The Legacy of Heorot (21 page)

They hadn't slept together for the first week, and when he had finally taken her into his bedroll and made love to her it had been an angry, demanding, selfish kind of love—and she had not demanded in return. She was happy to be able to give. But now, as his house was taking form, as the Joes and turkeys filled their cages and makeshift pens, as the plot of worked land doubled and trebled, and the mesa became Cadmann's Bluff, his personality and signature scrawled more boldly upon it hour by hour...

He was softer with her at the end of the day, and spoke of "us" and "we." And she was happy, despite her frequently aching muscles.

In the weeks since the attack on the camp, Cadmann seemed to have purged his anger. It had taken useful work, done his way, in his time, to his ends. And the fruits of that labor were his. She moved closer to him, and kissed his shoulder gently.

"I'll dig the channel tomorrow," he said. "I need the channel before I can blast. Mary Ann, I think I can run the channel through the house, through the living room."

"For what? Oh, the Amazon," she remembered. He wanted to divert water for the vegetable garden. Something ticked at her memory...

"F-F-Falling Water."

"What?"

"I remembered! Falling Water, a house by F-F-Frank Lloyd Wright, and the water ran right through the living room!"

"That's what I was trying to remember. You're amazing!"

I've never felt like this, she thought to herself. And I've been married, and in love before, and have had... enough lovers to know the difference.

There was something about the darkness and the warmth. About being next to a man who had built his dwelling by the strength of his back and his wits. Something about watching Cadmann rediscovering himself, and her, that made her feel warm and small and protected.

Protected... A competent, civilized human being didn't need a protector. Mary Ann Eisenhower, Ph.D. in Agricultural Sciences, had been quite capable of taking care of herself, thank you. She remembered the doctor... she remembered. Now she was the dependant of a brawny, self-sufficient warrior.

And yet there was no cruelty in this man, no demand for her subservience or helplessness: she was sure that he had accepted her because she could do certain things, she could take care of herself. She could go when she wished, and he made that clear. Yet he had accepted with pleasure her suggestions about breeding the Joes. She wanted to do anything for him, be everything to him—but if he ever abused her, that urge would vanish.

How strange, and how wonderful. How natural to be here, in the earth, huddled with the man she loved, who she hoped would one day love her in return.

So there, Sylvia. She grinned fiercely, briefly, and kissed his shoulder, her lips parting slightly, tongue flickering out to taste the salt dried on his skin.

He pulled her to him, and there, in their home, made love to her on the packed earth of the floor. And they rejoiced together until both were exhausted, until sleep stole the thoughts from her mind as she curled against his side. The two of them, surrounded by their home, their dogs, the whispering wind and the small night sounds. Together.

Cadmann had finished digging the French drain—the rock-filled slit, a foot wide, five feet long and three deep, at the uphill mouth of their home. It would trap rain or snow melt before it could flood their home, and was just another of the little things, the thousand little things that Cadmann had done to their home—

Their home! to make it safe, and warm, and ideal for her. For them.

Their home was roofed now, and planted with grass seed. Rows of strawberries and lettuce and carrots and corn stretched across the mesa wherever there was enough soil to give anything a chance. Much of it would be lost. She expected the strawberries and the hybrid melon-cactus to do the best. Two pens of captured turkeys and their cage of Joes were thriving, and as she fed the Joes their morning leaves, they were actually happy to see her. The kittens had sprouted into twelve-inch furred lovelies, only slightly less beautiful, and better tempered, than young foxes. The furs would be useful, and the flesh...

A sudden cramping wave of nausea fanned through her, and she doubled, gasping, choking back the sour fluid in her throat. This was the third morning that...

Morning... ?

She grinned, looking up at Cadmann toiling at the drainage slit.

Mary Ann threw the rest of the leaves into the cage and dusted off her hands.

"Well, Missy, I think that I have some news for Madman Weyland." The Joe looked up at Mary Ann and chattered friskily. "Guess who's coming to dinner?"

Call her Mama.

The taste of the river changed with the seasons. For a time the water would run sluggish and cold. Then the taste of life was scarce; the flying things were scarce; the swimming things were dead.

Later the water would race, carrying the taste of past times. Mama had seen scores of cycles of seasons. She was wise enough to ignore the ancient tastes: bodies or blood or feces of life her kind had long since exterminated, long buried in mountain ice, released as the ice melted.

In the hot season the water would be bland again, carrying only spoor of flyers and swimmers and another of her own race.

Mama's taste was discriminating. One of her kind lived upstream. Another lived even farther upstream, and that one was a weakling. It lived where game was so scarce that Mama could taste starvation in its spoor. Not worth killing, that one, or her nearer rival would have taken her domain.

In winter there was something strange in the water, something she couldn't identify. Not life; not interesting.

The world began to warm again... and something new was on the island. Something she had never tasted, something weirdly different, was leaving spoor in the water. It was as yet too faint to identify. Mama began to think about moving.

If she followed that spoor she would have to fight, and that was no step to be taken lightly.

By summer she could taste several varieties of prey! The things weren't merely leaving feces in the water; she tasted strange blood too. Her rival was eating well. Was it time?

Her rival was youthful (Mama could taste that) but large. The faintness of her scent placed her many days' journey upstream. She would be rested and fed when Mama arrived... and Mama settled back into her pool. She had not lived two scores of cycles by being reckless.

If her rival sickened, she would taste it.

Days flickered past. The time of cold had come. Ordinarily Mama scarcely noticed passing time, for the taste of swimmer meat was always the same. Nothing attacked. Her curiosity lay dormant... but it was active now, for living things were leaving spoor even in dead of winter, and blood ran down the river now and again.

Oh, the variety! Here was blood from something vaguely like a flyer. This one must have been big, a plant-eater; she had to dig far into her memory to find anything similar. That horrible chemical stench was entirely mysterious: hot metal and belly acid and thoroughly rotted grass. This unfamiliar scent, judging by its components, would be the urine of a meat-eater not of her own kind. Hunger and curiosity warred with discretion, for Mama had never tasted anything like that, nor seen one either.

Once there was a living thing in the water. She snapped it up and chewed contemplatively, trying to learn of it. A swimming thing, primitive, built a little like a swimmer...

The world was warming when the river gifted her with two larger members of the same species. Bottom feeders tasting of mud, they must be breeding despite the presence of her rival upstream.

And that, one bright hungry morning, was the burnt blood of her own kind!

Taste of fear and speed and killing rage, taste of chemicals, taste of burning. If lightning or a forest fire had killed her rival, then an empty territory lay waiting for her upstream. If another rival, then Mama would face a formidable foe.

The swimmers were startled when Mama came forth in an eating frenzy. Swimmers were nothing; the taste did not engage her curiosity at all. But Mama's rival would be fat now, and hyperkinetic from impact of sensory stimuli, and Mama dared not come upon her as a desperate starveling. She had not fought a serious rival in many years.

REUNION

Alas how easily things go wrong!

A sigh too much, or a kiss too long.

And there follows, a mist and a weeping rain,

And life is never the same again.

GEORGE MACDONALD, "Phantasies"

They sang as they strode downhill.

Tweedledee bounded around Cadmann's feet. She was leaner, stronger now than she had been only eight weeks before. She was acclimated to the heights and rigors of Mucking Great Mountain, but still seemed happy to be coming back to the Colony.

Even here, only a few meters past the firebreak, the distant grind of machinery assaulted Cadmann's ears.

That sound, a constant background hum down on the flatlands, never reached his home in the mountains. A thin line of dust marked the bass rumble of a tractor tilling the fields.

Mary Ann walked next to him, her blond hair barely rising to his shoulder. Her presence was a comfort in ways that would have been difficult to imagine just a few short weeks before.

How long ago had he walked this path with Ernst and Sylvia? Back before any of the grief. Back when he could reasonably expect a quiet slide into old age amidst herds of children. And he'd wished for Kodiak bears.

The view had changed. The fields had expanded; there were more buildings. The wreckage left by the monster's assault was not visible from here. With twelve adult casualties out of a hundred and ninety-two, the Colony felt pressure to work. There was healing to be done.

Now Cadmann had his home, and something new... something very new with the only person in the camp who had believed in him. He put his arm around her waist and pulled Mary Ann in closer to him. She had lost some weight, much like Tweedledee, but her curves were still rounded, and now...

Now...

His arm wound all the way around her shoulder, down to her belly, which was firmer than it had been—the work and the life up on MGM was not conducive to softening. Soon her figure would be filling out. And out! And then... He looked at her almost surreptitiously. The nine-mile walk hadn't tired her. All downhill, half a mile altitude change—the walk had strained his own healing wounds, and if someone offered them a ride back he'd take it.

He smiled, utterly content.

The machine stutter was more distinct now, and when Cadmann looked up, the tractor was rumbling up the glazed earth road toward them, and someone atop it waving his hands semaphore style.

Cadmann cupped his hands to his mouth. "Yo!" Tweedledee galloped off down the road, kicking her hindquarters up into the air with every lope.

In his backpack he carried skins and dried meat and samples of all of the plants near their camp, carefully bundled and labeled. Cadmann Weyland, first of the mountain men! Much better than Great White Abo.

The tractor was close enough to make out the driver. It was Stu Ellington taking his rotation in the fields. "Hey, hey! If you'd waited another two days, I would have won the pool."

Cadmann laughed, yelling back, "If you'll split it with me I'll vanish for another forty-eight hours. Who wins?"

Stu stopped the tractor in front of them and put the engine into neutral. Hot air curled from the engine in waves.

"One of the twins. Phyllis, I think. Not sure. Hell with it. It's great to see you. Cad. Mary Ann. Back to stay?"

"'Fraid not. Opening negotiations. Somebody had to break away from the Colony first."

Stu looked down at them from his seat, his grin cutting through the dust and sweat, and shook his head. "Just glad you're both back, man." His expression grew somber. "I'm so sorry for what happened."

"Yeah." Cadmann looked decidedly uncomfortable; then Mary Ann hugged him and patted her stomach.

"Stu! Think I've got a piglet in the pen!"

"Oh! Whoa! Well, this is an occasion. M'lady!" Stu swung down from the tractor and offered a hand to Mary Ann. She looked back at Cadmann, who just picked her up by the armpits and hoisted her aboard the tractor.

"You know how to drive one of these things, I believe?"

"Betcha," she said happily, and swung up into the seat. She gunned the engine. The tractor made a great, lazy circle. The two men followed it at a short distance.

For a while there was companionable silence, and then Stu broke it. "We've done a lot of rebuilding since you've been gone. Not just buildings, Cad. We've got the defenses up, and stronger. Stupidity. Just stupidity." He seemed to need to hear something in return. "We got blind-sided once, but it's not going to happen again, I can guarantee it."

"Good to know that."

Stu was almost as tall as Cadmann, but somehow at the moment he seemed much smaller. "Do they know that you're coming back? Did you radio?"

"No, I sent a homing pigeon."

Stu looked stricken, and Cadmann felt a little disgusted with himself.

"Look, Stu—if you did what you really felt was right, then fine. I have no interest in seeing or hearing anyone crawl. What's got me twitchy—skip it." They have defenses. Great, but where do I come in? Can they make me inspect them? Damn.

There was a general shout of greeting ahead of them as Mary Ann and the tractor passed the first of the outer pens. Within moments Cadmann was the center of attention.

I've only been gone for five weeks...

But any momentary discomfort was quickly drowned in a sea of reaching hands.

"Cad! Welcome back!"

"—to see you—"

"—things haven't been the—"

And other fragments piled one atop another, overlapping, irritating and at the same time deeply soothing.