CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Winter came.

Snow began to fall toward the end of Gara, but it did not last. Intermittently the snow gave way to rain, and by the first days of the month of Saru the Eagle, it was apparent to the inhabitants of Adosia that they might reliably anticipate a mild winter.

They continued to prosper with the food gained from their nets and traps, and work was begun on a number of additional buildings, smaller huts and cottages that would suffice for families.

For stability and habit and the promise of a future had given hope to the companionships and the romances that had begun to develop. Old Abgarthis, who dismissively referred to himself as a relic from the past, looked with affection upon the renascence of that most durable of emotions—love—and smiled with pleasure to see blossoms grow from the ash heaps. Sossian, as everyone noticed, was spending a good deal of time with Irysa and her sons. Amella regularly engaged in lengthy arguments with Kedrom, who was used to giving orders and was impatient with anyone who questioned his authority—which Amella did daily, chiding him with jokes, mocking his posturing, and generally plucking hairs from his beard. But at the same time, she went out of her way to warn him to be careful when he left to go hunting and, when he returned with torn garments, she repaired his clothes. Kedrom, while reminding Amella continually that she didn’t know everything there was to know, nevertheless would gruffly thank the woman for her troubles by going with her to unload traps or chop wood. Sometimes they would be gone half the day.…

Casio, to no one’s surprise, asked Hemia, a friend of Irysa’s, to join him as his assistant in the lodge’s kitchen, and it very soon developed that their partnership promised to yield more than meat stews and plates of cooked fish. Omos and Galvus’s loving friendship was regarded with discomfort by a few in the settlement, but most of the survivors were happy to see affection, warmth, friendship, and true love flourish in whatever hearts they found. Mirhu and Endric, Rhia’s friends from their days as revolutionaries in Sulos, shared a relationship that—despite their politics—many found to be quite admirable: their love had weathered the crimes of the old days and the violence of the Destruction and now had been trans­planted, full of vigor and humor and caring, onto this new soil. A long evening of feasting was held when the announcement was made that Mirhu was with child.

Rhia, meanwhile, progressed in her own pregnancy and discovered that Latus, one of the soldiers from the Strong, was very solicitous to her and preferred to spend his spare time sitting with her, talking about whatever came to mind or running errands for her. Rhia was at first upset by this because it seemed to compromise her beliefs—she, before the Destruction a fighter for the rights of the people, now inviting the attentions of a soldier who, before the Destruction, would have been among the first to have her arrested on criminal charges. Many days passed before she confessed her dilemma to Latus, and he was offended by the truth; he turned to Adred for support and insight: “I know that you and Rhia were close friends. I’m in love with her. Maybe I wouldn’t have been before, but now I am.”

Adred went to Rhia and talked with her, reminded her of many things—the letter she had written to him, their days in Bessara, the rainy afternoon they had spent on the porch in the Diruvian Valley—and their reminiscing led to tears and much frank talk and—later—to Rhia’s honest confession to Latus that she, too, was deeply attracted to him although she was…stubborn, was the word she used. Thereafter, the two of them seemed to be much more companionable; very often they could be found sitting quietly by themselves in a corner, after the community meal, holding hands and trading private jokes and smiles.

“She has beautiful legs!” Latus would exclaim happily to Adred.

While Rhia on occasion let Adred know that Latus’s being how he was had all been his father’s fault. “The old dog filled his head with a lot of nonsense and gave him goals no one could ever achieve. What’s the matter with you men, anyhow?” she would grumble.

“Everything’s the matter with us,” Adred would say to her, grinning, and then shake his head and tell her, “Rhia—happy. Happy at last. Rare breed of tough people, these revolutionaries.”

And she would smile back. But Rhia, knowing him better in some ways even than Orain, would chide him with, “Yes, I’m happy now, and I don’t care what anybody says. But what about you? Adred? There’s no excuse for any of us not to feel happy about something right now. What about you?”

For he was not happy. Adred was torn, and in a way that would no doubt have seemed selfish and ridiculous, perhaps incomprehensible, to the others in Adosia. He looked at all that had happened, sought to interpret it, relied upon what he knew and what he had read and what he felt—and Adred was frightened. Not for himself, but for humanity.

He and Abgarthis, one chill winter night, discussed it quietly by the lodge house hearth.

“Galvus doesn’t understand,” Adred told the old man. “He’s still full of hope. He truly sees this settlement as a new beginning. He’s content! He thinks people have actually changed or been improved by what’s happened.”

“And he’s wrong, of course,” prodded Abgarthis.

“Of course he’s wrong.”

“Adred, you must understand—Galvus knows as well as you what happens in people’s hearts. He knows no one has really changed; but he sees this as an opportunity for a renewed effort, not actually as something so radically different from the past.”

“Then he’ll be disappointed, Abgarthis.”

The old man shook his head. “Somehow, my friend, I believe you’re less concerned about Galvus’s being disappointed than you are of your own disappointment. Is that what this is?”

“I don’t know…I don’t know…I don’t like to think that I’m that great a coward.”

“That’s not what I was suggesting.”

“Oh, I know that. It’s just—” Adred thought for a moment. “It seemed like, before—when we were fighting against something, fighting for change—it seemed then for some reason that it was almost here, almost right in our hands. It was possible, Abgarthis. It was a philosophy that had been coming for a long time, and no one could deny it, even if they were angered by it. But now—now that we’re starting over with the mud and bricks.… In another few generations, everything we remember will be completely forgotten. People really will start all over again, but they’ll do exactly what they did before. And there’s no reason for it!”

He was actually becoming angry—angered in the way any sensitive, honest person is enraged when confronted by blatant hypocrisy and disappointment.

“Look.” Adred nodded toward Irysa and Sossian, who were sitting on a bench at the other side of the room, keeping an eye on the boys playing on the floor beside them. “I’m not being sentimental, Abgarthis. It seems to me that the love between a mother and her child is done more harm than good by the continued existence humanity.”

Abgarthis faced him sternly. “You’ll find no one here sym­pathetic to that sentiment, Adred! I’ve never seen you so bitter. What’s brought this on?”

“We.…” he shrugged. “We make up stories about ourselves, Abgarthis. We believe what we want to believe, and if the facts don’t fit, then to hell with the facts. We do that—we people, human beings. And in the short run, it seems to offer comfort, but in the long run, it produces only misery and despair and hate. It’s all a lie. Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me this ‘new city’ of ours doesn’t fill you with, with dread, with doubt! In a thousand years, Abgarthis…it will be Athad again, with everything in it that we fought in the old Athad.”

Abgarthis watched him carefully.

“I’m being honest with you,” Adred said, keeping his voice low deliberately. “I can’t lie to you, and I can’t lie to myself.” He glanced once more toward Irysa and Sossian and the boys. “I know it’s very tempting to think that trust, that love between a parent and its child is somehow a promise, a second chance—or the millionth chance—for the human race. But it isn’t. We’re not equal to it. It never has been, and it never will be. It only perpetuates part of what we are—the loving part—the sharing and the good part; but that’s a very small part, Abgarthis, and it can be washed away very quickly. We know how to do it. We kill it with swords and we burn it in fires and we drown it. You know it, yourself, from your time at court.”

“Perhaps I do; but I’ve been surprised often enough not to be as cynical about the human family as you are. Allow yourself some years, Adred.”

“Is that what it takes?”

“The older I get, the less wisdom I have, but the more certain I am that things are happening just as they should.”

“Really?”

“Really. If this is why you’ve been moping around here,” Abgarthis said to him, “then you’ll find me becoming angry and impatient with you. Adred! You’re fortunate to be alive! Flex your muscles! Take a good, deep breath! That’s what it means to be human! I may be an old man but, damn it, that means I’ve learned how to sift the wheat from the chaff! Adred.…” His voice softened. “You’re right to be critical, to want the best—but you’ve become lopsided. Humanity must struggle on its own!” Abgarthis smiled. “It won’t always have you to help it along, you know!”

Adred sighed and grinned a little. He looked around the room again and saw Orain watching him with worried, sad eyes. “Damn it, Abgarthis,” he said, “—as soon as people become docile again—as soon as they start looking for answers—then they’ll start listening to someone who promises them the stars in return for a little slavery. And everyone sooner or later will give up something in return for some comforting slavery. You saw what happened when Tasla plundered that pirate ship.”

Abgarthis told him sympathetically, “You still want what Galvus wants, only you’re talking yourself out of it! He still wants to try; you’ve given up. Life is a matter of survival.”

“But Abgarthis, once life becomes more than a matter of just survival, it becomes a matter of philosophy. As soon as someone looks at the stars…as soon as someone has a full belly…as soon as there’s a little extra food or an intelligent idea—it becomes a matter of philosophy. And our philosophy is based on fear and mistrust and hate, and it’s gone on for so long that people assume it has to be that way because it’s always been that way. Give this settlement time; it’ll happen again because there’s no end to it.”

Abgarthis was amazed. Here in the lodge house were warmth, food, drink, friendship, entertainment, and yet— “Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked Adred.

Adred stared at him and, almost with tears in his eyes, answered slowly, in a quiet voice, “Because I’ve learned the truth, and the truth of it is that truth is nothing but chains. These people don’t want the truth; society never wants the truth. Watch and see. Hand them the truth, proclaim it, announce it—and if they don’t reject it, they’ll change it. They’ll change it just enough that common sense seems like nonsense; they’ll change it so a few swine can steal and rape and claim they’re doing it for the good of everyone; they’ll change it so that all you need to get into the afterworld is a checklist of saying the right things to the right people. The rich man can buy his way to the gods; the poor man starts tunneling his way the day he’s born.” Adred stared at Abgarthis. “We need a philosophy, but I’m sure we’ll content ourselves with a few politicians and some compound interest.”

Sighing, Abgarthis admitted that Adred was correct, as far as he went; but he rejoined also that he himself would remain a bit more tolerant—and optimistic—of humanity, at least for the time being.

But within only a few months, Adred’s grim, cynical observa­tion of his fellow human beings was begun to be proved correct.

* * * * * * *

Winter ended with a series of thunderstorms, and as the rains ended, spring came with brilliant sunshine, golden fields, green forests, and shining water in the blue Adosian Bay. The people of the New City proclaimed their true rebirth and identified themselves as the survivors of an empire that had been blessed by the gods from the beginning of Time.

They set to work immediately, in the warm clear spring, building an altar in the center of their settlement, to praise the gods of the old order for their deliverance.

But it was Omos who, hesitant and not used to public speaking, nevertheless got to his feet before the committee of Adosia (a table at which Adred did not sit) and claimed that no altar should be raised to honor the old gods of a sunken empire:

“We have seen the passing of the gods of those days. Those gods are no more. I tell you this because, before the Great Destruction came, I spoke with a prophet who told me of a new god, the One God who is all of us. This is the god we should praise—the God of the people, for we ourselves are the people of this god. Build an altar to On and thank the One God for delivering us from the destruction of what was, to the bounty of what we have come to!”

Omos, young and emotional. Many applauded him, although several others had reservations concerning what he had said. Galvus, however, and Abgarthis, Orain, and Adred were called to testify in regard to the matter, and every one of them honestly swore that what Omos declared was what had occurred.

An altar to On was built in the center of Adosia, and upon it were placed the first of the gleanings of the earth of the new year: some young fruits and vegetables, animals from their traps, fish from the sea.

While Adred, shaking his head, whispered to Abgarthis, “This isn’t what Asawas talked about. This is precisely what he said he did not want to have happen!”

To which Abgarthis was forced to respond, “True, friend. I know this. But people have always worshipped with icons and altars. They need something bigger than themselves. That will never change. They couldn’t endure a god that was made up only of themselves.”

* * * * * * *

Oloros, the month of the River, began with good weather in the new spring. For the first time since the Destruction, the air began to feel dry and clean. Crops were planted with the aid of plows that had been built during the winter and the horses captured the previous fall, as well as those gained in barter with Tasla the pirate. More buildings were begun, most of them huts and small communal homes. Adosia already included, besides its lodge house (which had become a public meeting hall), two community baths, a stable, and three barns, along with four storage buildings for extra tools and other items from the ships. Sallus and a woman he had become fond of—Beria from the Strong—as well as Sossian and Irysa, and Casio and Hemia, had been the first three couples to request the help of the community in building small, one-room cabins in which to settle as spouses to raise families and call their homes.

Very soon the practice developed that, when the request was made to the Adosian Committee for help in building a cabin, it was taken to mean a public declaration of marriage. Yet because it took at least several days for everyone available to help construct a house—and much longer in the spring, when planting had to be done—a waiting list was drawn up. Shortly it became apparent that many couples would be forced to wait half a year or longer for their own private dwellings.

Adred and Orain, however, had at last done what had been expected of them for so long and signed up as third on the new list for help in building their home. Abgarthis declared that now he could go to his grave a contented man: waiting to hear this pronouncement from Adred’s own lips had been one of the few things keeping him alive, all during the floods and storms and the end of the world.

* * * * * * *

The winter had seen the passing of some of them: a few of the elderly, one young girl, and three men who had been hurt while hunting during the snowy season. But spring brought with it the first new citizen of the new world: Rhia’s son.

Orain and Amella helped with the delivery, and Latus assisted them. The child was born a month early (so far as Amella could guess), but he was a healthy boy. And when he was placed at Rhia’s breast, she answered Orain’s, “What do you intend to name him?” with a whispered, weak: “I’m going to name him after his father. Bors. He’ll be a farmer like his father was, a strong man.” When she saw that Latus was hurt by this comment, Rhia smiled at him, reached for his hand, held it, and promised him, “Our next will be a hunter, Latus. Not…a soldier. I’ll have no soldiers in my family!” She grinned. “But I would like our next son to be a hunter.”

“A hunter,” Latus commented, “of proud, beautiful women—like his father!”

The spring saw the arrival, too, of ships from other surviving settlements to the west—a new Pylar and a reborn Herossus, as well as a village called Atlantu, which, its seamen said, already was prospering mightily, had begun to map and catalogue the new world, and was establishing satellite villages around itself. And for the first time in the short history of Adosia, there occurred the visit of a trading ship from the east. It was a surk, one that had survived the destruction of Erusabad, and its crew was composed of Salukadian citizens and soldiers, a few Athadians, and other survivors rescued from many shores. Regarded at first with mistrust, the people of the surk were very quickly welcomed into Adosia’s public house and feted with meat and fish and cheese, beer and wine (both concocted by Kedrum and Amella, who claimed that no place on earth was deserving of the name “civilization” if it lacked liquid spirits), and music and dancing.

The sailors of the surk brought word of all that had happened in the East during the time of the arrival of the western armada and the great storms of the earth. They told of Salia, and of King Elad’s death, and the loss of the ghen from the plague. They told of the war that had begun because of a beautiful woman, and of the utter end that had come to Athadian war ships and armies, to proud Erusabad and the eastern empire. They told of their fortunate survival and of other settlements they had discovered during their exploratory journey west. They had been welcomed in many places, including Usalad, which had been founded by a man named Sendarian, once a wave rider and captain of a ship. There were at least ten settlements, the easterners reported, between Adosia and their home village, which they had built on the ruins of Ilbukar and had named in honor of the last of their people—Huagrabad.

Among the visitors on the surk was a middle-aged man named Sem. It was discovered by Abgarthis, in conversation with this man, that Sem was an Omerian and that his father—Omul, a farmer—had become a wandering priest following a long and difficult illness. He had renamed himself Asawas and had left Omeria to fulfill his calling to the One God. Abgarthis was astounded by this revelation; and when he made it known to Galvus and Omos, Adred and Orain, the five of them spent an entire night in animated discussion with Sem. Omos especially was en­tranced to speak with a son—the only living descendant—of the new prophet. Several times during the night, Omos spoke privately with Sem, and Sem seemed pleased and heartened to hear what the young man had to say about Asawas.

Aboard their surk, the easterners had wine and animal skins, many fish and much fish oil, gold rings and jewelries and other ornaments, which they agreed to trade with the Adosians in return for whatever the people of the settlement cared to part with—including some of the goats and sheep that hunters had brought back during expeditions earlier that spring.

The Adosians had not yet grown sufficient barley or spelt to have made bread, and although they would be able to shear some hair and wool from the sheep they had caught, they did not yet have the capability to weave sufficient cloth, either for themselves or for purposes of trade. They had been making do with what cloth they had and with the tanned skins of hunted animals. The Adosians did, however, have something that the easterners dearly desired—horses.

The settlement’s committee came to a decision: they would trade one stallion and two mares for whatever the easterners could spare now, and if the surk would return on its next voyage with cattle (for the Salukadians claimed to know where cattle could be found), the Adosians would bargain with them for additional horses. This was agreed to, and after several days’ visiting, the surk set off again, returning eastward and promising to return in the midsummer, if not sooner, when they had additional goods to trade, including valuable cattle.

* * * * * * *

And so the world began again as the world has ever begun again: with survivors of disaster and war and plague and famine rebuilding, replanting, creating, manufacturing, struggling, and believing, ever believing—divining purposes to sustain themselves and toiling to deliver something of tomorrow into the hands of those coming behind them, their children and their children’s children.

On an evening in the early spring, Adred sat on a hill overlooking the settlement. It was a lovely twilight: the sky was blue and pink and purple as the sun sank in the west behind tall green hills that waved with grass and trees. Water trickled in a clear stream beside him. Laughter drifted toward him from Adosia, and the sounds of hammers on wood and saws cutting. Here and there, a few people were walking one of the paths leading from the beach to the low entrance gate, and, beyond them, Adred saw Sossian, Casio, and Kedrum teaching some of the older boys and young men how to mount and ride a horse. The bell, which had been removed from the Doron and placed on the roof of the public house, clanged six times, sounding out the hours after sun-high. Columns of smoke curled into the air from the tall walls of Adosia—smoke from cooking fires, hearths, furnaces. Homes.

Adred whittled at the length of wood in his hand, sighed and glanced up occasionally to see how far Orain had come. She was walking up the hillside toward him. And at last she reached him, panting and shivering, to run a hand through his hair, kiss him on the cheek, and sit (with a happy gasp) in the grass beside him, under a maple tree.

After a few moments, Orain said, “It’ll be dark, soon.”

Adred nodded.

“What are you carving?” She leaned close to examine it; it was a small wagon, and Adred was being very careful about doing the wheels so that they would spin on their axles and allow the wagon to roll. “Very nice,” Orain smiled. “Very good. You’re becoming quite the artist.”

“I suppose I am.”

“For Davar?”

Adred shrugged. “For one of them.” He chuckled. “As long as people keep having children down there, I guess I’ll be in the wagon business.”

Orain stretched out on her back and laid her head on his legs and closed her eyes. It was cool but, despite that, insects were busy spoiling the pleasant evening. She blindly swatted a few mosquitoes, then sighed, reluctantly opened her eyes, and sat up again. She glanced at Adred—and made a sound.

“Heart,” she said to him, “you’re crying, aren’t you?”

Adred shook his head firmly and carefully wiped his eyes with his knife hand.

“It’s all right,” Orain assured him.

He tried to grin; he felt silly. He told her, “I was just thinking. Remembering. I’ve been up here…watching the town…thinking.” His voice was thick. “One moment I want to rejoice, because it’s all so exciting; but the next—”

Orain placed a hand on his leg and looked at him with affection. “Thinking about what, Adred?”

He started to whittle again with shivering hands. “About…what we had a year ago. All of us. A year ago, Orain.”

“I know.”

“I’m thinking about all of those people down there and what we’re all doing. I’m ashamed of myself because I want to feel hopeful, but it seems so pointless. Why go on when we know that what we do can be wiped out in a moment?”

“I don’t think you’re being fair with yourself when you say that,” Orain told him. “We have to do the things that keep us alive and fill us with hope.”

“I understand that. I’m trying to give a name to whatever this is that bothers me. It doesn’t have a name. I keep looking around and asking questions. Why don’t other people ask these questions?”

“They do, Adred. They just settle for answers that you don’t trust.”

He was quiet for a moment as he continued to whittle.

Orain didn’t say anything.

Adred set aside what he had been carving. He said, “I know it sounds cruel, but it’s faith that fails us. It’s belief that destroys us, and hope that makes us miserable. But we can’t really be people without those things, can we?”

Orain said to him, very quietly, “I think you’re asking too much of yourself and everyone else. Just because we can ask a question doesn’t mean we have the answer for it. And you’re trying to find one answer for every question you’re asking. I don’t think that’s fair. People have to use different tools for different jobs. We’re all doing it right now and building our town like that. You can’t say that there’s just one answer for all of the questions you’re asking.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Adred admitted. “Maybe that’s what this is.” He began whittling again.

“You can ask all of the questions you want and read all the philosophy you can,” Orain told him. “But that’s just an impression of life. When we were in trouble a year ago and we thought we were going to die, what did you do?”

“I don’t know. What did I do?”

“You did everything you could to save me and Galvus and Abgarthis and Omos—anyone you could find. There wasn’t much philosophy involved. Call it whatever you like, but what you did was heroic. It was wonderful. I think what people do is their philosophy, whatever you want to call it.”

Adred smiled and shrugged. He confessed to her, “Maybe that’s what I’m missing. I’m sitting here looking down at the town, and I was watching you as you came up the hill, and I love you. I love you, Orain. And I like our town. Even the people I don’t like—I still like them. We all have to do whatever we can.”

“That’s right.”

“It still makes me worry. Anything can happen at any moment. It makes me afraid. For you. For all of us.”

“We can’t let that stop us.”

“I know. You’re right. See?” He showed her the toy he was working on. “Even though I’m afraid for everything, I’m still carving some silly toy for one of those children, and I’m in love with you. Maybe that’s enough.”

“It is enough,” Orain told him. “It keeps us complete, Adred. I do love you. So much.”

She sat up, and he took her in his arms and held her. So they sat together, and he watched the sunset with her. For a moment, he felt exhilarated.

Exhilarated, and alone.

Alone with the woman he loved, here in his life and with all of the things that had conspired to make this his life, and the thoughts that were his and his alone, thoughts as cruel as fierce decisions that, once done, cannot be undone.

The sun disappeared, and the sky became deep purple, darkening with night.

White birds flew in from the sea, circled and squealed, then floated out again and dived close to the water.

Casio and Sossian and Kedrum led the horse back toward the village as the bell rang, its long echoes carrying up the hillside.

And out on the horizon, at the edge of the world, sea was lost to sky, and the stars high above began to wink and were reflected like snowflakes, like frost, on the expanse of the ocean.

Adred took Orain’s hand and stood and helped her to her feet. Together they walked down the hillside, whispering to one another and laughing a little in the deep twilight, going home.