26
O my son, farewell!
You have gone beyond the great river—
—Blackfoot poem
If, during that period, a true injustice was committed against any of the persons living in and around Fort Moxie, the victim was Jeri Tully. Jeri also received a gift of inestimable value, and the gift and the injustice were one and the same.
For reasons unknown to the corps of specialists who had examined her, Jeri had never grown properly, and her skull had never become large enough to house her brain. Consequently, the child had suffered not only a diminution in height but retardation as well. Her world was a confused jumble, a place that was arbitrary and unpredictable, in which the principle of causality seemed scarcely to operate at all.
Jeri’s pleasures were limited largely to tactile experiences: her mother’s smile, an astronaut doll to which she had become particularly attached, her younger brothers, and (on Friday nights) pizza. She had little interest in television, nor was she able to participate in the games normal children might play. She was delighted when a visitor paid attention to her. And she enjoyed Star Wars films, although only in theaters.
June Tully sensed a change in her child after Jim Stuyvesant brought her home on that cold April day. But she could not pin it down. The feeling was so ephemeral that she never mentioned it to her husband.
Jeri, by the nature of her misfortune, would never really grasp her deficiencies, and therefore they could give her no pain. This simple view provided unlimited consolation to her family. But something unique had happened to her when she sank half frozen into the snow off Route 11. She was frightened, but not for her life, because she did not understand danger. She was frightened because she did not know where she was, where her home was. And she could not stop the cold.
Suddenly something had invaded her world. Her mind opened, not unlike a blossom directed toward the sun. She had risen into the sky and ridden the wind, had known a flood of joy unlike anything she’d experienced before. She had reached far beyond her own pale limitations.
During those few moments, Jeri understood the interplay between wind and heat and the tension between open sky and swollen clouds. She soared and dipped above the land, as if she were herself a storm, a thing made equally of sunlight and snow and high winds.
For the rest of her life, her crippled brain would cling to the memory of the sky, of the time when the darkness and the chaos and the weakness had receded. When Jeri had known what it was to be godlike.
Adam and Max went back in pressure suits to retrieve Arky’s body. They said good-bye to him two days later in a quiet Catholic ceremony at the reservation chapel. The priest, who was from Devil’s Lake, said the ancient words of farewell in the Sioux tongue.
The mourners were equally divided between Native Americans and their friends. There were a substantial number of attractive young women, and nine members of a teenage basketball team for which Arky had been an assistant coach.
Max was informed that, as one of the beneficiaries of Arky’s sacrifice, he would be expected to say a few words recounting the event. So he used a notebook to record his thoughts. But when the time actually came to speak, the notebook, which was in his pocket, seemed a long way off. It embarrassed him to have anyone think he could not, without help, describe his feeling for the man who had saved his life. “Arky did not know April or me very well,” he said, speaking from the front of the chapel. “A few months ago we were strangers.
“Today she and I are here not only because of his courage but also because under extreme conditions he kept his head. He must have known he could not save himself. So he devoted himself to saving us.”
Max took a deep breath. His audience leaned forward attentively. “When I first visited his office, I noticed that he kept a bow in a prominent place on the wall. It was his father’s, he explained. I could see his pride. The bow is a warrior’s weapon. My father was also a warrior. And he would have been proud to claim such a son.” Max’s voice shook. He saw again the little girl in the aircraft window.
He had thought that memory had been laid to rest when he’d gone through the port after April. But he understood in the cold clarity of that moment that it would always be with him.
It is the custom among the tribes of the Dakotas and the Northwest at such times to deemphasize their sense of loss. Rather than mourn, they celebrate the life and accomplishments of the spirit that had taken flesh and lived temporarily among them. Part of that celebration is a ritualized gift-giving by members of the family.
At the end of the ceremony, Max was surprised to be called forward by a teenager who identified himself as Arky’s brother. “We have something for you,” the boy said.
While an expectant stir ran through the party, he produced a long, narrow box wrapped in hand-woven fabric. Max thanked him and opened the package. It was the bow.
“I can’t take this,” Max protested.
James Walker stood and turned so the crowd could hear him. “In your own words,” he said, “the bow is a warrior’s weapon.”
Everyone cheered.
“I’m no warrior,” Max said. “I’m a businessman.”
The tribal chairman smiled. “You have a warrior’s spirit, Collingwood. Arky gave his life for you, and it is the family’s decision you should have the bow.” When Max still hesitated, he added, “He would wish that it find its home with you.”
One of the students showed the visitor in, looked inquisitively at April, and withdrew.
She rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Asquith?”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cannon.” Asquith’s grip was uncertain. He seized her by her fingers. “I don’t know whether you’ve heard of me.”
The tone carried just enough self-deprecation to imply that Asquith understood he was in fact a person of no small significance. He was, of course, Walter Asquith, two-time Pulitzer prize-winning critic, essayist, poet, and novelist, best known for a series of scathing social commentaries, the most recent of which, Late News from Babylon, had topped the New York Times best-seller list for six months. April remembered from her college years a guest instructor who was at the end of a long career as an editor and writer. They’d been assigned Asquith’s Marooned in Barbary, a collection of blistering attacks on various literary personages and efforts, in one of which the instructor surfaced briefly to take an arrow between the eyes from the great man. He had proudly pointed out the page and line to his students, and April understood that the assault had been the apex of his career. Rather like being Dante’s barber.
“I know of your work, Mr. Asquith,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
He was big, round-shouldered, meaty. His hair was white and combed over a bald spot. He spoke in short, authoritative bursts and would, April thought, have made a good judge.
“I want to spend some time in Eden,” he said.
April wrote down the scheduler’s phone number and passed it over to him. “They’ll be happy to put you on the list.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I’ve already been there. I want to go back. To be honest, I’d like to pitch a tent and move in. For a while.”
April glanced quite deliberately at her watch. She was no longer impressed by credentials. An outrageous request was outrageous, whatever its source. “I’m sorry, Mr. Asquith. I don’t think we can permit—”
“Dr. Cannon, I’m aware of the scientific significance of the Roundhouse. I wonder whether you grasp the psychological and philosophical implications. The slow, generally upward course of the human race has forked. We have plunged into a broad forest. The world as we know it is waiting for something to happen. But it is uncertain what that something will be. That is why the world’s financial markets are in chaos; why demonstrators are in front of the White House; why the United Nations is locked in its most acrimonious debate in a decade. When you stepped across the gulf a couple of weeks ago into whatever place that was, you began a new era.
“Someone needs to record all this. To tie the daily events to their historical and literary significance. We used to think that if the twentieth century would be remembered for any single moment, it would be the moon landing. But—” He looked steadily at her. “The moon landing is small potatoes, Dr. Cannon. The decisive moment, not of the century but of recorded history, is now. I know you have begun to bring in experts, mathematicians, geologists, astronomers, and whatnot. And that is all to the good. We need to do that. But we also need someone whose sole function will be to consider the meaning of what is happening here. To stand back while others measure and weigh and speculate, to apply these events against the progress of the human spirit.” He placed his hands together and laid his chin against them. “I think that I am uniquely qualified for such a role. I have, in fact, already compiled extensive notes. And I would be honored to be allowed to participate.”
Asquith had a point, April thought. “What did you have in mind? A series of news reports?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. I would want to do a major work. My magnum opus.”
“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”
“The working title would be Ancient Shores.” He gave her a card. “We should start without delay.”
He let himself out. April decided she would do it. That kind of publicity couldn’t hurt them. But she’d run it past Max first.
She picked up her messages. Peg Moll, their scheduler and event coordinator, had received a call from a man identifying himself as the agent for Shaggy Dog. The rap group wanted to do a concert on Johnson’s Ridge. “They’re promising to sell two hundred thousand tickets,” Peg said.
When the phone rang, Max and April were discussing plans to send a repair crew into the chamber that had taken Arky’s life. (Already it had outdistanced Eden as the place that researchers most wanted to visit.)
April picked it up, listened for a minute, and said, “Thanks.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Max. “There are some investors,” she said, “forming a corporation to control travel to all the worlds connected to the Roundhouse. They’ve offered three-quarters of a billion dollars for exclusive rights.”
“The price is going up,” said Max.
“They call themselves Celestial Tours.” She smiled sadly.
Detroit, Apr. 1 (Reuters)—
The Detroit Free Press today reported that the Detroit Lions may move to Fargo, North Dakota. According to unnamed sources, the club has agreed to a deal with Manuel Corazon, CEO of Prairie Industries, and the sale will be announced tomorrow. Pending approval by the rest of the league, the team would move next year and become known as the Fargo Visitors.
Prairie Industries is a conglomerate specializing primarily in the manufacture of agricultural equipment.
Larry King special on TNT, April 1. Guest: Dmitri Polkaevich, winner of the Pulitzer prize for Iron Dreams, a definitive history of the USSR. Topic: the new Russian revolution. (Suggested by then-current fears that a right-wing Russian coup was imminent.)
King: You don’t feel, then, that a resurgence of nationalism is likely?
Polkaevich: The world is changing very rapidly, Larry. No, it is true there are those in Russia who would give us their own peculiar brand of fascism, if they could. Just as there are those who would return to Lenin. But the tide of history is running against them all.
King: Well, I’m happy to hear it. If I may ask before we go to the phones, where is the tide of history taking us?
Polkaevich: Predicting the future is a dangerous enterprise.
King: Yes. But you just implied—
Polkaevich: That some tendencies are evident. Larry, you have of course been following the events along the Canadian border?
King: The Roundhouse? (Smiles) I wouldn’t know how to get away from them. In fact, we’ll be doing a show from there next week.
Polkaevich: The bridge to the stars is a Rubicon.
King: For Russian politicians?
Polkaevich: Oh, yes. And for the Armenians. And the Chinese. Larry, I no longer think of myself as a Muscovite. Or even as a Russian. No. You and I are citizens of Earth. The era of national borders, of governments that divide us with their petty squabbles, is passing into history.
King: Governments are becoming obsolete?
Polkaevich: Individual governments, yes. I think we will soon see a world body. Unfortunately, the transition period will be a dangerous time. People tend to disparage their governments, but they will fight to the death to keep them. And there is good reason for their fears. If a world government becomes oppressive, where does one flee? Although now perhaps we have an answer to that problem. (Chuckles)
King: Dmitri, your comment that you no longer think of yourself as a Russian intrigues me. I wonder if you can elaborate a little more on that.
Polkaevich: Larry, we know now we are not alone. There are others out there somewhere, and they are quite near. This knowledge will cause us to draw together.
FBI/CONFIDENTIAL
TO: Intel IV
FROM: SAC, Morton, ID
SUBJECT: Initial Report/SIR27
New right-wing hate group is forming in this area in an effort to seize the entrance to the off-world site at Johnson’s Ridge, ND. They are designing a charter calling for occupation of the new world, followed by a quick drive for statehood.
Attachment A lists active insiders. Almost everyone associated with the governing board of this organization is on file. Attachment B contains press releases and public pronouncements by John Fielder, spokesman for the group, and Abner Wright, its founder. You will note their concern with getting the Roundhouse out of the hands of foreigners (they seem to be referring to the Sioux) and their stated willingness to use force. Will advise as situation develops.
TO: Director, Customs Management Center,
Chicago, IL
FROM: Area Port Director, Fort Moxie, ND
SUBJECT: Roundhouse, Status of
As you are aware, people are entering and exiting the country through a “transdimensional door” on Johnson’s Ridge. Please advise whether Johnson’s Ridge should be considered a port, for customs purposes. Of course, no one is bringing back commercial merchandise, at least to our knowledge. But there are fish and game requirements and other laws that would come into play.
If instructed to establish an entry area, please note that the action will require additional personnel.
Project Forty’s ratings had gone through the roof. As a consequence, criticism of Old-Time Bill also soared.
Bill’s enemies were the mainstream press, liberal politicians, and left-leaning churches, which is to say all the various forces that were conniving in the moral collapse of the American people. They accused him of every conceivable crime but concentrated particularly on fraud and hypocrisy. They charged that he used religion to solicit donations, that he was a theological con artist, that he probably didn’t even believe in God.
None of this, strictly speaking, was true. To deal with the last first, Bill didn’t think seriously enough about theology to worry about details, but he sincerely believed that, as he often preached, everyone had a direct line into God’s study. Don’t hesitate to use the phone, he said; say what you really mean, and God will never put you on hold.
He sincerely believed in his own uprightness, because he gave hope to the despairing, meaning to those who had lost direction, and a sense of belonging to the unloved. To all who came to him, who wandered the various Sinais of their lives in keeping with the spirit of the Volunteers, he offered redemption, an easing of pain, and a celestial compass.
Oh, yes, Bill was a believer. God stood by Bill’s side when the choir was singing and the pipes were playing and people sobbed out their sins and promised to amend their lives.
And he most certainly did not do it for money.
The money was nice; he never denied that. But he thought of it as a corollary benefit for doing what was right, for walking the path of the Lord, for living by the Book. His real motivation would have been found in the exhilaration of standing before audiences in English-speaking countries around the world and feeling their response to God’s truth. He loved to draw them into the power of the Word, to hold their emotions in his hands, and, with his soaring rhetoric, to loosen the chains that bound them, not to an earthly existence, but to prosaic lives.
Bill understood the romance implicit in the tales of a desert God who had loved his people and who had eventually faced the Roman cross for all who had ever drawn breath. Yes! That was what people understood and what they loved. And they loved him because he had made himself part of the message.
His second Fort Moxie broadcast took place during the last snow storm of the season. Ordinarily, Bill didn’t get to see much snow, and it inspired him. While the flakes drifted against the windows, he understood God’s love for Adam in spite of his disobedience. And he felt his people’s hearts beat with his.
“But Adam has gone back into the Garden.”
“Amen,” cried the Volunteers.
“O Lord, we need your strong arm.”
“Alleluia!”
“Give us a sign. Show the faithless You stand by our side!”
He urged his listeners to write to their representatives. “Demand that we withdraw. For we are deaf to His word.” Tears appeared in his eyes. The wind began to build. Bill felt the Presence. “Show them your strength, God of Abraham,” he said. “I ask it in your Son’s name.”
The chorus, on cue, burst into “Rock of Ages.” The room shook and people sobbed and the wind wrapped itself around the building. Amanda Dexter, who could always be counted on to go to pieces at the climax of a good service, shrieked her undying gratitude to her Creator and collapsed in a quivering heap.
They rolled through several choruses while the wind played with the windows. Bill felt something open in his soul, and the power of the Angel of the Almighty entered into him. He knew once again the sheer exuberance of bringing people to the Lord. He flowed into the Angel and became one with it, directing the storm, watching the snow submerge the harsh angles of roof and shutter and drainpipe, enshrouding the building, burying it, removing its harsh lines.
Abruptly, he was back inside and the organ had stopped, and the Volunteers were in the aisles, exhausted, helping one another to their feet, delivering alleluias, collapsing into chairs.
“Praise the Lord,” said Mark Meyer, whose face was ashen. “Did you feel it?” He was looking directly at Bill.
“Yes,” said Bill, shakily. “I felt it.” Tonight, more than at any other time in his career, he knew he walked with the Blessed. “I think we got the sign,” he added. “I think we actually got the sign.”
He remembered the TV cameras. And at that moment, while he wondered if the network had picked up his remark, the lights went out.
“Check the circuit breakers,” someone shouted.
His people didn’t mind a little power failure, and they laughed their way through “Victory in Jesus.”
Bill put on his headset so he could talk to Harry Staples, his maintenance chief. “I’ll have the lights back in a second,” Harry said.
The room was absolutely dark. Bill could not even see any illumination coming in through the windows. That suggested the streetlights had also gone out.
“Everybody stay put until we get the power working again,” Bill said.
His producer reported that they were off the air. “But we went with a bang,” he added. The Whitburg studio had picked up and was covering with gospel music.
The Volunteers finished with “Joshua.” They cheered, conquering failed lights the same way they conquered everything else.
Harry’s voice again: “Power failure’s outside, Reverend. We’ve lost the heater, too.” Flashlights had appeared on the stairs.
“Okay,” said Bill. “Let’s close up and clear out.” They were staying in motels in Morris, Manitoba, about a half-hour north of the border. He turned to his audience. “You folks have done great,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
They were already filing toward the door, struggling into coats and boots. Bill waited, talking with his people. He heard the front door open.
And a rough masculine voice, breaking tone with the evening, said, “Hey, what the hell is this?”
Bill heard a whimper.
The door had opened on a wall of snow.
Frank Moll was at home listening to a Mozart concerto when the lights went out and the music died. Through his picture window, he could see that the streetlight located immediately in front of the house had also gone dark.
Peg came out of the den with a flashlight, headed for the circuit breakers.
“They’re off all over,” Frank said, reaching for the phone book.
“We are sorry,” came the recorded response at the electric company, “but all our service representatives are busy. Please stay on the line.”
He hung up, sat down, and propped his feet on the hassock. “Must be lines down somewhere,” he said. It was cold outside, but the house was well insulated.
They talked in the dark, enjoying the interruption in their routine. Across the street, Hodge Eliot’s front door opened. Hodge carried a lamp out onto his porch and peered down the street.
The phone rang.
“Frank?” He recognized Edie Thoraldson’s voice. “Something’s happened at Kor’s place. We’re sending the unit.”
That was the Quick Response Team, which Frank had once directed. “What?” he asked. “What happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “Apparently somebody got buried. I’ve got the police coming in from Cavalier. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you took a look.”
“Okay,” he said, puzzled.
Peg looked at him, worried. “What is it?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Edie says somebody got buried. What the hell does that mean?” He had his coat on already. “Keep the door locked,” he said.
Kor’s house was only six blocks away. He paused in his driveway for a stream of cars carrying volunteer firemen. Then he backed out into the street and turned left. Two minutes later he parked behind a gathering crowd a half-block away from Kor’s house. He was just behind the Quick Response Team. The neighborhood was thick with box elders, and it was hard to see what was happening. But he could hear a lot of crowd noise.
The fire engine rolled in. The crowd split and flowed away from the emergency vehicles. And Frank finally got clear of the trees.
Where Kor’s house, lately the Backcountry Church, had been, there was now a two-story-high snow cylinder. The snow was swirled at the top like soft ice cream.