For Milly, that settled it since she had no other ideas.
The sun arced across the sky, and noon came, and went. The beam of sunlight from the hole in the capstone didn’t point at any of the numbers. It settled close to 7 20003, but not on it.
The pit of Milly’s stomach turned to ice, and pain crept up her back while fear and doubt burrowed into her like a worm. They’d been wrong. Peter died for nothing. The entire quest was a joke. Tears leaked from her eyes and she wiped them away.
When the ray of light disappeared, Tester threw his gun down and grunted.
Ingo laughed.
The next day found them back at the guidestone, once again waiting for noon. After half a night of grousing, Tester recalled a star chart he’d seen many years prior when he’d been seeking the answers to the path of understanding. The fall equinox fell on September 22nd, but sometimes it was on the 23rd. Seven years had passed since their intended date of arrival at the guidestone, and Tester didn’t recall the chart going out as far as 2058.
The day was hot and damp, and as the sun arced across the sky the companions of the turtle stood beneath the capstone, waiting for a beam of light to prove they weren’t crazy. Milly’s stomach tossed, her nerves racking her body with pain. Sweat dripped down her back, and she’d never been as anxious. This had to work. She didn’t know what they’d do if it didn’t.
Helga and Turnip lay in the shade in front of the Chinese slab, but Pepper bounced around, yelping and crying with excitement.
A ray of sunlight peeked through one of the holes in the capstone, and the beam of light grew in strength and fell on the central pillar. This time the spot was marked clearly: 7 20003.
Milly erupted, shouting with joy as she embraced Tye. Laughter and joy rang across the forest, and for a brief instant everything made sense. Her old wounds ceased to ache, and a lightness of heart she’d never experienced washed over her. The turtle was real. Argartha was real, and they would find it.
When they’d settled down, Milly said, “7 20003. What about the…”
Tester cut her off. “The two hundreds are Washington, DC. I’m certain of it. I used to send mail to the state department all the time.”
“Makes sense. That was… is the capital,” Tye said.
“And the 7?” Milly said.
“Seventh Street or Avenue, Washington, DC,” Tye said.
“Yes,” Ingo said. “Yes! With that information I can see it now. A man with a beard on a high seat covered in kudzu. A cracked stone with words wreathed in white honeysuckle flowers: Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”
“You’re certain?” Tye said.
“Yes,” Ingo said. “I see it now. Washington, DC is where we will stand before the turtle.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Year 2075, northern Virginia
Milly came awake with a start. The night was chilly and leaves rustled in the light breeze. A three-quarter moon hung in the sky, filling the forest with pale white light. Pepper stood next to her, nudging Milly with her snout. “What is it, girl?”
The faint sound of Helga whimpering floated on the wind.
Milly vaulted to her feet. Pepper ran into the woods, and she followed. Insects buzzed, and an owl hooted. The evergreens were thick and tangled with underbrush, and Milly lost sight of Pepper. The huskie barked, and she moved toward the sound into a thicket of brambles. Milly drew her Glock 19 and gently pressed the safety trigger. It was pitch-black beneath the thick underbrush, but she couldn’t risk any light and mark her position. She moved through the bushes slowly, easing over rocks, through brambles, and around trees.
Helga lay beside a giant oak, its trunk slick with her urine. Milly sparked a torch. No intruder had hurt Helga. Her entire hindquarter was wet with piss, and the shepherd looked up at her and growled. Milly reached out to pet her, and Helga tried to get up and move away, but her rear legs wouldn’t work. Milly had been afraid of this. She didn’t know Helga’s age, but the dog had struggled on the trail, consuming more water and food each day, yet still losing weight.
“It’s OK,” Milly said. She inched forward and Helga bared her teeth, but when Milly put her arm around the animal, she didn’t bite. “It’ll be OK. Easy.” Helga breathed hard, fighting for air.
Pepper sat nearby, and Turnip appeared out of the darkness, head bowed. The animals seemed to sense what was happening. Helga whimpered as pain racked her. Milly looked to the sky, wondering if Randy looked at those same stars, but that wasn’t possible. He was half a world away, looking at his own stars. Did he even remember her? She barely remembered his face. He was gone, wiped clean by time, like Curso.
She held Helga’s snout closed, and the dog hardly struggled as she fought for air, and died. Milly cried then, pulling Helga close. She huddled with the dead animal against the cold, remembering the first time she’d seen the German shepherd when she’d been separated from Tye and the rest. The old girl had licked her face and slept beside her for days.
At daybreak her friends found Milly covering Helga with stones. Everyone helped search for rocks, and when their friend was interred, Tye hammered a cross made of tree branches into the ground at the grave head. On a large stone on top of the pile, Tye etched RIP Helga.
They skipped breakfast and walked on in silence, the sun hidden behind clouds fat with
