boards relayed power into a long-dormant auxiliary system; another turned on an array of sensors which began to take note of sounds in the grotto. And a third, after an appropriate delay, threw a switch and activated the only program that still survived.
They ate well. Chaka had come across an unlucky turkey that morning, and Quait added some berries and fresh-baked biscuit. They’d long since exhausted their store of wine, but a brook ran through the grotto about sixty yards back, and the water was clear and cold.
“It’s not as if we have any reason to think we’re close,” said Chaka. “I’m not sure I believe in it anyway. Even if it is out there, the price is too high.”
The storm eased with the coming of night. Rain still fell steadily, but it was light rain, not much more than mist.
Quait talked extensively through the evening, about his ambitions, about how important it was to find out who had built the great cities scattered through the wilderness, and what had happened to them, and about mastering the ancient wizardries. But she was correct, he kept saying, glancing her way, pausing to give her a chance to interrupt. It was better to be safe than sorry. “Damn right,” said Chaka.
It was warm near the fire, and after a while Quait fell asleep. He’d lost twenty pounds since they’d left Illyria ten weeks before. He had aged, and the good-humoured nonchalance that had attracted her during the early days had disappeared. Quait was all business now.
She tried to shake off her sense of despair. They were a long way from home, alone in a wilderness filled with savages and demons and dead cities in which lights blinked and music played and mechanical things moved. She shrank down in her blankets and listened to the water dripping off the trees. A log broke and fell into the fire.
She was not sure what brought her out of it, but she was suddenly awake, senses alert.
Someone, outlined in moonlight, illuminated from behind by the fire, was standing at the exit to the grotto, looking out. Beside her, Quait’s chest gently rose and fell.
She was using her saddle bag for a pillow. Without any visible movement, she eased her gun out of it.
The figure appeared to be 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 door 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 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.
“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 glanced at the gun and back at him. “That’s far enough,” she said. “Don’t think I would hesitate.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, young lady.” The stern cast of his features dissolved into an amiable smile. “I’m really not dangerous.”
“Are you alone?” she asked, taking a quick look behind her. Nothing stirred in the depths of the cave.
“I am now. Franklin used to be here. And Abraham 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 slowly around. “I wonder what happened.”
“What is your name?” she said.
He looked puzzled. Almost taken aback. “You don’t know?” He leaned on his cane and studied her closely. “Then I think there is not much point to this conversation.”
“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 bowed slightly. “I suppose, under the circumstances, you must call me Winston.” He 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 Quait would already be dead. Or worse. 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 has 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. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’ve been here several days. Where have you been?”
He looked uncertain. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I was certainly here. I’m always here.” 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, I don’t suppose?”
What was brandy? “No,” she said. “We don’t.”
“Pity. It’s good for old bones.” He shrugged and looked around. “Strange,” he said. “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. “The place looks quite abandoned,” he said. Somehow, the fact of desolation acquired significance from his having noted it. “I regret to say I have never heard of Illyria. Where is it, may I ask?”
“Several weeks to the southwest. In the valley of the Mawagondi.”
“I see.” His tone suggested very clearly that he did not see. “And who are the Mawagondi?”
“It is a river. Do you really not know of it?”
He peered into her eyes. “I fear there is a great deal I do not know.” His mood seemed to have darkened. “Are you and your friend going home?” he asked. “No,” she said. “We seek Haven.”
“You are welcome to stay here,” said Winston. “But I do not think you will find it very comfortable.”
“Thank you, no. I was referring to the Haven. And I know how that sounds.”
Winston nodded, and his forehead crinkled. There was a brooding fire in his eyes. “Is it near Boston?”
Chaka looked over at Quait and wondered whether she should wake him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Where is Boston?”
That brought a wide smile. “Well,” he said, “it certainly appears one of us is terribly lost. I wonder which of us it is.”
She saw the glint in his eye and returned the smile. She understood what he was saying in his oddly accented diction: they were both lost.
“Where’s Boston?” she asked again.
“Forty miles east. Straight down the highway.”
“What highway? 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.”
