In which our narrator names things and forgets thosee names later (hey, going back and re-reading what I had so far is more than I could fit in a day).
Working as a mining engineer didn’t allow a lot of time to smell any flowers or run one’s hands through the soft grass. I had spent the bulk of my time poring over maps and claims, title documents and warrants, if I was indoors or sampling rocks and soils, sinking wells and taking cores if I was outdoors. In most cases, I found myself confirming what was already known; claim had already been worked out to where it held no economic value or a well was likely to dry up before the value of the drilling had been recouped. It wasn’t very satisfying work in that respect. In many cases, my imprimatur had prevented some disappointed land-owner from killing another, and that was appreciated. Even the undertaker wasn’t that desperate for custom, and if no one was going to strike it rich, it was understood no one need die for so little as was to be had.
The town had its share of eccentrics and cranks. The differentiator was that eccentrics had money, even if both were equally mad. The most-repeated story was of the old widow, the de facto queen of the town some years ago, who had somehow been awarded a grant to plant trees in a greenbelt between the town proper and the prevailing winds. Her plan was to protect the town from the desiccating winds that finished what the sun started, destroying the buildings and slowly sapping the strength of the people. Her argument had been that where there are lush stands of trees, there is always adequate rain, so if we were to plant robust trees, we could expect to see rain clouds shortly thereafter.
At some point, the funds were held up for one final review and calmer heads prevailed: the greenbelt remained a dream. The mother of the plan continued to lobby for funds to make it come true, but her own grasp of reality was becoming increasingly tenuous and she was easily diverted.
There were also periodic spasms of enthusiasm for a rail link to the larger city-states but no one could agree on which to forge a connection with and what it might mean. Would some political benefit be gained or would there be a cost associated with it? Since almost everyone in El Dorado had left the urban centers by choice, it seemed unlikely that a majority would agree to fund or accept a permanent connection to any of them. It was seen as a link to past best forgotten or at least never discussed. And even if the emotional and political misgivings could be addressed, the cost was prohibitive. No funding would be forthcoming from the city-states — they valued the lack of an efficient link to the New Lands as much as the émigrés did, so the idea was a seasonal diversion at best. When talk ran low and the heat of the summer days or the cold of the winter nights forced people to talk of something other than failed mines or dry wells, you could count on someone bringing the rail link into the discussion.
These towns were all full of people crowded out of the urban world, though they would hold that it was by choice. The sophistication, cunning, and existential confidence required to live happily in the squalor of New Bristol were not gifted to everyone. Those who found themselves in the New Lands saw sophistication as lack of character, cunning as deviousness. They didn’t understand the game well enough to appreciate it, let alone play it, so the hardscrabble life in the New Lands appealed as something comprehensible and safe. One needed a sense of calm and unflappability to make a life in the cities: to feel or look beaten was to be beaten, and it would only get worse.
I continued on, walking more slowly, looking about me more and more. Neither the city dwellers or the provincials were accustomed to seeing untrampled nature like this. The path looked unwalked on. I could see no tracks, not even a bent blade of grass. The bushes and trees beside the path looked untended, even as I knew they must somehow be kept from the path.
The smell of woodsmoke reached me as I continued on. So there must be some settlement ahead. I had no idea how long I had walked, but I had also not kept a regular pace. The smell grew stronger and more complex. It seemed to come from a smokehouse, as I could smell curing flesh, meat or fish. My lunch of bread and cheese seemed insubstantial, all of a sudden.
The smell came from the right side of the path, and I could make out wisps of smoke through the tree tops. There were likely cooking fires as well, and hoped for a warm welcome. It seemed I was expected, even sought after, from what Therian had said. Even the uncertainty of what that could mean couldn’t lessen my curiosity about what I was soon to discover, to say nothing of my appetite.
I rounded a gentle curve as the path widened. Still no signs of use, of traffic, but I couldn’t think about that now. I looked in the direction of the smoke and could hear the sounds of wood being split, of flames licking at the grease of something in the smokehouse, of low conversation. I stopped, in hopes of seeing the source of the sound, but could see no one.
I took a few tentative steps into the clearing, having no idea if this was where I was supposed to be. I had passed no other settlements, but nothing here looked very permanent: was there some other place further along I should make for? The clearing itself was open with some small structures that looked like tents but as I looked closer, they seemed like a cross between a small house and a tent of some kind. There was a frame like a house, with corners and angles, but the covering seemed to be a kind of fiber or skin. There were a few of these, tucked away under the trees. The smokehouse, too, was back among the trees, and hard to see without the telltale plume of smoke wafting up through the trees.
As I stepped closer to the center of the clearing, I realized there were two people sitting by a fire, and it became clear they were waiting for someone. They were aware of my approach and while they didn’t beckon me closer, it was clear I was expected to join them.
I approached the fire and the logs they used for benches and looked down on them as they sat. They seemed to be communicating or at least pondering the same thought. They were looking into each other’s faces, perhaps even into each other’s eyes, and periodically nodding their heads. I unstrapped my bag and leaned it against a log. I took a deep draught from my waterskin, noting how warm it had become though it had been hanging free, rather than strapped to anyone’s back. One more unusual occurrence out of many on this day.
My thirst slaked, I dropped my waterskin on my pack and looked at the two figures, following their eyes back and forth. Finally I stopped and just stared through the middle of the space between them, and within a moment or two, they both stirred as if waking from sleep.
“Come, sit, Angstrom.”
I sat on the end of one of the logs, equidistant from the two of them or as close as i could get to it. I knew they knew my name, but their using it as if we knew each other was disconcerting and a little annoying. I was starting to feel like I was being played with or manipulated in less obvious ways. I looked from one face (or where I expected there to be one) to the other, with what I hoped was a serious scowl on my face. I was tired and hungry, so the look wasn’t entirely feigned. But I confess there was something theatric to it.
“You are not comfortable here. We know that. We expected that, but bear with us. All will become clear, we think.”
This was the figure on the left, speaking in a clear, emotionless voice. It didn’t sound like it came from the speaker so much as from my own head. It was as if I felt it rather than heard it.
“You have been looking for something for a great while. So have we. Perhaps it is the same thing. Time will tell. But for now, we would like you to feel refreshed and welcome. There is more to our little compound than meets the eye, so let us see to your comforts and then talk further.”
This was the one on the right, but he took the trouble to look up and speak so my ears were involved this time. The sense of hearing without hearing might be something I could get used to but for now, the old-fashioned way was fine.