At this the unnamed Eldest, a supple, wizened hunter of fifteen, grew

impatient. This day they must begin the long migration, and it was time

to be gone. He raised a bony left hand to his mouth and emitted a

whistling, clicking sound that was more of the deep than the land, and

which the whales understood as well as he.

Ishmael turned to face her one more time, his own pain not lasting.

Coming closer, he touched her with the tip of his penis, indicating

possession. Then he slowly turned away, and followed the others into

the water. Their restless mounts surged beneath them, and soon they

were drifting out of sight.

Kataya stood motionless, as if frozen by a curse, until she felt

Kalus' warm hands upon her shoulders. She brushed him aside angrily,

pulling forward. But this time he did not relent, listening to his

instincts instead. He grasped her by the arms and turned her towards

him, holding her firmly as she struggled.

'Cry,' he said. 'Just cry.'

For a moment her face showed bitter conflict, but she could deny herself

no longer. She leaned against his chest, sobbing in the uncomprehending

grief of one who has spared herself nothing, yet come to no reward. He

stroked her hair gently, much as he had seen the doctor do with

Sylviana. And though the two women were worlds apart in experience, and

seemed so cold to one another, in this singular female emotion of love

and loss, they were much the same.

'He'll be dead in two years,' she said finally, not leaving the

shelter of his body. 'He wants me, and I would dearly love to bear

his child..... If we could only mix our blood with theirs, through

interbreeding, maybe we could end the tragedy of sure death in

adolescence.

'But they will only mate in the North,' she continued, stepping

back and clearing her eyes with the back of her wrist. 'How.....

How can I reach him?' She could only repeat herself, an echo of

tragedy. 'He'll be dead in two years.' Both turned and looked

out to sea, to the place where whale and rider moved, nearly out of

sight.

'Goodbye,' she said darkly. 'Always goodbye.'

'You need never say goodbye to me,' Kalus answered, almost before

he knew what he had said. He shook his head reproachfully. 'I'm

sorry.'

She was neither hurt nor angry with him, nor even soothed and pacified.

She seemed, rather, calm with a strange, fatalistic indifference. Her

eyes regarded him, slightly mocking.

'I know what you mean, Kalus. You love Sylviana, but feel a sense of

loyalty to me. I guess it's better than nothing.' And with this

she mastered her emotions. Or so it seemed to her then.

Kalus' mind began to race along strange passageways, trying to find

the right words. But again instinct warned him off. He wanted to heal

her hidden wounds but could not, and perhaps should not try, until he

better understood them. Though unknown feelings were at work inside

him, too.

*

They returned to the camp in silence, not touching, not sharing, and if

they had dared to admit it, feeling more alone than if each to the other

did not exist. They returned to Sylviana's glaring reproach, and to

the doctor's knowing questions about the Children, the others having

gone off to work. For he was the one member of the company to whom

Kataya would open her thoughts; and he, too, shared her desire to

understand and cure the baffling self-destruction of the Children's

bodies as they neared adulthood, never forgetting that a living soul was

carried within.

And as always among the social intercourse of men, many actions and

words held cross-purposes at once, some realized, others forming like

vague bubbles in the dark depths of the sea of human consciousness.

Some would rise visibly, for those who knew how to read them; others

would be raised only in the seclusion of after-thought. And still

others, unwisely, would be suppressed. For all, in the end, must rise.

'Have they gone?' asked McIntyre, needing only Kataya's

desolate expression for an answer.

'We'll get ‘em next year,' he said more quietly.

'Who? What do you mean?' asked Sylviana.

'The Children,' he answered. 'Every Spring they migrate

north.' He observed the tension between herself and Kalus, and added.

'You've wondered, no doubt, why the killer whales took up with

them in the first place?'

'Yes,' said Kalus. 'Why?'

'Intelligent symbiosis, my friend. Works every time. A hunter like

yourself will no doubt appreciate their technique. The youngsters make

land some distance from the beaches where the seals lie in their

hundreds, then come up behind them with sticks, startling them and

driving them into the sea, where the orcas are waiting. Then the

Children kill a few themselves, on land, and eat them on the spot.

Feeds ‘em both, neat as neat. A lesson for us all, I dare say.'

He exchanged a look with Kataya, who said nothing.

'But they'll return next year?' asked Sylviana, still moved by

the memory of them, though compassion was receding before the onslaught

of jealous anger.

'Or move on to another island,' said Kataya coldly, unable to mask

her dislike.

'Oh, they'll be back,' assured the doctor, 'As soon as

Ishmael takes over. Only a fool leaves a beautiful princess trapped in

the tower forever.' He looked at Kalus as he said this, though only

Sylviana seemed to take his meaning, flushing with confusion and

resentment.

Though neither of the newcomers could know it, the remark was neither

light nor haphazard. The doctor was testing the waters for a

procreation problem which struck much closer to home. And though lost

in the swirl of double meanings, Kalus realized nonetheless that despite

including several couples (he had no word for ‘married'), there

were no children among company. He looked first to Kataya, whose

expression in return was almost angry, then to McIntyre, who nodded

gently. Sylviana would not even look at him.

'Hell, kids,' said the doctor at length, 'I might as well just

tell you.' He set down the potted plants he was working on (from

which he hoped to make new medicines), and pulled an end chair toward

them. Then seating himself like an ancient storyteller, he bade Kalus

and Sylviana to sit at his feet. To this only Kalus consented, the two

women still exchanging poison glances. But if this was the audience to

which he must speak, then speak he would, torn as his own feelings were

by the animosity of the two young women, secretly heartened as he

realized that Kataya's scorn must be the result of physical stirrings

for Kalus---as strong and healthy a sire as he could wish.

'Of the seven male crew members of the Virgo, four came out of

suspension sterile.' At this blunt beginning Sylviana gasped, sensing

perhaps what was to come.

'Yes,' resumed McIntyre. 'Of the three still capable of

producing living sperm. . .myself not included,' he added somewhat

wistfully, 'None are married, or even much attached to a woman still

in healthy child-bearing years. They can't father a child,' he

explained for Kalus' benefit. 'An unforeseen side-effect of so

long a period of physiological inactivity. We have no children, as

I'm sure you've noticed, and unless we can overcome our natural

timidity and social taboos, we never will.'

He looked again toward the lovely Oriental, trying to gauge what should

and should not be said. But lost in her own bitterness, she could give

him no sign. So he sighed, and said simply.

'Kataya and I had hoped that perhaps Ishmael..... But he's gone

now, and who knows if we'll ever see him again, or even if his

chromosomes would match.'

'Ishmael will come back,' answered Kalus seriously, the

doctor's words largely lost on him, but wanting to ease Kataya's

pain. 'Once a man has touched his own soul through another, there is

nothing else in life that matters.' And not understanding the effect

that this would have, he looked not at Sylviana, of whom he was

speaking, but to Kataya, by way of explanation and reassurance.

At this Sylviana let out a wordless execration, threw down the sheet she

was mending, and stormed off . Kalus followed in sudden fear.

'I did not mean---' he said desperately, but found her door

slammed and bolted in his face. In confusion he returned to the doctor,

imploring.

'What do I have to do?' he said in frustration. 'Can't she

see that there could never be anyone else for me? Why can't she

understand?'

'Give her time, my friend,' said McIntyre. 'She'll come

around. If you want my observations, you're in her deep, and that

frightens her. Just have a little patience, and if a man of science may

say it, a little faith. What's meant to be, will always be in the

end.' These words seemed wise, yet Kalus could find no comfort in

them.

'But my stomach crawls without her. My heart is in my throat, and I

cannot sleep. If I lose her there will be nothing. Nothing at all.'

'You haven't lost her, son.' With this he looked ruefully

toward Kataya. 'And if I'm any judge, you won't. Just be

steady, with open arms, and she'll come back to you in time.'

But as McIntyre continued to study the younger man, he saw that his

expression remained deeply troubled, so much so that he was truly

touched, as Kalus had been at the simple confusion of Ishmael.

'If it helps, I'll tell her what you meant just now. Kataya and I

understood. She's just too close, and can't see it.'

'Would you really do that?'

'Of course.'

'Thank you,' said Kalus, though his fear was not abated. 'I

have to go somewhere and think.'

Bewildered and restless, Kalus called to the cub, and went walking off

in no particular direction, perhaps heading vaguely toward the solace of

the sea.

He tried to tell himself that things would work out---that he would one

day understand and be more comfortable among the baffling maze of human

interaction. But it was no use. What was he doing here, surrounded by

people and emotions he could not begin to read? Is this what Sylviana

had wanted?

He found himself thinking, with sudden longing, of the world and way of

life he had known in the Valley. He thought of his brother, who had

taken a mate, and wondered if she was yet with child. Perhaps it would

be a boy, like Shama, who would not mistrust him, but look up to him in

friendship. He thought of the wolves, now led by Akar, his noble

friend. Surely he did not mean for them to keep Alaska forever sundered

from the pack, or from himself, who would need a mate. And last, though

far from least he thought of Avatar, who would always be free. And for

a time his spirit ran with him, through the heart of a forest five

hundred miles deep.

Was a compromise of worlds possible, he wondered, some meaningful

coexistence between the hill-people and the colonists? He tried, but

could not imagine it. And what did it matter, if he lost the only woman

he would ever love? Again he felt the sudden, sour turning of his

stomach, and the debilitating flow of unused adrenalin.

He wanted just to go to her, and take her to him, and tell her he was

hers alone, and always. He felt the longing for her touch like a hole

in his chest. But what could he do, when she would not let him near

her? He had not been alone with her for two days, which seemed an

eternity, and she showed no sign..... Anger and jealousy hardly seemed

the signs of love.

He could not work it out, and was soon too weary and sick at heart to

care much, even for something that touched him so deeply. There was no

understanding the minds of women, he conceded in despair. Or of men.

He could only be what he was, and hope this self-honesty would bring him

to his proper place in the end.

AND IF IT DIDN'T?

Coming out of the ragged confusion of earth and stone onto a tranquil

stretch of beach, he stripped off his outer garments and began to wade

out into the waves, stooping to wash away both grime and fatigue. The

water was not warm, and perhaps there were lurking dangers---

'I don't care!' he cried in answer, the torrent of his anger

returning with sudden force. He dove and swam out into deeper waters,

while the cub remained on shore and barked at him.

Slowly, fighting the undertow, he made his way back to solid ground. OR

AS SOLID AS I'M LIKELY TO FIND, he thought bitterly. Emerging truly

exhausted, he fell to his knees, then sorrowfully held and reassured his

unspeaking friend.

He lay down in the sand like an animal. And slept.

Chapter 42

That night, wrapped in the tragicomedy of human pride and affection,

none of the three found peace.

For Sylviana the evening seemed endless, trying to drag conversation

from the tired and otherwise absorbed company. And when hard night fell

at last she found she could not sleep. Instead she restlessly mulled

over the ‘situation' with Kalus, as she called it: the doctor's

explanation for his actions, and his relayed message that, 'There

could never be anyone else.'

But this only made her angry with herself for having been so obvious in

front of the others. What did it matter to her what he said or did? He

had given her her ‘freedom', and seemed intent on exercising his

own, no matter what his words might say. So she tried again to make

herself interested in the young botanist, Smith, who had already asked

her a number of leading questions, under the pretense (she assumed) of

scientific inquiry.

But the bed was still empty, and her thoughts still vague and rootless,

without Kalus there beside her. She felt again the primal urge to go to

him, just go to him, and renew their bond through physical love. But

remembering the pain of her last submission to it, she stubbornly

refused. Or tried to. Until it was too late.

Kalus lay on his back on the ground, the sleeping bag giving him warmth,

but little else. He put his hands behind his head and looked to the

sky, while the cub nestled at his feet.

How far away the stars looked, how indifferent and utterly unreachable.

Thinking yet again of his love, he felt the loneliness and broken

longing that every unfulfilled man must know: that of useless labors,

and barren seed. The worry-sickness of caring for one who no longer

returned that love, had slowly eaten away at the warmth and loyalty he

felt for her, leaving him hard and cold and indifferent. Or so it

seemed to him then. He rolled over onto his side, muttering, and

perhaps an hour later fell at last into a restless, brooding sleep.

But Kataya could no more sleep than bring back the dead, stung to the

very heart by intolerable memories of the love she had lost forever.

And this pain which lay at the heart of all others, aggravated that very

day by the departure of Ishmael and the poor, doomed Children, tormented

her every thought, until even the simplest feeling could not be

accomplished without a pain that was almost physical.

And while she considered herself superior to Sylviana, and even in a way

to Kalus himself, the lashings of emptiness at the hollow discipline of

denial were no less acute for it. She remembered the words of Sinclair

Lewis, from the book she was then translating.

'Not individuals but institutions are the enemies, And THEY MOST

AFFLICT THE DISCIPLES WHO MOST GENEROUSLY SERVE THEM.' A more apt

description of her own religious and cultural servitude she could not

imagine.

But these self-recriminations were meaningless, and she knew it. What

lay at the root of her agitation was her forlorn desire for Kalus.

Beyond the strong and undeniable physical attraction, his innocence,

like Ishmael's, of the brutal travesty which had killed both her

husband and the unborn child she carried unknowingly onto the Virgo.....

'Enough! Leave me alone!'

But there was no escaping herself. Tragedy, desire, and longing for a

new life that she could truly call her own, all drew her toward him as

irresistibly as childbirth. Added to this was the knowledge, confirmed

by the vaginal thermometer, that this night, this very hour, her body

was as ready to conceive as it had ever been since the long sleep, as it

might ever be again. All her pain and frustration now focused upon this

singular and uncorrupted man as a well-spring of life and relief, pure

water to one dying of thirst. If he rejected her, the agony and shame

would be unbearable. But dear, sweet holy Buddha, how could any pain be

worse than this?

It was not greater wisdom that sent her to him in the end, but an

agitation of sorrow and loneliness that were longer, and more

inescapable. While Sylviana forced herself to stay, Kataya shed a

single, honest tear, and surrendered.

*

Kalus stirred, feeling silken fingers touch his breast, bare legs

against his own. He let out a despairing sigh as soft lips caressed

him---his mouth, his neck, his chest---all in deepest passion, and

solemn entreaty.

It was not his true love, but he could not deny her this. Nor, as he

held her close, did he have any wish to, all else falling away in the

unconscious amnesia of male passion. He threw open the sleeping bag,

longingly kissed her cheek, her neck, the lovely space above her

breasts.

'Kataya,' he whispered passionately, and there was nothing else in

his world, no other salve for the endless pain and frustration. There

was only her, here and now, her face wet with tears, vulnerable,

compelling. He released the knotted loincloth, as their most sensitive

reaches drew nearer. Her breasts rubbed gently across his. Then he

slid down, yielding to that most primal longing: to suckle at the

breast, fountain of all life.

'Yes,' she whispered fervently. 'Yes, Kalus. TAKE me.' He

raised himself on his arms, opening her legs with his own, and with the

sighing aid of her hand, was inside her. He did not love her, but he

longed for her, making the physical release and abandon perhaps the

greater for it. He was not gentle, nor did she ask him to be. For in

that moment she was not a woman, but all women, and his anger would not

be abated.

But as he approached climax, too soon, his gentler nature returned, and

he not only remembered, but yearned for the soul inside her. She felt

him withdraw. And though she experienced a moment of bitter

disappointment, that all was yet in vain, he only moved to kneel over

her, kissing her lips, her eyes, her neck and then her breasts. And all

the while his right hand encircled her deepest temple, caressing,

kneading, softly stroking and then penetrating its moist readiness. In

rapture she threw back her head, breathed deeply and surrendered to

orgasm. Then gently, now quieter, he put himself inside her once more,

moving his penis in slow, beautiful patterns that she thought would

break her heart with loving pleasure. And in time as his own breathing

became deeper, and his thrusts more urgent, she felt the throbbing

wetness come again, as together they forgot all else in the throes of

that blessed, animal release. Plaintive, moaning sounds split the

night.

Then he reached back and covered them both with the sweetly softened

sleeping bag, inside her still, their limbs intertwined, breath

commingling.

'Thank you,' she whispered, taking his head in her hands and

kissing him with all her heart and soul, as she felt his strong arms

engulf her and his lips caress her with spoken and unspoken words of

affection and reassurance. And soon, very naturally, both drifted off

into a sleep no longer bitter, at glorious, indifferent peace with

themselves and with their world.

*

In the chill hour before dawn, Sylviana woke from a horrible dream.

Some hideous, ill-defined beast had sprung upon Kalus from a shadow, and

with teeth and claws and sheer weight pinned him to the ground, slashing

and rending, tearing him apart.

She sat bolt upright in the silent gloom. The room was empty, and the

dream had been too real. Forgetting all else she threw on a robe, left

the building and ran toward the place where she knew he lay sleeping.

She no longer cared for games, or being right. She only wanted to be

with him. To hold him and.....

There were sounds ahead of her in the darkness. Two voices. She

slowed, and then moved off the path, taking cover behind a small tree.

What she heard in its near seclusion seemed less real than the

nightmare, and yet far more terrible.

'I should go now,' said Kataya, rising and slipping the silk dress

across her arms and shoulders, then lowering it softly into place.

'Yes. I do not think Sylviana would understand. But we understand,

don't we? You know what this night was for us?'

'Yes. Just hold me, kiss me once, and then I'll go.'

'Goodbye, my beautiful Kataya.'

'My beautiful Kalus.' And with a tear that no longer wounded her,

she was gone.

Sylviana slithered to the ground with her back against the tree, her

sorrow as bitter and unquenchable as any she had ever known. Whatever

her sins and follies may have been, she paid for them dearly in those

moments. For she saw more clearly and painfully than ever, as much as

if he had been killed, that she loved him beyond all others, almost

beyond her own life. And she knew it as she felt him betray her, and

give the precious love that had been hers alone, to another woman.

Another woman! How could he? After all they had been through..... How

could he think that she wouldn't come back to him, just because for a

time she had been uncertain. Hadn't he driven her to it?

That perhaps it was she who had driven him, that he had given Kataya

something beautiful and desperately needed, that she herself might give

such a precious gift to a man like Stenmark, none of these thoughts

could occur. Because like Kalus or Kataya (or anyone else), she was a

product, and in some measure a victim, of the world in which she had

grown. For she had been taught (though not by her father) that this was

the one, all-consuming act of a man's betrayal, and a thing which

could never be forgiven. And like Barabbas in his rage of righteous

anger, she too cast him out, out of her heart forever.

On a more human level, and in a flood of final tears, like the little

girl bereft of her mother she felt devastated and lost, and swore that

she would never again let anyone come so close, and hurt her so badly.

She stood up again, desperate and proud and defiant, ready to go on

without him.

But she had forgotten his wilderness senses. He had heard her crying

before Kataya was out of sight, and realized with crushing finality and

self-reproach how much she loved him, and how deeply he had wounded her.

He stood now just a few feet away, and committed his second great

mistake of human psychology.

Because whatever rash promises she might have made to herself in the

depths of rejection and spiritual agony, so long as they

remained within her they might still have softened with time,

leaving the heart open to forgiveness and return. But by

confronting her then and allowing the volcano to erupt, spewing

forth its rage upon him, the hateful words solidified and became

a reality unto themselves, a spoken curse that foolish, endless

human pride would then have to live up to. He stood before her,

pale and shivering, neither explaining nor begging forgiveness.

His simple heart would only say. 'I have never loved anyone

else. I never could. This was not love, in the way that you

and I---' Her open hand struck across his face with the fury

of all women scorned. 'I hate you!' she cried

hysterically. 'We're finished, FOREVER! And I'll HURT

you before I'm through. Just wait and see how I hurt

you!' And she stormed away, her love and pain alike submerged

beneath the weight of hard words, and harder justice. Because

male pride is evil enough, in its blunt and stupid way

destroying much that is gentle and fair. But a woman's

vengeance, turned devious by the depths of her vulnerability,

and the intricate contradiction of her emotions..... True Hell

would be raised, one way or the other. Kalus watched her go,

and though shocked and stunned and hurt himself, felt yet again

the indestructible bond that was his love for her. When she

struck him it had been as if he struck himself, and even as she

promised to hurt him, his one thought was for her safety.

Kataya, Komai, even the cub who stood beside him, became

secondary, superfluous in his life. She was his woman, his

family, and in everything but name, his wife. And whatever she

might do or say, he would never leave her. But as the cub

gently nuzzled against his leg, seeking some sign of

reassurance, he was dismayed to find large tears running down

his face, as in his mind's eye he saw Barabbas with the other

males huddled silently behind him, telling him to go.

'Why?' he asked aloud, his burning eyes turned toward the

heavens. 'Why must I always be punished for showing mercy,

and trying to do what is right?' But it was not mercy he felt

when he took Kataya to him, and he knew it. He kicked at a

protruding root, but trying to make his anger flare was like

trying to make a fire of damp wood. Guilt and remorse quickly

smothered it, smothered him. He stroked Alaska's head and

said quietly, 'It's all right.' But he neither felt it,

nor believed it himself. That afternoon William appeared, like

the white shadow of a tenement grave, and Sylviana had found her

instrument of revenge.

Chapter 43

All that morning Kalus stayed away, not wanting Sylviana to see him, not

wanting to destroy for Kataya what they had shared the night before.

The gesture was not entirely noble: now more than ever he found it

impossible to think or plan, and simply did not know what else to do.

But as various members of the company began to return early from their

labors, as if by mutual consent at the fine Spring weather, the amiable

Smith accosted him in the place where he sat brooding. The youngest of

the company, he had a pleasant, almost boyish face, with sandy hair and

a light moustache. He took Kalus up as if they were old friends, and

insisted they share a bottle of wine to celebrate the day. Kalus hardly

felt like celebrating, and was half fearful of the liquor's effect on

him; but the other's friendly oblivion made it all but impossible to

say no. So at last, wearily, he consented.

The two went briefly to the botanist's rooms to fetch it, then turned

themselves again out of doors. There in the clear space by the tables

Kalus saw the two women: Kataya, who looked up from her work and smiled

faintly, and Sylviana, who did not smile, though she could not entirely

hide her relief at seeing him at all. But the embers of her anger still

smoldered, waiting only for a restless wind to stoke them again to

withering fire.

The two men moved to the crest of the hill which formed one border of

the grassy bowl in which the others had gathered, and sat beneath the

speckled shade of a young tree that grew there. From here they could

survey the company without feeling too close, and therefore inhibited.

Smith opened the bottle, and after taking several large gulps (despite

the assumed bravado he was nervous, and uncertain how to proceed) passed

it to Kalus, who was much more cautious.

In time he felt the liquor, though he was not overwhelmed by it. Yet he

spoke little, gazing wistfully into the small valley at the two women he

had loved: desiring again the one, though he rebuked himself for it,

loving, and at the same time hating, the fallen angel of his heart.

Smith observed this, and failing in his attempts at indirect

conversation, spoke more plainly.

'I guess by now the Doc has explained to you something of our

breeding problem..... Dave Rawlings can be a bit blunt---subtle as a

truck, really---but he generally says the things that need to be said.

About mating, for example, and children.' Kalus turned toward him

curiously, as Smith pretended not to notice.

'He and I were just talking about it last night, and do you know what

he said? ‘Stop screwing around and just ask them. Enough of this

timidity. It's high time for those of us who can still procreate to

get down to some serious fucking.''

If Smith had stopped talking long enough, Kalus would have gotten up and

walked away from what seemed to him a lunatic assault on those things he

held most dear. But he did not stop.

'We've all been in rather a state of shock the past year, sexually

as well as otherwise. And of course we had plenty of other things to

think about first: constructing the shelters, laying up food for the

Winter.'

'Survival,' said Kalus bluntly. 'Just like everyone else.'

'Yes..... Are you angry with me?'

The man-child studied the face of the other, finding nothing but

friendship, sensitivity and good intentions. 'No,' he said sadly.

'I don't know what to feel.'

'Should we talk about this another time?'

'What would it change?'

'Probably nothing,' said Smith ruefully. 'You understand that

I'm only speaking for the good of the group. We're a family,

really.'

'But one without children,' added Kalus sympathetically.

'Yes. We need them. . .or everything we do dies with us. Along with

all hope for the future.' He took another drink to keep from

betraying emotion. But this only augmented, rather than submerging the

yearning for life that so overwhelmed him. 'The sound of their

laughter,' he began again, his eyes welling. The wail of newborn

life. . .would be such blessed relief from the dry, sterile sound of our

own voices.'

At this Kalus eyes' misted as well, remembering Shama, and the Child

on the shore. 'I would give everything I have to hear it,' he

said, surprised by his own words, and the thoughts that lay behind them.

'Me, too.' And the young scientist put a hand on Kalus'

shoulder. 'What I'm trying to tell you is that according to our

tests, only Rawlings, myself and the Commander, still have the ability

to father a child. And in your case, of course, there would be no

reason for the sterility.' At Kalus' questioning look he added.

'Oh, the others can still make love, it just doesn't get them

anywhere..... No pregnancy. No kids.'

'What are you asking me to do?'

Smith sighed, knowing it was now or never. 'Look down there. You

see that beautiful, slender reed in the black dress?'

'Kataya.'

'Yes..... She's twenty-six, and in the full flower of womanhood.

She desperately wants a child, but apparently the rest of us don't do

anything for her. And then Dr. Welles, there.' He

pointed. 'Thirty-four, and married to a man who can't give her

children. Should they both be punished for it? And your own Sylviana.

Wouldn't the two of you, at least, consider having a child?'

But Kalus' mind was reeling. The concept of free love was so

incredible to him, at once both desirable and unthinkable..... He gave

voice to only one of the myriad questions that confronted him.

'Is there no other way?'

'There's always artificial insemination: taking a man's sperm

and a woman's egg and placing them together, either in the uterus, or

in the laboratory. But that's so cold and mechanical. Also,

we're trying to stay a little closer to nature than our predecessors,

hoping to avoid some of their mistakes. And for me, at least,

there's a ‘spiritual' side to it: which sperm cell is MEANT to

fertilize which egg. Can you see what I'm driving at?'

Kalus, who had understood very little, could only say. 'I have made

love to only two women in my life. And I should have been more than

content with the one, if she..... Well if..... I don't know if I

can help you,' he finished weakly. But then, whether because of the

alcohol, the other man's openness, or the sheer physical need to let

it out, he told him.

'I made love to Kataya last night.'

'Good,' said Smith warmly. 'Good for you.'

'Not good for me. . .or Sylviana. She learned of it, and cast me

out.' He lowered his face, bitter and ashamed. 'I feel as if

I'm already dead.'

Smith was quiet for a moment, allowing the other to gather himself, then

simply said what he thought.

'You did nothing wrong, Kalus. I see in you no more of the user and

the taker than I do in myself---probably the reason we've both slept

with so few women. But as for Sylviana. . .maybe she won't

understand. But maybe, in time, she will. Welles is probably giving

her the same talk right now.'

At this Kalus looked down into the bowl once more, and saw to his relief

and glimmering hope that Dr. Welles was in fact speaking seriously with

Sylviana, who blushed, looking down, then up at him uncertainly.

'In the meantime,' Smith continued, 'Try not to isolate

yourself so much. Loneliness will kill you by itself. Throw in

alienation and remorse, and it's no wonder you feel the way you

do.' He looked the man-child straight in the eye, and said sincerely.

'Be my friend, Kalus. The rest of us aren't so bad. But if you

have trouble being open with them, then start with me. I'm not

nearly as shallow and glib as I come across---a defense mechanism I

guess, to keep myself from being hurt. But I do care, and I'd be

honored.' And he gave Kalus his hand on it.

Kalus took it in his own, finding unexpected relief, as Sylviana watched

him, and listened to Dr. Welles, and felt her hard resolve begin to

waver.

And all might still have been well, but for the sinister and unknown

timing of the Stranger, who at that moment descended the rise at a cold

distance from the two men, and seeing the strange and alluring new

woman, devoted to her all his questionable attention.

Chapter 44

William, who admitted to having no last name, was of slightly less than

average height, with dark hair, a rough complexion, and a certain

quality of nondescriptness about his face and features.

Until one met the eyes. These were at once both black and pierced with

light, aloof and penetrating, as if possessed of some underworld

knowledge that rendered all waking truth both poignant and, in the end,

utterly meaningless. Once seen, though the rest of the face remained

difficult to recall, these darkened orbs were indelibly burned into

memory---fierce, desperate, and dying. Restless, fearful, weary of the

crumbling bridge that so narrowly separates life from death.....

He had not always been this way. Though his childhood had been tragic

enough---abandoned shortly after birth, stored like some kind of

hazardous waste in orphanages and foster homes, moving on as he became a

troubled adolescent (and who wouldn't be?) to jails and juvenile

detention centers---it had not killed him, and that at least was

something. He had run away (escaped) at the age of sixteen, and like so

many other lost souls without hope or guidance, had gravitated to New

York City to be tried by the relentless hell-fire of the streets.

But unlike most, he had survived. Here, through various underground

activities, ranging from petty theft and burglary to trafficking

narcotics, he had somehow managed to keep body and soul together. And

no one seemed to take much notice of one more suspected junkie, living

in abandoned buildings and selling small quantities of marijuana,

cocaine, and whatever assorted pills he could buy, make, or steal from

dockside warehouses. He was left alone for the most part, and aside

from the odd roughing up by the police, given tentative permission to

exist.

But as he unknowingly turned the page on his twentieth year (for the

date of his birth was known to no one, and his childhood but a blur of

pain and abuse without names or numbers for reference), and as he found

his heart still beating, his lungs still demanding air, and the various

hungers of life giving him no chance to cease his restless moving, a

small miracle had occurred. Someone noticed, and more than that, fell

in love with him: a fifteen-year-old Chicano girl named Kathy.

Their meeting was chance enough, and would have passed like so many

others, but for the small compassion that still lived in him. Finding

her tearful and alone on the front steps of a tenement, in which her

alcoholic father had beaten and fondled her for perhaps the thirtieth

time, refraining from actual rape only because she screamed so loudly

and the walls were thin, William sat down beside her, gave her his

bandana to wipe the blood from her ear, and offered to take her to a

public health clinic that he knew. When she declined as the result of a

questionable immigration status (and a desire not to return to the even

more brutal life of Guatemala City), he had given her an ounce of

marijuana, along with spoken directions to the condemned building in

which he slept on the floor on a mattress of flattened cardboard boxes.

If she needed anything, he said, he would try to help.

The next day when he returned to check on her, he found that her father,

aided in his spiritual pilgrimage by a fifth of tequila, had fallen from

the fire escape, and was now in a City hospital pending deportation.

That was why she had not returned to their room, but remained on the

front steps, freed from one hell but confident that another awaited her,

which no doubt it did: she had no money, and would soon be evicted.

William had bought her breakfast, stolen her a jacket and scarf, then

brought her to his mansion of rats, fallen plaster, moldering walls, and

warmed by a kerosene heater which only smoked dangerously toward

morning.

After waiting for three days to be put to work on the streets, she found

to her amazement that he neither demanded she sell herself to others or

perform sex tricks for him, and had not put a hand on her except in

awkward comfort and reassurance. That night she gave herself to him,

they made sweet and tender love; and he had done something even more

inexplicable. He had cried, and promised to protect her with his life

against the bitcheries of poverty and despair that he knew so well.

>From that time on they were inseparable, living where they could, doing

what they had to do, to survive. William was not, in fact, a junkie,

though he came as close to the line without crossing it as any human

being ever could. But for Kathy's sake he gave up hard drugs almost

completely, finding that with her he no longer needed the barbiturates

to sleep, injected amphetamines to feel alive in the night, or alcohol

to keep the spiritual agony from killing him. Without the world's

help, or even its consent, he pulled himself and his young woman up out

of the gutter, and as she had done for him, gave them both a reason to

live.

But then Armageddon had come, oblivious to his, and everyone's,

agonies and ecstasies, bitter triumphs and long defeats. The War, that

had been building for centuries from Man's ignorance, and inability

to overcome his instinct for violence, finally broke out. The satellite

lasers had protected the City for a time, keeping the first wave of

missiles off them, for perhaps an hour. But it didn't take a genius

to know that New York's famous minutes were numbered.

So through the crash of panic-stricken people, trying to evacuate or

merely crying, 'Oh, my God!' while still others who had not seen

or heard the broadcasts stood about in a daze and tried to understand

what was happening, William took Kathy and sought out his friend,

Dr. Wilhelm Krause---the black pessimist, partly insane. Looting, too,

had broken out, but it was halfhearted, so that even the police, grim

soldiers of the street, showed little inclination toward retaliatory

violence. The City, for all its noise and seeming activity, was in a

strangling state of shock.

William found Dr. Krause---whom he had met while hospitalized with

hepatitis (from a rusted syringe)---in his basement laboratory, sunk

ninety feet below the ground, side-cut into solid bedrock at the base of

gigantic Mercy Hospital. For among the towering sky-scrapers, some

reaching over two hundred stories, it was not uncommon for their

foundations to sink another tenth that distance. And along with the

subways, bored farther and farther beneath the level of the streets,

they formed the literal New York underground, a silent world unto

itself, a still, protected inlet in the heart of the maelstrom.

When William burst in upon the aged Krause, the latter did not at first

seem to recognize him. For though he had been preparing for this day

for many years, now that it had come, his mind and heart were simply

overwhelmed. He found himself unable to act, or even think. It was

really happening, not in theory, not in the lecture hall, but in

damnable and undeniable reality. The unspeakable, of which he had

spoken for thirty years, had happened at last. There was something he

was supposed to do.....

Slowly his weary eyes and mind focused, his German courage rallied, and

he saw before him the young man he had once caught trying to steal

morphine from the hospital storeroom. In a moment almost of nostalgia,

he recalled the incident. He had not called security or the police, had

not tried to confront the sick and desperate youth, but said simply,

'Go back to your room, son. No, I'm not going to turn you in.

We'll talk about it later.' And to the young man's astonishment

they HAD talked, on several occasions and for hours at a time. William

found in the aging and alienated recluse a friend, and the closest thing

to a father that he would ever know. When he had spoken of his life,

Krause listened attentively, as if finding in the bitter tale of poverty

and poor health, pursuit and persecution, a note in harmony with his own

struggle amidst the viper-filled pit of unenlightened human nature.

Upon William's release he had shown him his laboratory, and explained

what it was for. And he had told him to come, if this moment ever

arrived.

'Hello, William,' he said quietly.

'Doctor!' said the other breathlessly. 'I don't care about

myself, but you HAVE to save Kathy. She can't die, she just

can't!'

'Now, now,' said Krause, 'There's no need to be heroic. You

sound like one of those detestable Wagnerian operas---all full of blood

oaths, and absurd quests to dubious ends. Damned prelude to the Nazis

is what they were, along with Nietzsche and all that, ‘Great men

create their own morality' horse-shit. Did you know Hitler was

impotent? That's why he never married Eva Braun. They say that

Goring used to wear eye make-up when they were alone, and---'

'Doctor, please!'

'Yes, yes, I know. You're sure that at any moment the lights will

go out, we'll hear the rumble from above, and the chance will be

lost. You underestimate me, young man. This laboratory will be intact,

and protected from radiation, ten thousand years from now. You forget

the lengths that a ‘mad German' will go to.' But seeing

William's anguish, he said. 'Yes, we'll save Kathy. And just

for the hell of it, why don't we save you, too? Since I don't

seem to have any other volunteers.'

William looked around him, then at the two elaborate suspension casks,

the best and most advanced in the world---made by Krause's own hands,

and prepared against every contingency.

'But what about you?'

'Me?' The old scientist laughed morosely. 'I'm an old man.

Do you think I want to crawl out of one of these things a hundred

centuries from now, and try to rebuild what's left of the world? No,

William, I don't mind dying. I'm just glad the two of you came,

or it would have been much harder.' And at that moment they had in

fact heard a rumble, and felt the disbelieving earth tremble at the

nuclear concussion. But the lights stayed on, and the caskets of life

still waited.

'Well,' said Krause grimly. 'Shall we get on with it?'

And the young lovers were put into suspension, with precision and good

hope.

William had woken the prescribed ten-thousand years later, intact,

roughly one year from the present. He had lain very still for a time,

not understanding, not remembering where he was. But as the truth

slowly returned to him he felt no weight of sorrow or loss, but an

unexpected joy at just being alive. And he thought of Kathy, so close

beside him. He had saved her! She was ALIVE, and they would start

again. He forced himself to remain in the soft warmth of the casket a

while longer, as Krause had instructed him. Then he turned the inner

handle, broke the seal, and emerged into the brave new world.

But even prepared against every contingency things can go wrong, and the

Devil fingers of Chaos reach into the strongest fortress. And nothing

made by man can endure unchanging the ravages of Time.

Something had gone wrong with Kathy's support apparatus. What it was

hardly matters, and no one ever learned. But she had died at least a

thousand years before, and all that the sealed cask had done was to act

as a mummy's wrap, slowing, but not eliminating her body's natural

decomposition. He rose to find his only love, a half-rotted corpse.

McIntyre and Jennings had heard the anguished cries, as they searched

through the underground vaults and passageways for the faint life-signs

they had detected, and entered the laboratory to find him lying face

down on the floor. Screaming. He offered no resistance as the doctor

injected a sedative, and the two brought him out into the cruel light of

day.

His true love was buried, along with all his hopes, and he never spoke

of her again.

*

Sylviana knew nothing of this tragedy, or of the menace to himself and

others that he had since become. She saw only the obvious way that he

looked at her, and the effect it had on Kalus. The man-child rose

instinctively, as if she were in danger, and would have strode down the

hill sword in hand to confront him. But Smith, who had seen the sudden

brush-fire of his eyes, seized hold of his arm protectively.

'Easy, Kalus. That's William. We'll go down together.'

There in the depression, stiff introductions were made. Kalus, with the

help of Smith beside him, managed to restrain his emotions, though

making no attempt to conceal them. For his own part, William sneered at

him indifferently, and continued to bathe Sylviana with mock interest

and open lust. His only reply to her question, 'Why haven't I

seen you before?' was a rude:

'Him Tarzan, you Jane. Me come back tomorrow.' And he had taken

some food, without asking or thanks, and made off the way he had come.

'How can you let him treat you that way?' demanded Kalus.

Since the question was directed at no one in particular, Ruth Welles

replied, neither apologizing nor defending their actions. She was a

tall, serious woman in her mid thirties, with pincers of brown hair

surrounding a pleasant face and striking eyes, which revealed to those

who knew how to look, a nature both stubborn and compassionate.

'That's just his way,' she said, 'And there are reasons for

it. We've all been hurt and bereft by the War, but his pain.....

Let's just say it's much harder for him to forgive and go one, and

that we're all worried about him, because we do care.'

'But he won't let anyone come close enough to help him,' added

Smith. 'He storms in and out for food, occasionally takes wine or

medicine along with it, and that's all we ever see of him. We helped

him set up a laboratory, before we knew what it was for. We considered

smashing it afterward, but what can you do for someone who makes his own

poison, and flaunts his own destruction?'

'Why?' asked Sylviana. 'What does he use the lab for?'

'To make LSD,' said Welles sadly. 'If there were poppies on

the island, no doubt he'd make heroin as well.'

Kalus found himself breathing heavily, unable to control it. He began

to pace a short distance from them, then suddenly turned and came back,

his manner tense and worried.

'Maybe I am wrong to say this. Maybe I have no right. But I

don't trust that one, and I don't want him near me or mine.' He

looked squarely at Sylviana. 'If you have any sense left you will

stay away from him, whatever you think of me. He means to hurt you, or

I know nothing at all.'

But her gaze was equally unyielding. 'I will see, or befriend,

whoever I DAMN well please, and you have nothing to say about it.'

And she returned to her work, as if he wasn't there.

Smith released a breath, Welles shook her head, and Kataya said nothing,

reproachfully. Kalus lifted the cub, forlornly lowered his forehead

against it, then turned and walked away.

Chapter 45

And so a period of days ensued in which little of note seemed to happen,

as is often the case when the most potent of life's forces are at

work, though beneath the surface and not yet brought to fruition.

William became a more frequent visitor, and often took long walks with

Sylviana. Kalus, feeling a genuine desire to work and do his share, as

well as needing something to distract him, began to work the fields with

Jim Smith, the botanist, his only real friend among the colonists. He

still spoke to Kataya, but had told her that for a time it was best they

keep some distance between them, and she had not objected. She

understood, and kept a warm secret of the fact that her menstrual cycle

was now a week overdue.

Under other circumstances, Kalus might have fallen in love with the

rigors and lessons of farming, which taught patience and perseverance,

and returned the most beautiful and honest of rewards: Life itself.

When Smith told him that by the year 2000 the smaller, family farms of

America were largely a thing of the past, he thought it a greater

tragedy than almost any he had heard of. And unknowingly, as Smith

continued to tell him of his own childhood on the Indiana farm, of his

family's hardships and eventual ruin, Kalus weaved the themes of the

story in and out of his own.

Because as he toiled, he too felt the creeping sense of fatalism that

told him all was lost, and the meaning gone out of his life. He too

felt events pushing toward some dark and bitter climax over which he

seemed to have little control. All this though he raged, and cursed,

and worked harder still. Because Sylviana would not let him near her,

and heeded none of his warnings.

So he worked, and waited, and prayed to the wind which knew could not

hear. While the woman-child, oblivious, pursued the treacherous shadow

of revenge.

It should be said in her defense that Sylviana had not stopped loving

him. Hers, rather, was a classic case of one who has struggled with the

help of another to achieve some desperate goal, but whom, upon attaining

it, felt that he or she no longer needed the life partner who had been a

pillar of love and support throughout: that she was now free to choose a

more appropriate mate for her elevated status, and leave the other to

get on as they would. As if that made it any better. Lastly, that if

she had been herself she would have wished him no harm, whatever he had

done to hurt her.

But her emotions, too (or so she told herself), were in a violent state

of flux. She felt as if she had been the one struck across the face,

betrayed and unjustly punished for simply following the inevitable

course of events. She had never been an evil person, and was not now.

But a sin of omission can be every bit as deadly, and the venomous

spider does not stop to ask the nature of its victim before it bites, a

soft sting that is hardly felt, until the poison starts to work.

Neither of them had realized the gift their isolation and struggle had

been, or how much more complicated love becomes when lives are

sheltered, and hearts confronted by a baffling array of choices.

Perhaps that was why, as Smith had remarked to Kalus, the well-off never

seemed to be much in love, but only to play at life. His love with

Sylviana had been simple and direct, a beautiful and necessary outgrowth

of their world. Now their reality had been altered, and something

precious lost.

It should also be said that in dealing with a dark, embittered soul like

William's (and to a lesser degree, her own), Sylviana was every bit

as naive as she had been about the primal, life and death existence of

the Valley. Had she known for one minute the vicious hatred that he

held for her, or the imminent danger of the course she was now pursuing,

she would have fled from him and never looked back.

Because to William she had become a symbol of all the protected,

thoughtless sheep whose blind acceptance of personal comfort and

political ruthlessness had made the destruction of the Earth and the

murder of his love possible, even inevitable. He would listen as she

spoke of her days at Ithaca, and of her soft and sheltered childhood,

with apparent interest and appreciation, all the while choking back his

passion, and plotting her destruction. In his mind she was the

‘pretty little college whore', and the very strength of his desire

for her only intensified his wish to wound her, as he had been wounded,

to punish and destroy her, as his love had been destroyed. He hated her

with a malice so deep it could fain love without detection, and wallow

in thoughts of sexual violence without remorse. The spirit had been

charred to ash inside him, leaving only the bestial desires of the

twisted animal: lust and hate and vengeance.

But his plans were not yet ripe, and like the cat, he would play with

his victim before killing it. And perhaps too, though the chance was

faint, the smallest part of his conscience remained, and needed further

goading before ceasing to rebel.

For her own part, though she might have wished it otherwise, Sylviana

could feel nothing for him but pity and a kind of awe. At times the

obsidian hardness of his eyes would push her senses toward the

protective realm of fear; but always his words, and her own twisted

purpose called them back. She was neither attracted nor repulsed, only

determined.

In truth she thought little during those final days, following out the

treadmill of her plan in a kind of dull stupor, unable, for the pain it

cost her, to listen to her heart and turn aside. Her scheme, if such a

name can be given to walking wide-eyed into a trap, was to sleep with

him at a time and place where Kalus would either witness it directly, or

hear of it straight away. She meant only to raise the horrible specter

of betrayal before him, to hurt him as he had done to her. Beyond that

she saw nothing, knew nothing, though some half thought out rationale

told her than then, perhaps, she could forgive him.

She wanted, in short, to summon the demon of Vengeance---to do her

bidding, then be gone. But Hell, if it has a master, is no woman's

slave, and once raised, follows its own path of wanton destruction. And

it found in William a willing conspirator, and favorite target of

seduction: a man who no longer cared.

Kalus had spoken of a benevolent current to which, along with his own

free will, he would entrust his life. But there is also a malevolent,

just as real, and Sylviana was being carried along by it without

resistance, and without awareness.

As William plotted, and Kalus burned.

Chapter 46

But life, and the myriad realities around them, did not cease because

two lovers had been driven apart, or because another lived in the

darkened world of near death. And their interaction, however tragic and

to whatever end, was hardly its only concern. Perhaps that is life's

greatest cruelty---that it goes on, regardless---or perhaps that is its

greatest gift. Nature, stern father that it is, has many children, and

those who have grown must be strong and self-sufficient, able to survive

and create again, without help or intercession.

There were others in the camp with lives and dreams and heartbreaks of

their own. And in the seemingly distant Valley, countless animal young

were being born, some who would rise to the magnificent freedom that

only an untamed creature of the Wild can know, some who would never

reach adulthood, their flesh sacrificed to feed the young of others.

But all would continue to strive and struggle, not understanding the

human concept of despair. And if the spirits of those who died returned

in other forms, or if the energy that constituted their existence was

merely recycled, it rose up to struggle again, filled with the endless

enigma that so bravely turns to face the Night, forever battling death

and the Void:

Desire, the cornerstone of Life.

*

On the day before the storm would break, Sylviana felt a stillness and

sense of well-being in everything around her: in the gentle breeze of

early morning, in the frolicking of the cub with David Rawlings, who

would never have been so free with a human companion. She felt it in

the absence of William from the camp, and even in the stubborn,

unspeaking presence of the man-child. He would never leave her, of that

she was now certain. And he would be near, very near when tomorrow, at

last, her plans would be ripe.

She no longer felt any hatred towards him. As their eyes met briefly

she even felt the old, half admitted love that had once been the most

important reality of her world. She didn't hate him. But she knew

what she had to do. It didn't have to mean destroying him, which she

was equally certain would never happen. How could steel be destroyed?

It couldn't, she thought, only disciplined to be a better servant.

And in her live imagination she felt the strong, shy touch of his hands

across her back, her ribs and then her breasts, accentuated by kissing

and tender words, the mouth sliding down across her neck, her chest,

licking her nipples and then squeezing and sucking in earnest, the

movements of his torso becoming less gentle as his penis grew rigid

against her thigh. Then he was inside her, with or without her help,

and began the innumerable thrusts that made of her body a single, roused

vehicle of warmth and pleasure. She gently, and not so gently massaging

his back, his buttocks. Till in the last fiery moments of passion he

crushed her to him, crying out in a voice made terrible by jealous rage.

'You are mine!'

She felt the strength of these images in the quickening of her heart,

and the stirring of her womb. That the next day she would give herself

to a man for whom she felt nothing, and who might have feelings of his

own, she could not realize. It made it all too cold and sad. But this

cruelty was not HER doing. She had not wanted it, or asked for it. It

simply had to be done. She must think of herself first, be truly

selfish for once, and let the men work it out as they would. That Kalus

might hurt William, or himself, she refused to consider. That William

might try to hurt HER, was beyond her imagining.

Her eyes were hazy, her senses unaware. And she did not see the deadly

serpent that crawled towards her through the grass. She knew nothing of

it until the air beside her was rent by the sweep of some instrument

whirled in sudden violence.

Startled, she turned to find Rawlings standing, too close it seemed to

her, then bending down over a wounded snake, pinned to the ground

beneath his hoe. Without hesitation or remorse he drew out his knife,

and separated it from its head.

'You better wake your ass up, girl,' he said bluntly. 'Or

death will find you, even here.'

But surely he was being too dramatic. It was only a little snake. And

why would anyone or anything want to hurt her, who would not even kill a

spider if she found it in her bedroom. But as she looked down at the

bright bands of color encircling the serpentine corpse, she vaguely

remembered something nasty about the coral snake. She moved away with a

shudder.

But remembering herself, she looked around quickly. Kalus was gone---he

had not seen. And Rawlings was walking off without further comment.

TOO CLOSE, she told herself. TOO DAMN CLOSE. She was not sure whether

she referred to the snake, or to the show of weakness, when the illusion

of strength was so critical.....

WELL, replied her harder self, AND WHAT OF IT? You couldn't let

something like that ruin your whole day. Especially this day, when she

had to be calm, and prepare herself. She cleared away the dishes as if

nothing had happened.

And Nothing had.

Later that morning she at last admitted her loneliness, and her fear.

She wanted to go to Kalus, so badly, to forgive him and start again.....

But she could not. Too much strength remained in her illusions. So she

set upon a compromise, going instead to her closest friend among the

colonists, a man whose affection was unconditional, and (she thought)

without judgment: Flight Commander Miles Stenmark.

She found him in the solitary structure a short distance from the camp:

the library, or archival building. Filled with the life-giving books,

computer records, maps and charts, it held a special status among these

refugees of Man's destruction, and its deep, quiet interior had the

aura almost of a church. Sylviana entered soundlessly.

The Commander sat with his back to her, leaning across a large drafting

table. Before him were spread a series of orbital photographs, which he

reproduced in minute detail upon a wide, scroll-like map. She moved

closer, standing behind him, needing to feel his reassuring presence

which never wavered, and his friendship which never questioned.

She began to massage his shoulders, which tensed involuntarily, and then

surrendered. With difficulty she fought back an urge to embrace him,

and cry like a child. She continued, but with a softened and

affectionate touch he could not help but feel.

'Bless you, Sylviana,' he said wearily. She almost smiled.

'How did you know it was me?'

'I knew.' Then, as if this conveyed too much. 'Ruth Welles

always tells me I'm working too hard, and Kataya's fingers feel

like flesh wrapped around steel, though she means well..... I'm

afraid she's still not quite comfortable around me. Around any of

us, really.'

'Why?' asked the younger woman, unable to feign indifference.

'Will you promise not to hold it against her? I wish the two of you

could make peace. There's so much that's good in both of you.'

Sylviana sighed deeply, again fighting off the urge to embrace him and

pour out her heart. 'I'll try. Why, then?'

'She still has too much resentment against the west.'

She moved to stand beside him, her look intent. 'From what?'

.. 'A large number of Japanese, including her grandparents, died a

slow and terrible death from the radiation left behind by the bombing of

Hiroshima. And here, now, losing everything to a War in which her

country played no part, but was decimated nonetheless, killing her

husband. And to lose the baby the way she did---not even knowing she

was pregnant, then coming out of suspension to immediate miscarriage,

hormonal crash, and the end of the world as she knew it. . .sweet

Savior. It would have killed almost anyone else. You HAVE to forgive

her, Sylviana. It's not her fault.'

She pulled up another stool and sat beside him, silent and thoughtful.

Finally she said. 'It's not my fault, either.'

Stenmark sighed. 'She knows that, on an intellectual level. But to

lose so much.' His expression became faraway, recalling perhaps some

bitter pain of his own. 'So much suffering.'

Sylviana looked full into his face, deeply stirred by the physical and

emotional closeness to this wise and noble man, who had seen and known

so much of life. And in that moment she wanted nothing more in the

world than to nestle against him, to feel him put his arm around her

protectively, kiss her gently, and tell her it would be all right.

Kataya no longer mattered. This mattered. She wanted to give herself

to him, as Kalus had to her rival. Even bear him a child..... And

suddenly she knew that was it. His sorrow. Not a loving spouse

perhaps, but a child lost. How much more terrible and bitter that

sting, to lose one innocent, and with a lifetime ahead of him. Or her.

Tears welled in her eyes.

'I'm so sorry,' she said, both understanding.

'Yes. It would have been harder. But for you.'

And in that moment, to be so close, their sides lightly touching, was a

blessed intimacy for which no words exist, and in which there is no

stain. She leaned closer to examine his work, though if the page before

him were blank she would still have done the same.

'What are you working on, Miles?' She was the only one among the

company who called him by his first name, and then only in private.

Such was the respect they all held for him, who had sacrificed so much

for their well-being. And she could not restrain herself from touching

him lightly on the arm. He turned toward her gratefully, smiling, then

turned back to his work, so deeply reluctant to complicate or even

injure her young life.

'I'm trying to chart. . .the topographical changes that took place

during the first two decades after.' There was no need to clarify

‘after'. 'You see, so far as I know, I'm the only one who

saw it. And the photographs can only tell you so much..... Do you want

me to go on.' She nodded tearfully.

'I want to recreate the full magnitude of the aftershock, as vividly

as possible. I try to do this through maps and computer enhancements,

along with the written account, which I'm afraid I'll never

finish.'

'Are you sure it's worth the heartbreak?' she asked

sorrowfully. 'Why not just leave it in the past, and go on?'

'Because it's important,' he said, 'For the same reason it

was important for the Germans to see the concentration camps after World

War II, and to give an honest account of what happened to them as a

people, that could ever allow such unspeakable atrocities. From my

observations, it was because everything was dealt with abstractly,

through dangerous philosophies and brilliantly sinister propaganda.

They were taught to rationalize the deaths of others as the only means

of caring for themselves: in order for their families to live, all

others must die. And blinded by their desire for this utopian world

they never saw, until it was too late, the true horror and vicious

sadism of the Nazis.'

Sylviana wept silently, recalling images of the Holocaust, set against

memories of German families she had known, so loving, nurturing, hard

working. 'How horrible.'

'Yes. As it's been said many times, we must learn from the

mistakes of history, or we're doomed to repeat them. We must all

realize what we're capable of, when we close our hearts, and allow

our minds to justify such brutal and inhuman acts. Or we DON'T learn,

until it's too late.' He gave a bitter sigh. 'Until it comes

to this.'

Needing perhaps some escape from the relentless intensity of these

truths, her eyes took in the map before her: the northern Atlantic. The

altered North American coast formed one boundary, the European the

other. She studied the latter quietly, not wanting to look too closely

at the plunder of her native America.

The European main did not at first look radically different, her eyes

readily identifying Italy, though the ‘boot' had been rounded off,

and Spain, similarly worn so that the strait of Gibraltar was now broad

enough to pass a small country through. But as her gaze continued

toward France and the Netherlands..... Something was missing. NO. It

couldn't be.

'Where are the British Isles?' The home of her deepest ancestors.

A last, disbelieving hope. 'Or haven't you drawn them yet?'

'They're gone,' he said somberly, 'Along with all of

Scandinavia, my home..... A huge rift opened between them and the

mainland, here, and swallowed them like Atlantis. I watched it happen,

day by day, year by year. And Sweden. It was one of the saddest

experiences of my life. To watch the destruction of that beautiful

land, from which my ancestors set out in many-oared galleys, practically

rowing themselves, when the winds weren't favorable, all the way to

northern Canada, centuries before Columbus. When I think of the courage

and determination that must have taken, to brave the storms and chilling

waters. All lost, the chain of humanity broken forever, ending with me,

in the grim twilight of a futile existence.'

He forgot his own emotions as he found the young girl collapsed upon his

chest, sobbing like a frightened child. After a moment's hesitation,

in which he saw that restraint would be tantamount to cruelty, he put

his arm around her and brought her close, kissed her forehead and said

gently. 'Don't cry, little Sylvie (the name he had heard her

father use those many years before). It's over now.'

'But it's not over,' she said wretchedly. 'It's not.

And if you only knew what I was going to do. You'd hate me.

You'd never speak to me again. It's too awful..... And I

don't WANT to. I don't want to.'

He waited for her to become quieter. 'The only thing I couldn't

forgive, and that I don't understand, is why you keep punishing

yourself. The way you've withdrawn, and won't let anyone close to

you. Especially Kalus.' He knew from the hurt look she gave him that

he had struck upon the heart of her unhappiness. 'Or is it him

you're trying to punish?'

'You don't understand,' she said weakly. And she would have

told him, and perhaps have found in his wisdom a way to let go, and

renounce the evil thing that she proposed. But at that moment she heard

a voice outside the open door.

'I thought I saw her go into the library,' answered McIntyre to an

unknown questioner. She stiffened, quickly wiped the tears from her

eyes. Kataya knocked lightly, then entered.

'Hello, Commander. Am I disturbing you? I'd hoped to speak with

Sylviana.' There was no animosity in her voice. If anything, it was

softened and conciliatory. 'Would it be all right?'

Though the question had been directed to Stenmark, Sylviana felt the

intrusion keenly, as if she had received yet another slight from this

woman, who continued to encroach upon her most intimate acquaintances.

'Anything you have to say to me,' she replied without turning,

'You can say in front of the Commander.'

Stenmark began to rise diffidently, but she took his arm and would not

let him, unsure herself if she wanted his strength to lean upon, or

simply did not wish to grant anything so personal to the woman who had

hurt her so badly.

'Really, Sylviana, maybe I should go.' But the childlike anguish

he saw in the honest look she gave him, made him turn instead with a

sigh.

'Please come in,' he said.

'Are you sure, Sylviana? It's very personal.'

'You heard my answer,' she said coldly, still not turning.

'Speak to me here, or not at all.'

'All right. The Commander will have to be informed in any case.'

Kataya took a deep breath, trying with all her self-discipline not to

sound too triumphant.

'The tests were positive. I'm going to have a child. By Kalus.

I wanted to explain that it changes nothing between you, and that I feel

no hostility---'

But Sylviana broke her off, whirling in a frenzy. 'You sorry Asian

WHORE! Sleeping with him behind my back, and humiliating me again and

again!'

'No,' said Kataya calmly, firmly. 'There was only the one

time, which never would have happened..... But it did happen, for which

I'll always be grateful. I just wanted to tell you that I bear you

no grudge, and would never try to steal him from you.'

Sylviana stood in shocked silence. And though her face and whole

bearing were hostile and inconsolable, Kataya realized they might never

speak again. Better to say it all now, and have done.

'Taking him away from you was never my motive. And though I am

deeply fond of him..... Can't you see how much he loves you?

PASSIONATELY, single-heartedly. Don't you know how much that's

worth? I've only experienced it once in my life, and I would give

all the world to have that back..... My gentle husband, so unlike the

hard, cruel men among whom he was raised.'

'Get out!' screamed Sylviana, 'Before I tear your eyes out!

You MONSTER. You whore.' And she fell to weeping.

Kataya swallowed hard, then left to control her own emotions. Rising,

Stenmark spoke for her, perhaps for all the company.

'Sylviana. SYLVIE. I know you don't want to hear this

right now, but I think you have to.'

The young woman fell back upon the stool, sobbing. Touched with pity

though he was, the aging Commander knew he could not comfort her until

he had made her see the truth.

'The men of Japan, Kataya's ancestors, were every bit as cruel as

the Germans during World War II. They killed millions in their march

through Asia, raping women to death, cutting men to pieces, never

sparing the children..... So that when America finally developed the

atomic bomb, those with the power to use it had very little sympathy

left. But loosing that atomic death, whose lingering effects were not

yet known, on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, making war against the innocent

women and children of that tragic country..... One atrocity doesn't

justify another.' And while he was not sure she would understand the

parallel, he knew no other way of reaching her.

'The problem with revenge, Sylviana, is that you never hurt the

people you're trying to, but only create new victims. Your country

condemned to a slow and horrible death, by all the ills and cancers of

radiation poisoning, more than a million men, women and children who had

no knowledge of, and took no willing hand in, the butcheries of their

military government.'

'I don't care!' cried the young woman bitterly. 'You have

to care,' said Stenmark grievously, 'Even if it happened

before you were born. And even then, that's only the smaller

part of Kataya's anger. You lost your father, as we all lost

those dear to us..... Imagine if you had lost Kalus, in the

full flower of your pure and uncorrupted love for him? And not

only Kalus, but the innocent life his seed had planted in your

womb.' But Sylviana only wept harder, unable to feel anything

but her own pain.

'She may be the last Japanese left alive,' he continued. 'And

the silent suffering forced on the women of that country by their

culture is beyond any power of mine to convey. Should it all be for

naught? Hate the men of that time if you want; sometimes I do myself.

But not the women. God love them.....

'She has the right to bear a child, Sylviana, and to choose that

child's father. Think about that the next time you find yourself

hating her, or despising the blessed and innocent life that now grows

inside her. I don't think you'll have the heart to hate her then.

Not in your worst moments.'

But it was all too much for her: too overwhelming to forgive, or even

understand. She raised herself, angrily pushing away the hands that

would have comforted her, and ran out of the room with a wordless cry of

pain and self-loathing. And kept on running, as if the Devil ran behind

her.

In time she slowed to a walk, though she could no more stop moving than

deny her lungs the air they screamed for. 'Just walk!' she cried.

'WALK. Until you can't feel anything.'

But after another mile she stopped, and knelt down and wept for the

third time. Because she knew that she would do it. She would betray

the one she loved most. Until she made him feel her pain, thinking

nothing of his own---

'I don't care!' she cried, raging, the three words which so

often precede the worst that we are. And though they were not entirely

true in her case, the tragic end is often identical.

She would go through with the evil act. She would do it.

Chapter 47

That night Kalus dreamed he was alone in a dark cave, too small and dank

for a man. But the light rose slowly through a stone-lipped entrance,

and he saw a familiar form beside him as he sank into the wall, to

watch. Kamela lay with three cubs beside her. But two had been turned

to stone. He struggled to wake himself, because he knew what was to

come.

A large wolf entered, looking black, and bared its yellow fangs.

Another stood guard outside as the earth parted to admit the terrible

and magnificent bastard, Shar-hai. He entered, silent as death, and

lifted the living cub and set it gently, almost lovingly, in a corner.

Kamela never once moved, or changed her expression as they came closer,

snarling sadistically.

They raped her, as he struggled to break free. Only then it was no

longer Kamela, but Sylviana they raped, and the face of Shar-hai became

human as it tore at her. He struggled desperately and called her name

as Smith and Rawlings pinned him to the floor. BUT THEY'RE MY FRIENDS!

He cried out to her with heart-crushing passion, as the sound of it

filled his ears, and woke him.

*

He lay on his back, wet with sweat, unable to remember. He threw off

the sleeping bag which now seemed to him a coffin, or a mummy's wrap.

He tried to shake off the dream, but the images of Kamela's rape had

never left him, and those of Sylviana as the victim transferred

themselves with terrifying ease. His own reality, as it returned to

him, seemed far less real. And it came as no surprise as he recognized

the human face of Shar-hai. It was William, his teeth like knives.

The sun was climbing: she would be awake. But this was only an

afterthought, as he ran toward the compound. He threw open the first

door, then the second, and burst into the room he had never seen. She

was there, half dressed, seeming but a continuation of the dream from

which he felt he had not woken. For there was no waking from the truth.

'Sylviana,' he pleaded, closing the door while she glared at him.

'You must not see William today. I have seen a terrible vision. And

I know, as I have always known..... He will rape you, and try to hurt

you! Perhaps he will even (the thought was unendurable), KILL you.'

She forced herself to finish dressing calmly, as he forced himself not

to touch her. But as she tried to walk past him as if he did not exist,

he could contain himself no longer. He seized her by the arms, and both

lost control.

'You can't go to him!' he shouted. 'I won't LET you.'

And his hands were like claws. Then they softened, along with his eyes,

and he all but begged her. 'PLEASE.'

'Take your hands off me!' she cried, breaking free with a terrible

strength of her own. 'Don't you touch me, ever!' He drew back

from her, trembling.

'Haven't you punished me long enough?' he said. 'I am

SORRY. For this. For everything. I am in agony; is that what you

wanted? But I am also afraid for you, mortally afraid. In some things

you are still very naive. You can't see, no one can see, what he

will do to you! But I know the look in his eyes, because I have seen it

before. It stood in front of me in the arena, at no greater distance

than the length of my sword---'

'Shut up!' she screamed. 'You shut up! What do you know about

MEN? You couldn't, because you're barely more than an ape

yourself. Go back to your beloved hill-people, and eat rotten meat in

the dirt!'

But here she paused, remembering her purpose. And through the heat of

the first real hatred she had ever felt for him, came the cold touch of

poise in the act of betrayal, and she knew with a twisted thrill what it

was to surrender to Evil.

'But if you're really worried,' she said placidly, 'Wait for

me at the Vale of the Obelisk. I'll meet you there at noon, to tell

you of our love-making. And then we'll say goodbye, forever.'

She strode out, and left him shaking. He fell to his knees and wept,

much as William had screamed, to find his lover dead. He was alone in a

dark cave, too small and dank for a man.....

*

William did not wake, because he had not slept. He told himself that he

was letting it build inside him, mounting toward the kill. But in truth

he was far beyond even that. The amphetamines he had injected though

every voice of body and mind cried against it, ate him like a cancer.

He had lost all control. This would be an act of vengeance, but not his

vengeance. Somewhere in the mincer of pain and loss he had become the

very thing he had fought all his life against, what he swore he would

never become: an instrument in someone else's, someTHING else's

hands. He could not admit this. He could not admit, or think, of

anything. For his mind was no longer his own. Not by a conscious act

of submission---

He gave a violent cry and hurled a bottle at the crumbling half-wall.

As it shattered, as he saw the broken glass and knew what it could do to

human flesh, he remembered his purpose. In large, painful gulps he

drained most of a second bottle, letting the wine take the place of

blood in his veins.

He would be Master yet. The sun was up and it was day. He would have

her, and then destroy her. Then destroy himself. Nothing else

mattered, and Nothing never needed justification. It simply was, the

only truth: the hole when the bottom fell out. It was the naked razor,

stalking through the streets, cutting out men and women at random.

Letting some grow fat for its later pleasure. Wantonly hewing the poor,

who though possessed of a greater capacity for suffering, had reached

the limits of endurance and could be tortured no more.

He had become a willing servant of the thing he had always fought, and

feared. But he did not care.

He did not care.

*

When he came to her, as arranged, there was a moment when Sylviana saw

what Kalus had seen: a wild, desperate hunger in his eyes, that could no

longer feed on things which the earth gave as food. They wanted not

flesh, but blood, not nourishment, but to mock the very act of

nourishment. They could not be fed, or appeased, any more than one

could quench the rape of napalm fire.

She turned away, and felt her heart throb violently in revulsion and

fear. Only the perverse pride and will that had slowly taken hold of

her, kept her from running away at the sight of him. This, and the

stubborn naiveté of the illusioned, which told her this instinctive

fear was a flaw of perception: that true, malignant evil did not exist,

and that things could not possibly come to the ends envisioned by

nightmare imagination. It was the same voice that told the world the

Holocaust could not happen, was not happening, even as six million Jews,

Russians, intellectuals, homosexuals and other defenseless minorities,

were led to the fire. She listened to that voice, and made it her

island of hope, the one that made the twisted dream of murder and

healing, kindness through cruelty, destruction and rebuilding, still

possible. Like one who had stared too long at the sun, insisting there

was no danger, she was completely blind.

She turned back to him, more composed, and wondered only why he made no

attempt to aid her: to dim the cutting laser of his eyes.

But he was through with hiding, and playing the part of the weak and

worshipful lover. LET HER SEE! rang the twisted chime of his thoughts,

distorted and horrible. Let her walk into the jaws of death with eyes

wide open. And this choice also was correct: that his eyes and

intentions were obvious, only made them the more impossible to believe.

She merely said, 'Shall we go?' And she couldn't understand why

at that moment she should think of the black widow that her father had

found in her bedroom as a child, killing it as she cried at his cruelty.

*

Kalus sat on a piece of broken stone with his head in his hands, unable

yet to look up and go on. Alaska stood before him, puzzled. Her young

mind had continued to develop, so that now she was aware of her

existence as clearly, if without the same complexity, as any human

adolescent. In the preceding weeks she had realized that such a choice

might come: a choice between the two people she loved. And for reasons

no more complicated than simple feeling, she had chosen Kalus, had

remained with him as he lay helpless on the floor, and not followed when

Sylviana called to her angrily.

It was his one compensation. He knew that if he left the colony the cub

would go with him, regardless of what lay ahead. It was that simple,

and that beautiful. And in that moment, alone and forlorn among the

ruins of yet another tortured depression, this singular act of giving

broke his heart. Because he saw in her pure, animal innocence the thing

that he had always wanted from a woman, but had not dared to ask:

Loyalty, which so many have forgotten, and for which there is no other

word. And not the pale imitation of it found in some marriages, which

demand that each cut off and subvert some part of themselves, to be

joined like hobbled twins at the place of amputation. What he wanted

was nothing more and nothing less than the bond of true allies: not half

a woman, because of him, but a whole woman, for the same reason. Not to

enslave but to enrich, not to question in time of crisis, but to love

and support, not blindly, but freely and fully. All these things he had

offered her; but he knew they meant nothing if she was unwilling to give

the same in return. Because there is no such thing as one-sided love.

He did not know how he understood these things, or why they had come to

him now, only that he knew them, and that their truth was unbending.

Yes. He would wait for her at the designated time and place. If she

came to him and said she could not do it, and asked his help to rebuild

the things that they had lost, he would remain with her forever.

But if she came to him in mocking triumph---if she ever again spoke to

him as she had---all was finished between them. He would leave her,

leave this place, and never look back. There was no middle ground.

Because he knew finally, defiantly, that he was physically incapable of

being other than himself, and should never have tried to be. The

consequences of rejection would be devastating, and in the cold light of

day he did not know how he would find the will to go on, without her.

But this no longer mattered. Nothing mattered, but that this agony and

fear must end. There was no other way.

He rose and walked the remaining distance. To the Vale of the Obelisk.

To wait.

***

SO FAR IT'S GONE WELL ENOUGH, she told herself, though she still could

not look at him, or one second further than the present. They sat

together on the sunlit slope of a wide, grassy recession. Its quiet

symmetry would have been lovely and serene, but for a single thrust of

gnarled stone which pierced its center, ringed about the base by a

matting of jagged weeds. The company called it Devil's Thumb. It

was a protrusion of the devil to be sure, but she wasn't at all sure

that ‘thumb' was the correct metaphor. She kept her eyes away

from it, concentrating instead on the white sheet spread beneath them,

on the bread and wine before them.

He had brought the wine, for which she was grateful, and she drank of it

probably more than she should. But it gave her confidence, and helped

dull the edge of her rebelling senses. Perhaps half an hour had passed

from the time of her first ready mouthful; and he smiled each time the

glass touched her lips. If an eerie contraction of taut face muscles

can be called a smile.

'Have you ever done hallucinogenic drugs?' He tried to ask

carelessly, but could not quite pull it off.

'What on earth made you ask that?'

'Oh, nothing really. Just curious.' She wished he would stop

looking at her that way.

'Yes I have. Once, with Kalus. We..... It was peyote.'

'How much did you do?'

'Two buttons each. One right away..... Why are you laughing?'

'Two peyote buttons, and you think you've seen it all. Ha! That

wouldn't be enough to open your pretty little eyelids.' She

wondered why she suddenly felt restless and irritable.

'What makes you think it's only how much, and not how pure? Or

maybe we just didn't need to have our whole consciousness blown away

to get something meaningful from it.' She felt angry, defiant, and

horribly uncomfortable. 'I could do LSD if I wanted to.'

'Could you now? We're going to find out.' She felt the touch

of an icy hand inside her.

'What do you mean?'

'The wine is laced with it.'

And the current closed over her head.

*

Kalus sat in the fore of the leering monolith, which lay just inside the

rim of the oblong vale. The dwarfish Obelisk, like a pointed tombstone,

lay swart and square in its center. Kalus remembered the first time he

had come here, driven on by Sylviana's almost distracted haste to

find others of her kind. AND TO ESCAPE, he thought bitterly, HER

DEPENDENCE ON ME. It was here, beneath the monolith, that he had tried

to cleanse and bandage the wound on her leg. The memory and sight of

it, of blood on her beloved flesh, filled all his thoughts. Through the

strong taste of pride and anger, a fresh and cutting sense of worry

returned to him. The protective instinct was too strong inside him, and

what they had shared, too deep.

He thought of following after her, but did not know which way she had

gone, and doubted Alaska's ability (as well as his own) to find and

isolate her most recent trail among the layered and crisscrossing paths

of the colonists. He could only wait, and watch the sun wheel the

shadows around him. When the longer shadow of the Monolith joined that

of the deeply carved Obelisk, locking together into a long sword of

darkness upon the earth, it would be time. And she must come to him.

But that remained at least two hours away. He looked down at the

deerskin pouch, which had slipped from his shoulder and rested, half

open, on the ground. Remembering one of its contents, he emptied it out

onto a gray, porous stone before him.

There, beside the wrapped hunting knife (which she now refused to

carry), the whet-stone, and the flints for making fire, he saw them.

Dryer, less green, but still potent in their otherworldly magic: the

five remaining peyote buttons. He lifted one and turned it in his hand,

wondering. It had helped him to understand once before..... Perhaps it

would show him something now, which he could see no other way.

Guided by an impulse he did not completely understand, and half against

his better judgment, he put the first in his mouth, and chewed it. Then

slaked his throat with water. Again. And a short time later, again.

*

There are no words to describe LSD. For the person who has taken it

before it is still like landing from another planet: nothing is

familiar, and nothing can be taken for granted. Everything is powerful,

evocative, unknown. For the person who has not, it is like a bewildered

and even unconscious dream. If the experience is good, it is life at

its deepest and most intense. If it is bad, there is no greater horror

on the Earth. And in either case, the mind is never quite the same.

Doors are opened which cannot later be shut, and some residue, both

chemical and spiritual, remains forever.

The acid that William had made was not particularly strong or pure, and

this alone saved her sanity. But it was strong enough, and tinged with

strychnine and speed. She could not hide, from anything.

Sylviana tried to master her panic. And so far, by the narrowest of

margins she had succeeded. ALL RIGHT, she told herself. All right. It

had happened. There was nothing to done now but see it through. Except

that she kept forgetting what the words meant, forgetting the words she

said, forgetting words. She was alone in a gruesome place with a man

she did not know or trust. She could not force herself to remain there

a moment longer.

'We have to go,' she said, rising. The motion, scarcely felt,

elevated her head, the line of her sight. But she could not shake the

feeling of being deep under the water, lungs bursting for air. She

wanted to swim with all her strength, upward toward the surface. But

some horrible weight, or cold serpentine grip held her down, wrapped

about her legs and ankles. That grip was her obsession. The

life-saving air was Kalus, and she knew it.

But no, her stupor-rationale insisted. It's not so. I can breathe.

I can walk. She strode to the top of the hill, feeling a moment's

release, only to find that William had followed her soundlessly, like a

shadow. And that she no longer knew where she was, or how to find her

way back.

BACK. To what?

And then the real fear, the telling blows, began to find her. Because

it seemed, it was, an overriding certainty that there was no returning.

This was reality, doubly real. She had fallen into a bottomless pit.

NO WAY OUT!

'Let's go for a walk,' said William gently, now so sure of his

prey that he was almost disappointed. But he would see it through, and

knew that to do so he must build her up again, just enough. Then tear

her down. Again, until the moment was ripe. And then God help her.

But Sylviana was there ahead of him. She clung to this mockery of care

and affection, five simple words, with all the desperate power of her

desire not to believe. 'Yes, my dear, sweet William. Let's go

for a walk.' And he smiled, a moment of sympathy that he knew would

only make the fire of his hatred burn the whiter. She might make the

going pleasing, after all.

'Yes,' he said wryly. 'A walking tour of the neighborhood.

I'll show you how the other half. . .dies.'

So they set out, Sylviana forgetting that this unraveled the last of her

plans, and that Kalus would no longer be close at hand.

For better or worse.

*

Kalus remained, still as the stone on which he sat. He had moved some

time before to the more level ground before the Obelisk, though the

grotesque figures carved upon it kept him from coming too close. The

peyote had begun to work on him, but its effect was entirely different

than what he had hoped. Instead of giving him peace and a quiet

understanding, it filled him with a dread that was almost physical. All

his thoughts, worded and otherwise, seemed to crash in upon themselves

like the breaking of a wave, crushing and smothering every positive

impulse, every hopeful thought within him. He was back in the hopeless

world of his past, from which she had helped him to escape.

But there was no escape. No matter how he turned it around, no matter

what contingencies he tried to make and force himself to swallow, the

bitter truth remained. Without his woman he had nothing: no love, no

purpose, no home. No way to go on, and no reason to try. The ancient

sense of fatalism and betrayal returned to him, with still greater

intensity, because for a time he had been free. And the brief interval

of spoken words and close female companionship evaporated, could no

longer protect him from the silent, brutal worlds he had known. Again

he saw before him the long chain of savagery and violence, of endless

pain and pointless perseverance. All leading to this. To be broken and

alone, as only the last of a species is alone.

He too felt the razor, though dully. And his one regret in those

darkened moments was that he had been so skilled in eluding it.

*

'Forty-second street,' said William, continuing in the manner of a

tour through Hell. They stood at the base of a long, flat stretch, like

a sunken airport runway before them, the grassy dikes to either side

still suggestive of the tombs, the mass graves they barely covered.

'You see before you a busy street---strip joints, adult book stores,

pornographic theaters. But you don't seem to notice the background

much. No. It's the ragged flowers springing from the sidewalk that

catch and hold your eye: prostitutes, the whipping girls of the city.

'On a good day all they're required to do is give their bodies to

pawing, drooling idiots, who in their half-assed passion call them

‘mother', ‘cheap whore', or the name of some long-lost

lover. Oh, but of course they don't really FEEL anything.

They're not real people, like you and I.' At this he curled his

lip, barely able to contain his rage. 'On bad days..... They're

harassed and preyed upon by police, jaded social workers and psychotic

killers, or just beaten and abused by the ‘fatherly' pimps.

'And what is their crime, that makes them the object of universal

scorn and reprisal? They're VICTIMS, vulnerable, bringing out the

predatory instinct in all of us. And more than that, they commit the

most unforgivable sin of all: they make us look at ourselves, and see

something about our pretty little world that we don't like. Because

they do, in fact, what the rest of us do in spirit: sell themselves,

body and soul, for MONEY. Only they lack the skills and social graces,

like the ones you learned in college, to be subtle and self-justifying

about it. They are OBVIOUS, and much too real, an easy target for

nearly everyone. And the human animal never misses easy prey.'

Sylviana heard the words---stark and depressing enough---but what gave

them their power were the images her own memory provided. She saw it

all: the rooster-like pimps grabbing gaudily dressed women by the hair,

and without remorse throwing them into the back seats of still gaudier

cars, for later punishment, which no doubt included beating and rape.

And if her head happened to strike the roof, starting a rivulet of

blood.....

And she remembered the murder she had so nearly witnessed: saw the chalk

outline that the homicide detectives had drawn on the sidewalk as the

paramedics arrived to wheel her into a waiting ambulance, her death a

foregone conclusion, the eyes still terrified though the life even now

fled from them. A face once young and fair: a sixteen-year-old runaway

from nameless suburbs, driven from her home perhaps by an abusive

parent, drawn to the city like a moth to flame. And brought to the same

end. While the jagged man the police had cuffed and were dragging away,

screamed in bursts of occasional coherence, 'All women are

whores!'

And she remembered too, even as he said, the thoughts that she had

always used to dismiss such women, and the hopeless tragedy of their

lives. HOW CAN THEY DO IT? THEY MUST JUST TURN OFF THEIR MINDS, AND

NOT FEEL ANYTING..... IT'S AWFUL, BUT SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN

TO WALK THE STREETS ALONE. As if this was something she had done of her

own volition, and against the warnings of loved ones and friends. And

she thought of her own plan, which was worse. Not to sleep with a man

for money, which could at least claim the honest shred of need. But for

revenge.

And coming back to herself for a moment, she realized with a sudden

shock that this same plan, along with the subconscious safety valve she

had built into it, were now completely out of hand. She had no idea

where they were (in relation to anything else), only where they

weren't: within hearing range of Kalus, on whom she had relied to

protect her at need. As the dagger of fear sank an inch lower into her

breast.

'You're right William,' she said hurriedly. 'And it's

horrible. But please, please take me somewhere else.' Sheer movement

seemed the only defense from the razor---

'My GOD.' There seemed to be a literal razor forming out of the

air before her, a glint of sunlight on cold steel. She cowered, and

crossed her arms defensively in front of her.

'Oh, no, not yet,' said the Stranger, as if he understood it all.

He seized her by one foreshortened arm, and led her toward the next

exhibit. After an interminable length of time he stopped again, and

pointed.

'Seventh Avenue.'

*

Kalus remained, still as stone, but no longer in confusion and despair.

He stood rooted to the spot in horror.

The two shadows had met and become one, a broadsword of Death upon the

wounded earth. The sun was now directly south of the monolith. Yet it

was not the Shadow, but a patch of wicked, unexpected Light that showed

him in a searing instant the real danger into which his woman had

fallen, and the true Evil that walked upon the earth. A square-cut hole

high in the center of the monolith, hidden earlier by its vague,

uncontoured grayness, now let through a shaft of light, which came to

rest in impossible coincidence upon a single carving of the dwarfish

Obelisk: the face of a horned Devil, its lolling tongue six inches long,

was held in the internal pentagon of a ghoulish star, pointing downward.

Carved perhaps by some mutant from the days when half-men, like lepers,

still clung to the fire-pillaged rock, it looked down upon the slab of

altar at its feet, just large enough for a child, just deep enough to

contain its flowing blood. As remorseless and aroused, the Beast smiled

in the helpless light of day.

'Sylviana!' he cried aloud, knowing now that only he could save

her. No answer. He stood up and called again, one last act of

desperation.

Nothing. He went down on one knee, and patted the ground with his open

hand. He needed no more prodding. The time had come to act.

'Alaska,' he whispered intently. 'Sylviana. SYLVIANA.'

This time the cub seemed to understand, and apparently had some insight

as to where they might be found, for she set out at once. Or at least

some idea where they might begin to look.

If it was not already too late.

*

'Stop it! Stop it!' she cried, covering her face with her hands.

She had gone with him, and listened as he spoke of junkies, toxic waste,

victims and violence and hospitals. From place to place, in growing

horror, thinking with one last gasp of real courage that perhaps she

deserved this, and needed to know.

But when he brought her at last to the ruins of an enormous research

facility, and began to describe, in detail, the torturous experiments

performed here on bound, terrified animals in the name of progress and

the greater good, she felt the tip of the blade licking at her heart.

Because she knew it was true. Her father had been assigned here as an

intern. He had stormed out in a rage at the asphyxiation, force-feeding

of toxic substances, vivisection, 'Sweet Jesus,' and ‘stress

tests', performed on dogs and cats, rhesus monkeys and other

primates, some more intelligent than the lackeys who tormented them.

Refusing to participate had put his career in jeopardy, something he was

willing to do, to stand up against what he knew was wrong and

indefensible. And he had spoken out against the Horror, for those who

could not speak.

But many of his colleagues had not been willing. All the beloved

doctors and scientists, characterized as forthright, altruistic men and

women, working for the good of humanity, if not actively involved, at

least turning the other way as innocent, uncomprehending creatures were

subjected to physical and psychological tortures that were the rival of

the Holocaust. The Leeds Institute of Animal Research, called by its

critics, LIAR.

She kept thinking of Alaska.

But William felt no sympathy for her. The fact that such men had

murdered themselves in the process, that humanity had been no kinder to

its human victims, that it was ‘over now', could not cover the

brutal shame of it. All of it. Could not bring back the dead. The

innocent and the dead, who had been helpless before the grim

machinations of vicious human fear and ignorance.

He let her remain there, hobbled against a mound of slag. Then he drew

out his stiletto, and shot the blade into place. And held it six inches

from her face. She had ceased weeping and sat helpless, sobbing, ready

for the fall. As he said in a gentle, sing-song voice.

'Time to wake u-up.'

She opened her hands and her eyes, as if seeing for the first time.

She opened her eyes. The razor stood before her. Not as some dark and

frightening intangible, but a stark physical reality, held in the iron

grip of her fellow man. Because malicious evil is still only a weapon,

and requires willing human hands to wield it.

For a single instant she sat there numb, neither believing nor

comprehending. But then he seized her violently by the front of the

blouse, lifting her to him. And with a quick insertion of the blade and

a hard jerk backwards, he cut away her bra, ripping the garment wide

open as he threw her back onto the ground.

A startled, 'William, don't do this,' tried to form in her

throat, but was drowned out as he screamed in a wrath no longer his own,

but that of all creatures brutalized and turned vicious by the bloody

hells from which man has barely begun to raise himself.

'And do you know who's going to PAY for it! YOU ARE!'

One word alone would form from her terror, a last, instinctive cry

against the Razor, and the trickle of blood at her breast. She screamed,

louder than he.

'KALUS!'

*

>From a distance of three hundred yards he heard her. Instantly his

senses were trained upon the spot and he was running, leaving the

startled cub far behind. The broken, undulating ridges kept her from

his sight, and tried to impede him. But he did not need to hear the

sound twice to locate it, or force his hammering body to respond.

And by the time he reached the final crest, his anger had turned to a

rage that bordered on madness that ANYONE, EVER, would DARE to attack

his woman. All his pain and frustration now found release in thoughts,

soon to be acts, of violence. The sight of them struggling, of William

again throwing her down and glowering over her, knife in hand, undid the

last thin strands of mercy and restraint. He all but flew down the

hill, and from atop the same mound of slag, leapt out like a panther

with a savage cry.

An instant later their bodies crashed together, as Sylviana crawled back

against the shelter of broken stone, drawing her torn blouse shut

against the maelstrom.

William was stunned, the knife sent flying from his hand. For all the

hardships of his life, he had never before faced the merciless onslaught

of an animal defending its own. Blows rained upon like a landslide, and

he knew that his death was at hand. He backed away in desperation,

crawling on his elbows, pushing with his legs.

But Kalus was already on his feet, the sword seething from its scabbard.

He lofted it high above his head, both hands hard on the hilt, as his

eyes chose the place that he would strike, a thundering blow to cut his

enemy in two.

But then time stood still.

*

Time stood still.

Kalus looked into the face of the man he was prepared to kill. A

hideous change had come over it. His heart wrenched inside him, and the

blow never fell. Sylviana gasped as well, and struggled for the breath

to plead mercy. But there was no need, as both finally understood the

words of the Spirit.

There before him, where a human form had been, lay the contorted figure

of a demon, a face twisted and insane. A man possessed. But not by

some Bible-black devil, or mythological spirit of Evil. By the more

real, the more horrible.

The demon, the reality, of Fear.

Slowly Kalus lowered his sword, sick with pity and remorse, as Sylviana

hid her face against the stone.

More slowly still, some semblance of its original shape returned to the

red terror of William's face. And as terrible to him as his own

countenance had been to Kalus, were the words that his enemy now spoke,

who should have killed him.

'Forgive me,' said the man-child sorrowfully. 'I didn't

understand.'

As if struck by a hammer, William fell back. Something inside him tried

to laugh, but was drowned instead by anguished tears, and a groan of

pain that twisted his soul like a rag. The terrible voice continued as

the cub, knowing nothing yet of hatred and violence, but only an

instinctive compassion, came closer and licked his face.

'I knew only that you had lost your woman. I did not know how deeply

you loved her, or what it had done to you..... We will leave you now,

because you need to be alone.'

Then Kalus drew a breath, remembering hard reality.

'It is only possible for a natural man to forgive, when his enemy can

no longer hurt those entrusted to his care. I cannot let you close to

my loved ones, and if you ever again try to hurt them, I will kill you

without pity or remorse. But I see now your pain and sickness, and I

will ask the others to help you if they can.'

And the fallen man hid his face in shame.

Sylviana, who had risen, moved now toward her beloved mate. She stood

beside him, looking down, silently begging forgiveness. But his touch,

the way his arms enfolder her, told her there was no need, said

everything that must be said. Three words only remained, and she spoke

them with all her heart.

'I love you.'

Chapter 48

Together the weary lovers walked across the wounded landscape to the

sea. Reaching its margins, Kalus drew out the remaining peyote buttons.

The two exchanged glances, and both understood.

'You have been both a teacher and a killer,' he said. 'But I

have no further need of you, nor would I ask another to follow down your

dark and treacherous path.' And he threw them into the sea. Then

together they knelt in the cool and cleansing waters, and washed the

sins from their hands.

Then returning to the narrow stretch of sand, the woman-child lay back.

She lay very still, and listened to the stories told by the waves,

touching them all, and hiding from none. Until all that remained was

the sun behind, the sea before, and the man she loved beside her. She

stood up and embraced him, and her soul was restored to her.

And together they returned slowly to the colony, as Alaska strode beside

them, thinking of Akar, and of the wild woods of youth. As Avatar ran

free, and the unborn life inside Kataya continued to grow.

*

And so one chapter ended, even as another began, as it always has been,

and always will be. The only question left before a man, as before Man

himself:

Will he be a part of that tale?

The End

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