By that evening, preparations for the End Day feast were in full swing.
Not a word had been said about cancellation, even after the other scavenging parties had returned, and their own stories of death and destitution had spread to every ear. With the city’s sullen mood finally on the verge of breaking, Norman didn’t have the heart to speak up.
Despite searching for the remainder of the day, he didn’t see Alexander again until the following evening. Nor, in fact, did anybody else.
VIII
The rowboat hit sand with a shuddering jolt, neatly sliding from the sea onto the windswept beach. There, it slumped onto its side, and its three occupants fell with it, rolling into the surf.
All was still for some minutes while the breeze kicked up the shifting dunes and a flock of gulls screeched above, wheeling around to circle the wonder from across the sea.
Then, one of the limp, dehydrated figures stirred. A haggard middle-aged man struggled to lift his head and clap eyes on his surroundings, uttering a breathless cry when he saw what lay before him.
Alien land loomed beyond the beach, primordial cliffs, grey skies, and an endless, unbroken forest.