Then a passage in the entry caught his eye, and he read it out loud.
I can't truly say for how long I have roamed through this hotchpotch of passages. At times all hope has deserted me, and I have begun to resign myself to the fact that I might never emerge from them, but it has all been wroth it now…
Directly below it, a subheading proudly announced THE STONE CIRCLE. On the next pages were sketch after sketch of the stones comprising the underground monument he'd stumbled across. He'd not only recorded the positions and shapes of the stones themselves, but on each page had drawn circles in the corners, like the view through a magnifying glass, recording in painstaking detail the symbols and the strange inscriptions chiseled into their faces. His spirits had soared at the discovery, despite his increasing hunger and thirst. Not knowing how long he had to make his supplies last, each day he'd been forcing himself to consume as little as he could.
A self-satisfied grin played on his face as he inspected these pages, admitting his labors.
"Perfect, perfect."
Then he stopped as he came to the next page, pursing his lips with an unuttered, "Ohhhh!" as he read the heading:
THE TABLET CAVES
He'd written a couple of lines below this:
After finding the Stone Circle
, I thought my luck was in. Little did I realize I was to find something that, in my opinion, is of equal or greater importance. The caves were filled with tablets, scores of them, all with writing not dissimilar to that cut into the menhirs of the Stone Circle
.
Dozens of pages with drawings of the tablets followed, skillful pictures of the writing carved on their faces, all meticulously copied. But, as he turned the pages, they became less carefully drafted, until it looked as if a young child had been drawing them.
I HAVE TO KEEP WORKING was written so forcibly under one of the final, slapdash sketches that the pencil lines, pressed deep into the page, had even torn the paper in places.
I MUST DECIPHER THIS WRITING! IT IS THE CLUE TO WHO LIVED DOWN HERE! I HAVE TO KNOW. I HAVE TO…
With a finger, he felt the impressions of his words in the journal, trying to recall his state of mind at that instant. It was hazy. The food had all gone, and he had continued to work feverishly, with scant regard for his water supplies. When he found they, too, had run out, it had taken him completely by surprise.
Still trying to remember, he looked at the note he'd scrawled in a neater, almost despairing way, in the middle of an outline of a stone tablet he had never finished drawing:
I must keep working. My strength is deserting me. The stones become heavier and heavier as I lug them from the piles to examine them. I live in fear that I might drop one. I have to st
It ended there. He had no recollection of what had happened next, except that in a kind of delirium he had staggered off in search of a spring and, not finding one, had somehow managed to get himself back to the Tablet Caves.
After a blank page there was DAY? and the words:
Coprolites. I keep debating whether I'd still be alive if the two youngsters hadn't chanced upon me and fetched the adults. Probably not. I must have been in a bad way. I have a mental picture of the strange figures leaning over my journal, their lights crisscrossing as they peered at the pages on which I'd drawn my sketches, but I'm not sure if I really saw this or if it's just my mind telling me what might have happened.
"I digress. This is no good," he said sternly to himself, shaking his head. "Yesterday's entry! I must finish yesterday's entry." He fanned through the pages until he found the one where he'd started, and put pencil to paper once more:
In the morning, after I'd suited up, I was making my way down to the food stores to collect my breakfast, through the communal area where a group of the Coprolite children were playing a game somewhat akin to marbles. Must have been a dozen or so of the youths, of varying ages, squatting down and rolling these large marbles, made from what appeared to be polished slate, across a clear-swept area of ground. They were trying to knock over a carved stone bowling pin that vaguely resembled a man.
Taking turns, they flicked the marbles at it, and when they had all had their goes the pin was still standing. One of the smaller children handed me a marble. It was lighter than I expected, and I dropped it a few times to start with (still not used to the gloves) and then, with some difficulty, I finally managed to manipulate it into position between my thumb and forefinger. I was just rather clumsily trying to aim it when — imagine my surprise! — the gray sphere suddenly came to life! It uncurled and scurried over my palm! It was a huge wood louse, the likes of which I've never seen before.
I have to say, I was so astounded, I dropped it again. It had similarities to an armadillidium vulgare, a pill wood louse, but on steroids! It had multiple pairs of articulated legs, which it used to great effect, scuttling away at a rate of knots as several of the children followed in hot pursuit. I could hear the others giggling away in their suits; they thought it was hilarious.
Later that day I saw a couple of the more senior members of the encampment preparing to leave. They were touching the heads of their dust suits together, quite possibly conversing with each other, though I have never heard their language. For all I know, it might be English.
I followed them and they didn't seem to mind — they never do. We climbed out of the encampment, somebody rolling the boulder back behind us to block the entrance after we exited. The fact that their encampments are excavated into the floor of the Great Plain and the side passages leading off it, or sometimes even cut into its roof, renders them almost invisible to the casual observer. I tagged along behind the two Coprolites for several hours until we left the Great Plain, taking a passage that dipped steeply down. As it leveled out, I found we were in some type of port area.
It was substantial, with large-gauge railway tracks running alongside a basin of water. (I believe that the Coprolites were responsible for the construction of the track for the Miners' Train and for digging the canal system, both tremendous undertakings.) At the quayside, three canal boats were docked, and I was delighted when the Coprolites boarded the nearest one. It was fully laden with recently mined coal. The vessel was powered by a steam engine — I watched as they shoveled coal into a furnace and lit it with a tinderbox.
When sufficient pressure had built up, we set off, traveling out of the basin and along mile after mile of enclosed waterways. We stopped several times to operate the locks as we came to them — here I was able to step off the boat and onto the bank and watch as they hand-cranked the lock gates.
As we went, I thought much on how these people and the Colonists rely on each other, a sort of slipshod symbiosis, but I would say that the fruit and light orbs are little recompense for the vast tonnage of coal and iron ore that the Colony receives in return. These people are master miners, laboring with their heavy, steam-driven digging equipment (see Appendix 2 for my drawings).
We went past some of the areas of intense heat I've described before, where lava must flow close behind the rocks. I dread to think what temperature it was outside my dust suit. We eventually emerged back onto the Great Plain, making good speed now that the furnace was roaring, and I was beginning to feel rather exhausted (these suits are intolerably heavy after prolonged use) when we saw a group of what I can only assume were Colonists on the canal side.
They categorically weren't Styx, and I believe we may have startled them. There were three, a motley crew from what I could tell, looking a bit lost and nervous. Couldn't see very much, since the combination of my glasses and the light orbs around the eyepieces of the suit produces such a glare, it impairs my vision somewhat.
They didn't look like full-grown Colonists, so I haven't the foggiest what they were doing so far away from the train. They gawped at us, though the two Coprolites accompanying me typically took no notice whatsoever. I tried to wave at the trio, but they didn't acknowledge me. Perhaps they, too, had been Banished from the Colony, just as I wo
uld have been if I hadn't actually wanted to go into the Interior.
Dr. Burrows reread the last paragraph, then his eyes glazed over as he began to dream again. He imagined his battered journal, open at this very page, in a glass case in the British Library or perhaps even the Smithsonian.
"History," he said to himself. "You are making history."
* * * * *
Finally he'd put on his suit and, moving the trash-can-lid door aside, climbed down the steps carved into the wall. At the bottom, as he stood on the well-raked dirt floor, he peered around, his breathing loud in his ears.
His hunch that change was in the air had been right.
The settlement was uncharacteristically dark.
And completely deserted.
In the center of the communal area, a single, flickering light burned. Dr. Burrows began walking toward it, keeping the wall to his side and glancing up at the roof spaces above him. The twin beams from his suit revealed that all the hatches to the other living spaces were open. The Coprolites never left them like that.
The encampment had been evacuated while he slept.
He approached the light. It was an oil lamp suspended above a tabletop of polished "snowflake" obsidian, which was set into a rusty iron frame. Like a mirror, the highly polished black surface, dappled with diffuse white patches, reflected the flame, and he could see that something was on it, eerily lit by the shifting light. Rectangular packets, neatly wrapped in what appeared to be rice paper, were arranged on the table in a row. He picked up one of these, weighing it in his hand.
"They left me some food," he said. Moved by an unexpected swell of emotion through the thick layers of the suit. He shook his head quickly, ending the moment. He was distrustful of such outpourings of sentimentalism. If he gave in to them, he knew he would begin to feel pangs of guilt about the family he'd deserted, about his wife Celia, and his children, Will and Rebecca.
No. Emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford, not now. He had his purpose and nothing was going to deflect him from it.
He began to gather up the packages. As he lifted the last of these, cradling them in his arms, he saw that a scroll of parchment had been left between them. He quickly replaced the packages on the table and opened the scroll.
It was a map, drawn up in bold lines and with stylized symbols dotted around it. He rotated the parchment first one way and then the other, trying to work out where he was. With a triumphant "Yes!" he recognized the settlement he was now in, and then traced a fingertip around the heaviest outline on the map, the border of the Great Plain. From the edge of this, tiny parallel lines ran on, evidently marking tunnels that ran off it. Next to their courses were many more symbols that he couldn't immediately understand. He frowned, totally engrossed.
These quiet, self-effacing creatures had given him what he needed. They'd shown him the way.
He clasped his hands together and held them up in front of his face, wringing them in a prayer of gratitude.
"Thank you, thank you," he said, his mind already buzzing with thoughts of his onward journey.
Part Two
The Homecoming
16
Sarah hooked the leathery blind to one side to peer through the small window in the door of the cab. The journey took the carriage along a succession of darkened tunnels, until finally it turned a corner and she spotted an illuminated area ahead.
In the light shed by the streetlamps, she saw the first of many ranks of terraced houses. As they sped past, she noticed that some of the doors were open, but she couldn't see a single person in evidence, and the small lawns to the front of each home were overrun with tall clumps of black lichen and self-spored fungi. What had been the contents of the houses now littered the pavements; pots and pans and pieces of broken furniture lay discarded there.
The cab slowed to negotiate a cave-in. It was a serious one: Part of the tunnel had collapsed, and the massive blocks of limestone had tumbled down on top of a house, smashing in the roof and almost completely crushing the building.
Surprised, Sarah glanced at Rebecca, who was sitting across from her.
"This stretch is to be filled so we can cut the number of Topsoil portals. That's some of the fallout from your son's break-in to the Colony," Rebecca said matter-of-factly as the carriage accelerated again, jostling them from side to side with its motion.
"This is all because of Will?" Sarah asked, imagining how the people would have been cruelly forced to leave their houses.
"I told you — he doesn't care who he hurts," Rebecca said. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's a sociopath, and someone has to stop him."
The old Styx beside Rebecca nodded sanguinely.
Through the twisting tunnels and cobbled tracks they went, lower and lower. As they began the final descent toward the Colony, there was no longer anything to see, and Sarah sat back. Feeling awkward, she lowered her eyes to her lap. One of the wheels rode over something and the carriage tipped precariously, throwing its passengers violently across the wooden seats. Sarah shot a look of alarm at Rebecca, who gave her one of those comforting smiles as the cab righted itself with a crash. The two other Styx remained impassive, just as they had been for the whole journey. Sarah stole furtive glances at them and couldn't suppress a shudder.
Imagine.
The enemies she had reviled with every fiber of her soul were a hairsbreadth away from her. They were her traveling companions. So close she could smell them. She wondered for the millionth time what they really wanted from her. Perhaps they were simply going to throw her into a cell when they reached their destination, and then Banish or execute her. But why go through with this charade if that were the case? The urge to escape was building irrepressibly in her once more. Her mind screamed at her to flee, and she began to calculate how far she might get. She was looking at the door handle, her fingers fidgeting, when Rebecca stretched out a hand and placed it on hers, stilling their movement.
"Not far now."
Sarah tried to smile and then, in the flash of light from a passing lamppost, she noticed the old Styx was looking straight at her. His pupils weren't quite jet-black, as they were with the rest of the Styx, but appeared to have an additional tinge to them, the slightest glimmer of a color she couldn't classify — between red and brown — that, to her, was darker and deeper than black itself.
And as his gaze rested momentarily on her, she felt an intense uneasiness, as if somehow he knew precisely what she was thinking. But then he was looking out the window again and didn't move his eyes from it for the rest of the journey, not even when he began to speak. It would be the only time he did so during the entire trip. His manner was that of someone wise with years; it was not the vengeful ranting Sarah was accustomed to hearing from senior members of the Styx. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, as if balancing them against each other before he let them past his thin lips.
"We are not that different, Sarah."
She jerked her head toward him. She was spellbound by the web of deep lines at the corners of his eyes that sometimes curled as if he were about to smile — although he never did.
"If we have a failing, it is that we do not recognize that a handful of people down here, the very few, are not that different from us, the Styx."
He blinked slowly as they passed a particularly large lamppost that shone into the cab so brightly it lit up all its corners. Sarah saw then that neither of the other two in the carriage were looking at the old Styx or, indeed, at her, as he went on.
"We set ourselves apart and, every so often, somebody like you comes along. You have a strength that singles you out; you resist us with the passion and fervor we expect from our own kind."
"You are merely striving for recognition, fighting for something you believe in — it matters not what — and we do not listen." He paused to take a long, considered breath.
"Why? Because we've had to dominate the people of the Colony for so many years — for the common good — and we tend to treat you al
l the same. But you are not all from the same mold. Although you are a Colonist, Sarah Jerome, you are passionate and committed, and not the same… not the same at all. Maybe you should be tolerated, for your spirit alone."
Sarah continued to stare at him long after he'd stopped speaking, wondering if he'd been inviting a response from her. She had no idea what message he'd been giving. Was he trying to show compassion toward her? Was this some kind of Styx charm offensive?
Or was he making some bizarre and unprecedented invitation for her to join the Styx? That couldn't be. That was unthinkable. That never happened. The Styx and the Colonists were races apart, the oppressors and the oppressed, as the old Styx had implied. And never the twain shall meet… and that was how it had always been and always would be, world without end.
A further possibility surfaced. Were his words simply an admission of the Styx's failure, a belated apology for the way she had been treated over her dying baby?
She was still pondering all this as the hansom drew to a halt before the Skull Gate.
She'd passed through it only a dozen or so times in her life, accompanying her husband on some official matter or other in the Quarter, where she had been left to wait outside in the street or, if actually allowed into the meeting, had been expected to remain silent. This was the way in the Colony: Women were not considered to be equal to men and could never hold positions of any level of responsibility.
She'd heard rumors that things were different with the Styx. And wasn't the living proof of it sitting across from her right now, in the shape of Rebecca? Sarah found it hard to believe that this mere child seemed to hold such sway. She'd also heard talk, mostly from Tam, that there was an inner circle, a kind of royalty at the top of the Styx hierarchy, but this was pure speculation. The Styx lived apart from the people of the Colony, and so nobody knew for sure what went on, although rumors of their bizarre religious rituals were bandied about in the taverns in low whispers, growing more and more exaggerated with each telling.