The Squire of Sugarloaf Mountain used jars of bear fat to predict the weather, refining a traditional technique with meticulous, scientific record keeping. He bred cows to give better milk, and sheep for better wool His greenhouses, warmed by biogenerated methane, produced fresh vegetables the year round, even in the harshest winters.
George Powhatan took special pride in showing off his brewery, famed for the best beer in four counties.
The walls of the great lodge—the seat of his domain-featured finely woven hangings and the proudly displayed artwork of children. Gordon had expected to see weapons and trophies of battle, but there were none in sight anywhere. Indeed, once one passed within the high stockade and abatis, there were hardly any reminders of the long war at all.
That first day, Powhatan would not speak of business. He spent all of it showing his guests around and supervising preparations for a potlatch in their honor. Then, late in the afternoon, when they had been shown their rooms in order to rest, their host vanished.
“I thought I saw him head west,” Philip Bokuto answered, when Gordon asked. “Toward that bluff over there.”
Gordon thanked him and headed that way down a gravel-lined path through the trees. For hours Powhatan had skillfully avoided any serious discussion at all, always diverting them with something new to see, or with his apparently infinite store of country lore.
Tonight could be more of the same, with so many people coming to meet them. There might be no opportunity to get to business at all.
Of course he knew he shouldn’t be so impatient. But Gordon did not want to meet any more people. He wanted to talk to George Powhatan alone.
He found the tall man seated, facing the edge of a steep dropoff. Far below, waters roared with the meeting of the branches of the Coquille. To the west, the mountains of the Coast Range shimmered in purple haze that was rapidly darkening into an orange and ocher sunset. The ever-present clouds burned with a hundred autumnal shades.
George Powhatan sat zazen on a simple reed mat, his upturned hands resting on his knees. His expression was one Gordon had seen sometimes, before the war—one he had called, for want of another name, “The Smile of Buddha.”
Well, I’ll be . . . he thought. The last of the neohippies. Who would have believed it?
The mountain man’s sleeveless tunic showed a faded, blue tattoo on his massive shoulder—a powerful fist with one finger gently extended, upon which was delicately perched a dove. Below could clearly be read a single word, AIRBORNE.
The juxtaposition didn’t really surprise Gordon. Nor did the peaceful expression on Powhatan’s face. Somehow they seemed fitting.
He knew that courtesy didn’t require that he leave— only that he not interfere with the other man’s sitting. He quietly cleared a space a few feet to Powhatan’s right, and lowered himself to the ground facing the same direction. Gordon did not even try to get into a lotus. He hadn’t practiced the skill since he was seventeen. But he did sit, back straight, and tried to clear his mind as the colors shimmered and changed out in the direction of the sea.
At first all he could think of was how stiff he felt. How sore from riding and sleeping on hard, cold ground. Puffs of wind chilled him as the sun’s warmth hid behind the mountains. His thoughts were a churned antheap of sounds, concerns, memories.
But soon, without willing it at all, his eyelids began to grow heavy. They settled down, microscopically, and then stopped about halfway, unable to rise or fall any farther.
If he hadn’t known what was happening, he surely would have panicked. But it was only a mild meditation trance; he recognized the feelings. What the hell, he thought, and let it grow.
Was he doing this out of a sense of competition with Powhatan? Or to show the man that he wasn’t the only child of the renaissance who still remembered?
Or was it simply because he was tired, and the sunset was so beautiful?
Gordon felt a hollow sensation within him—as if a pocket of each lung were closed, and had been for a very long time. He tried to inhale hard and deep, but his pattern of breathing did not alter in the slightest—as if his body knew a wisdom that he did not. The calm that crossed his face with the numbing breeze seemed to trickle downward, touching his throat like a woman’s fingers, running across his tight shoulders and stroking his muscles until they relaxed of their own accord.
The colors. . . he thought, seeing only the sky. His heart rocked his body gently.
Had it been a lifetime since he last sat like this and let go? Or was it just that there was so much to let go of?
They are . . .
In an easing that could never have been forced, the locked sensation in his lungs seemed to let go, and he breathed. Stale air escaped, to be swept away by the western wind. His next breath tasted so sweet that it came back out as a sigh.
“The colors . . .”
There was motion to his left, a stirring. A quiet voice spoke. “I used to wonder if these sunsets were God’s last gift . . . something to match the rainbow he gave Noah, only this time it was his way of saying . . . ‘So long’ . . . to us all.”
He did not answer Powhatan. There was no need.
“But after many years watching them, I guess the atmosphere is slowly cleansing itself. They aren’t quite what they were, just after the war.”
Gordon nodded. Why did people on the coast always assume they had a monopoly on sunsets? He remembered how it had been on the prairie—once the Three-Year Winter had passed and the skies were clear enough to see the sun at all. It had seemed as if Heaven had spilled its palette in a garish splash of hues, glorious, if deadly in their beauty.
Without turning to look, Gordon knew that Powhatan had not moved. The man sat in the same position, smiling softly.
“Once,” the gray-haired squire said, “perhaps ten years ago, I was sitting here, just as I am now, recovering from a recent wound and contemplating the sunset, when I caught sight of something, or somebody, moving by the river, down below. At first, I thought they were men. I pulled out of my meditation quickly and headed down for a closer look. And yet something told me that it was not the enemy, even from this range.
“I approached as quietly as I could, until I had come within a few hundred meters, and I focused the little monocular I used to keep in my pouch.
“They weren’t human beings at all. Imagine my surprise when I saw them strolling by the river bank, hand in hand, him helping her over stony banks, she murmuring softly as she carried something wrapped in a bundle.
“A pair of chimpanzees, for Heaven’s sake. Or maybe one was a chimp and the other a smaller ape or even a monkey. They vanished into the rain forest before I could be sure.”
For the first time in ten minutes, Gordon blinked. The image was so stark in his imagination, as if he were looking over Powhatan’s shoulder into the man’s memories from that long ago day. Why is he telling me this?
Powhatan continued, “They must have been set free from the Portland Zoo, along with those leopards running wild in the Cascades, now. That was the simplest explanation . . . that they had worked their way south for years, foraging and keeping out of sight, helping each other as they headed for what they must have hoped would be warmer territory.
“I realized that they were moving down the south branch of the Coquille, right into Holnist territory.
“What could I do? I thought about following. Trying to catch them, or at least divert them. But it was doubtful I’d be able to do anything more than frighten them. And anyway, if they had come so far, what need had they of me to warn them of the dangers of being around man?
“They had been caged, now they were free. Oh, I wasn’t foolish enough to conclude they were happier, but at least they weren’t subject to the will of others anymore.”
Powhatan’s voice was subdued. “That can be a precious thing, I know.”
There was another pause. “I let them go,” he said, finishing his story. “Often, as I sit here watching these humbling sunsets, I wonder what ever became of them.”
At last, Gordon’s eyes closed completely. The silence stretched on. He inhaled and with some effort made the heaviness fall aside. Powhatan had been trying to tell him something, with that strange story. He, in turn, had something to say to Powhatan.
“A duty to help others isn’t necessarily the same as being subject to the will of . . .”
He stopped—sensing that something had changed. His eyes opened, and when he turned, he saw that Powhatan was gone.
That evening people gathered from all over, more men and women than Gordon had thought still lived in the sparsely settled valley. For the visiting postman and his company, they put on a folk festival, of sorts. Children sang, and small troupes performed clever little skits.
Unlike in the north, where popular songs were often those remembered from the days of television and radio, here there were no fondly recalled commercial jingles, few rock and roll melodies retuned to banjo and acoustic guitar. Instead, the music went back to an older tradition.
The bearded men, the women in long dresses tending table, the singing by fire and lamplight—it might easily have been a gathering from nearly two centuries ago, back when this valley had first been settled by white men, coming together for company and to shake off the chill of winter.
Johnny Stevens represented the northerners during the songfest. He had brought his treasured guitar, and dazzled the people with his flair, setting them clapping and stamping their feet.
Normally, this would have been wonderful fun, and Gordon might gladly join in with offerings from his old repertoire—from back before he had hit on being a “postman,” when he had been a wandering minstrel trading songs and stories for meals halfway across the continent.
But he had listened to jazz and to Debussy the night before leaving Corvallis. He could not help wondering if it would turn out to have been the last time, ever.
Gordon knew what George Powhatan was trying to accomplish with this fete. He was putting off the confrontation . . . making the Willametters sit and stew . . . taking their measure.
Gordon’s impression back at the cliff had not changed. With his long locks and ready banter, Powhatan was the very image of the aging neohippy. The long-dead movement of the nineties seemed to fit the Squire’s style of leadership.
For instance, in the Camas Valley, clearly everyone was independent and equal.
Still, when George laughed, everyone else did. It seemed only natural. He gave no orders, no commands. It did not seem to occur to anyone that he would. Nothing happened in the lodge that displeased him enough to even raise an eyebrow.
In what had once been called the “soft” arts—those requiring neither metals nor electricity—these people were as advanced as the busy craftsmen of the Willamette. In some ways, perhaps, more so. That, no doubt, was why Powhatan had insisted on showing off his farm—to let the visitors see that they were not dealing with a society of throwbacks, but folk just as civilized in their own right. Part of Gordon’s plan was to prove that Powhatan was wrong.
At last it was time to bring out the “gifts from Cyclops” they had brought all this way.
The people watched wide-eyed as Johnny Stevens demonstrated a cartoon graphics game on a color display that had been lovingly repaired by the Corvallis techs. He gave them a video puppet show about a dinosaur and a robot. The images and bright sounds soon had everybody laughing in delight, the adults as much as the children.
And yet Gordon detected once again that uncanny something in their mood. The people cheered and laughed, but their applause seemed to be in honor of a clever trick. The machines had been brought to whet their appetites, to make them want high technology once again. But Gordon saw no covetous glow in the watchers’ eyes, no rekindled urge to own such wonders again.
Some of the men did sit up when Philip Bokuto’s turn came. The black ex-Marine stepped up with a battered leather valise, and from it he drew out a few of the new weapons.
He showed the gas bombs and mines, and told them how they might be used to hold strong points against attack. Philip described the night vision scopes, soon to be available from the workshops of Cyclops. A ripple of uncertainty moved from man to man—battle-scarred veterans of a long war against a terrible enemy. While Bokuto talked, people kept glancing at the big man in the corner.
Powhatan did not say or do anything explicit. The picture of politeness, he only yawned once, demurely covering his mouth. He smiled indulgently as each weapon was displayed, and Gordon was awed to see how, with body language alone, the man seemed to say that these presents were quaint, perhaps even clever . . . but really quite irrelevant.
The bastard. But Gordon really didn’t know how to fight back. Soon, that smile had spread around the room, and he knew that it was time to cut their losses.
Dena had pestered him to bring along her own list of presents. Needles and thread, base-neutral soap, samples of that new line of semicotton underwear they had started weaving again up in Salem, just before the invasion.
“They’ll convert the women, Gordon. They’ll do more good than all your whiz-bangs and razzle-dazzles. Trust me”
The last time he had trusted Dena, though, it had led to a slender, tragic corpse under a snow-blown cedar. By that time Gordon had had quite enough of Dena’s version of pseudofeminism.
Would it have been any worse than this, though? Was I hasty? Perhaps we should have brought along some of the more mundane things—tooth powder and sanitary napkins, pottery, and new linen sheets.
He shook his head; that was all water under a dam. He gave Bokuto the signal to wrap it up and reached for his third ace. He drew forth his saddlebag and handed it to Johnny Stevens.
A hush fell over the crowd. Gordon and Powhatan watched each other across the room as Johnny stood— proud in his uniform—in front of the flickering fire. He riffled through envelopes and began reading names aloud in order to deliver the mail.
All through the still-civilized parts of the Willamette, the call had gone out. Anyone who had ever known anybody in the south had been asked to write to them. Most of the intended recipients would turn out to be long dead, of course. But a few letters would certainly arrive in the right hands, or those of relatives. Old connections might be resumed, the theory went. The plea for help would have to become something less abstract, more personal.
It had been a good idea, but once again the reaction was not as expected. The pile of undeliverable letters grew. And as Johnny called out name after name without reply, Gordon saw that a different lesson was being brought home.
The people of the Camas were being reminded of how many had died. Of how few had survived the bitter times.
And now that peace seemed to be theirs at last, it was easy to see how they resented being asked to sacrifice again, for near strangers who had had it easier for years. Those few who did acknowledge letters seemed to take them reluctantly, folding them away without reading them.
George Powhatan looked surprised when his own name was called. But his flicker of puzzlement vanished quickly as he shrugged and took a package and a slim envelope.
Things were not going well at all, Gordon realized. Johnny finished his task and gave his leader a look that seemed to say, What now?
Gordon had only one card left—the one he hated most of all—and the one he knew best how to use.
Damn. But there’s no other choice.
He stepped in front of the fireplace, facing the silent people with the warmth to his back, and took a deep breath. Then he started right in . . . lying to them.
“I have come to tell you a story,” he said. “I want to tell you about a country of once upon a time. It may sound familiar, since many of you were born there. But the story ought to amaze you, nevertheless. I know it always amazes me.
“It’s a strange tale, of a nation of a quarter of a billion people who once filled the sky and even the spaces between the planets with their voices, just as you good folk filled this fine hall with your songs tonight.
“They were a strong people, the strongest the world had ever known. But that hardly seemed to matter to them. When they had a chance to conquer the entire world, they simply ignored the opportunity, as if there were far more interesting things to do than that.
“They were wonderfully crazy. They laughed and they built things and they argued . . . . They loved to accuse themselves of terrible crimes as a people: a strange practice until you understood that its hidden purpose was to make themselves better—better to each other—better to the Earth— better than prior generations of Man,
“You all know that to look up at the moon at night, or at Mars, is to see the footprints where a few of those people walked. Some of you remember sitting in your homes and watching those footprints being made.”
For the first time that evening, Gordon felt he had their full attention. He saw eyes flicker to the emblems on his uniform, and to the bright brass rider on the peak of his postman’s cap.
“The people of that nation were crazy all right,” he told them. “But they were crazy in a manner that was magnificent . . . in a way that had never been seen before.”
One man’s scarred face stood out from the crowd. Gordon recognized old, never-healed knife wounds. He looked at that man as he spoke.
“Today we live by killing,” he said. “But in that fabled land, for the most part, people settled their differences peaceably.”
He turned to the tired women, slumped on benches from butchering and cleaning and laying out food for so many people. Their lined faces were flickering crags in the firelight. Several showed telltale scars from the Pox, or the Big Mumps, wartime diseases or merely old plagues that had returned in new force with the end of sanitation.
“They took for granted a clean, healthy life,” he said, reminding them. “A life far gentler, far sweeter than any that had gone before.
“Or, perhaps,” he added softly, “sweeter than any that would ever come again.”
The people were looking at him now, rather than at Powhatan. And it wasn’t just in older faces that eyes glistened wetly. A boy hardly over fifteen sobbed out loud.
Gordon spread his arms. “What were those people like, those Americans? You remember how they criticized themselves, often rightly. They were arrogant, argumentative, often shortsighted . . .
“But they did not deserve what happened to them!
“They had begun to wield godlike powers—to create thinking machines, to give their bodies new strengths, and to mold Life itself—but it was not pride in their accomplishments that struck them down.”
He shook his head. “I cannot believe that! It cannot be true that we were punished for dreaming, for reaching out.”
His balled fist clenched whitely. “It was not fated that men and women should always live like animals! Or that they should have learned so much in vain—“
In complete surprise, Gordon felt his voice break, mid-sentence. It failed him just as it was time to begin telling the lie . . . to give Powhatan a story of his own.
But his heart pounded and his mouth was suddenly nearly too dry to speak. He blinked. What was happening? Tell them, he thought. Tell them now!
“In the east . . .” Gordon began, aware of Bokuto and Stevens staring at him.
“In the east, across the mountains and deserts, rising from that great nation’s ashes . . .”
He stopped again, breathing hard. It felt as if a hand were clutching his heart, threatening to squeeze if he continued. Something was preventing him from launching into his well-practiced pitch, his fairy tale.
All around they waited for him. He had them in his palm. They were ripe!
That was when Gordon glanced at George Powhatan’s visage, craggy and impervious as a cliff face in the flickering firelight. And he knew then, in a sudden insight, what the problem was.
For the first time he was trying to pass his myth of a “Restored United States” before a man who was clearly much, much stronger than he.
Gordon knew that it wasn’t only a story’s believability that mattered, but the personality behind it as well. He might convince them all of the existence of a resurgent nation, somewhere over the eastern mountains, and it wouldn’t make a whit of difference in the end . . . not if George Powhatan could make it all moot with a smile, an indulgent nod, a yawn.
It would become a thing of bygone days. An anachronism. Irrelevant.
Gordon closed his half-open mouth. Rows of faces looked up at him expectantly. But he shook his head, abandoning the fable, and with it, the lost fight.
“The east is far away,” he said softly.
Then he lifted his head and some strength returned to his voice. “What is going on back there may affect us all, if we live long enough. But in the meantime there is the problem of Oregon—Oregon, standing by herself, as if she alone were America still.
“The nation I spoke of smolders under the ashes, ready, if you help, to cast its light again. To lead a silent world back to hope. Believe it, and the future will be decided here, tonight. For if America ever stood for anything, it was people being at their best when times were worst—and helping one another when it counted most.”
Gordon turned and looked straight at George Powha-tan. His voice dropped low, but it no longer felt weak.
“And if you have forgotten that, if none of what I have said to you matters, then all I can say is that I pity you.”
The moment seemed to hang, a supersaturated solution in time. Powhatan sat still, like the carved image of a troubled patriarch. The tendons in his neck stood out starkly, like knotty ropes.
Whatever conflict went on in the man’s mind, though, was over in seconds. Powhatan smiled sadly.
“I understand,” he said. “And you may well be right, Mr. Inspector. I can think of no easy answer except to say that most of us have served and served until there is simply nothing more for us to give. You may ask for volunteers again, of course. I won’t forbid anyone. But I doubt many will go.”
He shook his head. “I hope you will believe it when we say that we are sorry. We are, deeply.
“But you are asking too much. We have earned our peace. It is, by now, more precious than honor, or even pity.”
All this way, Gordon thought. We came all this way, for nothing.
DAVID BRIN
Powhatan lifted two sheets of paper from his lap and held them out to Gordon.
“This is the letter I received from Corvallis this evening—carried all the way in your pouch. But although it had my name on the envelope, it was not intended for me. It was meant to be delivered to you . . . says so on the top of the first page.
“I hope you will forgive me, though, if I took the liberty of reading the text.”
There was sympathy in the man’s voice as Gordon reached out to take the yellowed pages. For the first time Gordon heard Powhatan repeat himself, too softly for the others to overhear.
“I am sorry,” the man said. “I am also quite amazed.”