into Sanctuary by some dark tragedy. Only later did it occur to him that she might well have been born there, and that her parents might have fled society years ago and decided to remain. But he never had the opportunity to ask questions. He was struck by a strangeness about her, a quality he was unable to pin down. His heart ached and he longed to reach out and comfort her, but something restrained this honest impulse.
It was her extraordinary expression. Her eyes seemed to be filled with the weight and wisdom of many past lives, so that she appeared to him as child and woman simultaneously. Her melancholy poise suggested a wealth of experience that belied her age. The overall effect was confusing… and frightening.
"Hello," she said. “I'm Clara. You're new here, aren't you?" Her small voice had a flat, monotonous quality which he found disturbing. Her manner was indifferent. He wondered if she ever smiled.
He nodded in answer to her simple question. "You'll like it here," she went on, although there was no indication in the colorless delivery of her words that this would necessarily be so.
She took a step closer and raised her hands to his face. For some unaccountable reason he shrank from her touch, but she did not seem to notice. She pressed her cold fingers against his warm cheeks and drew his face toward her. He found himself looking deeply into her enormous dark eyes. Something silent and mysterious passed between them and left him gasping.
She said softly, "Why did you come here?"
He could not answer.
"Were they after you? Did you kill someone? Did you—"
He recoiled from her questions as though he had been struck. He sat up angrily, meaning to scold her for her impertinence, but when he saw how frail and thin she was his anger cooled. He said calmly, "You should not ask such questions. Not here."
But this reply did not move her in any way he could see. She eyed him coldly, her arms still outstretched and her hands embracing the place where his face had been until a moment ago. Her expression hadn't changed.
He grew more uneasy. "No one is allowed to ask such questions," he reminded her. "Not in Sanctuary. Hasn't anyone ever explained that, child?"
She did not answer. Instead she continued to study him with her strange mixture of child and woman jumbled together. He saw no repentance in her expression, no burgeoning apology trembling on her lips. Her gaze held him fast, like a laboratory specimen pinned to a slide.
He felt the old man stir at his side. Sweeney sat up, squinting against the firelight. "What's up?" he asked. "Something the matter, lad?"
The child turned to him. "I only asked why he came here," she said. "He looks so… frightened, inside. I thought they might be after him. Maybe he killed someone. Maybe—"
"That's enough!" Howard stood up, shaking. For the first time since he had entered Sanctuary he felt unsure of himself, and it was all because of this inquisitive child. Her dispassionate questions had rekindled memories of a darker inquisition and days and nights of soul-destroying pain. He had put all that behind him…and now this child had brought the memories back. He wished desperately that he could be somewhere else— anywhere at all that would take him away from her infernal questions.
People began to stir around the fire. Raised voices had aroused them. Curious faces turned toward Howard, studying him. He glared back defiantly. "You all know she has no right to ask such questions of me," he said, without realizing that his voice had almost risen to a shout; already it was soiled with the first traces of hysteria. "They asked enough of me… outside. I didn't expect to find such questions here."
Sweeney stood up. He patted Howard's arm and endeavored to make light of the incident. "She is but a child, Howard. We need to be patient with our young when they offend us. We cannot always expect them to abide by our rules and never to test them; otherwise how will they learn? Forgive her: she meant you no harm, that I can assure you. Perhaps she has been a trifle discourteous, but I am sure this was unintentional." He turned and frowned his disapproval at the child. "Off with you, Clara. Our visitor is tired and wishes to rest. Perhaps you will consider how thoughtlessly you have invaded his privacy and save your questions for another time."
The girl's face was set in hard lines. She seemed unwilling to move. Howard's face was pale in the firelight. He knew they were all watching him, that their curiosity had been aroused by the child's awkward questions. Her presence had stirred such a deep uneasiness in him that he had lost all trust in his new companions.
He said to the old man, "No, that isn't enough. You must forbid her to ask me questions, ever again. Forbid her, do you understand? I demand that as my right here in Sanctuary: that our pasts are our own and no one shall question them."
Sweeney raised an authoritative hand to stanch his angry tirade. The old man's face grew stern. "I will insist on nothing. That is not our way; it is the way of the world we have put behind us, as you must well know, Howard. We do not impose such restraints upon our young: they would create an intolerable burden upon their freedom. What you ask is impossible. I am sorry, Howard, but we cannot, we will not, do as you ask."
He felt his resolutions crumbling. He did not doubt the old man's words, nor that which he saw reflected in the eyes of the people around the fire.
The situation seemed hopeless. He would have to leave, find some other place. For no matter how he faced the future with these people he knew there would always be the silent threat in the child reproaching him with her silences… and the unsettling possibility of her next question. He would never be safe as long as he remained there: sooner or later she would charm the nature of his crime from him, and then…
He began backing slowly away from the fire. A circle of curious eyes followed him, neither condemning nor apologizing. After all, this was Sanctuary, and a man had to make his own way as best he could.
The face of the child, Clara, reached out to him and weighed heavily on his conscience, along with everything else.
He kept walking. His legs felt like the awkward stick limbs of a marionette and the ground seemed to sway underfoot. He had to will himself to keep moving, to get away from this place. Where he would go he had no idea. Even the forest seemed a safer place at the moment, and he had faith in the Guardians to ensure his safety.
His heart hammered wildly. Soon there came a roaring in his ears like the buzzing of a million angry insects.
The clearing began to rotate around him. Slowly at first, then faster, until it became a wall of impenetrable darkness spinning around him at an alarming rate.
He cried out and almost fell. His vision blurred and shifted. For a moment he was lost and unable to think. He turned away from the hypnotic glare of the fire and ran. Away from the awesomely curious face of the mysterious child/woman and the biting fear of the truth. Into a swirling vortex of darkness, filled with the howl of banshees…
Stasis shattered.
A rush of sunlight restored his vision and left him gasping.
He cried out in alarm and threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the glare. He fought for his breath, like a fish cast out of water.
A cold wind stung his face. The sudden discontinuity had left him disorientated. He stumbled forward, somehow managing to keep his balance. The ground was rough and treacherous underfoot. It reminded him of—
He opened his eyes. It was just as he had feared: he stood near the edge of an abandoned freeway. The once smooth concrete had cracked open long ago and deep fissures had spread out every which way. In places enormous jagged sections had reared up and formed groteque monuments, as though some buried giant had turned restlessly in his sleep.
On the far side of the freeway the land sloped gradually away toward the distant, skeletal remains of an unfinished urban development. Beyond this and barely visible through the strangled air, the shape of the city shimmered and dissolved and kept reforming through the haze like a living thing. But he knew this was an illusion: everything worthwhile had perished there ages ago.
When he realized what had happened he was gripped by a paralyzing fear. He had been cast out of Sanctuary! But why? Had his guilt betrayed him? Was there no place for him in that refuge if a crisis of faith overwhelmed him?
The Guardians had taught him a bitter lesson. He knew now that he would only be welcome in Sanctuary as long as he believed in its power to protect him. A single moment of doubt or suspicion and his right would be forfeit: the barrier would come crashing down, exposing him to the hostile world he had fled. His opportunity would no longer exist.
Was there no way of returning?
The sun was low on his left; it was late afternoon. And out on the desolate no-man's-land that stretched between the ruined freeway and the unfinished tenements, something moved.
They came toward him like enormous silver insects. The sunlight bounced off the burnished metal of their featureless faceplates. They looked like men at a distance, but they moved with the single-minded purpose of machines.
They crossed the uneven ground in a series of gigantic leaps no human being could ever have duplicated. In another moment they would have reached the other side of the freeway and…
Howard could not move. Fear held him fast to the ground. He saw weapons gleaming in their upraised hands, and behind them, hovering overhead, their shiny pursuit craft waiting for them to complete their capture. It could easily have destroyed him with one well-placed beam from its lasers, but he knew these emissaries had been programmed to capture, not to kill. Their display of weapons was supposed to instill enough fear in their quarry to ensure his prompt surrender. But they had reckoned without the desperate drive that motivated Howard Landry.
The first emissary had reached the other side of the freeway. Howard saw the gleam of triumph in the faceted eyes as the figure launched itself across the fissured concrete. Its companion was close behind.
They soared past the halfway mark and arced toward him like gleaming birds of prey. Their faces shone brightly in the late afternoon sunlight and their long metal arms reached out for him like giant pincers.
At the very last moment he turned and ran: blindly, in no particular direction. He imagined he could feel their cruel metal fingers closing on his shoulders as he stumbled through the rubble and whimpered like a cornered animal.
He staggered and almost fell. Some miracle kept him upright and still running. Then a wave of dizziness engulfed him and took his breath away. The sun disappeared and the air roared all around him and the barren landscape blurred and shifted.
For the second time he passed out of one world and into another. He fell headlong through a maelstrom of twisted space and time, gasping for breath like a drowning man. The storm shook him and tossed his soul around like a leaf caught in a gale; he could not imagine how it could hang together under such stress. His mind was nearly torn from his body by the forces whirling him around. Dimly he realized that this time through the passage was much worse than before, and he wondered if this were some kind of punishment doled out by the Guardians. The noise around him grew until it resembled all the claps of thunder he had ever heard, assembled together. Then there came a sudden, dreadful impact and he passed out.
When he regained consciousness he was lying face down in a hollow filled with sand. The tumult around him had died and the air was peaceful. He felt the warm weight of sunlight pressing down upon his back.
He lay there unmoving, muscles tense. He waited for some time but no inhuman hand fell upon him to remind him of his pursuers.
He savored this absence of menace, relishing his escape. Then he rolled over and looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant blue and cloudless. From the position of the sun he judged it to be around midday.
Gradually he revised his first estimate of his new surroundings: not a hollow filled with sand; more like a depression in a desert.
He stood up and crawled his way up the sandy slope until he was peering cautiously over the edge of the depression. Wave after wave of rolling sand dunes swept away from him on all sides. There wasn't so much as a tree or a blade of grass to be seen, and the sun, which should have been intolerably hot under such extreme circumstances, was surprisingly mild. He thought about that for a moment. Then he dug his fingers into the warm sand and began to laugh.
He had eluded the emissaries for the second time. The Guardians had given him a second chance: they had allowed him to re-enter Sanctuary. What marvellous good fortune! But he was wise enough to realize that there would be no third opportunity. From now on he would take heed of the unwritten laws of Sanctuary and make sure that his guilt never betrayed him again.
He climbed out of the depression and surveyed his new surroundings. He wondered whatever had prompted the Guardians to deposit him in such an inhospitable wasteland. A desert was a long way removed from his heart's desire. But what, exactly, was his heart's desire? He didn't know; that was something he had to find out. That was why he was here.
A gentle breeze stirred his hair. There was a tang of salt in the air, and in the distance he could hear the soft boom of surf. He smiled and set off, determined to trace the sound to its source.
As he trudged up and down the dunes he gave some thought to the intricate nature of Sanctuary. It now seemed more complex than he had ever imagined, and he marvelled anew at the engineers who had designed it and the Guardians who maintained it.
The sound of the surf grew louder. Soon it was joined by other sounds: first by the familiar high-pitched cry of gulls, then by a strange crooning that could only have been made by a human being.
So, there was company after all. But whose refuge is this? he wondered. What manner of person craved such dismal isolation?
He breasted another dune and saw the ocean spread before him. Well, perhaps not quite an ocean. It would be expecting too much of the engineers for them to have devised such a sea only to satisfy the whims of a single person. More like a lake, but one so wide he could not see the other shore.
The beach was smooth and scalloped with foam and bits of seaweed and driftwood. The breeze caught a fragment of melody, played with it for a moment, then tossed it in his direction. It was the kind of disjointed humming sound a person might make while engaged in some routine task.
The beach to his left was deserted. To his right, and only a short distance away, he spied a solitary figure kneeling in the sand, making vague movements he could not decipher.
He walked toward the stranger. As he drew close he saw it was a young woman. She was slightly built and wore an ankle-length dress the color of dark straw. Blonde hair fell past her waist; her feet were bare and encrusted with sand. Her hair looked moist, and there was a fine crust of brine around the nape of her neck. She crouched forward, her hands busy making diagrams in the sand. Her appearance suggested, rather fancifully, that she might recently have risen from the sea, and knelt there to scrawl her puzzling pictures.
Her back was to him and so she did not see him approach. Intent upon her work, she moved industriously, and while her slender hands gouged the wet sand she hummed to herself fragments of an ancient melody. It sounded familiar to Howard, but he could not isolate its melancholy languor from the fabric of his thoughts.
He stepped closer, and not meaning to startle her, said softly, "What are you doing?"
She reacted to his presence slowly. First her crooning ceased, then her hands froze, and finally she turned to face him.
He was not prepared for her astonishing beauty. Her features had the high, aristocratic cheekbones and the languid eyes of the genuinely beautiful woman. She appeared to be in her late twenties, but could have been older. Her face was altogether perfect, save for one defect: a column of tears wound down from her left eye and traced a melancholy path across her cheek. The breeze had blown sand against it and some had become encrusted on this rivulet. The effect was like a deep scar, and this lent a tragic cast to her appearance.
She studied him without making a reply, her one clear eye reproaching his intrusion while the other, red and swollen from crying, asked him politely to leave.
He said, "Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I thought I was alone here. Then I heard your voice and came looking for you."
Her tragic poise had aroused in him an uncommon eloquence. Something in her manner suggested a nagging familiarity, so that he thought, for a moment, they had met before, in some other place, in some other time. Or perhaps he had briefly known someone very much like her? Could it have been, his conscience prodded, a small child with the solemn weight of centuries resting in her eyes? But he shied away from any such thought.
The woman tossed her head in a gesture of irritation. Her long hair scattered across her face; she brushed it aside and regarded him sternly. "We are none of us alone here," she reminded him. Her words were devoid of any feeling he could recognize. "There is always someone watching over us, making sure we do not injure ourselves, and perhaps drawing some wry amusement from our endeavors."
He could see that the sand all around her had been violated by her vigorous scribbling. Strange images stared back at him; unfamiliar ideograms etched deeply in the moist background. He had the feeling that many of her pictures had been roughly erased because of minor imperfections.
She watched him studying her work. "I'm an artist," she explained. She raised an indolent arm in a limp gesture that was meant to encompass their surroundings. "This is my studio. I work best here, and I choose to work alone."
He could see no implements, no dwelling of any kind. The dunes were devoid of life. It was all very strange.
Her imperious manner made him ill at ease. "This is all yours?" he asked. "This… this desert?"
She nodded. "It is sufficient. Here I have solitude and peace of mind and I can work undisturbed." She added, more as an afterthought, "I am called Deirdre."
He managed an apologetic bow. "I'm Howard Landry." He knew he was distracting her from her work, but he was possessed of a compulsion to establish some kind of friendship with her before he moved on.
"Have you been here long?" he asked, tentatively.
The fingers of her left hand plucked idly at the sand-encrusted rivulet on her cheek. "Is the passage of time so important?"
Her question caught him off guard. He hesitated before answering. "For me, yes."
She rewarded him with an disenchanted smile. "Why, then you must be new here."
It was his turn to nod.
"Were you running from something?"
"Yes." This time he answered without hesitation.
"From whom?"
For a moment anxiety burned fiercely inside him. Then it faded, leaving him with a feeling of relief. There was a quality about this remarkable young woman that made him want to trust her. He remembered vividly the nearly disastrous lesson of his expulsion from Sanctuary and had no desire to tempt providence for a second time. So he carefully set his thoughts in order before he answered her question. Indeed, her manner seemed so conducive to trust that he would gladly have divulged to her all his secrets—there were really not many, and only one that mattered—secure in the knowledge that she would only repeat them as abstract images in the sand. And there was a quality of mercy and compassion about her bearing that would have made confession a simple matter.
She sensed his indecision and respected it. She stood up and brushed some of the sand from her dress. She looked critically at the design she had been working on, made a face and then scrubbed it out with her bare foot. Then she turned to face the sea and breathed deeply the salty air. "Come," she said, taking his hand. "Walk with me a way."
They moved down to the water's edge hand in hand, wrapped in a friendly silence. Waves scurried eagerly up the beach and sported with their feet. Howard's shoes got wet, but he didn't mind. There was a haze over the water, and this explained why he had been unable to see the opposite shore. Then for a moment it lifted and he could see a hazy line of mountains in the distance. Just as abruptly the haze closed down again, and this glimpse was lost to him. He wondered how far away they were, and what lay beyond them.
They strolled along the beach, each deep in thought. Neither spoke. There were many things about the woman that puzzled Howard. He wondered what she did and where she found shelter when she wasn't working, but at the moment he had no mind to bother her with these questions. He had accepted the moment for what it was; explanations would come later, when a degree of trust had been established.
The sand sloped gently away and up to their right, forming a smooth rise. This had been deeply etched for a considerable distance with Deirdre's work. Some of the designs had been angrily erased in what he assumed had been an orgy of self-criticism; others had been left intact. One in particular disturbed him greatly: an image of an enormous bird of prey with widespread wings and a cruel beak.
Her strange pictures paraded with them along the beach, like fossils of forgotten experience. He was acutely aware of her nearness, of the comforting silence that surrounded them; the perfume of her body and her delicate feet splashing through the shallow water. Her eyes were downcast, gazing deeply into some private vision.
He was filled with a sudden exaltation. He stopped and turned her around to face him. "Come with me, Dierdre," he said. "It is no good to remain alone. We have all of Sanctuary to explore. I have heard tell it might indeed be infinite, that the engineers who made it have fashioned a labyrinth of space and time, forever curling back upon itself, where all may discover their heart's delight. Why exile yourself in such a desolate spot? Come with me, and discover all that joy and beauty have to offer." He knew that most of what he said was culled from wild and probably fanciful folk tales, but he so wanted to discourage her from remaining on the beach. "Let us leave these melancholy images, Deirdre, and begin anew."
She gave him a sad smile that touched him deeply. "Howard, I am happy here. This is the finest studio I have ever had and am ever likely to have. You remember how it was, back there." He nodded, recalling the nightmare. "I have found peace here, why should I leave? No, what you ask is impossible. I appreciate your sentiments and I thank you for asking me to go with you. But I am weary of people, Howard. They have brought me only pain and suffering. They are no longer worth the effort. I need this time… for myself. It is best that I have only myself to answer for, so please do not ask me to accompany you on what might well be some foolish quest. Perhaps one day you will understand the wisdom of my choice, for to remain still for a great deal of time can be a marvellous thing. But I see you are impatient to be off; please be kind and do not reproach me so with your eyes."
A flood of embarrassment washed over Howard and he turned away. Deirdre touched him lightly on one cheek. For a moment he was reminded of the curious touch of a golden-haired child, many ages ago.
"Now you must go," she said softly. "You need to find that place which moves in harmony with your soul. Perhaps you will find others who will share your dream, and I wish you well in your quest. But this is my place, Howard. I desire no other… and I have work to complete."
Her refusal left him drained of feeling. Her beauty had pierced him deeply and he was so filled with anguish that for the first time he was moved to speak honestly of his crime. "Listen," he said. "I will tell you what I have done and why I came here. I am one who has killed, Deirdre. That is why they pursue me."
She smiled mysteriously, and with this gesture all his sins seemed forgiven. "Why, then we are both murderers, Howard, for I killed that part of myself which alone is capable of love."
Her confession left him stunned. "Is that why you make your pictures in the sand? Are you hoping to find it there?"
"Perhaps. But this I know, Howard, I must never look for it in another human being. If I cannot find it in the sand, then I will never find it anywhere."
He closed his eyes and could have wept for her had his ability to grieve not been exhausted. She sensed the magnitude of his own pain and her face softened. She took his arm in a small gesture of reassurance. "Come now, let us not brood upon our mistakes! We have freely chosen our destinies by coming here, so let us proceed and discover what end has been devised for us."
But Howard was torn by doubt. "I never thought—"
"That Sanctuary would be like this?" she finished for him. They walked back along the beach. "It is what we make it, Howard. Whatever we want it to be. It bears us no malice nor does it seek to punish us. We are left free to pursue our pleasures. The Guardians watch over us and protect us from the outside world, but they have signed no covenant to protect us from ourselves. That is the great gift of Sanctuary; mark it well before you resume your quest."
They had reached the place where her bizarre etchings began. He watched her studying the empty stretch of sand where she had been working and wondered what bold new image occupied her thoughts. He decided to make one last appeal.
"Deirdre, I feel I have far to travel before I find a place that moves in harmony with my soul. Are you sure you will not come with me?"
She looked away. "Please try to understand. My days are filled with my work. I have a wasted lifetime to account for, Howard; not to others, but to myself. And I had best resume my sketches." Her voice softened and she gazed at him wistfully. "But it has been nice being with you… for such a short time."
She walked away and left him standing foolishly alone. She drew her tragic melancholy around her shoulders like a shawl and knelt down in the sand where he had first seen her. He made no move to follow her. He knew she would be crying and that a column of tears would be weaving a sad path down her left cheek. Already the wind-driven particles of sand would be forming a rough crust over it.
Something she had said lingered in his mind. I killed that part of me which alone is capable of love. These words had struck a responsive chord inside him, and he did not understand why.
He watched her take up her work where she had left off, as if nothing had intervened between this new picture and the last. Soon she was humming the same melody that had first drawn him to her.
He turned away and walked down to the water's edge. The waves rushed forward to welcome him, scurrying around his ankles. He stared into the deep haze hanging over the sea. Eventually his patience was rewarded and the distant mountains reappeared for a moment. They can't be far away, he thought. And the shimmer of shoreline underneath them seemed only a few miles distant.
He waded into the water, not caring that his suit would get soaked. He had gone only a few paces when the haze came together again and obscured the opposite shore.
He reasoned that the engineers wouldn't have gone to the trouble of creating a vast ocean merely to please one person. Its apparent size could well be an illusion, like so much else in Sanctuary. How else could Sanctuary accommodate so many exiles? Why, this "ocean" might only be a few meters wide…
It was soon deep enough to swim. He kicked off his shoes and squirmed out of his jacket and trousers. He swam confidently, conserving his strength in case the distance was farther than he had guessed. A naggingly familiar melody followed him out to "sea." Smiling, he recognized Deirdre's song at last: it was "Waly, Waly." He swam on.
He wondered what strange landscape he would discover on the other shore: hopefully something more inviting than the desert he had left behind. The woman still haunted him, but he did his best to put her in the back of his mind and concentrate on his swimming. It didn't do to dwell unhappily on the past, no matter how immediate it had been.
The water was clear and bright. Below he could see coral reefs and a multitude of small fish darting around. Very well furnished, was his wry thought. Behind him the melody of "Waly, Waly" faded and disappeared. He felt a moment of uncertainty, then swam on. The haze increased and soon he could not see the beach behind him. Nor was there any sign of the other shore, so deep had the haze become. He was the solitary living thing moving between the sky and the water. And he was beginning to tire.
His arms ached and he could feel a cramp starting up in his left leg. But not for a moment did he consider turning around and swimming back. The only way out was forward.
The haze developed into a deep mist, shutting out the sun. Sunlight filtered down through this low-lying cloud and visibility was reduced to less than twenty meters. And it grew less with each moment.
Gradually weariness overcame Howard. He could swim no farther, but he did not panic. The Guardians would protect him. It was their sworn duty to monitor every ward in their care and see that no harm befell them. Or so he had been told…
He treaded water for a while, all alone in the thickening mist. His concern increased when there was no sign of rescue. The cramp had mysteriously vanished from his leg, but he still had no idea of how far he would have to swim before he reached the other shore; the mist had robbed him of all sense of direction. He was lost. But the water was pleasantly warm and it had lulled him into a deliciously drowsy state. Overhead a benign but hidden sun shed its generous rays upon his upturned face… and slowly they forced him down through the waves.
He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the extraordinary sea. He sank slowly, with a smile on his face. And so complete was his rapture that he did not for a moment fear that he would drown; the Guardians would never permit it. And besides, he experienced an intense sensual pleasure as he drifted down through this warm womb of the world. He was filled with a great peace. Why, a man could sink to the bottom of this timeless sea and never, never wish to rise.
Sunlight dappled the surface of the sea and sent shafts down after him. A flurry of small fish passed between him and the sky; he watched them idly and with pleasure, for their pattern was a thing of beauty sus-pended in the water. Coral reefs began to rise around him and strange fish faces peered out at him from darkened grottoes. He smiled at them and continued sinking.
His lungs had begun to ache. He was ten meters down and still sinking; there seemed to be no end to his delightful fall. It had never occurred to him that his action had been foolish. The pressure was too intoxicating. He could feel it building up inside him and pushing against his chest. Then it closed around his heart, getting ready to squeeze. He never for a moment questioned that his wild euphoria was a result of losing contact with the life-giving air; instead he felt like laughing. So he did. And his laughter rushed to the surface in a cloud of bubbles, mocking him and making off with his life.
He gasped and then gagged as the ocean flooded his lungs. He saw his folly but it was too late to do anything to save himself.
He was drowning. Pain tore the smile from his face and his limbs thrashed wildly to raise him to the surface. But his body twisted into agonizing convulsions and his consciousness faded as a roaring darkness rushed in upon him.
Lost in the wild madness of his drowning, he had forgotten everything about Sanctuary and where he had come from. Time had almost ceased for Howard Landry. His mind was filled with the roar of all creation bearing down upon him and a cold fist gripped his heart.
Only at the last moment did the Guardians intervene.
He dreamed he had died.
His body was face down in the sea, rising and falling with the gentle rocking rhythm of the waves. The light was fading and a dense mist hung over the water. The air was calm and peaceful… and the pain was gone.
Then a dark shape came gliding toward him from out of the mist: an open boat carrying only one sail. A solitary figure sat hunched against the tiller, guiding the small wooden craft in the direction of the drifting corpse.
Howard seemed to be observing all this from a position high overhead, in the manner of such dreams-of-death, while at the same time another part of his consciousness was also present in the body below. He could feel the waves lifting him up and down, up and down, carrying him forward with the tide.
The prow of the boat struck him lightly on the shoulder, turning him aside. A moment later arms reached out and lifted him from the water; he was hauled over the side of the boat and slid down onto hard boards. Rough hands straightened him out and pushed back his eyelids. A strange face looked into his, then moved away to press an anxious ear against his chest. He felt it nod, satisfied.
The same hands then eased him gently into a sitting position and propped him against the prow of the boat. The stranger returned to his seat by the tiller. A soft breeze stirred the sail and they moved off through the mist.
The world grew darker. Howard wondered how the stranger could steer with such confidence, and assumed that he knew these waters so well he had no need of a compass.
A while later they passed out of the mist and the sky was filled with stars. The breeze freshened and the little boat picked up speed. Only once did the stranger move away from his position by the tiller, and that was to bundle a heavy blanket around Howard. From time to time his gaze wandered over the drowned man, as though checking him out for signs of life. Twice he called out, in a rough and ready voice, perhaps hoping to encourage the corpse to speak. But Howard did not answer. A dead man could not talk, although it now seemed possible that he could remain aware of what went on around him. But for how long?
As if in answer to this curious question, his peculiar double vision began to waver. One by one the bright stars went out and the darkness became absolute; he could see nothing save for the figure at the other end of the boat. The stranger leaned forward suddenly, and reached out to him in a concerned fashion. Then the darkness claimed him and the dream was done.
He was still fast asleep hours later, with dawn beginning to soften the horizon behind them, when they finally made landfall. With prodigious strength the stranger lifted and placed him across his shoulders and carried him up the short stretch of beach to his house.
Ages later, Howard awoke with a burning ache in his chest and confusion in his mind. His head ached so badly that for a while his eyes would not focus. And he could not move.
After a while his vision began to make some sort of sense. He discovered that he was lying on his back and staring up at a rough wooden ceiling. There was a soft mattress underneath him and warm blankets covering him. As for the rest…
He drew one hand up under the bedclothes and explored the aching region of his chest. He winced and withdrew it. His flesh felt sore, as though it had been badly bruised. His memory remained a muddle, but he could dimly recall being dragged over the side of a boat and dumped onto hard boards. That would explain the soreness, and probably the dreadful ache in his head as well.
He remembered his dream and for a moment almost stopped breathing, so vivid was his recall. Ghostly images forced their way into his mind and filled him with unease. Then he pulled himself together. He was all right. He was alive. There was nothing to fear. The Guardians had saved him from drowning and the dreadful dream was over. But on the other hand, where was he exactly?
With an effort he rolled over onto his left side. When the waves of dizziness had ebbed he saw he was inside a small dwelling. More precisely, it looked like the interior of a country cabin or a mountain retreat. The floor was covered with dry reeds; the roof and walls were made of timber. In the center of the room stood an ancient iron stove; a narrow chimney rose from its top and found an outlet through the roof. There was a round wooden table, a solitary chair and a footstool, and some dilapidated cupboards in one corner. There was also a pile of blankets on the floor, indicating that someone had slept there recently. And that was all: simple and sparse like a bachelor's hideaway.
There was only one window. It was situated to the right of the closed door, and through it Howard could see a strip of ocean and a beautiful blue sky. Some branches protruded into the left of this frame, and by raising himself slightly he could see a stretch of sand along the bottom edge. A breeze wafted in through the window and touched his face. The air was cool and bracing. It smelled just fine.
The door swung open. The man who came in was unknown to Howard. He was tall and well-built and middle-aged. His long black hair was streaked with gray. His face was somber and adorned with bushy black eyebrows and a dense beard. He wore baggy, woollen trousers with the bottoms tucked into knee-high boots, and a heavy, green sweater. The tang of the sea hung about him.
He stopped inside the door and eyed Howard. "So, you're awake." His voice was deep and sonorous and gave every indication that it would brook no nonsense. "Not before time, either." He carried a sack in his left hand; it was wet and swollen with its burden. He walked over to the table and eased out the contents. Howard counted at least a half dozen small fish spilling out of the sack. The stranger looked up. "S'pose you could do with something to eat, eh? Well, give me a moment or two and I'll see what I can do."
Howard was much too puzzled to give him an immediate answer. He sank back on the bed. He now realized that it was no more than a pallet, close to the floor and with only a straw mattress underneath him, but for the moment it was more welcome than any other bed he had ever slept in. While the stranger busied himself cleaning the fish, Howard closed his eyes and tried to recall in detail the events leading up to this strange confrontation.
"I had a dream," he said aloud, in a voice that was more like a croak. The ache in his chest made speaking difficult. "I dreamed I was dead. That I had drowned. Then a mist came down—"
"That wasn't a dream," the stranger said, without looking up. " 'Twas I who found you and pulled you out, a good three days ago. Thought you were a goner at first, then I found a flicker in your chest and brought you home." He looked across at Howard and for a moment the seriousness left his face. "You may call me Sharo. This here's my island. Not very big, mark you, but pleasant enough. Lucky for you I came along when I did."
So it had not been a dream. But there was still some aspects of his mysterious rescue that troubled Howard. The stranger eyed his puzzled expression and shook his head. "Now then, don't bother yourself so. You're alive, and you could have been dead. Don't look providence in the face; take her as you find her. Or at least wait until you're well before you start asking questions." He deftly gutted another fish and scraped the entrails aside.
In spite of the deep ache in his chest and his fuzzy state of mind, Howard would not let go of a particular worry. "The Guardians," he whispered. "They… they almost let me drown. Why would they do that? If you hadn't come along…"
Sharo frowned. He looked up and said, "Aye, I have known them to be sometimes remiss. But on the other hand, what little wind do you think it was that hastened me in your direction, eh?" He smiled mysteriously and went on with his work.
There was a nagging doubt about his rescuer that bothered Howard. His manner and appearance suggested that he might be something other than he looked. He finally put these thoughts into words. "You remind me," he said, "of someone I know. But for the life of me I can't remember who."
Sharo gave a wry grin. "Ah, all us old folks look alike," was all he said.
Less than an hour later Howard was rewarded for his silence with a bowl of steaming fish soup. He ate it hungrily, but he was still too weak to hold the bowl himself. And he did not mind that Sharo sat beside him and spooned the nourishing liquid gently into his mouth.
When he had had enough he thanked the stranger with his eyes and was soon fast asleep again. A warmth had reached out from his full belly and was already easing the pain in his chest. He was content.
He slept through the remainder of the day and most of the night. The next morning he felt strong enough to get up and move around for a while.
Sharo gave him some old clothes from out of one of the cupboards. The material was coarse and ill-fitting, but it was better than nothing. "We'll get you something better, later on," his rescuer remarked cryptically, without explaining where he might find them.
They shared a simple breakfast of dark brown bread and cheese, washed down with copious quantities of freshly brewed coffee. When they were finished Howard sat back with a sigh and said, "You do very well here, Sharo."
"I've no complaints."
He could see that his new friend was a reluctant talker. He decided not to press him too much with questions; instead he concentrated on coming to terms with his strange new circumstances.
He had spent most of his waking hours examining his predicament. He was worried that his recent brush with death might not have been an accident; yet he could think of nothing he had done since his return to Sanctuary that might have incurred the Guardians' displeasure. But how else to explain why they had waited so long before intervening? Sharo's suggestion that they might not be as infallible as he had been lead to believe was equally unsettling, for it implied that Sanctuary might not be as benign as he had first thought.
Later in the day he felt strong enough to walk a little way along the beach. Sharo went with him. For a long while Howard looked out to sea, searching for a distant shore, but the ocean stretched before him as far as he could see.
The walk left him feeling shaky. He sat down to rest, thinking of the mountains he had seen through the mist, and wondering if indeed this was the same ocean he had first swum in.
He asked Sharo if he knew of a woman called Deirdre, who made marvellous pictures in the wet sand.
Sharo shook his head. "I have heard of no such lady," he said. "But Sanctuary is wide and there may be other seas than this."
"How large is it, Sharo?" Howard gestured toward the dazzling blue water.
Sharo pursed his lips. "Oh, two, three days sailing. That's to reach the mainland, of course. Longer to sail around her."
"An inland sea?"
Sharo nodded.
"And probably artificial."
Sharo only shrugged, as though this was unimportant.
"Are there any more islands?" Howard asked.
"A few."
Sharo squatted on the beach and began drawing a picture in the moist sand. Howard felt a moment of apprehension, remembering Deirdre and her disturbing frescoes, but the feeling soon passed when he saw that Sharo had only drawn a crude map of the inland sea. It was kidney-shaped and there were half a dozen small blobs of diminishing size, obviously representing islands. Sharo tapped the largest significantly. "We're there," he said.
"Is there anyone else on the other islands?" Howard asked.
Sharo shook his head.
"On the mainland?"
Sharo nodded.
Howard asked him where and his friend drew a mark on the map. Then he stood up and pointed in the direction of the mainland with his right arm. "Over there."
"Two, three days sailing?"
"Day-and-a-half to there."
Howard told him about the mountains he had seen. Sharo frowned and shook his head. "I saw mountains once, but that was a long way inland. Can't see how you could have seen them from where you were. That's unless…"
He left the sentence unfinished it was obvious to them both that an explanation could be found in the vagaries of time and space that existed in Sanctuary. The Guardians could have taken Howard from one sea… and deposited him in another. But for what reason?
Only a short distance away a small wooden boat was anchored in the shallows. It reminded Howard of a strange journey through mist and darkness with a landfall at sunrise. The memory made him shiver and he went off on another tack.
"What do you do here, Sharo?"
"I'm a fisherman." For a moment a stirring of emotion softened his somber features. He said, almost apologetically, "Never could find enough time to fish before… before I came here." Ghosts paraded for an instant in his gray eyes and then disappeared. He stared out to sea.
"How do you navigate?" Howard asked, cautiously.
"Wind and stars."
"What about maps? Surely—"
Sharo shook his head. "Don't need 'em. Not here. They know when to send the right breeze to fill my sail and how best to organize the tides."
This only confused Howard even more.
Sharo smiled and stood up. He brushed the sand from his fingers, and using one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, looked up at the sky. He pointed suddenly with his other hand. "There. You see it? That glint of light up there, high up and to the left of the sun."
Howard squinted against the sun, but could see nothing. He was about to admit as much when his attention was caught by a sudden flash of light, like sunlight bouncing off metal, just where Sharo had said. A moment later it was visible again… and then again. There was something there all right. And it was high: damned high.
"What is it, Sharo?"
"Monitor. I call them watchbirds. The little metal critters the Guardians use to keep track of us. They know everything we feel, everything we need. 'Twas probably one of them knew you were drowning, lad, and took the necessary action. If it weren't for them there'd be a lot of fatal accidents here."
This information only served to deepen Howard's puzzlement. "But how do they—"
"Keep track of so many of us? Simple." Sharo leaned forward and tapped him lightly on the head and chest. "Tracers. Miniature instrument packages, surgically implanted when we first came through. Or maybe earlier. They would have erased our memories of the operation, of course. At least, that's my theory. How else could they do it—monitor our physical and mental states so accurately? It must work in much the same way as, say, a telephone cable: dozens of conversations can be carried on at the same time, each one working on a separate frequency and all of them carried on the one line. I figure that's the way these watchbirds keep an eye on us. And from what you've told me, it seems likely that they make the occasional mistake."
Howard thought this was rather strange conversation coming from a fisherman, and he wondered what Sharo had been before he entered Sanctuary. But he did not press the matter. His thoughts were still a little unclear after his near drowning, so he made a mental note to bring the matter up some other time.
His eyes wandered, taking in the sea and the sky and the details of the austere little island. "Tell me Sharo," he said. "Do you think we're still on Earth… or somewhere else?"
Sharo had lit up his pipe. Now he looked thoughtful and blew a small cloud of smoke into the clear air. "I reckon somewhere else. Has to be. We ran out of places like this a long time ago."
This seemed reasonable. What the cities hadn't devoured, the strangled air had killed.
"Another dimension, then? Like the story says: a place outside of normal space and time?"
Sharo shook his head. "That's hogwash. I never believed it. Sounds good, but does it make sense? I mean, if the State can manipulate environment to such an extent, why did they allow the good Earth to stay so unpleasant? Think for a moment, Howard: how much did you ever hear about extra-solar space travel, about terra-forming the solar system, and all those other aspects of space travel?"
Howard was silent for a moment, wrestling with his memory. And try as he would he couldn't recall very much at all: space exploration had been something vaguely mentioned in history tapes as the Great Disappointment… or something like that. But what if this had been a lie? Suppose the State had gone ahead with its plans for extra-solar expansion and kept the truth from the over-crowded Earth? What if?
Sharo could see the gleam in his eye. "Now you're beginning to get the idea. I've felt for a long time that the government has been suppressing news of our outer-space activities. I figure it must have started, oh, maybe half a century ago, before you were born. For all we know they may have discovered hundreds of habitable worlds beyond our own, and kept his information to themselves for reasons we cannot fathom. They might also have discovered a more economical means of crossing space that makes spaceships obsolete."
Sharo was a persuasive speaker. His wild ideas had set up an angry buzz in Howard's head, which only added to his general state of confusion. And there was a nagging doubt remaining. "I still don't understand how I stumbled into Sanctuary," he said. "Or how I lost it… and somehow managed to return. It's so disturbing, these sudden shifts in time and space."
Sharo grew suddenly serious. "I've been thinking a lot about that. I've been here a long time, Howard, and it always comes back to this: those tracers I mentioned—I think they could have been planted on us years ago. Maybe shortly after we were born. It would make sense, wouldn't it? I mean, those sudden shifts you mentioned—what if they're not as instantaneous as we think, eh? It looks like magic, it feels like magic— but is it really? I figure if they're clever enough to manipulate our environment, then they might just as easily tamper with our sense of time. When you came through, for the second time, the transition from the outside to here seemed only to take a moment—right?" Howard nodded. "But suppose the process of relocating you took much longer, and that your memory has been tampered with so you would be convinced it happened quickly?"
Howard was stunned. "But why would they do that, Sharo?"
Sharo shrugged. "To confuse us. Or perhaps their reasons are too insidious for us to understand." He scowled up at the sky, then moved off down the beach, deep in thought.
His words had left a chill hanging around Howard. He stared up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun, and waited. He soon saw it: a glint of sunlight glancing off metal. It was very high up and to the left of the sun.
Watchbird.
Howard thought about tiny tracers buried underneath his skin, busy broadcasting a continuous report on his needs and condition to the automatic monitors circling overhead.
The concept made his flesh crawl. Was Sharo right in his theories, or had he allowed fancy to lead him too far from the realm of fact? For a moment there was no way of finding out.
But there could be no doubting that a subtle manipulation of time and space was one of the special qualities of Sanctuary: the inland sea he had been rescued from was a far cry from the original ocean he had swum in, when he had left behind a lonely woman scrawling strange images along a deserted beach.
And there was something else that troubled Howard. He had remembered something important: he had remembered that he did not remember.
The realization came as a shock. He found that with an effort he could recall in graphic detail everything that had happened to him since his arrival in Sanctuary. He remembered the people of the forest and the wise and tolerant old man who had welcomed him and been his guide. He remembered the mysterious face of a child weighed down with the burden of centuries, and a question he could not answer. He remembered his sudden expulsion from this place of refuge and his subsequent flight from the emissaries. Deirdre and her tragic melancholy haunted him still, but no matter how much he tried—and he had been struggling to do so from the moment he regained consciousness in Sharo's hut—he could not recall a single moment of his life before Sanctuary.
His memory had been wiped as clean as a slate.
For a long while afterwards, Howard experienced only the sound of the surf, the breeze playing in the nearby trees, and the occasional sound of a gull passing overhead. Nothing else penetrated his bleak despair. He kept looking down at the sand, without really seeing it. His mind crawled with doubts and anxiety and for a time they obscured everything else.
Whatever had happened to his past? Had the Guardians erased it from his memory, for reasons he could not as yet comprehend, or had it been driven from him during his wild thrashing underwater, when he had been so close to death?
He drew the ragged skeins of his thoughts together and focused them as intensely as he could upon the hypothetical tracers Sharo assumed must be buried somewhere in his body. Help me, he called, in quiet desperation. I must have my memories back. Without recollection of past experiences there can be no real substance to my present actions. If you find it necessary, then by all means retain the worst of them—but return the rest. I don't want to be a man without a past, however painful it might have been. I have to know.
He waited some time for an answer, but there was no response. Either Sharo's theory was invalid and there were no miniature devices monitoring his needs, or the Guardians had decided to remain mute and leave him to his own devices.
His anger grew slowly. He tried to temper it, in case it might adversely affect his attempt to communicate with the unseen masters of Sanctuary, but he found this difficult. Already he had begun to distrust them.
He was still brooding over his predicament when a shadow fell across him. He looked up and saw Sharo staring down at him, a look of concern on his face. Again Howard was troubled by the nagging notion that he had seen this man before, but still he could not remember where. And now that his previous life had been taken from him, he doubted if he ever would.
"Something the matter?" Sharo asked quietly.
Howard told him. Haltingly at first, then with growing indignation when he expressed his conviction that the Guardians were responsible for his sudden loss of memory.
"Everything's gone," he said angrily. "All I have is my name and a vivid memory of what has happened to me since I came through. The rest may just as well never have been. Sharo, I think the Guardians did this to me. Maybe to make me more tractable, for heaven knows I've given them enough trouble already. But I don't want it that way! Surely they must understand that a man can't get along without his past?" He stabbed the fingers of hrs right hand angrily into the sand.
Sharo was cautious. "I suppose they might have done it, Howard. But then again, you could be experiencing a form of amnesia. You nearly drowned out there, remember, before I pulled you in. And you were unconscious for three days. This loss of memory could have something to do with delayed shock; just take it easy for a while, and don't try to hurry things so. I'm sure your memory will come back, if you just give it time."
Howard was not convinced. "But what if it doesn't? Suppose the Guardians have erased my past—what then?"
Sharo thought for a moment, then shrugged. "If it doesn't, then you'll be starting afresh, won't you? All that other stuff behind you and forgotten. No unpleasant memories to hold you back. A new life, lad, here in Sanctuary. In a way, it could be a boon."
But Howard was hardly listening. He was convinced that the Guardians were responsible for the loss of his past, and he grew more determined to confront them and demand it back. He said to Sharo, "Has anything like this happened before?"
Sharo shook his head. "Not that I know of."
Howard eyed him shrewdly. "And how long have you been here, Sharo?"
The other man paused and thought for a moment. "Hard to say, Howard. Feels like years, might only have been months. Time works differently here, as you must be aware of by now. But it does seem a long time since I came through, now that you mention it. It's been a good time, too; a very good time indeed. Nothing much to bother a man, except when he bothers himself." He may have added this last sentence for Howard's benefit. Then he raised his head and looked around him, breathing deeply of the salty air. "I really like it here."
Howard said, "And you remember everything? I mean, of your previous life before you came here?" He was apprehensive, knowing his question broached dangerous ground and came close to violating the unwritten law of Sanctuary that maintained a man's past was his own business—but he had to know.
A shadow seemed to cross Sharo's face and it took a while for him to reply. And when he spoke his words were more somber than usual. "Aye, I can recall most of it—but I try not to, Howard. There's much I would prefer to forget, and more that has no meaning to me now—"
"But you've been here so long," Howard interjected. "How would you have felt if you had been deprived of your past so quickly?"
Sharo looked down, scuffing the sand with one foot. "You have a point," he replied, but the admission was a grudging one. "If the past is all that important to you, Howard, then I hope you will regain your memory. But in a way I envy you. Not everyone is given the opportunity of making a new life for himself without the burden of his past mistakes to weigh down his efforts." He gave a contemptous flick of his right hand, as though summarily dismissing his own dark past.
Just then a distant and high-pitched sound intruded upon the air. Howard looked up automatically. It took him but a moment to locate the contrail of an aircraft, very high up in the cloudless sky and to the right of the sun, moving fast.
Its passage had drawn a slender impression against the blue, and as he watched the contrail lengthened and reached out for the far horizon.
The sudden appearance of advanced technology broke the spell that had bound Howard to the island. He had forgotten just how vast Sanctuary was supposed to be, and the multiplicity of possibilities it was reputed to contain. He let his gaze wander out to sea, where it lingered for a while before drifting back to dwell pleasantly on the gently rolling hills of Sharo's island. But eventually he returned to studying the marvellously open sky.
The traumatic effects of his near drowning had encouraged him into an easy acceptance of Sharo's lifestyle. But now he realized he could not remain there indefinitely. Already he was restless to regain his pillaged past.
"Sharo," he said, "is it possible to reach the Guardians?" Each passing moment reinforced his suspicion that the unseen masters of this refuge had tampered with his mind. Only they could undo what they had done.
Sharo looked uneasy, for he had probably gauged the direction of Howard's thoughts. "I have heard tell," he replied, "that they may be found in a citadel, high up on a mountain, in the very center of Sanctuary. Some call it more of a fortress, but all are unanimous in the opinion that it is a most difficult place to find. Of course, I cannot vouch for the authenticity of these tales. They might well have been dreamed up by idle minds. You will need to speak with someone else regarding these matters. The people on the mainland may be able to help you. Tell you what: when you're feeling well enough to travel, we'll go over and ask them. One thing I can assure you, though: some do say that the journey to this citadel is frightful long and fraught with danger."
Howard looked surprised. "Danger? But I thought Sanctuary was a place of refuge, designed to protect us?"
"Oh, there is truth enough in that, all right. But I can only repeat what I have heard, Howard: that Sanctuary will protect us from everything but ourselves. By this I mean that we are meant to find a life-style that suits us and maintain it. I don't think it does to stay restless. And those who feel a desire to proceed to the very heart of Sanctuary must be prepared for a less than easy life. This much have I heard."
But he could see from the determined expression on Howard's face that there could be no dissuading his young friend now that his mind had been made up. "Well, have it your own way." He tapped ash from his pipe and tried to make light of their conversation. "But give the matter some thought before you decide what to do, eh?" he started back up the beach toward his hut.
Howard stayed behind, trying to get his thoughts into some sort of order. A riot of doubts and indecisions swirled through his head.
How true were the stories of a citadel at the very center of Sanctuary? Sharo had implied that he might find more information on the mainland, but he must treat it with caution. He looked up at the sky again, waiting for the familiar tell-tale sunlight to come bouncing off metal—the watchbirds. More like Guardian Angels was his wry thought. But this time his patience went unrewarded. No glimmer of sunlight disturbed the sky. He wished fervently that there was some way of reaching the Guardians and making his plight known to them, but he only half believed in Sharo's tracers. By now the possibility of unseen, overhead monitors had taken on a more insidious intent.
So much thinking left him drained of energy. He made his way slowly back up the beach, and when he reached the hut he went inside and collapsed, exhausted, on his bed. His last conscious thought was his need to reach the mainland as soon as possible.
He slept soundly until dusk and woke refreshed. Now that he had made up his mind to leave the island his lethargy had left him.
He broached the matter to Sharo over their evening meal. "No problem," Sharo agreed, although he was not completely successful at concealing his uneasiness. "Closest settlement is a day-and-a-half clear sailing. Less, if the wind be strong. But are you sure you're well enough to travel? I mean, right away?"
Howard hesitated. He was anxious to be on his way now that he had made the decision, but it was obvious to them both that he was still too weak to travel.
Sharo said kindly, "Tell you what: I'm due to leave myself in another day or so. Time to do some trading. Man gets tired of fish and fruit all the time. I'll need to stop off at one of the islands to check my nets, but that won't take long. It will break the journey nicely. Now, why don't you rest up as much as possible before we leave, eh? 'Course, if you feel you must go sooner, then maybe I can hurry myself a little and help you on your way. But I would like to finish some work on the boat before we sail."
Howard knew he was right. He had allowed anxiety to get the better of him; another day or so wouldn't matter. And by then his memory might have come limping back. But he regarded this as a forlorn hope. "That's all right by me," he said. Sharo nodded, confirming the arrangement. Then both men returned their attention to their evening meal.
That night Howard slept soundly again, untroubled by doubt. He took the next day easily, helping Sharo scrape the hull of the small boat and keeping a watchful eye on the sky. Several times he caught the now-familiar glint of sunlight. Watchbirds? And once he thought he saw a sail on the horizon.
"Could be," Sharo said, looking up from his work for a moment, "There's a few of us hereabouts." He would say no more, but resumed mending the few rents in the faded sail.
Howard asked him about the aircraft they had seen the day before. "You see 'em occasionally," he said. "But they're always too far away to make out."
"Could they perhaps be carrying Guardians?" Howard suggested.
Sharo shrugged. "No way of telling." He was being less than communicative today, Howard thought, but did not press his questions. He was grateful for all Sharo had done for him, and he still had need of his boat to reach the mainland. So he remained patient.
"Those mountains you mentioned," he said. "Where the Guardians have their citadel." A faraway look crept into his eyes. "I saw mountains, Sharo. I was standing on the beach, and they seemed so close. Then I began swimming; the mist came down and I lost sight of them. Then I got cramp…"
Sharo gave him a guarded look. "That was some other sea," he said cautiously. "Not this one. They must have moved you about. There may be mountains farther inland, but I've never seen any myself. Maybe someone on the mainland has."
Howard saw the day through with growing impatience. His body no longer ached and he was confident than his former strength had returned. Only respect for his rescuer made him wait.
His past remained resolutely blank. No token memory had been vouchsafed him in return for his inactivity, and this had only served to strengthen his resolve to seek out the secret place of the Guardians and confront them with his predicament. The rest was their responsibility.
Sharo correctly gauged the meaning of his long silences ana did not challenge him. Next morning he rigged sail, placed a small basket of provisions in the boat, along with some other things they might leed. They pushed off from the island shortly before noon.
"The sky had remained clear and the breeze was willing. The sail swelled eagerly and they set forth in search of Howard's past.
The weather remained mild throughout the day. The sea was calm and the hospitaole breeze propelled them on their way with never an interruption to slow their passage. Howard drowsed a lot, lulled into a luxurious sense of well-being by the rocking rhythm of the boat, the sunlight streaming down on him, and the knowledge that he had begun his quest at last.
He sat toward the front of the boat, his shoulders braced against the side. Sharo lounged against the tiller, facing him. They rarely spoke, each in tune with their private thoughts. But it seemed to Howard that a dark shadow had lodged somewhere in Sharo's eyes, and that his friend watched the ocean with a keen but troubled eye.
Time stretched out like treacle, became soft and languid. Midway through the long afternoon Howard was roused from his pleasant torpor and encouraged to partake of some refreshment from the basket they had brought with them. Inside he discovered some small bread rolls, several varieties of cheese, and a small stone flagon filled with a delicious red wine. The rolls were not fresh, but they were of a dark rye variety and possessed a robust flavor. Howard took a long swig from the flagon then passed it to Sharo. He eyed the other man thoughtfully.
"Does this come from the mainland?" he asked, holding out half a bread roll and a hunk of cheese.
Sharo nodded. "The people I was telling you about. They're basically a farming cooperative. Make their own bread, among other things. That wine, for example. I trade lobster and shrimp with them, every week or so. Works out well. Nice folks. You'll like them."
Howard felt sure he would.
The day slowly waned into a sunset of searing brilliance. The ocean became a vast caldron of colors, reflecting the terminal sky. Howard was entranced by the spectacle.
Gradually a small island rose out of the sea ahead, its silhouette bold and sharp against the sky like the back of some newly surfaced sea beast. Sharo guided their boat into a sheltered lagoon and gradually lowered sail. They dropped anchor only a short distance from the beach and waded ashore. Sharo brought the basket of provisions and some old blankets he had had the presence of mind to bring with them.
In the deepening twilight the island looked bare and inhospitable, quite different from the one they had left behind. It was only about one third the size of Sharo's home, and what little vegetation he could distinguish was sparse indeed.
Sharo said, "Too late to check the nets. We'll do that first thing in the morning. Should reach the mainland before noon, if the wind is right."
Howard followed him up the beach until they came to a shelter of some kind. The walls had been rather clumsily rigged from branches and the roof thatched with leaves. One side was open, facing the sea. It had obviously never been meant to accommodate more than one person, and only then for a very short period of time.
Sharo did not apologize. "We can rest here overnight," he explained, setting down the basket. Then he began looking around for some odds and ends of wood to start a fire.
The inside of this crude dwelling smelled strongly of the sea, but this was an odor Howard had grown pleasantly accustomed to. The ground was covered with a deep layer of leaves and the blankets they had with them would provide them with enough warmth during the night. And on the morrow…
Howard turned his eyes toward the sea they had just crossed. It was almost dark now, save for a burning strip of crimson along the horizon. Overhead, the first wan stars had begun to make their appearance. Had it not been for the driving nature of his quest, he would have felt very much at home here, surrounded by so much open space; but inner peace eluded him.
A soft brilliance crept into prominence between the night-dark sea and their shelter: Sharo had succeeded in starting a fire. Afterwards they sat down and finished the remainder of the dry food and drank most of the wine before they grew drowsy. Howard thought that the breeze had become curiously restless, blowing first this way and then that, as though unsure of which direction it should move. He was about to remark as much to Sharo, but decided not to. His companion had grown uncommonly quiet and uncommunicative.
He decided that the vagaries of the breeze might have something to do with the environment in this particular place. The air also possessed a peculiar tension, as if every atom were stretched, taut and vibrating like a stringed instrument. He felt an urge to reach out and pluck the vibrant air, expecting it to resound with an ominous chord. But he chided this impulse, and blamed the warm red wine for his fantasies.
Later they lay down on their rough bed of leaves and watched the stars pick out the ocean with their soft light. Sharo was soon fast asleep and snoring gently. Howard lay awake for a long time, staring out into the night. His head was pleasantly fuzzy after so much wine, but he was not easily lured into sleep. And it was not long before he discovered why.
Gradually moonlight had taken command of the seascape, creeping stealthily into the sky until it boldly put the stars to shame. They were pushed into the background by a brilliant full moon and left to lament their loss.
It was sometime later, when his thoughts were suspended midway between sleep and wakefulness, that Howard noticed something else. There was another moon in the sky. It had risen slowly at first, almost unnoticed because it was nowhere near as large or as brilliant as the first. It displayed only a small crescent shape against the background of stars, but there could be no mistaking it was there.
Howard blinked several times, but the image of the small moon did not waver. He was filled with wonder. Sharo, he thought, why didn't you tell me there were two moons? This information would have saved him a lot of supposition. No further evidence was needed: wherever they were, it was definitely not Earth.
Sharo, Sharo: why didn't you tell me?
Relieved at last by this discovery, he finally succumbed to sleep.
When he woke next morning, his face itched with several days' growth of beard. He complained to Sharo, who grinned and replied, "My advice is to let it grow. But if you must have a clean face, then we'll find some implement on the mainland. If you're in a hurry, then my blade will suffice."
Howard took one look at the long knife Sharo used for cleaning fish and decided he could wait. Another few hours wouldn't make much difference.
They breakfasted on some strange purple fruit Sharo had picked from a nearby tree. The flesh reminded him of watermelon, only it was not as sweet.
"Best I can do," Sharo apologized. "But there'll be plenty to eat when we reach the mainland." The breeze had freshened and he was hopeful of reaching land by midday.
Howard chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of the pulpy fruit. "Sharo," he said quietly, "why did you never tell me there are two moons at night?"
The other man eyed him curiously. "Two moons, Howard? I… I know not what you mean."
Howard told him of the extraordinary vision he had had the night before. "It wasn't a dream, Sharo. There was a full, brilliant moon such as I have never seen in the city. In time it was joined by another—less than half the size of the first, or so it seemed—and crescent-shaped, as though it was only in its first quarter. But it was definitely a moon, Sharo. I saw it."
The other man shook his head. "I have never seen but one moon, Howard. And I have been here a very long time." There was something in his manner that suggested it would have been indelicate for him to have hinted that Howard might have conjured up this vision through a fog of alcohol.
"But I did see it!" Howard protested angrily. "Wait until tonight, Sharo. Then you will see for yourself."
Sharo pursed his lips and gave a small shrug, making light of the matter. He doesn't believe me, Howard thought. But he will tonight. Then he'll be convinced that we're not on Earth at all, but someplace else.
Together they waded out to the boat and weighed anchor. Sharo steered carefully out into the lagoon, guiding the small boat with his customary expertise. Although the morning breeze was strong it was just as capricious as it had been the night before, blowing every which way. Every now and again Howard heard his friend cursing softly under his breath.
The peculiar tension he had noticed in the air seemed to have increased overnight. At first Howard attributed this to his feeling of well being, to excitement because they would soon be on the mainland and no longer imprisoned by an inland sea. Yet the ocean shimmered like a nervous silver beast in the intense sunlight, and heat waves danced around them in a most unusual manner. It was all very strange.
They reached the first of the markers Sharo had been on the lookout for: a small metal buoy bobbing with the tide and carrying a red pennant. They hove to and began hauling in a heavy net.
"What's in it?" Howard asked.
"Shrimps. And quite a few, from the weight of her."
Howard did what he could to help, but he was surprised to discover how little strength there was in his muscles. And the air around them tingled, as though bristling with static electricity. The hair stood out straight on the back of Howard's neck and for a moment he thought that the stubble on his cheeks crackled with suppressed energy. He stood back in alarm.
"Sharo," he said, "do you feel anything?"
The other man said nothing, but continued hauling in the heavy net.
"There's something in the air," Howard went on, looking around uneasily, but seeing only the maddening heat waves dancing on the water. "The sunlight… don't you feel it's kind of fierce, beating down on us like this? And there's a tension all around that—"
Sharo interjected quietly, "I know." The edge of the net appeared and they could see shrimps scuttling around in the water below. "It was like this before I found you," Sharo went on, pausing in his efforts for a moment. "It's always like this… before."
"Before what, Sharo?"
"Before someone comes through."
Now Howard understood. The tension he felt in the air was one of expectancy, a waiting for something to happen. And having offered this explanation, Sharo returned to his work.
Howard assumed that the tension would have something to do with the Guardians' manipulation of the environment. So far, all he had were myths and gossip to go by, but it seemed a reasonable assumption that the energies involved in warping space and time would be colossal, and that the entry of even one person into Sanctuary would have some pronounced effects upon the environment—at least until the crossover had been accomplished.
"Will it last much longer?" he asked.
Sharo was short of breath, having taken most of the load. He waited until the net and its contents spilled over into the bottom of the boat and they were standing among a mound of twitching, dying young prawns, before he answered. "Can't rightly say. Guess it takes them a while to prepare the portal for whoever's coming through, so that when the moment's right—bingo!" He snapped his fingers to illustrate the suddenness of the transition. "But don't worry none about it, Howard. Could last a day or more. I've known it to. And we have work to do."
Sharo folded his net over the catch and sat back, exhausted, against the tiller. "That should please the folks over yonder," he said, beaming. "They do a little offshore fishing, but it's always an occasion when I bring in a haul like this."
A fragment of otherwise useless information surfaced from Howard's elusive past. "I always thought that shrimps were deep-sea creatures."
Sharo nodded. "Aye, some is. Not these fellers, though. They like lagoon waters."
Howard withheld a cynical comment. It seemed likely that the Guardians had made this possible, so that Sharo could enjoy his work without undue effort. It would be so like them.
Sharo looked up, squinting against the sunlight. Then he stared out over the water, without really seeing it. His thoughts were elsewhere. "The air was like this," he said, "before I found you."
He explained how he had been sailing home from visiting a friend on a neighboring island. It was early in the evening; the sky had been clear and the moon— the solitary moon—bright and beckoning. Gradually he had become aware that the air around him had undergone a subtle transformation. At first he sensed no more than an uncommon cutting edge to the breeze carrying him home, but the tension increased until he could feel an enormous pressure bearing down upon him. The stars stood out boldly like the brilliant points of spears; the breeze changed direction, and just as he had been about to adjust his sail a mist came down, obscuring the distant beacons that served as a guide. He cursed and wondered how long the mist would remain. For some unaccountable reason the breeze dropped and for a long while he simply drifted. The darkness was nearly absolute; only a little moonlight managed to penetrate the enclosing mist. He sat quite still against his tiller, alert for any rock or reef thrusting out of the waves. He could feel his body straining with the tension all around him, and his ears sang with an intolerable pressure. Then the recalcitrant breeze revived and made a half-hearted attempt to fill his sail. The mist parted suddenly and the sharp, pointed stars began to reappear. The dazzling cold splendor of a nearly full moon illuminated the waters, so that for a moment it seemed almost as bright as day.
"That was when I saw you," he went on. "Floating face down in the water and looking for all the world like a dead man. I sure figured you for a goner. Well, I steered toward you and hauled you aboard. It was only afterwards, when most of the mist had lifted, that I realized the tension was gone. That's how I knew you had come through, although in retrospect it now seems that you were moved from one part of Sanctuary to another." He did not deem it necessary to add, from some other ocean than this.
Now that their catch had been hauled in, it was time to be moving on. Sharo guided the small boat through the lagoon and out into the open sea. He jockeyed with the sail and the wind until they were heading toward the as yet invisible mainland. "'It's only a few hours away," he explained. "With this wind behind us we should be there in time for lunch."
Howard took up his customary position in the front of the boat, shoulders braced against the side. The mound of wriggling shrimps separated him from Sharo. The smell of brine and their catch was heavy in his nostrils but he did not mind, and all around them the smooth surface of the inland sea was like a sheet of hammered metal shimmering in the sunlight. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sun beat down with uncommon intensity; he could feel it burning his skin. The coarse feel of his clothes rubbed like sandpaper against his flesh and he could not bear to look up for very long. He kept his eyes closed for most of the time, waiting. After a while he grew hungry and his throat began to burn. It was only then that he realized they had brought no fresh water with them. What if the wind died and they were becalmed? They had oars with them, but rowing would be an arduous business. Finally he calmed his anxiety and hoped that Sharo knew what they were about.
They sailed on, tacking with the capricious wind.
After an hour or so the heat grew less oppressive. Howard wasn't sure if there had been an atmospheric change, or if he had just grown accustomed to the sunlight. The unsettling tension remained in the air, although it also seemed to have eased somewhat. The ocean still threw back the sun's energy in shimmering shafts of light that seared his eyeballs if he gazed at it for more than a moment. Once he looked up and was surprised to see some wisps of cloud on the horizon ahead of them. Soon these scattered remnants of cumulus were strewn across the sky, gradually began bunching together.
A short while later a long, narrow smudge of land appeared on the horizon. It was a distinct and distant purple, undulating nervously through the heat haze. Howard's hopes fell when he could discern no mountains. But perhaps farther inland, as Sharo had suggested?
He leaned forward eagerly, watching the mainland approach with a tantalizing slowness. His ears drummed with the piercing tension that surrounded them, but he tried not to think about it and focused his attention on the land ahead. Sharo sat quietly, minding the tiller and marking their approach with a keen eye.
The wavering ribbon of land changed slowly from dusky purple to pleasant hues of green and brown. Howard could not see many trees; in contrast to Sharo's island this seemed to be a place of wide plains and narrow valleys. Only down near the beach was there a significant number of small, stunted trees with luxuriant foliage. They were of a type unknown to Howard.
This time there was no calm and sheltered lagoon for them to drop anchor. The waves rolled in ponderously until they reached the beach, boiling into ragged surf in places where they spent their energy on unseen reefs. Sharo had his hands full maneuvering their small boat through this boisterous surf. When they were still some distance from the shore and beginning to wallow unpleasantly in shallow water, a number of people appeared on the beach and rushed forward to greet them. Howard counted eight or nine of them, three of them women. With their eager assistance their boat was soon high and dry on the beach.
"Welcome, Sharo!" someone cried, and they were soon surrounded by smiling faces. They pressed forward, eager to discover what he had brought them.
They were all dressed in bright-colored, loose-fitting garments that appeared to have been woven from a strong and natural fiber.
Sharo smiled back and waved, thanking them for their assistance. He showed them the large mound of shrimps in the bottom of the boat and said, "Time to organize a feast, I reckon." He noticed some of them eyeing Howard curiously and hastened to add, "This is my friend, Howard Landry. A newcomer. You'll get to meet him later."
Some of the people nodded a silent welcome to Howard, and none of them seemed disposed to bother him with questions so soon after his arrival.
They climbed out of the boat. Willing hands took the weight of the net filled with shrimps and hefted it to their shoulders. Sharo and his friend were left to take their time and make their way up the beach while the others hurried ahead with their gift.
The village lay only a short distance from the sea. It was a collection of a dozen or so round, mud-brick dwellings with thatched roofs and open doorways, set around a central communal area. Beyond the houses Howard saw cultivated fields and the hazy outlines of people working among them. Even here the vibrant air made it difficult to distinguish details in the distance.
As they drew closer he saw carefully tended vegetable plots and attractive gardens around individual dwellings. The air was filled with the comforting sounds of farmyard animals and the movements of domestic pets. All in all it seemed a most relaxing place to be, and the people seemed to be able and happy in their work.
"You look dry and thirsty," one of the villagers commented. "There's fresh water over yonder. Wine, if you prefer."
Sharo declined the latter. "Not now, with all respect. Water will do fine. Then we'd like to bathe."
"Sure. You know where to go, Sharo."
They crossed the common area and passed between two of the attractive houses until they came to a spot sheltered by a high, wooden trellis, covered with vines. In the shade underneath sat a huge water tank supported on stilts. Sharo took a gourd hanging from the side of this and turned the faucet near the bottom of the tank. Cool, fresh water gushed out. He took a long gulp, then passed the gourd to Howard, who drank thirstily.
"You'll be formally introduced at the feast tonight," Sharo explained. "These are a rather formal people, as you'll discover, but pleasant enough, for all that."
Afterwards Sharo showed him a clear stream but a small way from the village where they were able to bathe undisturbed. They lounged in the water for a long time, content to let the sun ease the aches from their flesh. Howard could hear people working nearby, and the sound of their joyful singing seemed to ease the annoying tension in the air. Away to his left, the roof of another small dwelling peeped over the top of a rise. He wondered who might live there.
After a while Sharo leaned over and offered him a cake of soap. It was curiously rough-textured and seemed more like a block of lard, but it foamed readily enough. There was a mischievous gleam in Sharo's eyes when he said, "Care to use my knife now? The soap should soften the whiskers, if you need to take them off."
Howard thought for a moment and decided to take the risk. With no mirror to help him, shaving proved an arduous business. But the blade was sharp enough without being too dangerous, and with Sharo's whimsical guidance he finished a rough and ready job that left him with only a few slight cuts. The cool waters of the stream soon closed them and his flesh tingled with new found freedom.
On their way back to the village he noticed several small children playing in nearby fields. This surprised him and caused an unpleasant memory to stir briefly in the backwaters of his mind. His expression became stern, for he resented the way his past divulged such ambiguous references without ever giving him a clear remembrance.
They passed the remainder of the day comfortably in pleasant surroundings. Sharo found them a spot underneath a wide spreading tree on the outskirts of the village, and some light food was brought to them. Howard found himself confronted once again with what seemed to be the staple diet of these people: fine bread and cheese, some tomatoes and cucumber, freshly sliced, and a flagon of white wine. And when they had worked their way through this repast they were left undisturbed until evening.
"Nice people," Sharo murmured, his mind agreeably mulled by the light wine. "They sure don't trouble a body none."
The wine helped to lull their senses and for a while they drowsed. In his mind Howard was thinking how simple and serene were the lives of these people, and of Sharo. They reminded him of the forest people he had first met in Sanctuary, and for a moment he was beguiled with the thought of putting aside his quest for a time and simply enjoying himself in such efficacious surroundings. But the feeling was momentary; he had but to consider his stolen past to feel a resurgence of his wrath against the Guardians. He reminded himself that he must be careful and remain ever vigilant, lest he be tempted by the idyllic nature of his surroundings.
When they woke from their short sleep the land was already crowned by a vigorous sunset. Low-lying clouds had crowded the sky with the promise of rain and only a narrow strip of sky along the horizon remained relatively clear.
Howard rubbed his eyes and sat up. He felt refreshed, but he faced the evening with some uncertainty. Lanterns had been lit above open doorways on every dwelling, and fires blazed merrily in the center of the common ground. People passed to and fro regularly, and laughter and small talk came drifting over to them. He could hear the brisk yapping of a number of small dogs and he could see several rangy cats prowling around the outskirts of the gathering. The pungent aroma of freshly cooked seafood proved irresistible.
Sharo sat up. "Time to join the folks, I reckon."
They set off in the direction of the fires.
Howard was pleased to discover that the word "feast" had not been mere hyperbole on Sharo's part. As they drew closer to the happy crowd of children and adults gathered around the fires, he saw a long trestle table laid out with a bewildering variety of fresh fruits, salads, and what smelled very much like freshly baked bread, straight from the oven. Sharo's gift had been variously cooked. Some of the shrimps had been simply cast into boiling water for a few minutes and then quickly removed, to be covered with melted butter by many willing hands. Others had been shelled and then stir-fried with finely chopped vegetables, while still more had been cooked earlier shelled, and left to be served cold with the delicious salads. Children crowded close to the table, squealing with delight as they stripped the shells from the freshly cooked morsels. Flagons of chilled white wine and sturdier reds were spaced along the table, together with many ceramic goblets.
Howard counted close to forty people gathered around the fires. All were dressed in a splendid variety of colors; the women mostly wore ankle-length dresses and the men shorts and long over-shirts. They were all of good humor and obviously delighted with the opportunity for the festivities that Sharo's catch had given them. Their enthusiasm seemed spontaneous and generous, and he thought this was in striking contrast to the equally friendly, yet somehow somber, people of the forest.
He entered into the feast somewhat half-heartedly. He was still oppressed by the tension in the air, and he mentioned this again to Sharo while he selected a plate of salad.
A man nearby overheard his complaint. He was a tall, good-looking man in his late thirties. He leaned across and said, good naturedly, "Just someone comin' through. Not long to go now. You'll get used to it."
Sharo said, "My friend's a little bothered by it. He's only just come through himself."
This seemed to put the man at ease. "I understand," he said, smiled, and turned away.
Howard stared uneasily into the darkness beyond the village. "How much longer will it be, Sharo?"
"Soon, like our friend said. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe…" He left the sentence unfinished while he drained a goblet of wine.
Sharo bided his time before introducing Howard in the manner to which these people were accustomed. When nearly every one of the villagers had finished their main course and were either sitting around talking quietly among themselves and quaffing their good wine, or merely wandering around in the half-light beyond the common ground, he stepped forward and made his announcement.
"Friends," he began, holding up his hands to gain their attention, "I sure hope you enjoyed your sumptuous meal. But now I'd like you to meet my friend, Howard Landry. Howard, step forward."
Feeling slightly foolish, Howard did as he was told. He stepped forward and stood beside Sharo, with the fires behind them and a semicircle of friendly faces staring at them. There was a warmth and yet at the same time a tingle in the air that set his teeth on edge. The trees on the edge of the village seemed about to move, so very taut had the air become.
"Howard's only just come through," Sharo went on, "and in a way he's been badly done by. I fished him out of the ocean only a few days ago, and for a while I thought he was done for. But I heard a feeble heartbeat, and brought him home with me. Now he's recovered, except for one important point: he has no memory of his life before coming through, and although he has waited for the Guardians to help him in this regard, they have not done so."
A sudden hush descended upon the villagers when they heard this. A few of them eyed Howard for the first time with uncertainty, and perhaps a hint of distrust.
Sharo paused for a moment for effect, then went on. "Howard feels that the Guardians may have erased all memory of his past, for reasons he has been unable to fathom, and as they have not so far expressed any interest in his case, he has resolved to seek them out, personally, and confront them with his plight." His sharp eyes raked the crowd. "A man can't make do with only the butt end of his life, now can he? Howard needs help to find the Guardians, and I thought perhaps someone here might be able to offer some advice on how to find them. I've heard tell as how they can be found in a citadel, which some have called a fortress, high up on a mountain at the very center of Sanctuary. But I have no way of knowing if this be fact or fancy, for I never spoke with any man who had ever been there. Have any of you ever spoken with such a person?"
There was complete and utter silence from the villagers when he finished speaking. Some of them gazed at him with something close to fear in their eyes, as if his plight threatened them as well, and there was a general movement of uneasiness among them. For a long while nobody spoke; the very air hummed with uncertainty. Then, just as Sharo was about to elaborate again in an effort to elicit some response, from the back of the crowd someone spoke.
"I know of such a place."
The people in front turned slowly round, startled expressions on their faces. Slowly their ranks parted to make way for the person who had spoken. They revealed a tall, dark-haired young woman, dressed in a manner subtly different from her companions. Her face wore a somber expression and she had the general manner of one who knew whereof she spoke. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward into the firelight.
Howard studied her carefully. The space between them seemed to vibrate more intensely than before, and the glow from the lanterns suspended from the circle of houses danced before his eyes.
The woman stood with her legs braced slightly apart and with her hands on her lips, staring at Howard. She had a proud and haughty beauty that showed she would stand for no nonsense. She wore a dark-green shirt and an ankle-length skirt of the same color. Her feet were bare. Her air of determined self-sufficiency caught him off guard.
Howard moistened his dry lips and said, "You know of such a place?"
She nodded. It was a casual gesture. Sharo confided to him in a whisper, "Her name's Vivian. She's a strange one. Wanders a lot, or so I hear. But if anyone knows of such a mountain…” His eyes glowed keenly with interest.
"This… mountain," Howard went on. "Is it far from here?"
Again she nodded, regarding him with what he thought was a little contempt. And indeed it was true that he felt weak and ineffectual in her company.
He said, "Could you show me where this fabled mountain is? Could you draw me a map?"
She smiled wryly. "Maps are of no use here, Howard." He thought her voice softened slightly when she said this, and that her smile was a little more generous than it might have been.
His eardrums were stretched like drum skins. By now the villagers had become restless and had even lost interest in Howard's cause. Some had stood up and were surveying the surrounding darkness with uneasy eyes. The tension was mounting inexorably, and this was the first time he had seen any evidence of unease in these people. He felt strangely satisfied that he was no longer alone in his intense experience of the vibrant air. But for the moment it was only the woman, Vivian, and her bold claim that occupied his thoughts; the rest was unimportant.
The group was breaking up. People were standing around waiting, their expressions uneasy. Even Sharo seemed unsure of what might happen, and every cat and dog had crawled quietly away into the darkness.
Howard's eyes remained fastened upon the proud young woman. "If you can't draw me a map," he said slowly, "then can you show me where the mountain is? Can you take me there!"
The woman did not answer right away. She seemed to be weighing his request in the light of her own commitments, and she was just about to reply when the night air suddenly shook and quivered, like a wild animal straining at the leash. The fires sputtered and flames fluttered madly. Lanterns bobbed and danced about over open doorways and the sudden increase in pressure seemed about to burst Howard's eardrums. Space seemed to fold in upon them, distorting the stars.
The vibrant air could no longer contain its tumescence. Somewhere out in the darkness, beyond the gyrating perimeter of ghostly lanterns, a sudden scream pierced the night. It cut deep into Howard's soul, like nothing else he had ever heard. A moment later it was followed by another, and then another, each more subdued than the last. Then by quiet weeping.
Soon everything was still. And silent. The awful pressure had been driven from the air. Howard and the woman stood quite still, staring at each other.
Waiting.
For a long while nobody moved.
Howard felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from him. The surrounding air no longer pressed in upon him and the excruciating tension had disappeared. He could breathe again without conscious effort.
Nobody spoke.
The villagers were frozen in tableau, as if they were waiting for the screams to be repeated, yet secretly hoping that they wouldn't. When there were no more disturbing sounds from the darkness, they began to unwind. A few of them even looked around sheepishly as though embarrassed by their behavior.
Howard was the first to speak. "What on earth was that?" he asked.
One of the villagers looked at him and shrugged. "Just someone comin' through." His manner suggested that this simple comment explained everything.
Howard savored the explanation for a moment. So that's how it feels from the inside, he mused. But he continued to be astonished that such intense preparation and manipulation of their environment was necessary in order to allow another person through.
He waited a moment longer and then said, "What are we all standing around for? Shouldn't we be out there looking for whoever came through?" He could not forget the screams nor the weeping that had followed. It was dark and lonely beyond the warm circle of firelight.
People nearby shook their heads, including the man who had addressed Howard. Now he said, "No need for that. People who've just come through, they need some time to themselves. You know, getting used to being here. Whoever it was, they'll find us soon enough, when they're good and ready. The lights of the village will draw them. No sense in frightening them out of their wits." Around him heads nodded solemn agreement.
Howard was shocked by their casual attitude. To him all that mattered was that someone was wandering alone out there in the darkness, as weak and exhausted and probably afraid as he had been when he had first come through, only this time there would be no helpful guide to assist them. To be told that it wasn't considered necessary to make some sort of move to help the newcomer seemed callous.
Sharo gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Easy, Howard. The man's right enough. The lights of this village must be visible for miles, and from the sounds we heard, this newcomer didn't seem very far away."
"But you heard that cry!" Howard protested.
"Aye. But 'twas probably shock and no more than that. They'll be safe enough out there, don't you worry. Nothing to harm anyone, I assure you. That's what Sanctuary is for: to take care of lost ones."
Now that the crisis had passed, the villagers began to move around. Some wandered back to the long table and picked half-heartedly at what little food was left. The last of Sharo's gift from the sea had disappeared some time ago, but several fresh flagons were brought to the table and there was still much dark bread being handed about. Gradually the evening gave way to quiet carouse as the wine was passed around. Some found comfortable places close by the dwindling fires while others wandered away into the shadows where they could commune in reasonable privacy. Someone produced a stringed instrument and his solitary, lonely voice began to accompany a languid melody. A feeling of warm lethargy descended over the village, in marked contrast to the tension that had been dominant before. Now that the unknown newcomer had been allowed entry into Sanctuary, the night air felt serene and at peace with itself, like the gentle aftermath of a summer storm.
Sharo did his best to charm the frown of concern from Howard's face. He offered him a flagon of rich red wine and for a while they passed it back and forth between them, the younger man brooding all the time on the ambiguity of his refuge.
An hour passed before the stranger appeared on the outskirts of the group. The young man near the fire ceased plucking languid melody from his lute and a hush crept over the village. Every eye followed his until they located the newcomer.
She stood quite still in the zone of deep shadow between the fading firelight and the lanterns perched over the doorways. Yet there was enough light for them to see that her clothes were in shreds, that her face was bruised and ugly, and that her hair was long and straggly. The firelight captured in her dull eyes showed them to be wild and frightened.
At first nobody moved or spoke, for they did not wish to alarm her with any sudden movement. After a while she took a few uncertain steps forward, then froze. It seemed she could advance no more than this; something kept her rooted to the spot. And now she was close enough for the firelight to show in bold relief the deep cuts in her arms and legs and the bloody nature of her bare feet, and the way her frail body shivered in the night air.
When Howard could not contain his compassion any longer he stepped forward to help her, but was restrained in an instant.
He had taken only a few angry steps when the woman called Vivian held up her hand, silently commanding him to stay where he was. So imperious was her manner that he could not refuse. A wave of embarrassment washed over him and he looked away. When he looked up he saw her walking slowly across to meet the newcomer.
The frightened young girl did not move, but watched her approach with pitiful eyes. She looked like some poor animal betrayed by her masters and paralyzed with fright.
The villagers maintained their silence. With Howard they watched the dark-haired woman step close and whisper something to the stranger, then rest her hand gently on tne poor creature's thin shoulders. The girl gave a soft moan and collapsed into her arms like a broken doll, her eyes closed and all color drained from her face.
Only then was the deep silence broken. The villagers began talking quietly among themselves, and within moments the wine flowed freely again. None of them seemed at all upset by the scene they had just witnessed.
Howard restrained his anger and walked quietly over to where Vivian held the young girl tenderly against her. "Is she all right?" he asked quietly.
Vivian eyed him cooly "She's just fainted. There's nothing to worry about."
"But her face… those scars! Surely—"
"I said, she'll be all right, Howard."
"But is there anything I can do? Does she need a doctor?"
With what seemed like casual ease, Vivian lifted the young girl into her arms. Her strength at first surprised him, but when he noticed the broad sweep of her shoulders and her well-muscled arms and legs, he understood.
"I will look after her," she said. "She will be better in the morning."
None of the villagers nearby saw fit to challenge her on this point, so there seemed little point in his doing so. This woman seemed to know full well what she was doing while he… he was just a useless outsider.
He stood there while she carried the unconscious girl out of the firelight and away from the village, into the darkness from whence she had come.
He felt Sharo's presence beside him. "Where is she taking her?" he asked.
"To her house, I expect," Sharo replied. "Don't worry. Vivian will take good care of her. She's a strange one, all right, but a good one. Knows a darn sight more than the rest of them here. Cares more, too."
Howard watched the strange figure until she had disappeared into the night with her burden, wondering what frightful terrors the young girl had endured before finding Sanctuary. And his heart grew hard when he thought of the outside world and all its vicissitudes.
He turned around and found Sharo staring up at the night sky with a bewildered expression. "What is it?" he asked.
Sharo looked at him, and for the first time Howard saw a glimmer of fear in the older man's eyes. Without a word he raised one hand and motioned Howard to look up.
High in the sky rode a dazzling full moon. Slightly lower, and a little to the right of this magnificent orb, rode a smaller moon, shaped in a delicate quarter crescent. A tingle crept along Howard's scalp when he saw this wonder for the second time. But this feeling was not shared by his companion.
"Howard," he all but whispered, "there are two moons."
Howard nodded, saying quietly, "I tried to tell you that this morning. Last night—"
But Sharo had turned angrily away from the awesome sight overhead. "There were never two," he insisted, "only one. I should know. I've been here long enough."
He stopped suddenly and eyed Howard strangely. This was a Sharo he had never seen before, a man frightened half out of his wits by the sight of two moons in the night sky.
"You see," Howard said. "That proves we're not on Earth, but some other planet, in some godforsaken part of the galaxy we can't even guess at. Now do you understand why I must find the Guardians? There's more at stake than recovering my past, I want to know where I am, and how I came to be here."
But Sharo didn't seem to hear him, or to even care what he was saying. He looked like a man preoccupied with a private obsession. He looked sullen and angry, and when Howard had finished his speech, he swung upon him angrily.
"There weren't but one, I tell you, until you came here. You hear me? One." He strode away in anger, grabbing a half-empty flagon from the trestle table and disappearing into the shadows.
Howard let him go. He was too stunned to move and it would take him some time to work out the other man's accusation. He studied the night sky again, marvelling at the full moon and the smaller crescent shape riding beneath it. What had Sharo meant with his wild talk? He had implied that it was his fault that there were now two moons in the sky where before there had been only one… or so he had insisted.
Howard shook his head. It was all too much for him to grasp so late at night, what with the traumatic arrival of the strange young girl, his confrontation with the mysterious Vivian, and now this final incongruous accusation by his friend and rescuer.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow everything will work out. Too much wine could have addled Sharo's wits. Perhaps the morning would bring a breath of sanity to their relationship, for he was loath to lose his friend's good will for such an absurd reason.
That night he slept on the grass without even a blanket for a covering. Warm air came wafting in gently from the sea and coaxed him slowly off to sleep.
In the morning Sharo was surly and withdrawn. A strangeness had overcome him and Howard was unable to penetrate his uncommon mien. When challenged on this point he replied angrily that Howard had no business messing up his world.
"But I don't know what you mean!" Howard cried, exasperated. "How can it be my fault if there be two moons in the sky, instead of the one you insist on?"
Sharo looked evasive.
"Well, come on," Howard prodded, "surely I deserve some sort of explanation? Have you… checked with the villagers? Did anyone else see two moons last night?"
Sharo nodded, with obvious reluctance. "Aye, several of them."
"Well, then?"
Sharo looked uncomfortable. He stared at Howard and a glimmer of their old friendship appeared in his eyes. But this was only a token recognition of all they had shared. "The fact is, Howard, that none of them see anything strange in that. There have always been two moons, or so they tell me." A deep sadness seemed to have laid hold of his heart and he gazed toward the sea with an impatient look. "Well, I suppose they have a right to think what they like, as have we all." He gave a wry grin. "Forgive my inconsiderate rage, Howard. I really meant thee no injustice. It's just that, like I said, there was only one moon… until you came." He gave an apologetic shrug and began walking down toward the beach.
"Just a moment—" Howard hurried after him and grabbed his arm. "Where are you off to now?" He had sensed a sudden urgency and determination in Sharo's step.
"Going back to my island," Sharo answered, without looking back. "Picked up some supplies earlier this morning. These people are uncommon generous, Howard, I'm sure you'll agree." His voice softened and he grasped Howard's arm affectionately. "I mean you no ill will, lad, and I hope your quest proves fruitful. But before you begin, give some consideration to the possibility that this amnesia of yours might not be the work of the Guardians. You may well have brought it upon yourself."
Howard looked puzzled. "I… I don't know what you mean. How could I?"
"Maybe there were many things you wanted to forget," Sharo went on, gently. "And the way you almost drowned. Never forget for a moment Howard that there is always a deep, dark part in each of us waiting to destroy us. Remember what I have said, and take care." With that said, he turned to go.
"May I walk with you?" Howard asked. Sharo nodded. Together they made their way down to the beach. They got the boat into the water and Sharo climbed on board.
"One last thing," he said. "Speak kindly with the lady Vivian. She is… not like the others, and knows much that will help you. But bide your time; make no rush upon her generosity. Take care of yourself, Howard. It is possible that we might meet again when all this has been straightened out."
There was no willing breeze to fill the sail. Grumbling, Sharo broke out his oars and began to row. The boat moved a fraction against the incoming tide, then a little more, and soon picked up pace.
Howard saw his friend off with a heavy heart. A pall of gloom affected their parting and he was loath to express his loss. But he could still say farewell.
"Goodbye, Sharo," he called out, waving.
The figure in the boat turned around for an instant and waved back, then turned to face the open sea. His boat grew smaller against the sky, sailing onward with a fitful sail.
Howard understood Sharo's eagerness to return home. Perhaps he was afraid that his island might no longer be there, and that he was doomed to drift for some time in a world that boasted two moons and which he refused to call his own.
He watched until the boat became a tiny smudge on the horizon. Just before it disappeared from view he thought that the reluctant breeze freshened a trifle, and that the distant sail trembled and began to swell.
I hope you reach your island, Sharo. Perhaps the Guardians would ensure that he did.
He turned around and walked back up the beach. His expression was grim but determined as he headed toward the village.
There were very few people abroad. Most of them would be working in the fields, he reasoned. But he spied an elderly woman sitting on her doorstep weaving some multicolored threads on a small hand loom. He approached her cautiously, not wanting to disturb her concentration.
"Good morning," he said quietly. "Could you by any chance tell me where I might find the lady, Vivian, and the young girl who came through last night? I believe they are together."
The woman gestured with her head without looking up from her work. "She has a small house outside the village, only a short distance from here. To reach it, walk between those houses over there and follow the path until you reach the cornfield on your right. Her dwelling is just past that. It overlooks the stream where you and your friend bathed yesterday."
Howard remembered. From where they had lounged so indolently after their voyage he could recall the thatched roof peeping over the edge of the hill. "Thank you," he said.
The woman had not interrupted her work from the moment he arrived. Now she did not even look up to acknowledge him. She had eyes only for the intricate patterns she was weaving.
He found the narrow path and followed it past the cultivated fields until he reached the corn she had described. The sheaves stood tall and golden in the sunlight and the air was embroidered with the busy sounds of bees and insects. People working in the fields looked up and smiled when he passed; some even waved a greeting. Their warmth lifted his hopes and he smiled and waved back.
Vivian's house was smaller than those in the village. No garden gave it decoration and no lantern hung above the open doorway. Only a dry and unhealthy-looking grapevine had spread itself around the entrance, and there was no sign that it had ever borne fruit or was ever likely to.
She might have been waiting for him, so still did she seem to be sitting on her doorstep. But as he drew closer he saw that she was indeed busy; there were bundles of loose thread beside her and two large, steaming pots before her. She was engaged in dying the various threads, and some were stretched out to dry on a woven mat, in colors of bright yellow and purple.
He said, "Good morning, Vivian."
She looked up, but he was not rewarded with a smile
"How is it with the girl?" he asked. "She looked so distraught last night I wondered about her."
"She's all right. A good night's rest made all the difference."
"But her wounds?"
"They were not serious; just surface scratches. I bathed her and put her to bed. She's better now.” With the aid of a long wooden ladle, she lifted a bundle of bright, yellow thread from a steaming pot, drained it for a minute or so, then carefully placed it to one side. She nodded toward the stream below. "She's down there."
Howard could see the girl sitting on a flat rock that projected out into the water. Her long hair was flat against her back, drying in the sunshine. Instead of the rags she had arrived in she was now wearing a simple green shift that accentuated the sharp contours of her body.
As though guessing his thoughts, Vivian said, "Don't disturb her. She does not seem to need company, and she certainly doesn't wish to speak. Her name is Marion, but she will say no more than that. I think she needs time to adjust. Some take longer than others."
Howard found that easy to believe. He kept his eyes on the girl for a while, waiting for her to turn around. But moments passed and she never once looked back toward the house, so he looked again at Vivian. He was impressed by the way she worked so industriously at her dying, as intent upon her work as the old woman had been with her weaving.
He said, "May I ask what you're doing?"
She replied without looking up. "Dying thread for the women in the village. None of them knew how to weave until I showed them."
"That thread looks rather large for weaving cloth," he said.
"It's not meant for clothing. For decoration. Have you ever heard of macrame?" He shook his head. She stirred her pots carefully, eyeing him with her cool eyes. "You came here to discuss what we talked about last night." This was not a question but a simple statement of fact.
He said, "You mentioned that you knew where I might find the citadel of the Guardians. That you knew where their mountain was, and how I might get there— to the center of Sanctuary."
She was thoughtful for a moment, studying her work. Then she said, "Do you still wish to go there?"
Her question caught him slightly off guard. He thought of Sharo's parting words and how he might have suppressed his past for reasons of his own. But when he weighed this against his divine anger it was not found wanting. These answers must be found, and only the Guardians could furnish them. "Yes," he replied. "I still wish to go there. I must speak with the Guardians on their own ground, for it is apparent that they have deserted me on mine." He regarded her intently. "And you have seen their mountain, at the very center of Sanctuary?"
She nodded. "That I have."
He took a deep breath. "Is it far from here?"
Her expression at that moment carried a vague hint of contempt. "I have walked many times farther than the distance from this village to their mountain. But yes, you might find it an uncomfortable distance, if you are not used to walking."
Her evasiveness bothered him. "Can you be more explicit? How many days travel?"
She regarded him coldly. "Many days. I can say no more. Distance is never constant in Sanctuary. One rarely travels in a straight line to… anywhere."
He said, "Sharo called you a wanderer. He said you knew more about this place than anyone in the village. He implied that you could help me greatly."
That brought a touch of a smile to her face. "Sharo is kind. Yes, I do move around a lot. These people—" Her eyes wandered briefly in the direction of the village. "These people stay in one place. They prefer it that way. I can never stay still very long; I get bored too quickly. As your friend said, I enjoy moving around, seeing different places, meeting other kinds of people."
Using her ladle she lifted a bundle of purple-dyed thread from a pot and drained it carefully before putting it aside. "It's a big place, Howard," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "More vast than you could ever imagine."
"You said you could draw me a map, but that it would not be of any use. Why is that?"
She shrugged. "Because the land is never the same. It… it changes. You have to be out there to understand what I'm saying. As I remember, it took only seven days for me to walk from their mountain to here, but it might take more than twice as long to go back. Then again, we might reach it in a day." She smiled when she saw how confused he was. "But don't worry too much about it, Howard; I am sure we can find it for you."
He said humbly, "Would you at least start me off, show me where to start, give me some direction to follow? You see, I have to start somewhere if I'm ever to find them."
She could not mistake the sharp edge of desperation in his words. "Forgive me, Howard, but I had forgotten the urgency of your quest. It has something to do with losing your memory, is that it?"
He nodded. His downcast expression had moved her to compassion. She said gently, "Howard, I could start you on your way, but how would you recognize their mountain? There are so many of them in Sanctuary."
She smiled to dispel his fears. "Wait a little while, and I will show you the way. I will walk with you even to the very bottom of this mountain you seek: that way you will know it is theirs. But first I have other things to do that must, of necessity, occupy me a little longer. Be patient, Howard, and I will lead you. But for the moment…" Her attention wandered in the direction of the small stream below them. Howard followed her gaze and saw the girl Marion climbing toward them. She moved slowly, as if time had ceased to matter, and even at a distance he was conscious of the deep, brooding nature of her expression.
"I must see her settled down," Vivian said quietly. "At the moment I fear she is doomed to suffer tragically from whatever she has fled, unless something can be done to persuade her to accept this refuge."
By now the girl had reached the top of the rise. She paused for a moment, seeing Howard for the first time. But she drew confidence from Vivian's smiling face and she walked toward them. Her expression had not changed; his presence had evoked no fresh meaning in her dull eyes.
She stopped beside them. Her gaze wandered briefly to Howard then back to Vivian. She scarcely gave him more than a cursory examination.
Vivian said, "There's some salad on the table inside, if you're feeling hungry.” She nodded toward Howard. "This is Howard Landry, Marion. A friend."
The girl's eyes focused upon him vaguely, then looked away. She stepped through the open doorway of Marion's house and disappeared inside. Her appearance reminded Howard of a sleepwalker.
Vivian answered his unspoken question. "Adjustment is difficult for some. It does not always turn out for the best for those who come through." Having said this, she returned her attention to the skeins of dyed thread, spreading them out in the sunlight. It was obvious that she did not wish to discuss the girl any further.
Howard waited for a moment, then said, "Can we discuss the citadel at some other time?" He had resolved to be patient, for he knew this woman could help him.
"Tomorrow," she said. "See me tomorrow. Things should be better for her then… or worse. We shall see."
While they had been talking the girl had reappeared. She stood for a moment in the doorway, carrying a half-chewed piece of bread in one hand. With her free hand she pushed ineffectually at the whisps of hair trailing across her face. Her head was cocked a little to one side, as though she was listening to some far-off sound only she could hear. Then she walked past them and around the side of the house and down the path to the village. Vivian made no move to stop her, and she motioned to Howard not to interfere. After walking only a few yards the girl turned off the path and began climbing the slight rise to the cornfield.
Gradually, they, too, became aware of the distant sound. Someone working in the field was happily singing snatches of old, familiar songs as he weeded the soil. It was these fragments of melody that drew her.
Howard frowned and narrowed his eyes against the bright sky. For a moment it seemed that her small figure wavered, like an object viewed through a summer's haze. He could have sworn that, for an instant, he had been able to see the line of the horizon through her frail body, and that the sunlight had penetrated her flesh as though it was as insubstantial as a ghost.
He felt his scalp prickle. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again the mirage persisted. She moved like a fragile wraith towards the cornfield, so intangible that a gentle breeze might have wafted her out of sight
He said, "Vivian, am I seeing things, or is something strange happening to that child?"
Vivian shook her head. "No, what you see I also see. That is what troubles me, Howard. I fear she is not really with us… yet."
"But what does that mean?"
"That her transition was not completely successful and that a part of her still resides outside, drawing her back. She has come through without being fully aware of the consequences of her action. But we will have an answer soon enough. Be patient, Howard. All will be well in the fullness of time."
By now Marion had reached the edge of the cornfield and was standing quite still, leaning against the wire fencing and watching the man at work. He seemed unaware of her presence, and she made no move to attract his attention. She seemed content merely to watch and listen to his scraps of melody. And Howard saw that her figure was now firm and steady against the skyline; the momentary aberration had passed. The experience left him curiously shaken.
He made his way back to the village. Vivian had given him the name of a man to see about getting the proper boots and clothing he would need to make his way across Sanctuary. "Ask for Norman, he's a fine cobbler. His wife Jenny is a good seamstress and will know what is best. Tell them I sent you. They will also be able to provide you with a shoulder pack and some odds and ends that will come in handy. Just explain where you're going."
He followed her advice. Norman had a house close to the beach. The outside walls were festooned with all manner of fancy footwear, from thigh-high boots to preposterous shoes with curled and pointed toes. A few were plain, but mostly the workmanship reflected the somewhat flamboyant style of the villagers. Many were patchworked in brilliant colors and the quality of the leather was excellent. Howard wondered how they came by such material.
"People often come to trade," Norman explained. He was a small, genial man with hardly any hair. His wife, Jenny, was warm and comely and a trifle plump. Howard found much to admire in the workmanship of her trousers and jackets; they were superbly tailored and he had no trouble finding an exact and comfortable fit in both. Her handiwork lacked the daring color of her husband's; she preferred to work in monotones of green and brown, which after all were the very colors of their landscape.
"Vivian said you could help me out with some extra things," he said. "I… I'll be making a rather long trek and I'll be needing—"
Norman winked. "You leave it to us. Good strong boots is what you'll be wanting, to keep up with the vagaries of the ground. Then there's the matter of a shoulder pack and some camping-out materials. We'll fix you up, lad."
Howard was overcome by such generosity. "But what can I give in return?"
The little cobbler eyed him curiously. "You came in with Sharo, didn't you? And didn't you bring a fine catch of shrimp with you? Well, we're more than glad to help out in return. There's no need of any cash flow in Sanctuary, Howard. Everyone has whatever they need, as I'm sure you'll find out… if you haven't already. Now, about those boots…"
He selected a stout pair with thick soles, taking Norman's advice on the matter. His new clothes had at first seemed tough and coarse, but once he had put them on he was surprised to discover how soothing they felt, unlike the oversize shirt and trousers Sharo had given him.
"You'll be needing a good jacket," Jenny observed. "Some parts of Sanctuary have a way of getting cold, and not only at night."
He experienced a moment of puzzlement. He said, "Jenny, where does your thread come from, that you weave so marvellously well?"
She seemed surprised that he should ask. "Why, we trade for it, like everything else. The leather Norman works with, the thread Vivian dyes for us. We trade our foodstuffs with the travellers."
"What travellers, Jenny?"
"Why, there's lots of them. Surely you've met some of them by now? Nomads, gypsies, whatever you like to call them. The ones who will not or cannot stay long enough in any one place. The wanderers, trading bits and pieces of this and that, here and there, never happy unless they're on the move."
He thought of Vivian and smiled. Now he understood Sharo's advice. She was a strange one all right: a wanderer; a gypsy.
Gypsy. Trading not only material things but skills and information among the people of Sanctuary, enabling those without previous experience to acquire some and helping them to take pride in the product of their work.
Gypsy. He felt a warm feeling inside him when he recognized an affinity with these nomads, and if he had ever doubted that Vivian would indeed lead him to the abode of the Guardians, then he could not do so now.
He told the couple he would come back later for his shoulder pack and the other necessities. Clad in his strange new clothes he wandered down to the beach for a while, wanting to be alone. He watched the waves roll in with monotonous regularity, brooding upon his friendship with Sharo and all that had happened to him since his arrival in Sanctuary.
Although he had promised Vivian he would see her again on the morrow, he was consumed by a restless urge to see her now. There were still some things he needed to know before he set out in search of the fabled mountain.
He followed the narrow path out of the village and past the cultivated fields. The landscape drowsed as though it was high summer, yet despite the towering discrepancy of the corn, the nature of some of the crops suggested that it was more like early spring.
As he drew close to Vivian's house he grew apprehensive, for some inexplicable reason. There was no tension in the air such had plagued him during the days before, but rather a more subtle displacement, as if the very atoms in and around his body were poised for some as yet unknown activity. He felt uneasy, but chided himself for letting fancy overtake him. Why, it was probably no more than the pleasant summer heat prickling his skin.
He breasted the slight rise and the house lay before him, nestling in a gentle fold in the land. Away to his left the clear stream coursed quietly on its way through its time-worn cleft in the ground. The land sloped steeply away to his right from the house, forming a crest that hid the distant land from view. And it was up this incline that he saw two figures toiling.
He came to a standstill, recognizing Vivian and the girl. Marion was well ahead, scrambling almost on her hands and knees, as if some devil were driving her to the top of the rise. He heard the older woman call out, "Marion," but it was a forlorn sound, and even as he watched she ceased climbing and stood watching the girl continue her climb.
The girl reached the top of the rise. Howard caught a glimpse of her face; it was flushed and she was breathing heavily. But it was her eyes that most impressed him: they were wide and terrified, like some trapped animal. The poor child, he thought, she looks scared out of her wits. But what was there here to cause her such alarm? Surely not the patient, resigned woman waiting below, who had shown such compassion and concern for her since her arrival? No, it must be the adjustment that disturbed her, he reasoned. Perhaps her need wasn't strong enough to keep her in Sanctuary. Whatever she had fled in the outside world, perhaps this known danger was preferable to the freedom she had found here. Sometimes freedom could be the greatest threat of all.
He was about to move closer when her expression changed. The strain of fear left her face and was replaced by a pleasant smile. She looked straight ahead, as though seeing some calm vision denied to those around her. She lifted her hands and stretched them out before her, as though welcoming someone or something only she could see. The air shimmered where she stood, and for a brief moment her figure wavered and became transparent, just as it had been earlier in the day when Howard had watched her near the cornfield. Her smile broadened and her eyes shone; she looked like a child about to receive some longed-for pleasure.
Howard felt his ears drumming gently. There was a rush of air toward the crest of the rise and the sunlight concentrated itself into a powerful vortex where the girl stood. Then the air gave a deep sigh, and a shudder, and the girl disappeared. A breeze stirred and fanned out every which way until it dispersed. Then the air was still again.
Howard let his breath out slowly. There was no indication that the girl had ever stood on the rise, so very calm and peaceful was the landscape.
He turned towards Vivian and saw that she was looking at him. Several paces separated them but he could read the downcast expression on her face. He said, "Has she gone?"
Vivian nodded.
"Where to?"
"Back to wherever she came from, I presume."
"Not just moved to another part of Sanctuary?"
"I don't think so. That girl needed Sanctuary all right, but something outside kept calling her back. In the end she just wasn't strong enough to resist it. The Guardians knew. They know everything about us." She eyed him strangely for a moment, then added, "They even know about your loss of memory, Howard."
"Then why haven't they done anything about it?''
"Perhaps they know enough to realize you must find it yourself."
Howard thought this was rather unfair, but he was not prepared to question the enigmatic nature of her statement. Instead he turned to another tack. "Does this sort of thing happen very often?"
"Not really. I've seen it, oh, maybe three, four times. Usually it's because they just can't adjust to so much freedom. They haven't the ability to think or act for themselves. In the end they prefer to go back to being told what to do rather than begin making their own decisions and their own way of life."
They faced each other across a raft of silence. To Howard it seemed there was no way he could induce any warmth into their conversation. Her cool head kept him always at a distance, and he was always caught off guard for he had never seen anyone so completely in command of herself.
Finally he said, "Now that she's returned… to wherever she came from…"
She eyed his new clothes thoughtfully. "You have done well. That's a fine outfit, but I knew they would provide. Such clothes will serve you well on your journey. But what about your pack?"
He explained that he would collect it later in the day, when everything was ready. She nodded her approval, then turned back to the house.
"About the mountain," he hastened to add. "The citadel. How many days do you reckon—"
She said cooly, "I will take you there. That much I have promised. We will leave in the morning. In the meantime I suggest that you eat a light dinner, avoid wine, and get a good night's sleep. You will need all your wits and strength for the morrow. I will see you then, Howard."
He was so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment he could not speak. She had reached the open doorway of the house before he managed to say, "Thank you, Vivian. This means so much to me."
She gave him a soft smile, then disappeared inside. But the imprint of her personality lingered in the air around him for a long time before he turned to follow the path back to the village.
The mountains might be a great distance from here, he mused. But they had plenty of time; all the time in the world. The thought made him smile. His past was important to him, but now that he had found an ally in his quest, the desperate urgency had left him. He knew he would find the Guardians eventually and confront them with his loss. But in the meantime there was much to enjoy in the languid beauty all around him.
Still smiling, he quickened his step. Once he thought briefly of the sudden rush of air and the way Marion had been whisked away from this time and place. He felt relieved that, despite early blunders, he had managed to make his peace with the powers that governed Sanctuary. He had adjusted. He was secure. Yet he could not help but wonder how much this achievement would stand him in good stead when he finally faced the ubiquitous Guardians…
That night was the coldest Howard had ever experienced in Sanctuary. The customary warmth seemed to have withdrawn from the air, leaving behind an uncommon chill. For a while after supper he walked around, trying to encourage a little warmth into his limbs, but as the night grew colder he capitulated and asked one of the villagers if he could borrow some blankets. These were gladly provided, for these people seemed to have no need of them in their warm homes.
He slept on the ground, alone, for no one had thought to offer him lodgings for the night. He did not think this strange. By now he had grown accustomed to his role as an outsider, an intruder—in a way a wanderer, like Vivian. And by now news of his forthcoming venture would undoubtedly have spread, and the villagers might consider a cold night spent under the stars would give him a foretaste of the rigors ahead of him.
He chose the softest place he could find, and using his shoulder pack for a pillow, soon settled down, the borrowed blankets wrapped securely around him.
He lay awake for a long time with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the few stars peeking through the overcast of cloud. There were no constellations he could recognize, and the number of stars seemed abnormally sparse. Still, this was something he would have to get used to, now that he was convinced he was nowhere on Earth.
Gradually the nocturnal activity in the village ceased, as one by one the villagers retired to their homes. Only a solitary fire burned low in the center of the common ground, and it became a comfort to him while he lay awake.
He saw the full moon rise above the darkened sea, and waited almost with baited breath until its smaller companion appeared. Soon its smooth crescent was visible above the horizon, and the twin satellites ascended slowly in consort.
His thoughts turned again to Sharo, remembering the man's anxiety at returning home. You were wrong, my friend. There are two moons over Sanctuary and it is you who have seen only one. But if you choose to, that is your business. Everyone needed reassurance, and perhaps Sharo needed to return to his island as much as Howard needed to reach the citadel of the Guardians.
His thoughts became melancholy when he thought of his departed friend. Sharo had been the first firm helper he had found, and he felt strongly that Vivian would be another. But…
Would that you had come with me, old friend. Yet he was reminded of something Vivian had said: “These people, they stay in one place." He could understand their need for stasis, and had his needs been otherwise, he might even have joined them . . for a time. But not without my past, he thought grimly. When they have given back to me what they so callously plundered, then might I rest and enjoy what I have. But not before.
Tomorrow, ran the drowsy ripple of his thoughts. Tomorrow it would be all right.
He was soon fast asleep.
He woke shortly after dawn. All around the land was still, as it might have been the moment before mankind was created. The sun was not yet visible and somber gray clouds covered the sky. He lay still for some time before he realized that the back of his head was resting on moist grass and that his pack was missing.
He sat up with a start, only half awake, and looked quickly around. Vivian stood only a few paces away, staring down at him. She wore dark green trousers and a matching jacket; her long dark hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. The pack on her shoulders was identical with his, and on the ground nearby there was another, which he knew must be his own. She was watching him with the quality of timeless patience he had grown accustomed to.
"I thought it might be best if we got an early start," she said quietly. "The weather does not look promising and it might well rain before noon." She nodded toward his pack. "I took the liberty of removing your pillow and filling it with the things we'll be needing. You… you looked so peaceful and I was careful not to disturb you."
He thanked her and rubbed sleep from his eyes. It bothered him that anyone could have crept up while he slept and removed his pack without even waking him.
Vivian gave a wry little grin that helped to reassure him.
He said, "I was meaning to fix my pack just as soon as—"
"Well it's done now." Her eyes wandered around the still-sleeping village. "When you're ready we can get started."
He wasn't one to wake fully armed for the day ahead. His mind was still dulled from the luxury of a deep sleep. "What about breakfast?" he asked.
"Oh, we can eat something along the way. One travels best first thing in the morning, don't you agree? And besides, it helps work up a good appetite. But if you'd rather… ?"
"No, that's all right. Just give me another moment to wake up." He crawled out of the blankets and stood up. He took a deep breath of the early morning air. It was cool enough to sting his cheeks and smart his eyes. He hefted his shoulder pack and swung it across his shoulders. "What's in it?" he asked, very conscious of the weight he would be carrying.
"Food, foraging tools, some fire cubes and a sleeping bag. You'll find the latter will come in handy, if memory serves me right."
Howard said, "But why go to all this trouble? Surely Sanctuary will provide?"
She gave him a strange look. "We can't rely on that. Things are different when you approach the center."
When she saw that he was ready she moved off. As they crossed the common ground, Howard thought how much like an abandoned movie set the village now looked. There wasn't a soul in sight, and had it not been for the solitary fire still smouldering in the dawn light, he would have doubted that anyone had ever lived there. How serene is the sleep of those without care, he mused, and followed Vivian past the houses and out onto the path that led to her modest dwelling.
The village was soon behind them, lost in the rolling folds of the countryside. The path took them past her house but she did not pause to even give it a glance; her mind concentrated on the task ahead.
They crossed the stream at a shallow point and climbed the steep slope on the other side. From this vantage point the land stretched before them in gentle swells towards the far horizon, for the most part bare and uncluttered by vegetation. It was also a depressing dun color, reminiscent of an African veldt, and the grass was everywhere short and stunted. There was no sign of a road or a track of any kind.
Howard could not contain his disappointment. "It's so… different," was all he could say.
Vivian gave him a firm stare. "And so it will always be, from here on. And harsher still when we approach the center." When she saw that Howard could not comprehend why this should be so, she explained more gently. "The village was sheltered, Howard, as was your friend's island. And farther out there are warm rain forests and cool meadows. But Sanctuary is rather like a wheel, with the more luxurious environments spread evenly around the outer rim. We have turned our back upon the rim, Howard; we seek the hub, the very center of Sanctuary. And the land is not always fair in that direction."
Having done what she could to explain the anomoly, she set off straight ahead. Howard followed. She set a cracking pace for the first hour, then called a rest. The shoulder packs did not weigh much, but Howard had discovered to his dismay that he was not accustomed to walking such enormous distances. He was breathing heavily from the exertion and sweating, despite the cold, and he was glad to sink down in the meager shelter of the first stunted tree they found. Vivian opened her pack and brought forth the coffee pot. Howard lowered his own pack to the ground, scraped together some twigs from some nearby bushes and crumbled them into a small pile. He watched, fascinated, as she produced one of the small fire cubes he had seen the villagers use and gently poked it under the twigs. A flame soon appeared. With two rocks on either side to support the coffee pot, Vivian turned her attention to preparing the rest of their simple breakfast.
He lay back against his pack, feeling exhaustion sweep over him. She gave him a small smile of encouragement. "The first few miles are always the worst." she told him. Then added, "You walk well for a city man."
He looked up. 'How did you know I came from the city?"
"Didn't. Just assumed you had, like everyone else here. Haven't you noticed by now how arcadian our refuge is, almost as though it was designed to relieve the pressure for city people?"
He didn't pursue the matter; her reply seemed reasonable enough. He had already considered the pastoral nature of Sanctuary and wondered if this was its only function. And he was intrigued by her suggestion that the land grew less hospitable the more one drew closer to the center.
Out on the landscape, nothing moved. They might have been the only living creatures in all of space and time. A hush was suspended between the lowering sky and the empty land that seemed to presage some important event. It reminded him a little of the tension he had felt in the air before the girl, Marion, had come through, but this time it was nowhere near as intense. Perhaps it was only a quality of the vast, open landscape spread before them. He thought idly of the girl and wondered how she was making out in whatever nightmare she had returned to.
They sat quietly together, drinking their coffee and chewing slabs of dark rye bread. Howard said, feeling the need for reassurance, "Are you sure you will know when we reach their mountain?"
Vivian nodded. "I'll know. There's a difference, a strangeness about it, that sets it apart from all the others."
"And you were there once before. Tell me, did you see them?"
She looked away, as though she did not wish him to see what she held in her eyes.
"Did you see the Guardians?"
She said quietly, still with her face averted. "I did not seek their mountain, I merely found it… accidentally. When you have wandered as much as I, you manage to see all kinds of things."
"Then if you did not see them, how did you know it was their mountain?"
She turned to face him, and her eyes were filled with strangeness. "When you see it, you will understand." Her words were final. He could see there was no point in pursuing the matter. His coffee finished, he lay back for a few minutes and closed his eyes and resumed preparation of his opening address to the Guardians. He was determined to be prepared for the confrontation he believed would inevitably occur. Only time and space were currently in the way of his achieving this goal.
Half an hour later they resumed their journey. Howard was pleased when she set an easier pace than before. The ground levelled out and they made good time in the next hour, covering a distance of about seven miles. Little conversation passed between them. They were both aware of the need to conserve their energy for walking and to save their talk for moments of rest.
He soon lost interest in the interminably dull landscape (he never referred to it as terrain any more). The muscles in his legs ached badly but he was surprised how well he had adjusted to the rigors of his trek. Vivian had been right: the first few miles were the worst. In fact, he thought he was in rather good condition for a city dweller, if indeed that was what he had been before entering Sanctuary. But this was one of the many suppositions he had already begun to doubt.
He had been walking along the even ground with his eyes downcast, deep in thought, when he was brought up abruptly by Vivian's outstretched arm. She had come to a stop and was studying the land ahead of them with a discerning eye.
"What is it?" he asked. He could see nothing unusual. The drab veldt still stretched before them for as far as the eye could see, with only a few small hills in the distance to break the monotony.
"Gently, Howard," she all but whispered. "Move slowly now, to avoid disorientation. Look ahead… carefully."
He followed the direction of her gaze. There was the dun-colored veldt and there the distant hills… but now he could see something else. At first he was aware only of an imperceptible overlay on the scene ahead. It reminded him of a projected image that had been inadvertently overexposed, with one image stronger than the other. He could just make out the hazy outline of jagged mountain peaks with razor-backed ridges and impossibly steep sides. This image wavered and shifted, wavered and shifted, in a disconcerting manner.
Vivian said, "Take my hand."
The chill breeze had freshened and now seemed to be blowing toward the mirage ahead of them, as though drawn there by some invisible vortex.
He felt her hand clasp his. "The first time is always a little bewildering," she explained. "But it helps if you're prepared. Come, but walk slowly, Howard. Slowly..."
He could not have done otherwise. Together they stepped forward. The cold air rushed madly ahead, and each step brought the cruel mountains into more bold relief and just as readily caused the dun-colored veldt to recede.
Then with a gasp they were through. Howard counted twenty-three paces before the previous environment was usurped by an even bleaker and less hospitable landscape.
They, were surrounded on all sides by towering mountains. The topmost peaks were draped with snow and shrouded with ice crystals. The sky was bare and strikingly blue, and they were moving slowly and carefully down a rock-strewn valley, fiercely followed by an alpine wind.
It did not take him long to realize that he had experienced his first localized shift within the confines of Sanctuary, and he was surprised that it had been accomplished with such ease. He remembered the titanic forces that had seemed to have catapulted him into and out of Sanctuary, but this transition had been accomplished with only a minimum of fuss. For all this he was not pleased with the hostile landscape they had been thrust into without conscious choice.
It was some time before either of them realized they were still making their way across the rubble with their hands clasped. Either could have disengaged now that the transition had been accomplished, but it was such a comforting feeling that Howard, at least, did not wish to break the contact.
When they had advanced a hundred yards or so down the valley, Vivian politely withdrew her hand from his. They stopped for a moment. Howard looked back the way they had come, but there was now not even the smallest residue of the featureless veldt they had left behind. The narrow valley that surrounded them disappeared into a tumbling mist, miles away. He shook his head in wonder.
"Is it always like that?" he asked.
"Yes. But it helps to keep your eyes open and to recognize the signs that a change is coming up."
"And is there no way of… of controlling these transitions?"
She shook her head. "No. It is the will of the Guardians. They have established perimeters to each environment they have constructed. There are no walls, no gates, no spiked fences. A person may pass through from one to the other, but they do not always like what they find. Most people settle in one place. Only nomads enjoy the freedom of moving from one environment to another."
"Even to the center?" he said quietly.
"Yes, even to the center. But not many find that journey worthwhile."
He looked up at the towering, snow-covered peaks all around them. "Could one of those be the one we seek?"
She shook her head
"Are you sure?'
"Quite sure. Such mountains are common. The citadel of the Guardians resides on a much different mountainside, as you will discover when we find it."
But a nagging doubt persisted. "I do not understand," he said, "how you know in which direction to move."
She shrugged her wide shoulders that made so light of her pack. "One simply keeps walking. You feel in your heart that you are walking away from the benign area of Sanctuary and approaching the center. Don't you feel it Howard? Here." She touched a hand to her breast, and for the first time he realized that he was not alone in feeling the emptiness in his heart. "And the wind," she went on. “Such an icy blast could only be felt so far from all that is warm and peaceful in our refuge."
With this assurance, Howard was prepared to struggle on. The ground was unbearably rough and they made slow progress. Sometimes howling winds came tearing down the valley and attacked them with maniacal intensity. Howard often reeled from these onslaughts, but he looked to Vivian for a sign and she was always ploughing steadily ahead. His only thought was to follow, despite the aches and chills that forced their way into his flesh.
At what might have been midday—it was difficult to say for certain, with the wind and the rough going—she called a halt. They huddled down among some large rocks for a modicum of shelter, and this afforded some protection from the fanatical wind. The valley was so bare he could not even find some dry grass to help start a fire. Vivian did not seem to mind. From her pack she produced two of the small, light cubes he was by now familiar with. She placed them on the ground so that they touched, and within moments they both began to glow. Soon a sphere of warmth surrounded them and took the edge from the biting wind.
"Handy little gadgets,” he remarked. "Where do they come from?"
"Oh, a traveller comes along from time to time and trades them with villagers, or any small group of people for that matter."
She made light of the tale, but Howard's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like he could be an agent of the Guardians, wandering around with stuff like that."
"Could be. But then I can't remember anyone ever asking him how he came by them." She did not seem interested in taking the matter any further.
Howard thought grimly that the structure of Sanctuary was indeed devious, and that there might well be emissaries of the Guardians moving among them—but how to recognize them? Aye, that was the problem.
Vivian settled back against a rock with her pack to support her. She said, "I take back what I said about you being a city-bred man; you've done remarkably well so far. Perhaps, in your previous life, you did some bushwalking."
Howard frowned. He, too, had been agreeably surprised at the speed with which his limbs had responded to their task, as though the first few hours had loosened a memory somewhere in their cells. He felt angry that his body could remember a past when this was denied his mind.
He lay down on his back, using his pack for a pillow. He felt not the least bit hungry. Reasonably comfortable within the warm sphere that contained them he looked deeply into the fiery golden cubes
"Have you been here long?" he asked?
She did not answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed upon the distant peaks where flurries of ice crystals obscured the mountaintops. There was a faraway look in her eyes. "Long?" she repeated. "Seems like ages. Feels like ages… but I couldn't say for sure."
"I know," he interrupted, remembering Sharo's answer. "Time moves differently here. And so, apparently, does space." He was referring to their sudden transition from the veldt to this grim valley.
She turned to him and her expression was serious. "Something like that. It's hard to pin down, but for most of us it doesn't matter. It's good enough just to be here, where days and hours and minutes do not subject us to a petty tyranny."
"Do you ever miss… what you left behind?"
She shook her head. Then her face softened and sne looked at him as though seeing him for the first lime "Your past is important to you, isn't it Howard?"
His jaw froze into a hard line. "It is how they have taken it from me."
"You seem very sure of that."
At that moment there rose up in his mind the specter of Sharo's warning: the loss might be his own doing. But he was still unwilling to accept this as the final explanation.
"When I see them, I'll know," he said cryptically. His eyes raked the ragged mountains. "We're not on Earth, you know. Haven't you seen the two moons? Sharo said there was only one." He told her of their discussion about the location of Sanctuary, and how they were both convinced that they had been moved to another part of the galaxy. "Governments have always been skillful at lying," he said wryly, "and their skill would have increased with every generation. This could be their biggest lie yet." But he felt angry and frustrated that he could not recall a single detail of the society he had left.
Vivian heard him out without comment. When he had finished she looked thoughtful for a long time, staring into the golden cubes and the barely visible radiance they gave off. Finally she said, "I've also thought a lot about the nature of our surroundings, and where we might be. I'm not too sure of the latter, like you and your friend, but I have formed a very strong conviction of the function of Sanctuary."
He waited eagerly for her answer.
"I think Sanctuary is a prison," she went on. "A vast, seemingly infinite prison. A place where they can drop the undesirable elements of society, without fear of them ever breaking out. And why should we? I have seen more of this place than anyone else I have ever met, and each time I move I discover a part of it I have never before seen—such as this valley."
An infinite prison? The possibility seemed credible enough, but the implications only fed Howard's divine anger. Oh, there were so many things he would ask the Guardians, if and when he ever located them. It did not enter his mind that they might not feel obliged to answer him.
A sudden weariness overcame him. Vivian said, "Try taking a nap. I'll wake you in an hour or so."
He rolled over and glared angrily at the rock face only inches in front of him. He could hear the wind howling overhead but it did not penetrate their shelter. Despite the tumult of his thoughts he soon grew drowsy, lulled by the warmth radiating from the golden cubes. Handy little gadgets, he kept thinking. And wondered what other surprises Vivian carried in her pack.
He soon fell asleep, but dark dreams plagued him and made him restless. He came awake with a start, feeling sure that he heard voices. He startled Vivian, who swung around and looked at him with concern.
"Voices," he mumbled, still struggling up from the depths of an unremembered nightmare. "I heard voices. It sounded like… children crying."
The warmth surrounding them had dwindled. Only a faint radiance came from the cubes. Vivian smiled reassuringly and said, "It must have been the wind. It could only have been the wind."
He listened intently, but all he could hear was the high-pitched growl of the alpine wind. It didn't sound at all like children crying. But already the bad dream was fading from his mind, like a dark dew disturbed by the bright rays of the sun.
Vivian made some coffee by placing the pot quite close to the golden cubes. They sat around for a while, refreshing themselves with some food and washing it down with the stimulating liquid. Then they resumed their trek.
They passed out of the valley—quite literally—by late afternoon. The going remained rough and they had proceeded only a few miles before they experienced another disorientating "shift" and found themselves in another pastoral area of Sanctuary. This time he was prepared for the transition, and he could almost sense the great grinding of gears as the mountains moved sluggishly around and behind them; he winced from the imagined thunder echoing down the mountainsides.
This time they found themselves standing on a verdant green field, carpeted with languid trees and an abundance of tall, waving grass. Before them was a wide, well-used dirt road.
When he had got his breath back, Howard said, "I had begun to think we would never see land like this again, or people, for that matter."
"We will not find many near the center," she reminded him. "Generally I find that people cluster where surroundings are hospitable and cooperatives can function smoothly. Only nomads move around from place to place, although I don't expect we'll encounter many from here on."
"Not even here? The land looks so promising."
"You will notice," she said, as they moved off, "an absence of rivers or streams of any kind, and the grass is coarse and monotonously unappealing. I would hazard a guess and say that this place gets a heavy rainfall, and not much else."
As they made their way down the narrow road he noticed for the first time how the sun had kept pace with their transitions. Now it was angling toward the horizon ahead of them and sunset could not be too far distant. He wondered idly if the sun ever got behind— or ahead of—unsuspecting travellers as they were "shifted" through Sanctuary, and if anyone ever suffered the local equivalent of jet-lag. The thought made him smile, and smiles had been a rare experience for much of their journey.
They were both exceedingly weary when they reached a place where three narrow roads came together. Already it was dusk, and they could just make out the shape of a dilapidated wooden dwelling squatting by these crossroads. The fading light picked out an expres-sion of recognition in Vivian's weary eyes. Her face creased into a smile.
"You know this place?" he queried.
She nodded. "It's been there a long time, Howard. Probably longer than anything else in Sanctuary. I wonder if old Henry is still there."
Her step seemed lighter now that she knew they were in familiar territory. He tried to match her display of enthusiasm, but his weary limbs were not quite up to it; he lagged behind considerably as they approached the old building.
The rough-hewn wooden walls were showing their age. Some panels hung loose; others had fallen off. There was a general impression of decay about the place that Howard found unsettling, but which Vivian seemed to take for granted.
There was a light burning inside. The front door hung open on broken hinges, encouraging the chill night air to wander inside. Once there had been windows on either side of the doorway, but these had long since been boarded up with crooked slats. Yet from the expression of Vivian's tired face she seemed more like someone coming home, or arriving at the dwelling of an old and trusted friend, than someone stumbling upon a derelict dwelling in a land thickening with twilight. On the other hand, he had no idea what to expect once they were inside.
"You know this place, don't you?" he said.
She smiled. "I have stayed overnight here many times. It is one of the very few hostels I have ever found. But it seems to have fallen into disrepair since I last passed this way."
They entered without knocking. Inside was a single large room, the floor covered with dust, and a few tables and chairs arranged along the far wall. An old man sat unmoving in a corner, looking up at them and studying them by the light cast by a small oil lamp.
Vivian said, "Hello, Henry."
"Good to see you, Vivian," the old man replied. His voice sounded weary and sepulchral and carried little weight. "It's been a long time."
"Not really," she said, walking to him. "It seems but a few weeks since I last stayed here." But as she cast her eyes around the dilapidated walls and furniture it was obvious even to her that much more time had passed. Sanctuary had a way of playing with your sense of time.
Howard stood just inside the door, not sure of what he should do next. Vivian turned around and introduced him to the solemn old man sitting alone at the table. "This is Howard," she said. "We… I'm taking him to see the mountain where the Guardians dwell. I was so delighted when I recognized your house, for it showed me that their citadel is not too distant from these crossroads."
The old man looked at her with limpid, watery eyes. "I never realized," he said haltingly, "that they were… so close. Yet you seem so certain—"
"When I last stopped by here," she explained, "I was on my way back from their stronghold." Had it really been so long ago?
There was a faraway and rather discontented look in the old man's eyes. "Not many stop by nowadays. People seem to be, you know, settling down. Not much for me to do anymore." He eyed her curiously. "Did you see them? Did you see the Guardians?"
She turned her face a little to one side. "No. I had no mind to. I had other things to do."
The old man eyed Howard shrewdly. "Then what about this fellow? Does he have business with them? If he has, then he can tell them for me that—"
She gently raised one hand to discourage his tirade. "What business he has to transact is of a very powerful and personal nature, Henry. I would not deem it wise to approach him on these matters… at least until he has had occasion to sleep well. We are both tired and have travelled far today. Perhaps we can speak of these matters in the morning." This last was almost a question, directed at the silent Howard. He had followed their conversation, had marked the compassion with which she handled the old man, and so he now nodded his agreement that her idea was sound.
Henry Levin looked around his dilapidated dwelling with something close to apology. "I seem to have nought to offer thee this time round," he said. "The times and trade have not been what they were."
Vivian said, "That will be no bother to us. We have sleeping bags and we would be glad to use your humble floor, if you find this fitting."
The old man seemed to half hear her words, but his mind was worrying over other matters. "Haven't got much in the way of food, either. Hasn't been a traveller through here in—ah, it seems like ages."
Vivian smiled. "Then it will please us to share what little we have with you. And when next I meet a trader I will remind him most strongly of your lonely outpost, and the shelter it has furnished many a wayward wanderer in these lands."
Her eloquence nearly moved the old man to tears. "Thank thee, lass. Thank thee. Such consideration is much appreciated." He stood up a little shakily, nodded politely to Howard, who was still standing in the doorway, then muttered something about getting a broom and sweeping a section of the floor where they could put their gear and sleeping bags. He disappeared into an adjoining room and Howard was free to go over and speak quietly to the girl.
"Why do they leave him like this?" he whispered, not being able to understand why the Guardians could allow one of their wards to sink into such disreputability.
She answered quietly, "Because he prefers to live this way. Not everyone craves company, Howard; we are not all gregarious. There has always been a particular type of person who mans the outposts and seeks the dark center of the world. Such a man is our Henry, and it would not do to improve his lot; even the grumbling is part of his pleasure, the isolation his reason for enduring."
The old man came back with a straw broom and began sweeping a corner of the room for them. The sharp night wind was creeping in through the open door, promising a harsh night; while Vivian opened her pack and began laying out some food, he went back outside and did what he could to push the ancient door shut. But the best he could do still left a good three-inch gap through which the wind struggled to enter.
Afterwards the three of them sat around one of the rickety tables and shared a frugal supper of dried foodstuffs. From somewhere the old man produced a flagon of what turned out to be an astonishingly rich and aged port. He seemed genuinely pleased that this offering was so warmly appreciated. "Ain't often a body gets visitors," he said, lapsing into what Howard had come to accept as his stock-in-trade conversation. Yet there was nothing simpering or self-pitying about the old man; he was aware of his condition and accepted it without complaint. In fact there was a quality of endurance about Henry Levin that Howard found endearing.
Later, when the heavy wine had lulled their senses, they crawled into their sleeping bags, and without another word, began thinking about sleep. Their conversation had exhausted itself by common consent some time ago, and the wine had fortified them against the sharp chill of the night. They mumbled their goodnights and soon drifted off. The old man stayed on at the table, leaning forward with his arms crossed, staring into the fading lamplight. Howard's last conscious thought was of the look of serene contentment on their host's face and how much this pleased him.
Some time during the night he woke to the sound of a strangled scream. Struggling up from a deep fog of a retreating nightmare, it was a moment before he realized that the scream had been his own. Before the panic had had a chance to grasp him by the throat Vivian was out of her sleeping bag, had crossed the space that separated them, and was holding his head in her arms and speaking softly to him, "There, there, it was only a dream, Howard. Only a dream…"
Her nearness, and the warm feeling of her arms around him, brought him back to the present. Something terrible had stalked his dreams, but already the phantom had disappeared amid a tumble of broken images retreating down the great funnel of his mind. He was breathing rapidly, but already he could feel his pulse slackening and the unreasonable fear receding. "I'll be all right," he finally managed to say. "I'll be okay. Thanks. Thanks for being there." He could feel her long hair brushing his forehead, and even this was reassuring.
After a while she said, "Next time you have a bad dream, try to recall it, before it dissipates. There may be a clue hidden somewhere, a clue to your past."
He nodded, only vaguely aware of the implication of her words. He saw that the old man was still asleep, that he had fallen forward with his head resting on his hands, and that he was snoring quietly. The sight of this made him want to laugh, as if this alone could relieve the awful pressure he had felt inside him. But instead he said, "I'll be all right now."
She disengaged her arms and let his head rest back on the pillow. In the dim light of the oil lamp their eyes met, held for a moment, and a wordless understanding passed between them. Then she crept back to her sleeping bag.
It was a while before he could get back to sleep, and for the remainder of the night his dreams were filled with the groaning weight of mountains moving themselves around as they shifted back and forth between the poles of his subconscious, and he saw himself running this way and that across the crazy surface of the shifting lands, like an insignificant insect looking for a safe passage.
In the morning he woke with a headache and a deep sense of forboding.
Sometime during the night Vivian had moved her sleeping bag next to his, so that their bodies almost touched. She was still fast asleep, and he was troubled to see that her face had acquired a drawn and haggard look not there before.
He leaned on one elbow, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing underneath the insulated covering, and slowly remembered his uneven slumber. He could vaguely recall a curious nightmare that had thrust him awake, crying out for something that eluded him now. She had come to him then, calming his fears and assuring him it had only been a dream; and even now he could feel the warm comfort of her arms around him and hear her soothing words. Afterwards, he had only a hazy memory of more disturbing dreams, but none of them had frightened him as before. He felt moderately refreshed, but as he studied the drawn expression on her face he experienced the strange sensation that whatever doubts and phantoms had plagued his sleep, she had somehow taken them upon herself so that he might gain some respite.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear the steady sound of wood chopping. Being careful not to disturb her, he climbed out of his sleeping bag and went outside.
The morning air seemed even colder than before. A heavy mist hung over the land, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards. To his left the gnarled figure of Henry Levin was slowly breaking up a number of small saplings into firewood.
He looked up when Howard approached and nodded a greeting. "Goin' to be a cold one," he commented. "Always is, when the mist comes down like this." Beside him was a small pile of neatly chopped wood.
Howard's skin felt like ice. He said, "Would you like this taken inside?" He indicated the firewood.
"Sure would. Once I get a fire going the old place won't be half so unpleasant."
Howard gathered a load of wood in his arms and went back inside the house. Vivian was already up and lolling up her sleeping pack when he returned. She gave him a wan smile that meant more to him than all the warmth he could expect from the old man's firewood.
He deposited his burden by the fireplace. He said, without looking around, "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to disturb you."
She zipped her rolled-up sleeping bag tight and squeezed it into her pack. "That's all right. Don't worry about it. We had a hard day yesterday." Her eyes clouded and she looked thoughtful. "But don't expect it to be any easier today. We're getting close to the center."
"I know," he said, facing her. "It gets worse all the time, doesn't it?"
Her expression gave him his answer. "We can always turn back," she reminded him
He did not mind if she were only testing him out. But one thought had been uppermost in his mind from the very moment he had entered Sanctuary: the only way out was forward. And he was determined to pursue his quest until he had found his reward, no matter how tough the journey became.
Her face softened when she saw how determined he was to continue. "I'll get some breakfast," she said.
He nodded, absently, his thoughts faraway. "The old guy's starting a fire. Reckons we'll be needing it."
She said, "I hadn't planned on staying here after breakfast. The sooner we start—"
"I know, I know: the more ground we cover." He gave her a mischievous grin. "I go along with you, Captain; you should know that by now." His voice dropped and he added, in words more deeply felt than any he could remember, "Thanks for staying close last night. I hope… I hope I sleep better from now on." But there was no indication in her expression that she thought this would necessarily be so, and he was not prepared to challenge her on the matter.
They shared a simple breakfast with old Henry and then took their leave. He seemed genuinely sorry to see them go, but there was something eternal in his pose as he waved them goodbye that made it plain he was accustomed to such overnight companionship.
Howard stared dully into the mist at the crossroads. "Which one do we take?" he asked.
"That one," she said, pointing to the one directly ahead. "It leads north."
"How can you be sure?"
"I took a fix on the stars last night."
Howard seemed unconvinced. "But how can you be sure that the points of the compass remain consistent throughout this place?"
She gave him a mysterious smile. "I can't. But it seems a reasonable starting point."
They experienced their first transition only a few miles from the ancient hostelry. The air rushed in around them and they passed through the space/time discontinuity that heralded their arrival in another aspect of Sanctuary.
The road they had been following disappeared. Before them stretched a flat, featureless plain that reminded Howard of the Siberian steppes, and just as cold and devoid of life. It was a depressing landscape: the drab gray sky was drained of color, just as the world spread before them seemed drained of any human activity. There was a long, low smudge along the far horizon that might have been the topmost ridge of a mountain range, but at this distance they could not be sure.
"Well," he said, dispiritedly, "let's get going." His only hope was that they would experience another transition in a relatively short time; the prospect of trudging miles across this dreary landscape filled him with despair. And even then, he tried not to think what the next alternative would be.
But for all the long and wearying day the landscape remained resolutely unchanged; it was as if the powers-that-might-well-be were playing with them, extracting the maximum discomfort from their travail. But never for a moment did he consider giving up and retracing his steps; he had come too far to be intimidated by a simple change in climate and configuration of the landscape.
They rested without shelter for their midday snack. Old Henry had given them a flagon of his hearty port, which they decided to leave until evening, when they would be sorely in need of its sleep-inducing properties. In the meantime there was their solitary diet of bread and cheese, supplemented by some dried sausage, which their host had generously provided. They lay back and had a short rest, then continued on their way.
It was not until late afternoon that the landscape altered appreciably. What had seemed to be unchanging from a distance gradually transformed into a series of wide, shallow depressions that might once have been the bed of fresh-water lakes, but which had long since surrendered their moisture to the sun. The ground be came treacherous and they had to weave their way carefully through scattered rocks and deep fissures in the dry soil.
With dusk approaching they began exploring the edges of the depression they were moving through for some kind of shelter from the cruel night wind that haunted these barren lands. After a while they found a network of caves and crawled into the largest, wriggling inside like workers in a tunnel. There was room enough to stretch out and sleep, but space for very little else. They collapsed exhausted onto the stone floor and did not move for some time. Later they thought about food and the ever-present need for the stimulus of coffee.
They could find no wood or scraps of any kind to help their fire, so Vivian had to resort to her trick of the previous day. This time she used two fresh fire cubes, touching them together and building a ring of small rocks around them to provide a perch for the coffee pot. All this was accomplished outside their narrow cave, because there was no room inside to perform these activities.
The sphere of warmth projected by the cubes was soon sucked up by the great emptiness around them, and as the night closed down they began to shiver. Howard opened the flask of port old Henry had given them, and they passed it back and forth between them for a while, grateful for the internal warmth it introduced into their weary bodies.
In the glow from the cubes Howard noticed that Vivian seemed even more drawn than she had in the morning, so much so that she seemed to have aged several years in a matter of days. It did not occur to him to wonder how much he, too, had been changed by the rigors of their journey; his concern was only for the voman who had braved so much for him.
"Time to turn in," he suggested. She did not dispute this arrangement. After a final moment of thought, she separated the golden cubes with her knife and watched them fade slowly and resume their customary dormancy. When they were cool enough to touch, she picked them up and carried them back inside the cave. She set them up at the rear of their refuge, carefully adjusting them until they were perhaps six inches apart. Slowly they returned to life, this time glowing only fitfully, so that a soft glow filled the cave, and this quality but a product of the distance between them.
Outside, Howard packed their few utensils and brought them back inside. Without another word they climbed wearily into their sleeping bags and settled down for the night. For a while he waited, staring out of the opening of the cave and waiting for moonrise. When at last the full moon hove into view he felt a momentary peace of mind, but this was soon shaken when, despite what seemed an inordinately long period of waiting, no second satellite appeared.
Must be some reason, his mind mumbled. But he was so overcome with weariness and comforted by the heavy port that it was hardly worthwhile pursuing this discrepancy. After all, he was convinced that he was not on Earth, and he was no expert in celestial mechanics. There might be an explanation and he would deal with it when he found it.
"Vivian," he said softly, "are you awake?"
He was rewarded with a muffled murmur from the sleeping back next to his.
"Have you any idea when we will reach their mountain? From what you have said, we seem awfully close..."
He felt her move restlessly against him. "Close all right," she mumbled, struggling through a deepening fog of sleep.
"How close?"
"Maybe a day. Maybe more. I don't know. Ask me tomorrow."
Tomorrow. How sweet that word played on his conscience. Smiling, he forgot the anomaly of the missing moon and drifted off to sleep.
And when the snickering shadows crept into his mind they did not alarm him, despite their best efforts, for he felt secure with the warmth of Vivian beside him, and so armed he felt he could face hell itself and come out of it alive.
He woke early. Overnight the temperature had fallen alarmingly and he was thankful for insulation of their sleeping bags. The walls of the cave were dank with moisture and his breath formed tiny clouds in the air before him.
He lay still for a while, enjoying the silence; then he crawled out of his sleeping bag. The cold struck him across the face like an enormous hand. He shivered and pulled on his jacket and zipped it tight. Vivian was still fast asleep, her face more drawn and haggard than ever, and there were deep furrows along her brow that suggested her sleep had not been easy. There were lines on her face he had never before been conscious of, and as he had noticed on the previous morning, she seemed to have aged considerably. She was no longer the determined and youthful woman he had first met in the circle of firelight in a village he had almost forgotten.
I fear this trek goes ill with her. He felt an impulse to reach out and tenderly stroke her pale cheek, if only to make some small demonstration of his appreciation. But he drew back. Better to let her sleep.
He moved to the mouth of the cave, picking his way carefully so as not to make any noise that might rouse her. Outside the land was breathlessly still and shrouded in an early morning mist. The overall pallor of the landscape was the familiar drab gray and the air felt like ice against his exposed flesh. He dug his hands into his pockets and went for a short walk.
He moved away a short distance until he imagined he was out of earshot, then began stamping his feet and flailing his arms around in an attempt to drive some warmth into his bloodstream. Sanctuary had never before seemed so drab and so lonely, and Vivian's face, drained of color, mirrored the quality of the land. A wave of despair swept over him. They had come so far, but how much farther must they march before they reached their objective?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, a section of the mist parted for a moment, revealing a distant mountain. The sight took his breath away, for the solitary peak rose so sharply from the plain that it seemed more like an artificial construct than a natural phenomenon. He stood transfixed, unable to accept what he saw, but the vision did not waver. He could see snowcapped ridges reflecting the sunlight, but at such a distance it was impossible to discern vegetation of any kind.
His heart leapt. It seemed strange that they had not noticed the mountain yesterday. Perhaps some atmospheric disturbance, even their own weary senses had obscured it. But now the pervading mist had parted to give him a glimpse of this uncommon wonder and he felt a new-found strength and determination racing through his blood. If this could be the one they sought!
Gradually the mist reformed and drew together, hiding the mountain from sight. He stood unmoving for a while, savoring the vision, then thought about building a fire. He crept back inside the narrow cave and searched in his pack for the remaining small cubes.
Vivian stirred when she sensed him moving around nearby, but he did not speak. Better to let her wake in her own good time.
With a feeling close to reverence he carefully set the cubes on the ground, eased them together, and watched them start to glow. Damned clever, he thought. You Guardians, you give us much, but withhold so much more…
Just as he was about to re-enter the cave and quietly remove the breakfast things, Vivian emerged. Her hair was tousled and her features drawn; once again sleep did not seem to have left her refreshed. She faced the new day with a listless expression.
"I'll get the coffee going," he said, and moved past her into the cave to get the things he needed. She said nothing, her mind still sleep-filled. She stood staring out across the mist-shrouded landscape, a faraway look in her eyes.
When the coffee was brewed and they were sitting around the fire, secure in their warm cocoon, he said, 'You're feeling homesick, aren't you? For other people?"
The wan smile she gave him cheered him slightly. “One gets like that… from time to time," she said, in a voice heavy with weariness. "This land… it's such a wasteland. One gets tired of it so quickly."
He looked away, somehow finding the strength to say, "We can go back, if you like. Or I can go on alone, if you'll give me some idea where—"
She shook her head. "No, Howard. I promised to show you where their citadel was, and I will keep to my word. We'll see what happens afterwards."
He poked at the golden cubes with his knife. "I saw a mountain," he said quietly, "Just a few moments ago. There was a break in the mist… and I saw it. It rose up above the plain like… like something that had been put there. It's hard to explain… just didn't look natural, I guess." He looked up excitedly. "I reckon it was maybe fifteen, twenty miles from here. Do you think—?"
There was a new light in her eyes, but she was guarded in her reply. "We'll know when the mist lifts. Tell me, did you notice a lake close by it?" He shook his head; visibility had been poor. "Well, no matter we'll soon know for sure."
Her long silences disturbed him. "Are you sure you feel up to it today?" he said. "You look as if you could do with a rest."
His concern brought a smile to her face. "We've been pushing very hard, I guess—and I take back anything I ever said about you being a city man, Howard. You've more than kept up with me; I have a feeling you are doing better than I."
It's this feeling I have, he would have told her. This need drives me.
She stood up and stretched, her arms beyond their sphere of warmth, touching the icy breath of the air. "But we must move on if we are ever to see this mountain you spied." Without another word she went back inside the cave and emerged a few minutes later, her pack slung securely over her shoulders and her face wearing a determined expression. She stood waiting, watching for some sign of dispersal in the mist.
Howard separated the golden cubes and organized his own pack, placing the cubes inside when they had cooled. Then they set off through the mist, in the general direction of where he imagined the hidden mountain to be.
It took a few hours for the mist to completely disperse and reveal the distant mountain, confirming his earlier vision. It did not seem particularly high, nor its slopes forbiddingly steep, but the way it stood out sharply from the surrounding plain struck him as somewhat in-coneruous. Alternativelv. it might have been some extinct volcano, but its configurations all seemed wrong.
"Well," he said, his voice trembling with excitement "Is that it?"
The pallor of her features seemed to grow more pronounced as they proceeded across the plain. There was a puzzled expression in her eyes and it took a moment or two for her to reply. "Wait until we're closer," was all she would say. Although the mountain stood out sharply enough, the surrounding landscape was a featureless blur.
"The lake," he said, remembering suddenly. "You're looking for the lake, aren't you?" She nodded, but would say no more. They trudged on.
The wind crept up upon them almost unnoticed, yet within minutes it had whipped the dry surface of the tundralike plain into the air and flung it in their faces. And from that moment Howard knew the remainder of their trek was going to be more harsh than anything that had preceded it. Away to the east the sky was darkening with the promise of a storm; a dark bar reached from one end of the horizon to another, and clouds boiled earnestly overhead. The mountain grew less distinct as the wind threw a flurry of dirt and dust high into the air.
Soon they were walking along a deep depression in the plain, an arroyo that might once have been a thriving watercourse. They stopped for a while and drank water from their canteens, which old Henry Levin had so obligingly refilled.
"What sort of people would want to live in a place like this? he wondered aloud.
"This is the center," she reminded him. "The hub of Sanctuary. Yet there are people even here, as you might well see."
They moved on.
Now that they seemed so close to their objective, it was Howard who set a cracking pace, forgetting for a while his companion's weary condition. The high walls of the arroyo afforded them some protection from the fierce wind, and his eyes burned bright with the vision he had seen. He was anxious to reach the base of the mountain before nightfall, and for a while this thought pushed everything out of his mind.
It was some time before he noticed that Vivian had fallen some distance behind. He paused briefly, waiting for her to catch up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I… I don't know what possessed me.”
She smiled. It was a weak, almost apologetic expression. "I understand. It must be very hard for you to wait, now that you feel we are so close."
"But we are, Vivian—aren't we?"
She shrugged. "We'll have to get out of this arroyo to find out."
"But the blasted wind," he protested.
"We need to have a better view of the way ahead,” she reminded him. "Otherwise we will not see the lake until we're upon it."
He eyed her curiously. "What's so special about this lake? The one near their mountain? What makes it different from the others we have seen?"
"It's salty. Seven times saltier than any ocean you would ever have seen. It has been said that no man could drown in it, that the water is so dense it would keep him afloat. And the beach, Howard; wait until you see the beach… if this is indeed the lake we seek."
Just then the wind came howling down the arroyo, driving a blinding dust against them. It had changed direction as capriciously as he had come to expect from the wayward winds of Sanctuary. And directly overhead the sky was dark and tumescent, waiting to unleash its wrath against them.
They sheltered for a while amid some rocks in the side of the arroyo, waiting for the wind to ease. Vivian was breathing heavily and a dull film had descended on her eyes. She looked wistfully at the sky, without really seeing it. "I wish I could sleep," she almost whispered. "Sleep for a thousand hours without waking up."
His concern for her had increased with every step they took toward the enigmatic mountain. It seemed strange that he should feel so indomitable, in spite of all he had endured, while she became increasingly frail. He thought of his restless nights and how, when he had awakened in the morning feeling tolerably rested, she had seemed so drawn that for a while his fancy had suggested to him that she had absorbed his unrest to buy for him his much-needed sleep. But now this did not seem so much fancy as disturbing fact.
"We'll rest here," he said, "and have something to eat."
The driving wind made it difficult to focus the warmth from the fire cubes and making coffee became arduous. By the time they had drunk several cups and chewed half-heartedly at some dried fruit and meat, the wind had eased enough for them to continue. Capricious beast, he thought grimly, wondering how much respite they would have before it turned upon tnen again. Already the first few spots of rain had fallen, leaving a heavy imprint in the parched soil.
As they moved out of their hideaway, Vivian gestured at something ahead of them. "Howard, what's that?"
About a hundred yards distant a strange looking object almost barred their way. It seemed metallic, like an enormous oval-shaped bug lying in their path. The pallid sunlight delineated what might have been broken antennas, and the bottom half was crushed and crumpled in upon itself, as though it had been dropped or had fallen from a great height.
They approached the object cautiously; it was about thirty feet long and, save for the stumps of what looked suspiciously like antennas, was without protuberances of any kind. Gradually a suspicion formed in Howard's mind. There were no stubby wings or exhaust tubes to indicate some sort of aircraft, nor was there any provision for a pilot's canopy—yet he was convinced they were looking at the sad wreckage of one of the Guardian's monitors, the rarely visible aircraft Sharo had sardonically called "watchbirds." With this realization Howard felt himself relax.
"Take it easy," he said to Vivian. "It's only a fallen angel. One of the Guardian's watchdogs."
It took a moment for the implication to sink in before she understood. She looked at him with weary eyes. “You really think so?'
'Well, it doesn't look like a bomb that's about to go off, now does it? And look at all that damage; it must have fallen from a great height." But why? he asked himself. And why had it been left there with no effort made to remove it?
She must have seen the puzzlement in his eyes for she said, "Remember, Howard, we are approaching the center; from my experiences I have become convinced that the everyday protection we enjoy in the outer circles of Sanctuary no longer holds here."
This was a sobering thought, but he put it aside for the time being while he inspected the fallen watchbird at closer range. The rust and corrosion in the cracks suggested it had lain there for some time. What surprised him most, however, was the discovery that in many places the broken hull had been deeply and lovingly etched with the unmistakable evidence of graffiti. This seemed to suggest that not only passersby had paused and left their often incongruous remarks upon the watchbird, but that there might actually be people living in this godforsaken wasteland who had carved their names with wit and pride upon the metal.
He noticed Vivian was standing with her arms crossed, shivering in spite of her insulated jacket. "What's the matter?" he said. "Does this thing bother you?"
"No. It's just that…" She seemed reluctant to answer him, but his patience finally persuaded her. "Howard, I feel we are near the center… but it's different, in a way I can't explain. It's never felt so… so threatening before, almost as if…" She left the sentence unfinished, but her eyes reminded him of the unspoken accusation in Sharo's expression, just before he had set sail for his island.
They think it's all my fault, he thought angrily. As if it's my presence here that has disrupted their idyll. "Come on," he said, a trifle gruffly, "let's get out of this arroyo and have a look for your lake."
They walked around the fallen watchbird and moved slowly along the uneven ground, looking for a place where they might easily climb out into the face of the wind. Howard was careful not to set too fast a pace, keeping in mind his companion's increasing fatigue.
The wreck was about one hundred yards behind them when they came across a cairn of stones, nestling against the side of the arroyo. A rough wooden cross had been placed on top, and the sight of this archetypal symbol brought Howard to an abrupt stop.
The wind howled around them, buffeting his thoughts. "What… is it?" he asked, already knowing what her answer would be.
"It's a headstone," she said, matter-of-factly. "There's a grave underneath."
Death, here in Sanctuary?
"Surely you are not surprised, Howard?" she said gently. "There is such a thing as old age, and people still die from it, even in Sanctuary. And some of us have been here for a very long time. Then there are the wild animals to consider—"
He turned upon her angrily. "But you mentioned none of this to me!"
She looked at him, her expression unwavering. "Would you have stayed behind if I had?"
She had him there. And she knew his answer without him speaking. He stared at the crude headstone, wondering what kind of person rested underneath such a burden, and what had been the cause of his or her death.
"If you want to turn back," she said quietly, "then this would be as good a time as any."
He ignored her and pressed ahead, forgetting for the moment their intention of climbing out of the arroyo. A few paces farther on he passed another cairn, and then another. "What is this?" he cried, and the wind tore at his words and scattered down the arroyo. "Some sort of graveyard?"
Vivian stood a few paces behind, shaking her head. "No. But many have died here."
He wanted no part of death. Angrily he turned away and scrambled up the steep side of the arroyo like a man possessed. Gasping, he reached the top, and crawled over. When his breathing eased he looked up, and despite the wind lashing particles of sand and grit against his unprotected face, a feeling of relief came over him when he looked ahead.
There stood the mountain, its contours razor-sharp against the darkening sky. This close it did not seem as artificial as he had first thought, although it rose, bold and solitary above the plain. Not so much as a small hill contested it for as far as the eye could see; the land immediately around it lay in a series of gently undulating waves, where vegetation flourished. Less than halfway up the mountainside this vegetation disappeared; the upper half was capped with snow, and here and there a bony ridge poked through. The topmost peak was shrouded with ice crystals, and while it might only have been a product of his fanciful imagination, for a moment he could have sworn that a rogue shaft of sunlight picked out a strange building near the edge of the snowline.
Vivian took her time climbing out of the arroyo. When finally she crouched down with him against the wind, she directed his attention to the far right of the mountain. In the fading light he made out the contour of a vast lake, the distant shore lost in mist, but the nearest accentuated by what appeared to be a long ridge of surprising whiteness.
“Salt wrack,” she explained, shouting to make hersel! heard above the gathering roar of the wind. Already rain had begun to strike their faces sporadically. “The waves carry the salt to the shore where it piles up int those great scalloped ridges we can see.” He did not hear her sigh, but in spite of the wind and the gathering storm he could detect a sudden change in her manner. He turned around and for a moment was taken aback by the soft but determined look in her eyes.
"This is your mountain, Howard. I am sure of that now. There lies the lake, and here we are at the hub. Now you have only to find their citadel." Yet there could be no mistaking the uncommon melancholy in her words.
Not knowing what to say, he nodded toward the base of the mountains. "There're trees over there," he said. “They should provide good shelter from the storm when it hits. And there'll be fresh water, maybe some berries for us." They had both grown a little weary of their hard rations.
Vivian shook her head. A deep sadness seemed tc have overcome her. "You go, Howard. I promised I'd lead you to your mountain: the rest is your business.”
He looked at her speechless for a long moment. "But… I always thought—"
"That I would go with you, right to the top of their mountain, to where their fortress lies?" Again she shook her head. "That you must do alone. My part is done."
"But where will you go? Who will take care of you? You just can't leave."
"I will take care of myself," she said firmly. "The way out is always quicker than the way in. Why, I might be swapping stories with old Henry by the time you reach your citadel."
"But how will I know where to find you?" he protested. And then, with an uncertain pause, "When this business is over?"
She gave him a warm but enigmatic smile. "I am wondering if you will need to see me again, once you have come down from there." She nodded toward the mountain.
To Howard it seemed that he spoke for the very first time from his soul. "I think I shall always need you, Vivian."
She studied him for a moment, as though searching for some small contradiction in his words, but of course she found none. She leaned forward and touched him lightly on the cheek. "Of course," she said. "If you need me, even after what lies ahead of you, you will always find me."
For a long moment something warm and loving passed silently between them, then she resumed her professional manner. "Make straight for those trees over there," she said pointing. "See where that outcropping of rocks lies? That should afford you some shelter from the storm."
"But what about you?"
"I'll be all right. I paid careful attention to the sides of the arroyo; there's plenty of places for me to rest up in."
"And afterwards?"
'Don't worry. I'm not new to these places, you know." She gave him a smile of encouragement and turned to leave. Before climbing down into the arroy she turned and said something further. But at that precise moment the snarling wind threw itself between them and her words were lost.
"What did you say?" he called out, trying to make himself heard above the approaching fury of the storm
She retraced her steps until she was only a few paces from him. 'When you are on the mountain," she said, “beware of the one who calls himself the Destroyer.”
The Destroyer? He wanted to ask more, but already she had turned and was disappearing over the edge of the arroyo. He crawled forward and watched her mov ing down the ancient watercourse, until she had disappeared from sight around a sharp bend, and the deep imprint of her presence had been hounded from the air by the jealous wind.
“Take care, my lady," he whispered, not caring that the words were torn from his lips and flung carelessly into the malevolent air.
He turned to face the mountain, standing against the full blast of the wind. Behind lay the accumulated experience of his long quest, since he had entered Sanctuary. He remembered the cruel pillage of his memory and why he had come here and drew strength from his resolution. Yet his guide had left him, perhaps wisely and he faced the forthcoming confrontation with the Guardians with some trepidation.
He stood alone at last, wondering what she had meant by the warning against the one who called himself the Destroyer.
Now the wind turned its full fury against him. The sudden impact took his breath away and almost brought him to his knees. He bowed his head against the blast and for a moment swayed like a drunken man about to lose his footing. Dust and all kinds of debris swirled around him as though determined to drive him back; grit and small stones struck his face, tearing the surface of his flesh and causing blood to flow. He put up an arm to defend himself against the brutal attack, and through half-closed eyes saw the dark line of the squall advancing across the desolate plain. With such a wind behind it the storm would reach him in minutes; the mountain was the one safe refuge within easy distance.
He looked quickly behind, but the wind had driven a great cloud of dust between him and the shallow arroyo. He forced himself to cast aside all thought of Vivian and concentrate on his own predicament. He felt confident she would take care of herself—it was in her gypsy nature—otherwise he would never have let her go.
He set off, head down against the driving wind. The ground sloped gently upwards. He could just make out a blur of vegetation in the distance, and beyond that, a vague outcropping of rocks. He set his course upon this goal and fought the savage wind every step of the way. It goaded him like a mad thing, pummelling and tearing at him as though it were some wild animal eager for his flesh. He moved slowly and with growing determination; he could make no better time against the prevailing conditions. But he was anxious to reach the shelter of the trees before the storm broke.
Overhead the sky was a threatening black. He could no longer see the mountain; only the gradually rising ground convinced him he was moving in the right direction.
The first drops of rain felt like acid biting into his flesh. But these emissaries did not prepare him for what was to follow. Still struggling against the howling wind he reached the first line of trees; he gasped and staggered forward, toward the dim outlines of the rocks ahead.
The storm struck with astonishing violence. For a brief moment the wind dropped and the air was suspended in an eerie stillness. He was taken by surprise by the events that followed. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled overhead and the sky seemed to roar as though it had been split asunder. Down came the rain in sheets, like a thousand waterfalls releasing their energy all at once, while the wind attacked with renewed vigor. The first onslaught threw him to the ground, and for one desperate moment he wondered if he would ever find the strength to rise. But somehow he managed to stand upright in the storm and grope his way forward, arms outstretched like a blind man. Lightning stabbed the ground nearby, causing tall trees to scream as they were split asunder, and the very ground beneath his feet seemed to shake with the force of the storm.
Within seconds he was soaked to the skin. His legs felt like leaden weights, dragging his heavy boots along. The slope grew steeper, leading him through the vale of trees. Several times he stumbled and fell, but always rose against the merciless storm. For one wild moment he thought he had lost all sense of direction, that the storm-dark sky had betrayed him. Then a shaft of lightning threw into bold relief the outcrop of rocks he had been seeking; they loomed almost in front of him, their jagged fingers defiant against the riven sky. He almost sobbed with relief and ran toward them.
A piece of flying debris, sharp and solid like a rock, struck him across the forehead. He was felled instantly, stunned, and rolled over. The rain poured down on him, as cold as ice, and this alone kept him from losing consciousness. Gasping, he crawled the remainder of the way up the steep slope, lashed and beaten by the savage wind and the determined rain. But eventually he made it.
He reached the first of the rocks and leaned against it, not minding that the storm still lashed him. For the first time he felt some security now that he had some protection from the violent elements around him. In a moment the wind, seemingly maddened by his effort, changed direction in the capricious manner he knew so well, and attacked him from another angle. He swore and crawled deeper in the outcropping. Rough stones cut his hands and scoured his knees and he felt the warm trickle of blood on his hands in contrast to the prevailing cold; he almost smiled at the absurd conjunction.
The deeper he burrowed into the surrounding rocks, the less he felt the fury of the storm. Gradually it eased, as though the sky had spent its measure upon him, and was preparing to depart. Only the voracious wind persisted, hunting him in and out of the rocks with the tenacity of a wild animal. But now that he had reached the heart of the convoluted labyrinth of rocks he had ceased to care about it. Eventually he discovered a group of large boulders underneath a projecting ridge. He crawled inside this natural shelter, and with his back braced against the rear of his retreat, stared out at the fading storm.
The rain no longer reached him. Only the wayward wind sent its little devils probing into his niche, but they were harmless little horrors after what he had experienced. For a while it seemed that the remnants of the storm prowled around his hiding place like some frustrated beast; the thought made him smile. And gradually he became aware of its slow, disgruntled retreat. Even the wind retired to leave him in peace.
A while later the sky began to clear, revealing the tattered remnants of a shaken sunset. Then gradually twilight usurped the riven sky and the first few stars began to appear.
He was cold and shivering and his clothes were soaked. Now that he had recovered from his hardships it seemed imperative that he remove his clothes and climb into his warm sleeping bag, if indeed the fury of the storm had not penetrated his shoulder pack. With fingers grown numb with the cold, he managed to open his pack and get out his sleeping bag. Only the outside was slightly moist, but the insulated inside was untouched by the rain. That made him feel better immediately.
The dried foodstuffs would not suffer from being slightly moist, although the rye bread seemed rather soggy. Still, he did not mind. He had survived the worst storm of his life, under conditions he could hardly call hospitable. And he was determined to go on surviving, no matter what the weather was like in this lonely center of Sanctuary.
He climbed out of his wet clothes and spread them out carefully to dry. Shivering, he pulled on the thick sweater and climbed into his sleeping bag. Within minutes he felt almost human again. His lacerated hands were another matter. He rummaged again in his shoulder pack and found some cream in a tube that looked as if it might do the job. He massaged it gently into his wounded hands, wincing now and then, but once this was done he felt a cool and pleasant sensation spreading through his palms and fingertips, and knew that he had done the right thing.
But it was bitter cold in his refuge. He got out the twin cubes from his pack and set them on the ground, gently pushing them together. He waited several long minutes, but only a feeble glow was given out. He was reminded of a flashlight when the batteries were just about finished. He swore and quickly separated the cubes, then stared angrily into the darkness.
The storm had wandered off into the distance somewhere; every now and again he heard the roll of distant thunder and saw a brief flash of lightning, but this was a tame demonstration compared to what he had recently endured.
Something Vivian had said came back to him. Near the center of Sanctuary, the customary laws and conveniences did not apply. Perhaps that explained why the fire cubes had glowed but fitfully. Well, he would wait until morning and scrounge around for some bits and pieces of wood to help start a fire. In the meantime he was prepared to see out the bitter cold night. He felt suddenly, ravenously hungry. He did not fancy biting into the soggy bread, but the tough sausage Henry Levin had provided them with went down well after his long ordeal. He smiled when he realized that Vivian had left the last of the port with him, perhaps knowing he would need it to help keep back the cold. Good girl, he thought. Thanks. He would miss her. But he took strength from remembering her parting words: "If you need me, you will find me." He felt sure he would ... when he had climbed this mountain and found the answers he sought.
He had made it this far. The mountain did not seem so tall that he could not manage the climb ahead of him, nor did its side seem so steep as others he had known. In the morning he would begin, but for tonight he needed sleep.
Outside the wind still howled, as though peeved to have been robbed of its prey. The rich port warmed his belly, but although he remained awake for a while, looking out at a suddenly clear sky, that night no moon appeared. This did not bother him, for by now he had grown to understand the confusion that had troubled Sharo. No aspect of Sanctuary was ever stable but remained constantly changing. With this thought to comfort him, he eventually fell asleep. But his last conscious consideration was for Vivian, and a fervent hope that the storm had left her untouched.
Overnight the rain had ceased, and the dry ground seemed to have been so parched that there was hardly a trace of the rain left. But the sky again carried a deep overcast and the air remained like ice. His clothes were not yet dry and for a while he scurried around half-naked, gathering together enough twigs and fallen branches to make a fire. By the time he had finished his teeth had set up what promised to be a permanent chatter and parts of his flesh were blue with the cold. But he got out his cubes and placed them together, and when they began to glow with their feeble radiance, he coaxed a fire into being with the smallest twigs and bits of dry grass he had found, finally adding the larger pieces until he had a merry blaze going. Only then did he crawl back into the comfort of his sleeping bag and breathe a deep sigh of relief. He leaned over and spread his clothes out close to the fire, and with some awkward efforts, even managed to get some coffee going. After these exertions, the rest of the morning passed easily by. A chastened wind howled mournfully among the rocks while he ate breakfast. He cut a large slice of the moist bread with his camping knife, and a hefty slab of cheese to go with it. He sat back with this in one hand and a mug of steaming fresh coffee in the other, and began to feel content. The mountain could wait a little longer while he refreshed himself for the task ahead.
Somewhere out on the wasteland he heard the mournful cry of some poor animal. The sound sent a shiver down his spine. Only the wind, he assured himself. It was only the wind.
He thought back over all that had happened to him since he had entered Sanctuary, and in particular the events that had followed his recovering consciousness in Sharo's shack. Had it really been no more than six days since then? And only three of them trekking with Vivian to this solitary mountain that rose like an ancient monument from the bed of a desolate landscape? The shifting lands with their disorientating transitions, old Henry and his dilapidated outpost by the crossroad— and last night, the terrible storm that seemed to have unleashed the primeval forces of creation for a few short minutes. Or had it been longer? He couldn't remember, had no idea how long it had taken him to crawl to his refuge, one agonizing inch at a time. His hands had healed surprisingly well, and he looked forward to the climb ahead. But an element of doubt had stirred inside him while he slept.
Sanctuary seemed a good enough place in which to spend the remainder of one's life, provided one stayed well clear of the capricious hub. It didn't matter what part of the universe they were located in, or if they did inhabit what Vivian had suggested might be "an infinite prison." There was a single aspect of anyone's life that couldn't be described as a prison; the secret was to find a way of living within it that did not abrogate one's individuality. For the first time he began to doubt the nature of his quest. Hadn't Sharo said that it was sometimes an advantage to forget one's past and begin again, without making all the old mistakes? The prospect was tempting, but…
To begin again was not enough; there were elements of his past that no person should be without. That is why I am here, he reminded himself. That is why I have chosen this quest. The initial anger he had felt against the Guardians had tempered during his long trek. Now all he desired was to discover the nature of his forgetting, and if indeed they were responsible for the loss of his past, or if—and this was another of Sharo's suggestions he had found disquieting—it had been his own doing. But he was determined to face them and discover the truth.
The mournful lost cry was repeated, and this time it did not seem at all like the whimpering of the wind. The sound made him feel uneasy. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and felt his clothes; they were still damp, but a brisk walk and the persistent wind would soon dry them out. He put them on and methodically squeezed everything else into his pack. He noticed that the fire cubes were dull and lifeless and saw no reason to carry them farther; they had served him well, but it was obvious the power that gave them function was no longer present in these hostile surroundings.
The rock outcropping extended for about a hundred yards. After that the land began to rise steeply and soon the last of the vegetation was far behind. The upper third of the mountain was deep in cloud, the darkest he had ever seen. Snow clouds? he wondered. Well, he would soon find out.
How far up was the citadel of the Guardians, he wondered. Vivian had been evasive on that point; perhaps she had not known. For the first time since her leavetaking he remembered her curious warning:
Beware of the one who calls himself the Destroyer. What had she meant by that? Had she implied that even the Guardians were protected by some sentry who might challenge him, otherwise anyone might imagine they could gain entry to their stronghold? If his reasons for asking admission were considered insufficient but no, by heaven he would make sure they would listen!
All day he toiled slowly up the mountain, pausing every now and then to get his breath. Below the world was spread out, flat and featureless, a haze along the horizon obscuring all details. The mountain stood out above this like a great column, reaching for the sun. What a place for them to choose for their fortress he thought. So far from anyone who might be expected to give them trouble, yet in constant contact with everything through their vast technological network, of which the ever-present watchbirds were but one example. And what if they had followed him every step of the way on his journey, and knew that even now he was approaching them on the mountain, like a fly making its way across the entire universe of a wall?
Around midday he stopped to rest against a large rock. It was only when he moved off that he noticed a crude cross had been daubed on top of it. It reminded him of the crude crosses he had seen atop the grave cairns. He had rested unknowingly over another grave. His flesh crawled, and for a moment his body seemed colder than the surrounding air. He looked around and saw nearby several mounds of stones similiar to those he had seen in the arroyo. Some of the cairns had been disturbed, and he wondered if a ground tremor had been responsible.
He made his way quickly out of the area. He was some distance up the slope before he looked back and saw how the cairns made a geometric pattern; the outside graves forming a rough circle, those inside the circle forming a simple cross; the whole bringing to mind the image of a mandala.
The sight of this formal graveyard reminded him that death was commonplace here, yet he wondered what miserable type of people would choose to live here. But he remembered how Henry Levin had chosen to eke out his lonely, solitary existence, and knew that he had not even begun to approach a proper understanding of human motives.
I can turn back, he thought. There is still time. I can leave my argument with the Guardians and make a new life for myself. What will all my wasted years avail me when at last I have recovered them—if I recover them?
The familiar howl of an animal seemed closer this time. For a moment he thought it had followed him up the slopes, so persistently did it seem to dog his footsteps.
He made up his mind for the last time. There could be no turning back. Not now. Not ever. The only way out was forward. Then, and only then, would he concern himself with the future. For the moment it was the past that mattered most. Tomorrow would have to be patient and wait a little longer.
The howl came again, closer this time. He searched around until he found a stunted sapling and hacked away a long branch with his small knife. He sharpened one end to a point, conscious all the time that some wild animal could be breathing down his neck. But there was only silence all around him, and the always petulant wind to harry him. When his makeshift weapon was finished, he set off again, using the blunt end as a staff to help him in his climb.
There was much activity in the dark clouds around the mountaintop, but this time they presaged something other than the terrible storm he had experienced the night before. This was snow country, he realized, and he moved a little faster. He hoped to come within sight of the citadel before the inclement weather closed down. Once he thought he caught a glimpse of an enormous building through a momentary break in the clouds, but the view was so abrupt he was left with the nagging doubt that he might not have seen it, but rather had conjured it up with his own anxiety.
By now he seemed to be following a well-worn path up the mountainside. This required extra caution, for there was no way of knowing what he might run into coming down the path.
He rounded a bend in the trail and came to an abrupt stop. A little way off to his left was a bloody trail on the ground. He could just make out in the half light the body of what might have been a man, but who looked so wretched in his tattered clothing and his matted hair that he was loath to even think of the creature as human. And there could be no question of going to his aid. There was a beast straddling the body, a beast that might have been a wolf but with a face like no other animal he had ever seen. There was blood on its jaws and its dark lips curled back in an angry snarl, showing long, pointed fangs, when it saw Howard. For a terrifying moment their eyes locked, wolf and man staring each other out. A low, deep growl of displeasure started up in the animal's throat; its evil eyes glittered. Then Howard raised his sharpened stick, carefully, so as not to alert the animal too soon.
The wolf's eyes flicked over the crude weapon, as though weighing the threat. For a moment Howard feared that the beast was about to attack him; his throat went dry and he gripped his crude weapon in readiness, wondering how one dealt with a charging animal. But the wolf had already gauged his chances and seemed satisfied to leave well enough alone. He gave Howard a meaningful look, relaxed his jaws, and resumed snuffling the corpse at its feet.
The man was obviously dead. There was nothing Howard could do to save him. Slowly his muscles unfroze and he moved cautiously around the bend in the trail, never once taking his eyes off the beast. But the wolf never once looked up from its grisly meal; for him Howard had ceased to matter.
Only when he was well advanced up the trail did Howard pause to relax. He leaned against the side of a small hill and breathed a sigh of relief. Next time he might not be so lucky. He felt more angry than ever that the Guardians should allow such horrible deaths to occur, and this only strenghtened his resolve to confront them.
It must have been midafternoon, but he had no way of knowing because by now the lower levels of the clouds had shut out both the sunlight and his view of the land below. Yet he was not in the least hungry, and was determined to push on as much as he could before it became too dark to move; only then would he rest and think about his stomach… and the wild animals that roamed these forsaken realms.
Visibility grew less as he toiled along the path; the darkness was closing in much sooner than he had expected. Soon he was surrounded by a swirling mist laden with the promise of snow or sleet. It was time to find shelter again until the morning sunlight brought a semblance of reality to his surroundings. But where? Already it was difficult to isolate individual details of his immediate surroundings. If only the day and the weather had not conspired so swiftly against him.
A dark shape loomed up ahead, standing out boldly even through the swirling mist. At first it looked like a gigantic boulder, such as had given him good protection from the storm. But as he drew closer, it impressed him with its feeling of artificiality, and when he was still some distance away he recognized it as an enormous cairn of stones. Its size took his breath away; why, it must have towered a good thirty feet into the darkened sky, and the base would have covered the length of four men stretched out feet to temple.
He stood back, uncertain of what he should do. There were no other rocks in sight, and even though he felt uneasy at the prospect of lying down against this ominous cairn, there seemed nothing else in view that might offer some protection should a storm unleash its snowbound fury. If he passed this by, and moved farther on, he might find himself marooned and unprotected in the darkness.
While he was ruminating on a course of action, a section of the enormous cairn moved and detached itself from the rest. Howard blinked, not quite ready to believe his eyes. It seemed that he saw a tall figure standing beside the cairn, and that even as he stared in disbelief, this figure took two enormous strides toward him through the mist to stand revealed.
Howard reeled in shock. The figure was at least seven and a half feet tall and had the most terrifying visage he had ever seen. The man was clothed in diabolically splendid armor, he was dressed from shoulder to foot in night-dark metal covered with strange embossed configurations. An enormous metal helmet covered his head; but although the visor was up only a disturbing darkness was visible inside, and two cold eyes glared down at him. His legs were braced wide apart and a stark crimson cloak fell from his shoulders and swirled around his legs. In either hand he carried a sword; in his left a short, slender rapier that gleamed strangely in the miserable twilight; in his right an enormous broadsword which he carried as lightly as the rapier in his left. And the wind, which seemed to have grown excited by his sudden appearance, drove the mist in a vortex around him, so that he peered at Howard through this swirling curtain.
Howard's first conscious reaction was to laugh. Why this creature seemed to be more a product of his tormented unconscious than a creature of any real substance. And just when he had assured himself that this was indeed the most likely explanation, the burning eyes fixed firmly upon him, and from somewhere within the helmeted darkness a terrible mouth opened and spoke one word.
"Hold.”
The effect upon Howard was electrifying and final. He froze, unable to move, and stared at the frightening vision.
The figure remained stationary, as though waiting for him to speak. They were alone together in this swirling mist and the rest of creation might never have existed.
Howard's mouth worked frantically, finally managing to speak. "Who—who are you? Are you a Guardian?"
The monstrous head tilted back and he could imagine cruel lips drawn back in a proud smile.
"No Guardian, I," the figure replied, in a voice so deep and strange it might have been dredged from the very bottom of this terrible creature's soul. "I am Enteos, the one whom some speak of as the Destroyer, And it is I who am the sentry of this path."
Howard tried to behave calmly. After all, there was no reason why he should allow himself to be frightened by the appearance of this stranger, when his manner might have been designed to frighten off lesser mortals.
"Who are you," the figure asked, "and why have you come here, upon this dark mountain?"
Howard stood as straight as he could, bearing down on the staff he had shaped to a point at one end. "My name is Howard Landry," he said nervously, "and I seek an audience with the Guardians, within their citadel, which I have been reliably informed is on this mountain. I wish to know—"
The figure suddenly held up its right arm so that the broadsword pointed straight at Howard. "By what right do you come here?"
"What right! Why, by my right as a citizen of Sanctuary! Who are you to ask?"
"I am Enteos!" the figure cried, in a voice that shook the turbulent sky. "And I am guardian here. No man proceeds beyond this point while I am here." This time he raised his left arm and swung the slender rapier toward the cairn behind him. A fierce light flowed away from the sword, illuminating the cairn with an eerie brilliance.
Howard blanched and took a step backwards, almost stumbling. What he had assumed to be a great pile of stones now stood revealed to him as a massive jumble of human skulls, their gaping jaws and empty eye-sockets reproaching him for his pride. But these grisly relics formed only the upper half of the grotesque cairn; the bottom half writhed in the light of the sword, and in this seething nightmare Howard perceived more ugliness and corruption than he could ever have imagined. He turned away in anger and disgust.
"There you see the broken dreams, the arrogant behavior and all the foul desires that have driven men onto the point of my spear," Enteos boasted thunderously.
"I came here for my past!" Howard cried out, his eyes filled with tears and unable to face the dreadful figure and his cairn of grinning skulls and wasted dreams.
Enteos roared with amusement. "Your past is but a pauper's dream and the future… what should you care for the future? It is only now, this moment, that has any meaning to your miserable existence. You may choose; even here, you have that right. You may return from whence you came. You may go back and find for yourself that part of Sanctuary that pleases you. Or you may die here, like all the others, and I will have another skull for my collection. Come now, the choice is yours: which will it be?"
Howard trembled, but it was not because of the fear he felt for this dreadful guardian of the Guardians, but from the intolerable anger he felt against the deception to which he had been made party.
"Then it's all been a lie," he cried. "A monstrous lie! Let me pass."
He made a sudden lunge to the right, meaning to get around the creature in one swift movement and disappear into the mist. He reckoned that the heavy armor would slow down his tormentor, but he had not counted upon the swiftness of the other's reflexes. Enteos did not seem to move at all, yet his right arm came slashing suddenly down, even as Howard made his first step, and the terrible sword took hold.
Howard opened his mouth and was about to scream, but when a sudden weight disappeared from his shoulders he realized that the Destroyer's blow had only carried away his shoulder pack. Given this breathing space he lunged forward, still grasping his makeshift spear.
There was a roar behind him. The flat of a sword struck him across the shoulder and sent him sprawling, an agonizing pain spreading down his arm. He gasped and cried out, but his pathetic stick-weapon had spun out of his grasp. He rolled over, almost afraid to look up and see the creature standing over him.
The awful blade sang and bit deep into the ground beside him. Despite the pain in his shoulder he scrambled to his feet. His right hand found his spear and he grasped it, coming quickly to his feet in a defensive posture. He peered into the mist, breathing heavily, knowing he was about to die, but determined to strike at least one blow at that awful, unseen face.
"Thou wert a fool to come so far," the Destroyer thundered. "But rest easy; thou will go no farther."
Through pain-filled eyes Howard saw the frightful figure emerge from the mist. He saw the great sword coming down and, gripping both ends of his wooden spear, held it up to ward off the blow.
The spear shattered and the sword continued its merciless downward sweep. The blow struck Howard in the left side, drank deeply for a moment, and then withdrew.
Howard screamed, clutching the dreadful wound, and fell to the ground. A dark mist began to close off his vision. And he thought: I am dying.…
He was only dimly aware of the tall figure of the Destroyer standing over him, and for a moment he felt sure that his dreadful arm would swing up and then down and sever his head from his shoulders; strangely enough this did not seem to matter. He had ceased to care. Now nothing else mattered except the creeping jaws of death.
He saw the Destroyer look up suddenly, turn his visage to the right and pause for a moment, as if listening for something Howard could not hear. Then he looked down again at the dying Howard. He took a step back and threw back his head and laughed. It was a thunderous roar of triumph that echoed and re-echoed down the dim corridor of Howard's mind. Then the arms of the mist closed around the Destroyer and he disappeared from sight. Now there was only this moment of darkness creeping down on Howard. There was nothing he could do but welcome it. With a sigh he put aside what was left of his life and surrendered to the dark tide sweeping over him.
The darkness had not been terminal. He was still alive. And when he regained consciousness it was dusk and a light snow had been falling for some time.
His body ached all over, never before had he felt so cold; there was a fierce pain in his left side and he could not move. So he lay on his back and stared up at the swirling snowflakes, watching them settled upon his stiffened garments. Already they were sheathed in white.
He tried to recall what had happened. Slowly it came back to him. The Destroyer had struck him down and then fled, leaving him for dead. Even now he could hear the mocking laughter of that dreadful figure echoing through his mind. And he remembered the cairn of grinning skulls and the writhing malevolence supporting them; he was afraid that at any moment his assailant would return and complete his grisly business. But what could he do? He was helpless and alone in a strange land thickening with twilight, where a man's life might only be worth as much as his ability to defend it. Oh, how brutally had Sanctuary betrayed him!
His fabled place of refuge had become a mockery. The dream had grown grotesque. He had done his best to abide by the unwritten laws of this place, yet it seemed that the Guardians had abandoned him to this cruel fate—and so close to his objective. Where had he gone wrong? In what obscure way had he failed them? Merely by questioning their authority and their right to take from him whatever they considered at odds with his happiness?
He remembered the fallen watchbird, crumpled and broken and riddled with rust, as though its very presence was symbolic of the decay of protection at the very heart of Sanctuary—and Vivian's sad expression when she had told him she could not accompany him any farther. Had she had some precognition of his fate, and if so, had she also betrayed him? Oh, it was unthinkable, but in the madness of his pain these ogres rose to torment him.
He stared around dismally. He had no idea of his whereabouts or the path he had been following before he had been set upon by the Destroyer. The gently falling snow obscured the fearful cairn, wherever it might be situated; he was well and truly lost. The pain had driven much from his head, but he knew that his confusion would only be momentary.
He shivered in the biting cold. He felt Death breathing heavily over him and knew that if he lay there much longer he would surely freeze—and he could expect no help from them. It was obvious now that they had abandoned him long ago, perhaps from the very moment he had turned his back upon the peaceful village by the ocean and set off in search of his past. He tried to sit up, but each time the pain in his side became so intense that he feared he might swoon again. The slightest movement triggered waves of agony that made him whimper like a strickened animal.
I will show them. I will beat them… even so.
Somewhere out in the encroaching darkness a lonely animal howled. The sound brought with it an image of frightening clarity and he remembered the strange wolf-like creature he had seen bending over its prey. Panicking, he groped around in the snow for his makeshift spear; then he remembered that the Destroyer's sword had smashed it in two and he had no idea where the broken pieces might be lying. His shoulder pack… there would be a small knife inside it. But his face collapsed when he remembered the blow that had struck it from his shoulders. Now it would be lying somewhere, anywhere nearby, probably ripped open and with its contents scattered. He had nothing but his wits to protect him, and they were cold comfort in this snow.
Slowly he moved his right hand, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth against the sudden stab of pain. His fingers explored the gaping wound in his left side. The Destroyer's blade had cut through his jacket, his heavy woollen sweater, and deep into his flesh. Cloth and flesh had congealed into a thick crust of dried blood.
He felt much afraid. It was a monstrous wound, but his life's blood had not yet been spilled into the snow. There was still a chance… but what if he managed to sit up, would the effort cause the dreadful cleft to reopen and let his life gush out?
It was a chance he would have to take. Better to leave this treacherous world making some sort of effort, however futile, than to lie down like a beast and wait for the end.
He leaned heavily on his right elbow, waiting for the waves of pain to recede. He knew that with proper care and binding, the wound would heal. But where would he find such help? He had seen no sign of human habitation since old Henry's hostelry, so there seemed little chance of anyone passing by to lend him assistance, particularly in this terrible place. And yet… there had been the wolf-thing's victim. No matter how terrible the image seemed in his mind, here was at least proof that someone roamed this desolate mountainside—and where there had been one there would surely be others. If only he could find them… in this darkness, in this snowfall?
Night was closing down; he would have to make his move soon if he were to make any at all. He struggled into an awkward sitting position, his left hand pressed tight against his wounded side. His right elbow sank several inches into the freshly fallen snow. He peered into the fading light, searching for some familiar landmark, yet not wishing to identify the dreadful cairn. But there was only the ubiquitous snow for as far as he could see.
His chances of finding the path seemed remote. Visibility was now less than a hundred meters, and lessening rapidly. He could blunder around for hours and never find help; his wound would gape wide with the effort and he would soon bleed to death… if at first he did not freeze.
How distant now seemed the happy faces of the people of the forest, the balmy air of Sharo's island and the happy, warm-hearted people of the village. Whatever had possessed him to come so far to reach such an ignoble end?
I came in search of… my past. Even now, with Death staring intently into his ravaged face, he would not yield from this intent. Otherwise it would have all been for nothing, and no journey should ever prove worthless.
He had no idea how far he was from the citadel of the Guardians, and for the moment he had given up all thought of ever finding it. It was the manner of his dying that now concerned him: not here, grovelling like some desperately wounded animal in the snow. He would show them—he would show himself—that he was still a man, and able to die like one.
But a sudden lethargy overwhelmed him and he sank back into the snow. He closed his eyes, his dazed mind beginning to wander again, dreaming of better times and all that might have been. Vivian . . . Vivian. Why did you desert me? Did you know it would end like this, and were you unwilling to face it with me?
Why had she not warned him of his opponent's invincibility? Perhaps she had only hearsay to go by, and one had to face him to realize the truth.
He opened his eyes again. Darkness was all around him. The night enveloped him and there could be no escaping its cruel fist. Yet the thought returned, insistent as ever: I must find help. Somehow. Before it is too late. …
There was a faint light in the distance. At first he thought he had imagined it, but after blinking several times it refused to disappear, nor did it come any closer. It remained a feeble, fixed glow, the sort of light that might be visible through the window of a dwelling of some kind, and it sent a surge of hope through his pain-wracked body. It drove away the deeper darkness that had been settling around his heart and sent a newfound strength stirring in his limbs.
He sat up, ignoring the pain that gripped him like a vise. He gasped though, and took a tenacious grasp upon the weak spirit welling up within him. He staggered to his feet. His legs were shaky but he felt sure they would carry him as far as the light… if he moved cautiously.
Sudden, deeper pain stabbed his side and he clutched his wound in alarm. Warm blood trickled through his fingers. For a moment he swayed back and forth, fighting back the fear and the waves of dizziness that threatened to defeat his plan. His body seemed so frail that a puff of wind might have blown it over, yet the air was strangely still after so much effort.
He clenched his teeth and set off slowly in the direction of the wavering light. He moved carefully, each step bringing forth an exclamation from his parched lips. But he pressed on. No power in this place could have stopped him now, except Death himself.
The distant light weaved and danced through the snow like a phantom, luring him on. Often he wondered if it was truly there, or if it might be a product of the fever already racing through his body. That his own flesh could betray him was the unkindest cut of all, yet this he resolutely refused to accept. He pressed on.
He staggered on like a drunken sleepwalker. The trickle of blood crept through the tightly clenched fingers of his left hand and left a dark stain on the virgin snow. If only he could hold out a little longer.
He dared not rest for a moment, lest he sit down and never rise again. Many times he stumbled and almost fell, but he managed to stay upright and made sure that the tempting carpet of snow did not seduce him.
The light gradually loomed larger ahead of him. He never once looked back for fear of finding Death's head grinning down his neck; he felt so far gone. His vision wavered and wobbled. His blood wove a sad pattern on the snow behind him. And the light ahead danced and jiggled like a mischievous gremlin.
The building evolved slowly out of the darkness and the swirling snow. At first he thought it could only be a manifestation of his fever, but as he drew closer he saw that it seemed solid enough, and that it resembled a medieval castle. It seemed disturbingly familiar, but he could not ascertain why; instead he wept for joy that he had reached a place of refuge.
The enormous walls of the castle seemed to grow up out of the frozen ground like the roots of an enormous tree. Ahead was a wide moat, covered with ice. The drawbridge was down, and torches burned high up in brackets on either side of the portcullis. It was their combined light that had beckoned him through the darkness. Overhead, the high walls of the castle disappeared into the darkness. But the manner of the building seemed to suggest that it was more in the nature of a fortress than a simple castle; the size of its walls suggested it was huge.
He staggered forward across the drawbridge, wanting to embrace this colossal building as he would have embraced a woman, but his arms would not spread wide enough.
The wide gate was open. The portcullis was raised, its heavy iron spikes pointing down at him. He paused for a moment to gain what was left of his breath, then moved forward.
To reach the open area beyond the walls it was necessary to proceed through a labyrinthian passageway before he entered the inner bailey. He had to pass through five doorways, each with raised portcullises, and all the while his journey was illuminated by torches set high up in the walls. A deep part of him did not find this at all strange, but rather what might have been expected. He resolved to take this matter up with himself at a later date, when his fever had passed and he could think sequentially again. For the moment his only concern was to find the help he so badly needed.
Yet the fortress seemed strangely deserted. If this was indeed the fabled stronghold of the Guardians—and he could conceive of no other building that could match it in the magnificence of its construction—then why had his arrival gone unnoticed? Why were there no sentries to challenge him? What of the guards who must surely patrol the battlements—had too much ale addled their wits? Strange how these phrases slipped so easily into his befuddled mind. Perhaps in time he would seek them out.
Now that he was inside the fortress the snowflakes seemed to swirl around him in ever-maddening circles. For a moment he rested, now that he was so close to help, leaning against the gate of the inner bailey to get his bearings. Then he set off in the direction of the castle keep, a great building but a short distance away.
The effort cost him dearly. When he reached the building he collapsed against the stout wooden door.
There was not sufficient strength left in him to knock or even cry out to announce his arrival to those inside. But much to his surprise the heavy door swung inwards under his feeble weight, and he sprawled across the threshold.
A flurry of snow swept past him and into the great hall. He could see a fire burning at the far end of the room, and long trestle tables set with food and wine. Silver goblets caught and reflected the cosy firelight. Ornately carved wooden chairs and richly embroidered cushions were spread about the vast hall, and magnificent tapestries draped the walls. It all seemed strangely familiar, but he could not bring his dismal mind to bear upon the matter.
Torches blazed brightly in every corner. Their combined light made it possible for even his fading eyesight to see everything in detail. The heavy door swung shut behind him, cutting him off from the bitter night air. He was thankful to have found such a hospitable refuge— but where was everybody?
The great hall was deserted, and had it not been for the forced sound of his own ragged breathing, he would have felt like a creature embalmed in silence.
The fire burned at the far end of the hall, but he did not hear it give off any welcome crackle. He shook his head in a dazed manner. Had his pain made him deaf as well? Ah, but perhaps his hearing would return when he had rested… and his awful wound was cleansed and dressed.
The absence of people bothered him. It seemed that the hall had been set for a great feast, yet no one was present. What crisis could have called them away at so late an hour, and in such inclement weather?
He slowly dragged himself across the rough stone floor until he was leaning against one of the trestle tables. By now the pain in his side had ebbed to a deep and abiding ache; his fever seemed to be acting in an anesthetic manner, which was something to be thankful for. He could not hear the merry crackle of the fire, but already he could feel a little of its warmth reaching him.
There was food and wine tantalizingly close. The heavy smell of ale beguiled his senses. Hands shaking, he managed to pour a brimming mug of it from a jug and downed it almost at a gulp. He smiled with pleasure at the sudden flush of warmth in his belly. He wiped some surplus from his stubbled cheeks and managed to pour another.
There was fowl and venison nearby, fresh fruit and vegetables also. It had been a long time since he had contemplated such a feast. Why, the people who inhabited this fine fortress must be wealthy indeed and have considerable influence to have prepared such a feast; but their continued absence bothered him.
His wound still gaped. The stone floor beneath him was stained with blood. The flow would have to be checked, and he could not wait forever for assistance; but he would make do as best he could until someone did arrive.
With an effort he managed to tear a large length of material from the tablecloth nearest to him. He groaned as he drew this makeshift bandage tight around his waist, but he knew this was necessary to stanch the flow of blood. The effort left him weaker and this, combined with the ale he had quickly consumed, conspired to make him curiously light-headed.
They can't be much longer, he kept thinking. They'll return soon enough.
With what little strength he had left he crawled closer to the fire. It had burned down considerably since his arrival but there was no way he could have replenished it, even if wood had been nearby.
He grasped a jug of ale in one hand and a hunk of venison in the other and sat with his back against a large wooden chair near the fire. For a while he toyed with both, then he passed out.
Some time later he was roused by the sound of many voices. But they seemed to come to him from across a great distance, or filter down to him through some strange device. He sat up with a start, remembering where he was and what had brought him there, and winced from the sharp stab of pain in his side.
He was anxious to meet the masters of this fortress and discover if they were indeed the Guardians, but to his surprise he discovered that the hall was as empty as it had been before he fell aleep. Only a few wan coals still glowed where the fire had once roared soundlessly, and the smell of the ale he had been drinking hung heavy around him. He could faintly hear the chatter of many voices circulating throughout the vast and empty hall, but they were so soft they might only have existed in his imagination.
It's the fever, he told himself. His flesh felt as though it was on fire and burned more fiercely than the flames he had crawled close to. I must be dreaming… or hallucinating. It's the fever. … But one question remained, even in his debilitated state of mind: there were still no people in the hall. The tables remained set, the food and wine and ale waiting. Waiting for whom?
The distant voices remained persistent. By straining his ears he could just make out the familiar swish of the hem of long dresses scraping across the stone floor, and close at hand, a hint of girlish laughter mingling with the coarser conversation of men.
He groaned and sank back, his eyes closed. He groped for his jug of ale but could not find it. A fire raged inside his skull and he was helpless against it. A numbness was spreading slowly down his left side and he had lost the use of his left hand. His heart hammered anxiously, like a frightened bird struggling to escape the prison of his chest.
I am dying, he realized. His long struggle through the snow had been wasted; there was no one here to help him, and he doubted if there ever would be. This massive fortress might just as well have been dreamed up by his feverish imagination for all the good it had afforded him. Still, the ale and venison had seemed real enough.
His mind drifted off into a troubled sleep. The next time he woke he heard the sound of many hearty voices nearby, the unmistakable swish of cloth, and the stamp of heavy boots. And this time the general level of the sound was enough to have rattled the pewter mugs on the long trestle tables.
He lay unmoving, waiting for someone to notice him and come to his aid. But it seemed their minds were otherwise occupied. He stared at them through half-closed eyes and felt a chill enter his bones, for these people looked more like ghosts than living creatures.
What new madness is this? his dwindling mind demanded. He could hear distinctly the merry clink of goblets and the booming voices of older men. He tried to sit up, to call out, to grasp their attention, and yet feared what he might find.
The hall seemed to be filled with a vast number of elaborately dressed phantoms. They were figures without substance, yet they moved in a manner that could have only been expected from such lords and ladies decked out in their finest attire and mingling with maids from the scullery and youths from the stables. At the far end of the room a nobleman sat in company with his court and they engaged each other in boisterous debate. The high ceiling resounded to the sound of many voices raised in friendly discourse, but the people seemed as insubstantial as woodsmoke against a clear sky.
Howard panicked for a moment. He looked quickly down at his body, terrified lest he discover it to be as wraithlike as those around him and that he, too, had long surrendered the ghost. Much to his relief he saw that his flesh was solid enough, and this discovery filled him so much with joy that he almost laughed.
It is the fever, he kept telling himself. But this still did not explain the nature of the great hall or of the fortress it was part of. And the absurdity of the medieval analogue was something that nagged constantly at his conscious mind.
For a grim moment he returned to reality. He felt his left side encrusted with blood. "Help… me," he said, in a voice that was barely audible and more like a croak. "Please. You must… help me."
But nobody heard. Nobody paid any attention to his dying. He cursed them silently, not having the strength to revile them aloud. And gradually the great hall and its complement of merrymaking phantoms began to revolve dizzily around him, and he knew that the end was near. He had escaped the Destroyer, but only to be faced by an even more ignoble end. To die and be ignored in his dying seemed the crudest joke of all.
Now he would have gladly exchanged the folly of his quest for a chance to be lying again on the warm sands of Sharo's island, or to be held fast and secure in Vivian's gentle arms while she soothed away his nightmares. But these opportunities were past; he had made his choice and now there was nothing save this miserable dying business to have done with.
The abiding pain swept over him in ever deeper waves, bearing him on toward the great darkness. Once he imagined that he saw a face peering down into his; a woman's face, filled with compassion and concern. In his fever he thought she seemed most beautiful… and hauntingly familiar, and he was thankful that now, at this penultimate moment of his life, his distress had not passed unnoticed. Her attention came too late to save him—yet she smiled, as though to reassure him that all would be well. And it seemed that he could see quite clearly through her warm-hearted expression, and that on the wall behind her was a large tapestry, depicting in somber colors and great detail the savage murder of a unicorn: the three huntsmen driving deep their heavy spears while their hunting dogs ripped and tore at the exquisite flesh of the dying animal.
His eyes opened wide and he looked in wonder upon this transfiguring image, viewed through the smile of a woman whose face he now recognized. But it was the vision of the tapestry that lodged deep in his soul and triggered vast subconscious quakes.
He cried out. And the darkness claimed him.
He woke to the feeling of cool hands on his face and a warm presence beside him. Slowly his eyes opened and he recognized with utmost clarity the face of the woman who had seemed but a wraith, but who now was as solid and real as himself.
"Vivian," he whispered, unable to believe she was with him, or how she came to be there.
Whenever you need me, you will find me. This much he remembered.
Her soft hands stroked his cheeks and pressed a cool cloth against his fevered brow. "Hush," she said. "You must rest. Do not worry, we will take care of you. You have suffered much, but I do not think it has been in vain. Rest well, my good Howard."
He looked at her through a deepening haze. "Is this… their citadel?" he asked. "Have I reached… the Guardians."
Again she smiled. "There are no Guardians here, Howard. Rest, and all will be well." She kissed him gently on the brow and her lips were like the mouth of a prayer. He closed his eyes and slept.
Before he lost consciousness he felt strong arms lift him from the floor. He was vaguely aware of a group of solemn-faced noblemen carrying him from the great hall to an adjoining room. There they lowered him onto a soft, warm bed and left him alone.
Later he roused from his slumber and saw a small fire glowing in one corner of the small room. Seven handmaidens entered in company with their mistress and helped her bathe and dress the awful wound in his side. While she worked she hummed softly to herself some ancient melody, which at first seemed to be a lullaby, but which also reminded him of another languid folk song he could not pin down.
He noticed with some relief that the people around him were real enough, and dismissed what had happened before as a mere hallucination of his rising fever. Ah, the fever: it consumed him still, and despite the ministrations of these angels showed no signs of abating.
The amount of blood he had lost was prodigious. But he had retained his reason, and this alone gave him the courage to endure.
"Thank you, my lady," he mumbled, when the bandaging had been done, falling quite naturally into the medieval analogue that governed this particular place and time. He was anxious to discover by what means she had found a way to this fortress, and why she had followed him. And indeed how she had bypassed the Destroyer and his dreadful challenge. Perhaps she bore some charm that had guaranteed her safe passage.
But his strength was not yet equal to the task of involved conversation; his interrogations would have to wait. Later, when his wound had healed and the fever was gone, then he would demand an explanation.
But a raging furnace still roared inside his skull, making it hard for him to think. He asked for something to drink and she brought him deliriously cool water to help assuage his internal fires. And she constantly bathed his scorching flesh with cool towels, still humming the beguiling melody that reminded him so much of the distant springtime of his life. For most of the time he lay unmoving, with his eyes tightly closed, trying to ignore the gnawing pain in his side. And the wild hammering of his heart still reminded him of a trapped and beaten bird struggling to escape the prison of his flesh. In time, little one, he mused, lost in the fever of his daydreams. In time…
He no longer had faith in his body to repair itself, yet there was no strength left in him to declare his anger and humiliation. The Guardians had had their sport. Indeed he had come far and endured much, but it now seemed that he would never discover if the institution of Sanctuary was as malign as he had begun to suspect.
Vivian stayed beside him throughout the long night, until the fire had burned low and the festivities in the great hall outside had drifted into a drowsy finale. Dawn had drawn the soft tip of her brush along the eastern edge of the world before she slipped quietly away.
All night the fever had burned savagely within him, and so great had the pain become that his mind seemed uncoupled from his body. His thoughts drifted, only dimly aware of what had happened. When he woke he discovered that his flesh was numb from neck to foot and that a deep chill enveloped him. His soul seemed to be seeping out through the dead tips of his fingers, draining him of life.
His eyes filled with acrid tears. "Help me," he cried out, but it was a weak an ineffectual whisper. "Please help me."
He turned his head to one side and fixed his glazed eyes upon the embers of the fire. A small child sat in front of it on a stool, patiently brushing her long blonde hair. She felt his eyes upon her and turned to face him. He recognized her instantly; despite his raging fever he could not mistake the solemn nature of her expression or the weight of centuries hidden in her soft eyes.
"Help… me," he pleaded.
Without a word she put aside her brush, stood up, and came toward him. Yet she had taken only a few small steps when her figure seemed to shimmer strangely, and alter alarmingly, until she stood before him as a tall, long-haired woman with straw-colored hair. Her expression was somber but compassionate, and down one cheek an icy rivulet of tears wound a sad path. He blinked, as one who has seen a vision yet could not accept it, and when he looked again it was the face of Vivian looking down on him. Her expression was grave and her manner quite touching.
"Howard," she said, and her voice was like honey to his ears. "Is it time?"
His breathing was desperate. "Do not… let me die," he begged. "Please. Do not… let me die... ."
She did not answer immediately. Instead she inclined her head a little to one side, as though listening for a sound he could not hear. It took some time for him to realize they were no longer alone: a hooded figure stood in the doorway, watching them. He wore the drab clothes of a monk and carried a staff; his features were in deep shadow, yet there seemed something in his manner that aroused in Howard an expectation of danger. He reached out and grasped Vivian's hand; she did not resist, but stood quietly beside him.
The air had grown quite still. And still the figure did not move, but seemed to be waiting for some sign. With an effort Howard struggled to raise himself and leaned forward, holding fast to Vivian's hand for support. He peered through a gathering mist at the solitary figure in the doorway. He tried to say something, but no words would pass his lips. There was something happening around the periphery of his vision: the mighty fortress appeared to be retreating into a vague sort of limbo; only this room remained solid and acceptable. And with that knowledge he knew he was about to surrender that priceless gift called life.
The figure stirred in the doorway. "Is it time, Howard?" His words were dark and sepulchral.
Howard knew that it was. All he could do was nod.
The stranger came forward into the room. The tiny glow from what was left of the fire threw a fragile light on his hooded countenance, causing Howard to gasp with surprise, for he had seen that face before—many times.
Behind the figure there came a solemn rustle of movement as others followed him inside. They formed a silent semicircle around his bed.
The figure wearing a monk's attire leaned over him and Howard stared up into a face that would stand for all time. It said, "Do you wish to make confession?"
Howard nodded. This was the way it had to be: to die in order that one may be reborn. This much, at least, he had not forgotten.
The kindly face looked gently into his. "Then I am ready to hear your confession, Howard. What is it you wish to tell me?"
Howard struggled to speak, but the effort was nearly more than he could manage. And all the while he could feel the wild beating of anxious little wings against the walls of his chest. But eventually he spoke. "My… my crime," he whispered. "I wish to speak… of my crime."
"And what was the nature of your crime, Howard Landry?"
"I… I killed that part of me which alone is capable of love."
"And how was this done? Remember, it does no good to speak in riddles, Howard. To confess at all one must speak only of the truth."
But for a moment it seemed that Howard could not, would not go on. His mind struggled to present his thoughts in a way that mattered. "I ceased to love myself," he cried, "and so lost the world. For I am also part of the world, and to lose my self-respect, to kill that part of me which alone mediated my love for mankind…"
The stranger took his hands and inspected them casually. "I see no blood upon them, Howard. Your crime has only been against yourself. Your soul may be deeply scarred, but your hands are clean. And they are fine hands, Howard. They have wrought many beautiful things."
"And one great disaster."
"Aye, but only one. Look closely at them, Howard. See, these were your means of mediating your love. But what were your tools?"
He answered without hesitation. "Words. Words were my tools. With them I—"
The stranger was nodding, but only half listening. "Yes, something occurred in your mind—let us call it a dream, perhaps a vision—and this vision was transformed into words that passed through these hands, these fine hands, Howard, and were given to the outside world. You do remember the nature of your gift, don't you? Was it that part of yourself you sought to destroy, because of some miserable disappointment?"
"No. It was more than that—"
"Aye, but not considerably more, Howard. You say that you killed that part of yourself which alone is capable of love. I call it the creative urge. And in the case of Howard Landry, I say that gift was nearly divine. Yet you sought to destroy it for the sake of one dismal failure."
"No," he protested. "It was… more than that. It was… too much, too soon.'''
The stranger nodded sagaciously. "Ah, I understand. Only to the very fortunate does success come late in life. But do you understand this, Howard, or have you passed this way for nothing?"
"I… I'm not sure," was all he could say.
The stranger stood up, shoulders square and strong in the half-light. "Cast back your thoughts, Howard, and you will recall a personal crisis, which you thought at the time was unique, but which you must now know to be commonplace: it was a crisis of purpose, compounded by an even stronger crisis of identity. So you constructed an elaborate fantasy to escape from what seemed to you a problem you could not resolve. But you forgot one important thing: that there is always a part of us, dark and deep down where we rarely encounter it, that is always intent upon our own destruction. That was the risk you felt compelled to take; all we could do was watch over and care for you; the rest was up to you. It must always be your decision."
Howard looked at him in wonder. "Then you have been my Guardians?"
The figure smiled. "We have, but not in the way your fancy imagined us. Look at your hands, Howard: even now the kind old sun is coaxing them back to life."
He saw that this was indeed true. He felt the warm weight of the sunlight charming the palms of his upturned hands. The effect upon him was electrifying. His all but lifeless body began to tremble with the overwhelming return of the truth he had so long denied.
His confessor leaned forward slightly. "Now do you remember the nature of your gift?" he asked quietly.
There was a long silence during which Howard stared deeply into some private vision. Then, his lips trembled and he said, "Yes, I remember.'"
And when the walls come tumbling down the truth comes rushing in; you cannot hold it back. So it was with Howard Landry. And now that the breath of life had returned he found he could talk like a man possessed. His words set the room glowing with music and he talked until he was drained of their magic. For when a man speaks with himself there are no interruptions.
When he was done the stranger lifted his hands and slowly drew back the cowl concealing his face.
"I know you," Howard said, in wonder but not in fear. "You are the one who called himself the Destroyer.""
The stranger smiled. Seen so close it was possible to mark how time had deeply ravaged his tolerant face; and his burning eyes hinted at a deep and unresolved pain. "That is so," he replied. "But I am also called Enteos, the god-within."
Howard realized now that he was staring into his own face. And he saw not the earnest face of a youth, eager to embark upon a lengthy quest, but the features of a middle-aged man burdened with time.
Howard's confessor smiled and spread wide his arms in a gesture of peace. Slowly his figure began to blur, and for a moment Howard thought this was because of the tears in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but the figure continued to dissolve. Even Vivian—his dearest, most constant friend—had begun to disappear. Behind them the shadowy figures he had been unable to identify had been swallowed up by a great shadow that seemed to be sucking the life from the room. The walls grew faint and insubstantial, fading away as though they had been composed of dewdrops and were surrendering their substance to the morning sunlight. Soon everything would be gone. But he felt no regret. His long search was over. He had reached the citadel of the Guardians and discovered it to be instead a fortress of memory, wherein had dwelt the past he had so earnestly sought. Now at last he understood the nature of his quest and his elaborate fantasy had come to an end.
"I remember!" he cried out, calling to the fading figures. And it might have been mere fancy, but he felt sure he had seen a ghost of a smile on Vivian's gentle face before she disappeared from view.
Stasis shattered. But gently this time; there was no dreadful roaring in his ears, only the familiar thunder of surf and the disconsolate wail of gulls. He surrendered himself willingly to the transition, sending his soul winging its way happily down the dusty corridors of illusion in search of truth. He was aware that some of his old fears accompanied his exit, but this time he felt confident that he had enough strength to denounce them.
Sanctuary was not a place but a state of mind.
And for the last time the chimerical walls he had created dissolved and spilled him out.
There were no mechanical emissaries waiting. They, too, had been but a fanciful creation of his paranoia. Now, this time, there was only the kindly face of a friend looking down at him, and beyond his face another, framed by an open window. Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile of greeting. Outside, beyond the window, he could hear birds singing pleasantly and warm sunlight filled the air.
He looked again at the kindly face looking intently into his. "Sharo," he whispered. He knew instantly that the choice of name had been wrong, but for the moment it was the only one he could associate with the benign face beaming down at him.
"Sharo, it's over. It really is. I'm back."
And with these few simple words he was.
His fugue had lasted only ten days, but in retrospect it seemed to have encompassed more than half his life. And in a way it had.
"The past and the future may be real illusions," Doctor Klein had explained. "For most of us it is the moment that really matters." His was the kindly face Howard remembered best as Sharo during his psychic journey, but whom he now knew to be as the man who had masterminded his recovery. "An experience as intense and as concentrated as the one you have just been through," the doctor went on, "can convey in moments a heightened sense of reality that quite transcends our mundane existence."
He understood that now. When he was well enough, the Doctor had shown him around the vast clinic, explaining the scientific wizardry that had enabled them to enter into his mind and project his fantasy into the external world. And Howard had gone into the room and sat in the enormous chair where a multitude of wires had tapped the source of his breakdown and he no longer felt afraid, for he now recognized these masterful tools for what they were, no longer with eyes distorted by a desperate paranoia.
"You tried to lose yourself at the bottom of a deep, dark well, Howard. We had to go down a long way to help bring you back. We had to find a way of devising a ladder so that we could reach you, and that way had to come from within yourself—even that part of you that was so desperately afraid of coming back. We constructed our ladder from bits and pieces of your own past, your own personality, your own hopes and your own dreams. All of this we took from you, and added to it the little we found in ourselves, for the process must work both ways if our endeavors are to prove successful. But our machines can only do so much, Howard; without the help of those empaths who volunteer to become part of the patient's fantasy, success is never assured."
Empaths, Howard mused. People with an abnormal understanding of another person's feelings. He thought fondly of those who had accompanied him on his inward quest, and now he could even manage a wry smile when he recalled the devious manner of their many disguises.
"It wasn't enough simply to gratify your delusion," Doctor Klein went on. "That would only have proved harmful. In your case we went along with you for a while and set up your elaborate fantasy, changing it every now and again to suit your whim. But gradually we infiltrated your design, making subtle alterations to your original conception, and introducing incidents which we hoped would provoke a response that would lead you back on the road to discovery. But we never expected it would be such a long and devious path."
Norman Klein had been helping the mentally disturbed for more than half a century. He had been around long enough to remember the barbaric early treatments, when patients had been subjected to the ordeals of electro-shock and had their minds dulled with opiates in the name of helpful therapy. And in his mind was a vast storehouse of all he had ever read of the centuries of cruelty and torture that had preceded even the beginnings of more orthodox psychiatry: the madhouses and other Bedlams, the whippings and the dousing of witches and all the rest that would forever be part of mankind's shame. But his knowledge and his remembrances had only hardened his resolve. Even now there was no way of knowing just how successful this new and expansive way of dealing with difficulties such as Howard's would ultimately be. So far it had benefited but a few: those with the wit and will enough to want to pull through. As for the others… that was his ever-present problem. For the moment it was enough that another human being had been safely brought back from the depths of existential despair.
They sat together in cane chairs on the front porch of the doctor's private residence, waiting for Howard's cab to arrive. The sun was warm and the spacious grounds of the clinic bristled with spring. It was early morning and only a few of the staff were abroad. Some were sitting on the grass; others reclined in canvas chairs, reading books or magazines.
Howard had rested for several days after his climactic return to the real world, and now he was eager and confident enough to take up the reins of this past life. His inward journey had been profoundly moving, and he had returned with that part of himself he had sought to destroy. Now he could contemplate the future with a modicum of hope.
He said, "I wish there was some way I could show my appreciation for all you have done."
The Doctor smiled and waved aside his words. "For all of us, it is enough that you have returned. Not everyone does, Howard. That deep, dark well can be awfully tempting."
There was a sudden whisper overhead. They both looked up and saw Howard's aircab poised in the air. The Doctor waved and pointed to a smooth area in the grass; the cab descended slowly. When it had settled sedately on the ground before them, the driver smiled politely and opened the passenger door.
Now, at this very last moment, Howard felt a sudden pang of loss. These people had been so kind—every one of them. He would miss them all. He didn't want to leave them so abruptly, yet he knew that he must, otherwise all their work would have gone for nothing. "All society ever really needed," Doctor Klein had said, "was not mental institutions, but a home for the heart." And that was what he had discovered here. But the real world was calling him now, and he answered its summons.
He stood up, feeling for his small bag. Inside were some old clothes, some toilet articles, and a few paperback books. One came and left this place with a minimum of possessions.
"You know," the Doctor said, standing up and smiling, "the only time you really worried us was when you tried to drown yourself in that lake." And they both laughed at the memory of him floundering around in a few inches of water, trying to end his bothersome life.
Howard held out his hand and the doctor took it and shook it firmly. His grip was strong enough to have snapped a small tree in two. Howard smiled at a memory and the realization that had prompted it.
"Keep in touch," the doctor said.
"I will." And of course he would, when things had settled into place.
"And don't push your work. To let it flow is best. Remember, you don't have to prove anything anymore."
Except to myself, Howard thought. But they both already knew that.
He was about to step down and walk over to the cab when he noticed a familiar figure sitting on the grass, only a short distance away. It was a young woman, sitting alone in a pool of sunlight between two tall trees. She had a book open in her lap but her eyes were fixed upon the recently arrived aircab. She saw him and waved.
"Just a moment," he told the driver, thrusting his small case inside the cab. He turned around to Doctor Klein and said, "I haven't said goodbye to Vivian."
He walked slowly toward her. He did not speak but knelt beside her, tenderly taking her face in his hands and looking keenly into her eyes, just as she had looked into his so long ago with the weight of centuries in her eyes and the face of a child and woman merged together. He wanted, for the first time, to etch her portrait on his memory, to retain for all time an image of her as she really was He marked her melancholy, the way her long dark hair fell languidly past her shoulders, and the ghost of a smile that played around the corners of her mouth.
She regarded him just as steadily. Now and for this moment only, no words were necessary.
Empath, he thought. One who understands and appreciates another's pain, with abnormal insight.
He spoke softly one word: "Tsukisoi."
For a moment she looked surprised, then her eyes flashed and her smile broadened, so that she looked for all the world like a child caught out in some minor indiscretion.
He took her hands in his and said, "I've been reading some of the books the doctor loaned me. A tsukisoi was a female attendant in Japanese mental hospitals in the twentieth century. They were with the patient at all times, taking care of his needs, emotional and physical. And at night they always slept beside him, in case they were needed."
Her smile became enigmatic and she looked shyly away. A soft breeze stirred her long hair and moved whisps of it across her cheeks. "I will miss you, Howard."
And I will miss you, he thought, but could not raise the words from his throat. " 'Thank you' seems such an inadequate way of expressing what I feel," he said instead. And then: "I'll write… when I'm settled in."
"Of course." These seemed such minor matters after all they had been through. She said, "Come visit us sometime when you're not too busy."
"I'll do that. I promise you, I'll do that." Behind him he could hear the aircab purring impatiently. "Goodbye, Vivian."
"Goodbye Howard. And work well."
His steps were heavy as he made his way back to the open door of the aircab.
He slumped down in the back seat, but sat forward when they were airborne. He looked down through the window, past the garden area and over the enormous amphitheater where his fantasy world had been given life. Doctor Klein had promised to let him see some evidence of their handiwork before they dismantled his set to prepare for another needy client. He smiled when he saw how very bare had been the scaffolding of their construct. The "sea" he had so nearly drowned in was no more than a hundred yards wide, and probably only a few feet deep. The tiny island in the center, which he assumed had been used as "Sharo's" abode, now stood revealed as only a small hill rising above the water, and probably artificial. A few small trees and huts comprised the "village" on the far side of the "lake," which in his inward journey he had imagined as a vast inland sea. Beyond this makeshift village the land was uniformly flat and featureless, save for one slight rise that stood out incongruously against the rest of the construct, for it was there that he had struggled his way up an imaginary mountain, swept by storm and snow, to confront a Destroyer who was known also as Enteos—the god-within—and then reached the ultimate goal of… himself.
All around this enormous amphitheater he could see, spaced equidistant and towering up into the sky, the complex image projectors which, feeding on his troubled soul, had clothed this simple setting with the desperate fantasies of his torment. From this height the whole thing looked so absurd that he felt like laughing, but when he remembered all that he had been through and those who had suffered with him, the smile faded from his face, and he remembered Cervantes asking if a tree were more real if it were touched, or if it existed only in the mind.
The clinic extended for many miles, but the rest of it was hidden underneath a milky opacity. He wondered, briefly, what other strange dramas might be enacted beyond his ken, and how many of their protagonists would emerge as successfully as himself.
The aircab swung away in a wide arc towards the east and Howard settled back comfortably in his seat.
They flew steadily for about an hour. Once he saw the hazy purple outline of a megapolis on the horizon, faraway to the south. For a moment some of his old fears returned, but he felt confident that in time he would even be able to face the city without flinching, despite how much it had caused him to suffer, otherwise his journey would all have been for nothing.
Gradually the aircab dipped lower. They were speeding over a lavish countryside with no sign of human habitation, a massive greenbelt that mankind had somehow managed to preserve, in spite of all the odds against them. Howard leaned forward eagerly, watching the small country houses pass by underneath, each one separated by several miles of lazily winding roads, small enough to allow the passage of only one wheeled vehicle, but broad enough for the many men who walked with a jaunty swing to their step. Out here the air was still clear and the solitude almost tangible. Here was a place where he could rest and recuperate and, after a while, perhaps begin to dig down again into the rich repository of dreams that had for so long sustained his creative life. What he needed now was time to evaluate and assess all that he had been through; the rest would wait. It would have to.
The aircab dropped slowly to the ground and settled just outside the doorway of a handsome cottage with a thatched roof. Howard thanked the driver, tipped him generously, and got out of the cab. The long grass crushed underfoot and he knew that this was no dream. He felt in his right coat pocket for the key Doctor Klein had given him and the front door opened smoothly, without protest.
Inside the house everything was perfect; just as he had asked. Doctor Klein and his staff had done their best to please him, and he knew that this was not the last time he would be filled to overflowing with the enormous gratitude he felt for them. Their task had not been to cure, but to care, and how well they had remained true to the tenets of their belief.
The rooms were sparsely furnished, just as he had requested. He knew it would take a great deal of time for him to establish himself in this agreeable retreat: his internal needs must establish an equilibrium with his external world before he would begin to express his personality in this new dwelling. But already he could feel that a beginning had been made. The air inside the house felt good and he could feel it absorbing his presence like a welcoming host.
The room he had selected for his study was not quite so bare as the main room and the kitchen: one wall was lined with shelves carrying a selection of his favorite books, folios and cassettes. He even noticed a few slim volumes of his own poetry discreetly standing next to the reference volumes near his desk. He smiled with recognition, then turned to his desk.
It was made of solid wood and neatly laid out with notepads and ball-point pens. A typewriter was concealed underneath the polished top and could be brought into position with the touch of a switch. He remembered fondly the way it always sat there, humming impatiently while he waited for the right sequence of words to form in his head. But he doubted if he would be needing its speedy service for some time. There were other matters to attend to that commanded his attention.
He sat down with a sigh in his padded swivel chair. It felt good to be home again. Where the heart was.
To his right, in the upper corner of the desk, was a familiar object that brought a smile of pleasure to his weary face. It was a stone ax, prehistoric and probably fifty thousand years old. His father had brought it back from one of his field trips, and given it to him for a birthday present when he had been twelve years old. He had used it ever since as a rather special paperweight. It was his link with the past.
To his left, and again in the upper corner of the desk, was a framed photograph of his former wife and their family: two boys and a girl, all smiling softly yet somehow enigmatically into the camera.
He thought about Rachel. A lot of love and bitterness had passed between them before they had separated. They had almost destroyed each other before they realized that the fault lay not in the other, but in themselves. At least some things had turned out for the best, and perhaps in time they might fashion something new and better from the wreckage of their past—something the children could gain strength from.
The children.
Remembering them brought a special kind of pain, but he could even live with that now and he knew it would never subdue him again. He thought of them with a deep and abiding affection, and knew that in the fullness of time everything would work out for the best. But there was something else…
Almost directly in front of him, but placed with some thoughtful direction a little to the left, so that it did not immediately command his attention, was a handsomely bound quarto volume. It was deeply embossed with a recreation of a medieval painting that depicted in grisly and graphic detail the death of a helpless unicorn. The colors were muted orange and brown, the expressions of the three hunters thrusting their spears into the animal so detached that the murder offended all the more strongly, and the casual snapping and snarling of the dogs tearing at the animal's flesh seemed a fitting complement to the human element.
The painting had haunted Howard for years and finally lead him to create the epic drama contained within the imitation leather binding of the heavy volume. The title… well, the title didn't matter, really. He was convinced it had been his finest work, the labor of six long years of heartbreaking effort. And the critics had denounced it savagely to a man. After fifteen triumphant years of success they had brought him down like the unicorn in the painting. And so he had died a kind of death… for a little while.
But their words could not affect him now. He was finished with his unicorn and the grand medieval world he had created around it. Leave it to later ages to assess whatever good it contained; in the meantime there were other things to do. "For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business." Wily old Eliot; trust him to know. But how could he, Howard Landry, have ever forgotten?
He thought of his friends at the clinic, putting into practice the theories of prophets like Laing, Szasz, Cooper and all the other pioneers who had been the first to question the concept of sanity. His friends: they had been his anchor while he rode out the storm of his own dark despair. They had always been beside him, in whatever guise his paranoid fantasy had chosen to give them, and they had been the first to rejoice when he had reassembled the fragments of his personality and recognized the real world as it had been before the doubts: beautiful and not altogether lost. And Vivian: how could he ever forget her? Tsukisoi . . . whose task had been to care for him, and hope that he would manage the rest by himself and escape his delusion.
And have I? he asked himself. Have I really? And he smiled when he recognized the horns of the old demon doubt intruding upon his thoughts. Away with you, he remonstrated. He knew now that these things would always be part of him, that life was often a matter of simply coping with them, but never again would he allow them to overwhelm him; life was much too precious to be hidden in a dark dream.
For a while he sat quite still, feeling the first line of a new poem beginning to take shape in his mind. He could feel the old excitement returning while he waited for the words to establish the subtle, crystalline pattern he loved so much and which was so necessary to his concept. Drama could wait: for a while he would parley with the White Goddess, and see what eventuated.
The old thrill had returned, but he could see now that the words unfurling in his mind would not be the first line, as he had anticipated. Rather, they would be the last. He felt an urge to get the line down quickly, before it eluded him:
Sanctuary was not a place but a state of mind.
He reached for a pen and began to write. His hand moved boldly across the paper, mediating his thought to the outside world.
He was still writing hours later, deep in the joyous rediscovery of the magic of words, when he grew conscious of the soft sigh of an aircab landing just outside the door. There was silence for a moment, then he heard doors slide open and the sound of a woman's voice, followed by the excited cry of children.
So they have come at last, he thought. I have been expecting them. He set aside his pen and, smiling, went out to meet his family.
And his future.