Neal Barrett Jr. (19 page)

Elena looked at the people on the bench, and a terrible sadness filled her eyes. “The real little ones work out pretty well. They’re not as smart as regular children, because it isn’t
important
to be smart in a herd. The young we have here are bigger, stockier, than children raised in a home—because that
is
important. Big males get the females first, when they’re breeding in the herd. And ranchers breed for size, too. So the children we get aren’t smart, but they’re larger than other children. The only thing is, they’re weaker, in a way, because inbreeding makes them that way. Stockmen know that, Elena said grimly. “And the men at Silver Island knew it, too. They could see the herds’ blood getting thin, and they knew just what to do about that.”

Elena glanced once more at the bench. “Even if you’re healthy as can be, and smart as anyone you know, something happens if you don’t start using your brain real early. We don’t know why, but it’s so. That bunch is in their twenties. They aren’t going to get much better than they are right now. We’ve had Tom since he was five, and he’s nineteen now. He’s doing real good—but he’s always going to be a little slow. There’s no fixing that. Five’s just too late to start.”

The enormity of what Elena was saying, what she and the others were trying to undo, struck Howie like a blow. “But what
good’s
it going to do?” he blurted out. “You take a handful of those—those whatever you want to call ’em right there, dress ’em up and maybe teach them to read and say, ’Morning, nice to meet you.’ They’re me-
meat
—I can’t think of any other word, ’cause that’s what they are now. Lord, there’s meat everywhere—thousands of ’em, maybe millions, I don’t know. You can’t do a thing about helping all of them. Not a damn thing.”

“I know,” Elena said. She kept looking past him, past the thick barrier of trees, and somewhere beyond that. “We’re trying, though, Cory. I
know
we can’t do much, but we’ve simply got to—
try
!”

Elena looked at Howie then, and Howie saw all the terrible sadness in the world. “Don’t you see? Things have got to change. That has to be.
It just has to be….
“

PART TWO

West by Southwest …

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
hree days north into the pacific, black clouds appeared in the west without warning, suddenly turning the clear, bright day into night. The temperature dropped in an instant, leaving an ominous chill in the air. Captain Finley turned the ship about at once, fleeing to the south, but the storm moved in with such intensity and speed there was no time to escape its awful wrath.

Seamen scurried about the decks, and Finley ordered passengers below, reminding them to fasten the portholes in their cabins securely. Howie was scarcely in his quarters before the first gusts of wind and driving rain struck the vessel. The ship creaked and pitched, but it didn’t seem all that bad, no worse than a heavy thunderstorm on land. Bracing himself against his bunk, Howie pressed his face to the small circle of glass. It was an exciting thing to see, but not frightening at all, and he wondered why the captain had made such a fuss.

Rain pelted against the porthole, but he could still make out the sea, peppered now with rain, against an ever darkening sky. He wondered what birds did in a storm. There wasn’t any place to land, so he figured they just flew real fast out of the way. The fish wouldn’t likely even care; a storm was all right with them. All they had to do was swim deep and not worry about a thing.

As Howie watched, the sky to the west began to change. The color didn’t seem quite as dark anymore; it was almost the color of the sea, a deep blue-green webbed with filaments of white. The sky sucked the white strands high, and higher still, until they all coalesced into a horizontal band that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

Howie was fascinated by this peculiar event. It was a strange, unworldly sight, something he’d never imagined and couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Then, in an instant, his vision seemed to unlock the puzzle outside, shift into sudden understanding. At once, he saw what he hadn’t seen before—it wasn’t the sky changing color, it was the sea, the sea rising up in a wave nearly as high as the ship, a monstrous wall of water topped with angry white foam.

Howie cried out in alarm, a cry he never heard as the great wave exploded against the hull. Timbers snapped and a blast of thunderous sound engulfed the world. Howie grabbed blindly for the edge of his bunk. The force of the wave tore him free and slammed him hard against the far wall. Before he could get his bearings, the ship lurched again, tossing him back against his bunk. He felt as if he’d broken every bone in his body. Clinging feebly to the rim of his bunk, he hauled himself in, buried his head against the mattress, and held on for dear life. Glass exploded somewhere in the passage beyond his door. Something rolled heavily across the deck overhead. Howie thought he heard a cry in the wind. He wondered what Ritcher Jones’s God was up to at the moment. He wasn’t helping much around here.

The wind shrieked, and one wall of water after another picked the ship up like a cork and slammed it into the sea. Howie didn’t wonder anymore why everything aboard was bolted down.

“How’s the sea doing now?” he asked the boy.

“Why, smooth as glass, sir,” the boy said. “It’s a right fine night.”

“And it might get heavier than this?”

“Yes, sir. Quite a bit heavier than this.”

“What do we do then?”

“We ride it out, sir….”

By god, the boy had clearly lied, Howie thought dismally. We ain’t going to
ride
nothing out. We’re all going to
die
, that’s what we’re going to do.

J
ack, Howie’s sailor friend, said the storm had lasted nearly four hours. Howie didn’t believe that at all. Four days was more like it.

“Weren’t too bad,” Jack said. “We got her into the wind. I seen a lot worse.”

Howie didn’t ask when, or how much worse it could get. He’d learned sailors seldom thought anything was an average or typical event. They could always recall something better, bigger, smaller, or worse.

The scene topside told Howie much more than he wanted to know. It looked as if a battery of Rebel cannon had raked the decks. Canvas was tattered in shreds, and lines flapped uselessly in the wind. Deck cargo had come loose, smashing the rails in half a dozen places. A foremast had snapped clean off. One seaman had broken a leg, and nearly every man was badly bruised. Mrs. Garvey had a nick about a quarter inch long on her chin. Howie could hear her howling down below. Her husband stomped around on deck, demanding medical attention. Captain Finley was in no mood for that. He told Garvey in a very courteous tone that he should get below at once, if he didn’t want several able seamen to toss him off the stern.

Ritcher Jones looked none the worse for wear. Lorene was pale as death, the fright still vivid in her eyes.

“Quite a little blow,” Jones said, stretching as if he’d just had a fine day’s nap. “You fare all right, did you, Cory?”

“I ain’t dead,” Howie said flatly. “I reckon that’s what you call all right.”

Jones threw back his head with a hearty laugh. “The Lord’s hand is terrible and swift, gentle and kind, depending on the deeds He performs. He can churn up the sea in great fury, or draw a tender seedling from the earth into the light. The wise man won’t try to fathom His ways.”

“Yes, sir,” Howie said, not at all surprised that the storm had inspired another sermon. It didn’t take near that much to set the preacher off on a spree.

“I hope you didn’t get too shaken up, Sister Lorene,” Howie said politely.

“Why, I was pure scared out of my wits,” Lorene said. “I knew, though, the Lord would prevail. I just prayed He would save me to serve in some further way.”

“Well, I’m certain He’s got some fine things planned for you to do,” Howie said. “Some
real
fine things.”

His face betrayed no expression at all, but Lorene nearly burst out laughing on the spot. She clamped her lips tight and her cheeks turned red with the strain. Howie was grateful the preacher was behind her, and couldn’t see her face. If he had, the game would have been up right there. Instead, Jones beamed with delight at the conversation between them.

Lorene’s eyes darted at Howie, and he knew he’d catch hell later on. It was worth it, though, he decided. Lorene had like to tore a couple of vessels, knowing exactly the sort of “fine things to do” he had in mind.

O
n the voyage through the Gulf, toward Panama Province, the ship had struck out boldly across open water, seldom coming in sight of the land. The trip up the Pacific coast was different; now there was always a shadowy mass to the east, five or six miles away. Jack told Howie this was the practice during the stormy time of the year.

“Sometimes they come up fast, as I reckon you already know,” Jack said. “If you get any warnin’ at all, and it looks like you can’t ride her out, then you head toward shore and hope there’s an inlet somewhere, a piece of land to hide behind awhile.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Howie said, relieved to hear they might not have to go through such a harrowing experience again.

Jack frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. “Yeah, except there ain’t a whole lot of safe places ’round here. And truth to tell, friend, I’d rather face the sea than take my chances over there.”

Jack glanced warily to shore. “There’s folks where the old Central Americas used to be, and likely on the coast of Mexico, I wouldn’t care to run into at all. No sir, I’d a sight rather get drowned at sea.”

Howie didn’t like the sound of that at all. Ritcher Jones had alluded to the dangers of that region, and now his friend Jack had brought the subject up as well. When Howie tried to question him further, Jack suddenly found other things he had to do. Standing by the newly repaired railing, looking at the gray and distant shore, Howie decided the sea wasn’t all he’d imagined it to be. It was fine when everything went right, and there were dolphins and flying fish to see, and nights in his cabin with Lorene. But he and Lorene could get tangled up fine in a bed on shore—and you could do without watching fish fly.

“T
here it is,” Captain Finley said. He pointed to the east. “Bout four miles off the starboard bow. New Los Angeles and port.” He shared a rare smile with Howie, “Can’t say as I’ll mind putting this voyage behind me. I’m damned if I’ll sail again this time of year. One storm’s bad enough—we’re lucky we didn’t get two.” He spat over the side and retrieved his spyglass from Howie. “Did you ever, uh—lose a ship, sir?” Howie asked.

Finley’s heavy brows masked his eyes. “Now that’s not a question you put to a ship’s captain, boy.”

Howie felt his cheeks color. “I’m real sorry, sir.”

“Huh,” Finley grunted. “Three.” He held up his fingers. “I lost three. All of ’em in the goddam ocean we’re sailing now.” He looked Howie up and down. “Don’t know what you plan to do with yourself, Cory. But you might think hard on a life at sea. It’s about the finest thing a man can do. I might take you on myself.”

Howie forced a smile. “Thank you, Captain Finley. I sure will think about that.”

Captain Finley nodded and stalked off, shouting orders to his crew.

“Well, I thought on it some,” Howie muttered at Finley’s back. “I don’t guess I’ll have to think about it again.”

He stood and watched the sea. Late on the afternoon before, Jones had pointed far to starboard at the hundreds of small islands off the shore. The gray points of land looked peculiar; most were no more than stubs, ragged mounds of stone that seldom rose more than twenty feet above the sea.

“Don’t appear real natural, do they?” Jones had said. “That’s because they aren’t, Cory. What you’re looking at now is Old Los Angeles town. There’s a whole city there on the bottom. Right about
there
is where the shore used to be.” He waved his hand vaguely to the right.

“The War did that?” Howie couldn’t imagine such devastation, or what might have caused it.

“Partly the War,” Jones said. “Folks say it was more than that, though. That the unholy weapons of the time loosed something in the earth. The land just heaved up and cracked in two, and drowned the whole coast in the sea. Forty, fifty miles inland, and a hundred miles wide. No one can say if it happened that way—but the city’s down there, and that’s a fact.”

Howie could think of nothing to say. Long after Jones left, he stood and watched the dreary islands, until they vanished far astern.

N
ew Los Angeles was a hundred miles or more up the coast from the sunken older city. Howie remembered Tallahassee, and once again questioned the wisdom of naming new towns the same as places that had suffered a terrible fate. It didn’t seem like a good idea, but people didn’t appear to mind.

When the harbor came into view, Howie forgot all thoughts of ancient disaster and desolation. The port was a wondrous thing to see. Mountains marched right down to blue water, and hundreds of white structures sparkled in the sun. Everything seemed white and clean. The city sprawled along the bay—a bay which hadn’t been there before the Great War, Jones explained—and fine houses climbed the side of the green, forested slopes behind.

There was too much to see all at once. The harbor itself was full of vessels of all kinds. Howie was amazed to see some ships with canted, brightly colored sails. These great planes of canvas pictured strange and frightening beasts, lizards with bat like wings and open maws that breathed fire, other creatures with long sharp teeth and eyes like pumpkin seeds. More astonishing than the vividly colored sails were the tall black cylinders that sprouted amidships on these vessels. Often there were three or four cylinders in a row. At first, Howie thought the ships were simply on fire. Then, as they passed a ship close to port, he saw the tall columns were chimneys that belched forth clouds of gray smoke. Lorene had told him there were ships that had chimneys, but he hadn’t much believed her at the time.