The figure was a man, somewhat thick at the waist, dressed in peculiar clothes. He wore a dark jacket and dark trousers of matching style, a hat with a rounded top, and he carried a walking stick. There was a red glow near his mouth that alternately dimmed and brightened. She detected an odor that might have been burning weed.
“Don’t move,” she said softly, rising to confront the apparition. “I have a gun.”
He turned, looked curiously at her, and a cloud of smoke rose over his head. He was indeed puffing on something. And the smell was vile. “So you do,” he said. “I hope you won’t use it.”
He didn’t seem sufficiently impressed. “I mean it,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” He smiled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He wore a white shirt and dark vest with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow at his throat. The ribbon was sprinkled with white polka dots. His hair was white, and he had gruff, almost fierce, features. There was something of the bulldog about him. He advanced a couple of paces and removed his hat. And he spoke with a curious accent.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“I live here, young lady.”
“Where?” She glanced around at the bare walls, which seemed to move in the flickering light.
“Here.” He lifted his arms to indicate the grotto and took another step forward.
She raised the gun and pointed it at the middle of his vest. “That’s far enough,” she said. “Don’t think I’ll hesitate.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” The stern cast of his features dissolved into an amiable smile. “I’m really not dangerous.”
She took a quick look behind her. Nothing stirred in the depths of the cave. “Are you alone?” she asked.
“I am now. Nelson used to be here. And Lincoln. And an American singer. A guitar player, as I recall. Actually, there used to be a considerable crowd of us.”
Chaka didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It sounded as if he were trying to distract her. “If I get any surprises,” she said, “the first bullet’s for you.”
“It is good to have visitors again. The last few times I’ve been up and about, the building’s been empty.” „
“Really?” What building?
“Oh, yes. We used to draw substantial crowds. But the benches and the gallery have gone missing.” He looked solemnly around. “I wonder what happened.”
“What is your name?” she said.
He looked puzzled. Almost taken aback. “Don’t you know?” He leaned on his cane and studied her closely. “Then I think there’s not much point to this conversation.” His voice was deep and rich, and the language had a roll to it.
“How would I know you? We’ve never met.” She waited for a response. When none came, she continued, “I am Chaka of Illyria.”
The man gave a slight bow. “I suppose, under the circumstances, you must call me Winston. Of Chartwell.” He delivered an impish grin and drew his jacket about him. “It is drafty. Why don’t we retire to the fireside, Chaka of Illyria?”
If he were hostile, she and her friends would already be dead. She lowered the weapon and put it in her belt. “I’m surprised to find anyone here. No offense, but this place looks as if it’s been deserted a long time.”
“Yes. It does, doesn’t it?”
She glanced at Quait, dead to the world. Lot of good he’d have been if Tuks came sneaking up in the night. They’d felt so secure in the cave, they’d forgot to post a guard. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’ve been here several hours. Where have you been?”
He looked uncertain. “I come and go,” he said at last. He lowered himself unsteadily to the ground and held his hands up to the fire. “Feels good.”
“It is cold.”
“You haven’t any brandy, by chance?”
What was brandy? “No,” she said. “We don’t.”
“Pity. It’s good for old bones.” He shrugged and looked around. “Strange. The place does seem to have gone rather to the dogs, as the Americans would say. Do you know what’s happened?”
“No.” She didn’t even understand the question. “I have no idea.”
Winston placed his hat in his lap. “Yes. We seem to be quite abandoned,” he said. Somehow, the fact of desolation acquired significance from his having noted it. “I regret to say I’ve never heard of Illyria. Where is it, may I ask?”
“Two months southwest. In the valley of the Mississippi.”
“I see.” His tone suggested very clearly that he did not see. “Well, I know where the Mississippi is.” He laughed as if he thought that remark quite funny.
“But you really do not know Illyria?”
He peered into her eyes. “I fear there’s a great deal I do not know.” His mood seemed to be darkening. “Are you and your friends going home?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We are looking for Haven.”
“Haven?” He blinked. “Where on earth is that?”
“We don’t know, Winston.”
“Well, then, I suspect you’re going to have a bloody awful time finding it. Meantime, you’re welcome to stay here. But I don’t think it’s very comfortable.”
“Thank you, no. You haven’t heard of Haven, either?”
Winston nodded and his forehead crinkled. There was a brooding fire in his eyes. “Is it near Toronto?”
Chaka looked over at Quait and wondered whether she should wake him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Where’s Toronto?”
That brought a wide smile. “Well,” he said, “it certainly appears one of us is lost. I wonder which it is.”
She saw the glint in his eye and returned the smile. They were both lost.
“Where’s Toronto?” she asked again.
“Three hundred kilometers to the northeast. Directly out Highway 401.”
“Highway 401? There’s no highway out there anywhere. At least none that I’ve seen.”
The cigar tip brightened and dimmed. “Oh, my. It must be a long time.”
She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “Winston, I really don’t understand much of this conversation.”
“Nor do I.” His eyes looked deep into hers. “What is this Haven?”
She was not shocked at his ignorance. After all, Mike hadn’t known either. “Haven was the home of Abraham Polk,” she said hopefully.
Winston shook his head. “Try again,” he said.
“Polk lived at the end of the age of the Roadmakers. He knew the world was collapsing, that the cities were dying. He saved what he could. The treasures. The knowledge. The history. Everything. And he stored it in a fortress with an undersea entrance.”
“An undersea entrance,” said Winston. “It must be a fair distance from here. How do you propose to get in?”
“I don’t think we shall,” said Chaka. “We are going to give it up and go home.”
Winston nodded. “The fire’s getting low,” he said.
She poked at it and added a log. “No one even knows whether Polk really lived. He may only be a legend.”
Light filled the grotto entrance. Seconds later, thunder rumbled. “Haven sounds quite a lot like Camelot,” he said.
Camelot? He must also have read Connecticut Yankee.
“You’ve implied,” he continued, after taking a moment to enjoy his weed, “that the world outside has been destroyed.”
“Oh, no. Only the cities have been destroyed. The world is doing fine.”
