The Ships of Earth: Homecoming: Volume 3 (37 page)

Luet chewed on that idea for a while.

“All right,” she said. “I can see that.”

And then, after she had thought a little more, she said, “But you didn’t see anything wrong with naming the rivers after the boys until Mother pointed it out, did you?”

He didn’t answer.

“In fact, you really don’t see anything wrong with it now, do you?”

“I love you,” said Nafai.

“That’s not an answer,” she said.

“I think it is,” he said.

“And what if I never give you a son?” she said.

“Then I will keep making love to you until we have a hundred daughters,” said Nafai.

“In your
dreams,”
she said nastily.

“In
yours,
you mean,” he said.

She made the deliberate decision not to stay angry with him for this, and as they made love she was as willing and passionate as ever. But afterward, when he was asleep, it worried her. What would it mean to them for the men to make their company as male-dominated as Basilica had been female-dominated?

Why must we do this? she wondered. We had a chance to make our society different from the rest of the world. Balanced and fair, even-handed,
right
. And yet even Nafai and Issib seem content to unbalance it. Is the rivalry between men and women such that one must always be in ascendancy at the expense of the other? Is it built into our genes? Must the community always be ruled by one sex or the other?

Maybe so, she thought. Maybe we’re like the baboons. When we’re stable and civilized, the women decide things, establish the households, the connections between them, create the neighborhoods and the friendships. But when we’re nomadic, living lives on the edge of survival, the men rule, and brook no interference from the women. Perhaps that’s what civilization
means
—is the dominance of the female over the male. And wherever that lapses, we call the result
uncivilized, barbarian
…
manly.

They spent a year between the rivers, waiting for Shedemei’s baby to be born. It was a son; they named him Padarok—
gift
—and called him Rokya. They might have moved on then, after the first year, but by the time
little Rokya was born, three of the other women had conceived—including Rasa and Luet, who were the most fragile during pregnancy. So they stayed for a second harvest, and a few months more, until all the women but Sevet had completed their pregnancy and borne a child. So there were thirty of them that began the next stage of the journey, and the first generation of children were walking and most of them beginning to talk before they were on their way.

It had been a good two years. Instead of desert farming, they had lush, rain-watered fields on good soil. Their crops were more varied; the hunting was better; and even the camels thrived, giving birth to fifteen new beasts of burden. Making saddles was harder—none of them had ever learned the skill—but they found a way to put two toddlers on each of the four most docile animals, which always traveled in train with the women’s camels. When the children first tried out the saddles, some of them were terrified—camels ride so high above the ground—but soon enough they were used to it, and even enjoyed it.

The journey was easy through the savanna along the seacoast; they ate up the kilometers as they never had before, even on the smooth desert west and south of Basilica. In three days they reached a well-watered bay that the men were already familiar with, having hunted and fished there during the past two years. But in the morning, Volemak dismayed them all by telling them that their course now lay, not south as they had all expected, but west.

West! Into the sea!

Volemak pointed at the rocky island that rose out of the sea not two kilometers away. “Beyond it is another island, a huge island. We have as long a journey on that island as we have had since we left the Valley of Mebbekew.”

At low tide, Nafai and Elemak tried fording the strait between the mainland and the island. They could do it, with only a short swim in the middle. But the camels balked, and so they ended up building rafts. “I’ve done it before,” said Elemak. “Never for a saltwater crossing, of course, but the water here is placid enough.”

So they felled trees and floated the logs in the bay, binding them together with ropes made of the fibers of marsh reeds. It took a week to make the rafts, and two days to take the camels across—one at a time—and then the cargo, and then, last of all, the women and children. They camped on the shore where they had landed, as the men poled the rafts around the island to the southwestern tip, where again they would need the rafts to ferry everyone and everything to the large island. In another week the company had traversed the small island and crossed to the large one; they pushed the rafts into the water and watched them float away.

The northern tip of the large island was mountainous and heavily forested. But gradually the mountains gave way to hills, and then to broad savannas. They could stand at the crest of the low rolling plain and see the Scour Sea to the west and the Sea of Fire to the east, the island was so narrow here. And the farther south they went, the more they understood how the Sea of Fire earned its name. Volcanos rose out of the sea, and in the distance they could see the smoke of a minor eruption from time to time. “This island was part of the mainland until five million years ago,” Issib explained to them. “Until then, the Valley of Fires came right down onto this island, south of us—and the fires still continue in the sea that has filled the space between the two parts of the valley.”

Growing up in Basilica, most of them had never understood the forces of nature—Basilica was such an unchanging place, with so much pride in its ancienthood. Here, even though the timespans were measured in the millions of years, they could clearly see the enormous power of the planet, and the virtual irrelevancy of the human lives on its surface.

“And yet we’re
not
irrelevant,” said Issib. “Because we are the ones who see the changes, and know them, and understand that they
are
changes, that once things were different. Everything else in the universe, every living and non-living thing, lives in the infinite now, which never changes, which always is exactly as it is. Only
we
know the
passage of time, that one thing causes another and that we are changed by the past and will change the future.”

The island widened, and the ground became more rugged. They all recognized it as being the same kind of terrain as the Valley of Fires—the continuation of that valley that Issib had predicted. But it was quieter—they never found a place where gases from inside the earth burned on the surface—and the water was more likely to be pure. It was also drier and drier the farther south they went, though they were rising up into mountain country.

“These mountains have a name,” Issib told them, from the Index. “Dalatoi. People lived here before the island split away from the mainland. In fact, the greatest and most ancient of the Cities of Fire was here.”

“Skudnooy?” asked Luet, remembering the story of the city of misers who withdrew from the world and supposedly held most of the gold of Harmony in hidden vaults beneath their hidden city.

“No, Raspyatny,” said Issib. And they all remembered the stories of the city of stone and moss, where streams flowed through every room in a city the size of a mountain, so high that the upper rooms would freeze, and those who lived there had to burn fires to melt the rivers so that the lower rooms would have water all year.

“Will we see it?” they asked.

“What’s left of it,” said Issib. “It was abandoned ten million years ago, but it
was
made out of stone. The ancient road we’re following led there.”

Only then did they realize that they were indeed following an ancient road. There was no trace of pavement, and the road was sometimes cut by ravines or eroded away. But they kept returning to the path of least resistance, and now and then they could see that hills had been cut into to make a place for the road to go, and the occasional valley had been partly filled in with stone which had not yet worn down to nothing. “If there had been more rain here,” said Issib, “there’d be nothing left. But the island has moved south so that this land is now in the latitudes of the Great Southern Desert, and so the air is drier and
there’s less erosion. Some of the works of humankind leave traces, even after all this time.”

“Someone must have used this road in the past ten million years,” said Elemak.

“No,” said Issib. “No human being has set foot on this island since it fully split off from the mainland.”

“How can you know that!” Mebbekew scoffed.

“Because the Oversoul has kept humans from coming here. No one even remembers that this island exists. That’s how the Oversoul wanted it. To keep things safe and ready … for us, I guess.”

They saw Raspyatny for a whole day before they reached it. At first it simply looked like an oddly textured mountain, but the closer they got, the more they realized that what they were seeing were windows carved into the stone. It was a high mountain, too, so that the city carved into the face of it must be vast.

They camped northeast of the city, where a small stream flowed. They followed the stream and found that it flowed right out of the city itself. Inside, it made cascades and the walls near it were thick with moss; it was much colder than the desert air outside.

They took turns exploring, in large groups, leaving some in charge of the children and animals while the others clambered through the remnants of the city. Away from the stream, the city had not been so badly eroded inside, though nowhere was the interior as well preserved as the outer wall. They realized why when they found a few traces of an aqueduct system that had, just as the legend said, carried water into every room of the city. What surprised them, though, was the lack of internal corridors. Rooms simply led into each other. “How did they have any privacy?” asked Hushidh. “How did they ever have any time to themselves, if every room was an avenue for people to walk right through?”

No one had an answer.

“More than two hundred thousand people lived here, in the old days,” said Issib. “Back when this whole area was farther north, and much better watered—all the land outside was
farmed, for kilometers to the north, and yet their enemies could never attack them successfully because they kept ten years’ worth of food inside these walls, and they never lacked for water. Their enemies could burn their fields and besiege them, but then they’d starve long before anyone in Raspyatny ever felt the slightest want. Only nature itself could depopulate this place.”

“Why wasn’t all of this destroyed in the earthquakes of the Valley of Fires?” asked Nafai.

“We haven’t seen the eastern slope. The Index says that half the city was wiped out in two great earthquakes when the rift first opened and the sea poured through.”

“It would have been glorious to see a flood like
that
,” said Zdorab. “From a safe place, of course.”

“The whole eastern side of the city collapsed,” said Issib. “Now it’s just a mountainside. But this side stayed. Ten million years. You never know. Of course, the streams are eroding it away from the inside, making the outside more and more of a hollow shell. Eventually it’ll cave in. Maybe all at once. One part will break, and that’ll put too much stress on what is left, and the whole thing will come down like a sandcastle on the beach.”

“We have seen one of the cities of the heroes,” said Luet.

“And the stories were true,” said Obring. “Which leads me to wonder whether the city of Skudnooy might be around here somewhere, too.”

“The Index says not,” said Issib. “I asked.”

“Too bad,” said Obring. “All that gold!”

“Oh, right,” said Elemak. “And where would you sell it? Or did you think you’d eat it? Or wear it?”

“Oh, I’m not allowed even to
dream
of tremendous wealth, is that it?” said Obring defiantly. “Only practical dreams allowed?”

Elemak shrugged and let the matter drop.

After leaving the vicinity of Raspyatny—and it took them another whole day to pass around the western side of the city, which really seemed to have covered the whole face of the mountain—they made their way through a high
pass, which once again seemed to have been made almost uniform in width in order to accommodate a heavily trafficked road. “Once this was the highway between the Cities of Fire and the Cities of the Stars,” said Issib. “Now it leads only to desert.”

They came out of the pass and a vast, dry savanna spread out below them; they could see that the island narrowed here, with the Sea of Stars to the east and, far to the west, the blue shimmer of the southern reaches of the Scour Sea. As they descended, they lost sight of the western sea; instead, at the urging of the Oversoul, they hugged the eastern shore, because more rain fell there, and they could fish in the sea.

It was a hard passage—dry, so that three times they had to dig wells, and hot, with the tropical sun beating down on them. But this was exactly the sort of terrain that Elemak and Volemak had both learned to deal with from their youth, and they made good time. Ten days after they came down from the pass through the Dalatoi Mountains, the Oversoul had them strike south when the coastline turned southeast, and as they climbed through gently rolling hills, the grass grew thicker, and here and there more trees dotted the landscape. They passed through low and well-weathered mountains, down through a river valley, up over more hills, and then down through the most beautiful land they had ever seen.

Strands of forest were evenly balanced with broad meadows; bees hummed over fields of wildflowers, promising honey easily found. There were streams with clear water, all leading to a wide, meandering river. Shedemei dismounted from her camel and probed into the soil. “It isn’t like desert grassland,” she said. “Not just roots. There’s true topsoil here. We can farm these meadows without destroying them.”

For the first time in their journey, Elemak didn’t bother riding ahead to confer with Volemak about a campsite. There was no place that they passed through where they could
not
have stopped and spent the night.