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The Frontiersman shook his head. “Not the one they left behind, anyhow.”
“You talked to him?”
“Had a word with him. He wasn’t going anywhere. Both legs fucked up beyond repair, plus I introduced him to my knife when he got truculent.”
“Jesus, Tom!”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t see what they did to Diggs and Farr and Robertson and Do
Finch looked up abruptly, hollow-eyed, startled.
Guilford said, “Go on.”
“It was obvious from his accent this shitheel was no Partisan. Hell, I’ve drunk with Partisans. They’re mostly repatriate Frenchmen or Italians who like to get tight and fly their flag and take a few shots at American colonists. The big-time Partisans are pirates, armed merchantmen, they’ll bag some creaky old frigate and steal the cargo and call it import duties and spend the money in a backwater whorehouse. Travel up the Rhine, the only Partisans you meet are wildcat miners with political opinions.
“This guy was an American. Said he was recruited in Jeffersonville and that his people came into the hinterland bounty-hunting the Finch expedition. Said they were paid good money.”
“Did he say who paid ’em?”
“Not before he passed out, no. And I didn’t have a second chance to ask him. I had Finch to worry about, and you and Sullivan back at the well. Figured I’d sling the son of a bitch on a sledge and drag him along by daylight.” The frontiersman paused. “But he escaped.”
“Escaped?”
“I left him alone just long enough to harness the snakes. Well, not alone, precisely — Finch was with him, for all the difference that makes. When I got back, he was gone. Ran off.”
“You said he passed out. You said his legs were shot up.”
“He did, and his legs were bloody meat, a couple of bones obviously broken. Not the kind of wound you can fake. But when I came back he was gone. Left footprints. When I say he ran, I mean he ran. Ran like a jackrabbit, headed off into the ruins. I suppose I could have tracked him but there was too much else to do.”
“On the surface of it,” Guilford said carefully, “that’s impossible.”
“On the surface of it it’s bullshit, but all I know is what I see.”
“You say Finch was with him?”
Tom’s frown deepened, an angle of discontent in the frost-rimed cavern of his beard. “Finch was with him, but he hasn’t had a word to say on the subject.”
Guilford turned to the geologist. Every indignity the expedition had suffered since Gillvany’s death was written on Finch’s face, plus the special humiliation of a man who has lost command — who has lost lives for which he was nominally responsible. There was nothing pompous about Finch any longer, no dignity in his fixed stare, only defeat.
“Dr. Finch?”
The geologist looked at Guilford briefly. His attention flickered like a candle.
“Dr. Finch, did you see what happened to the man Tom talked to? The injured man?”
Finch turned his head away.
“Don’t bother,” Tom said. “He’s mute as a stick.”
“Dr. Finch, it might help us if we knew what happened. Help us get home safe, I mean.”
“It was a miracle,” Preston Finch said.
His voice was a sandpapered croak. The frontiersman gave him an astonished stare.
Guilford persisted gently. “Dr. Finch? What is it you saw, exactly?”
“His wounds healed. The flesh knitted itself together. The bones mended themselves. He stood up. He looked at me. He laughed.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s what I saw.”
“That’s a big help,” Tom Compton said.
The frontiersman sat watch. Guilford crawled into the lean-to with Finch. The botanist stank of stale sweat and snake hides and hopelessness, but Guilford didn’t smell much sweeter himself. Their human effluvia filled the narrow space, and their breath condensed to ice in the frigid air.
Something had stirred Finch to a fresh alertness. He stared past layered furs into the brutal night. “This isn’t the miracle I wanted,” he whispered. “Do you understand that, Mr. Law?”
Guilford was cold through and through. He found it hard to make himself concentrate. “I understand very little of this, Dr. Finch.”
“Isn’t that what you thought of me, you and Sullivan? Preston Finch, the fanatic, looking for evidence of divine intervention, like those people who claim to have found pieces of the Ark or the One True Cross?”
Finch sounded old as the night wind. “I’m sorry if you got that impression.”
“I’m not insulted. Maybe it’s true. Call it hubris. Sin of pride. I didn’t think things through. If nature and the divine are no longer separate then there might also be dark miracles. That awful city. The man whose bones unbroke themselves.”
And tu
Finch coughed into his hand, a wrenching sound. “It’s a new world,” he said.
No denying it. “We need to get some sleep, Dr. Finch.”
“Dark forces and light. They’re at our shoulders.” He shook his head sadly. “I never wanted that.”
“I know.”
A pause. “I’m sorry you lost your photographs, Mr. Law.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
He closed his eyes.
They traveled each day, a little distance, not far.
They followed game trails, rocky riverbeds, snowless patches beneath the mosque and sage-pine trees, places they wouldn’t leave obvious tracks. Periodically, the frontiersman left Guilford to supervise Finch while he went hunting with his Bowie knife. Often there was snake meat, and the moth-hawk roosts were a common last resort. But for many months there had been no vegetables save a few hard-scavenged roots or tough green mosque-tree spines boiled in water. Guilford’s teeth had loosened, and his vision was not as acute as it once had been. Finch, who had lost his glasses in the first attack, was nearly blind.
Days passed. Spring was not far off, by the calendar, but the skies remained dark, the wind cold and piercing. Guilford grew accustomed to the aching of his joints, the constant pain at every hinge in his body.
He wondered if the Bodensee had frozen. Whether he would see it again.
He kept his tattered journal inside his furs; it had never left his possession. The remaining blank pages were few, but he recorded occasional brief notes to Caroline.
He knew his strength was failing. His bad leg had begun to pain him daily, and as for Finch — he looked like something dragged out of an insect midden.
Temperatures rose for three days, followed by a cold spring rain. The season was welcome, the mud and wind were not. Even the fur snakes had grown moody and gaunt, foraging in the muck for last year’s ground cover. One of the animals had gone blind in one eye, a cataract that turned the pupil gauzy and pale.
Fresh storms came towering from the west. Tom Compton scouted out a rockfall that provided some natural shelter, a granite crawl space open on two sides. The floor was sand, littered with animal droppings. Guilford blocked up both entrances with sticks and furs and tethered the snakes outside to act as an alarm. But if the little cavern had once been occupied, its tenant showed no sign of returning.
A torrent of cold rain locked them into the sheltered space. Tom hollowed out a fire pit under the stones’ natural chimney. He had taken to humming ridiculous, sentimental old Mauve Decade tunes — “Golden Slippers,” “Marbl’d Halls,” and such. No lyrics, just raw basso melodies. The effect was less like song and more like an aboriginal chant, mournful and strange.
The rain storm rattled on, easing periodically but never stopping. Ru