“It’s all right,” she said softly. “You can let it out now.”
Suddenly his mind seemed to plunge. He remembered everything. The past reared up inside him, complete. He saw faces; he inhabited days; he lived the hour of his birth and each that followed. He felt as if he were choking; his lungs could find no air.
“That’s all you have to do, is let it out.”
She had put her arms around him. He was trembling, weeping, such tears as he had never wept in his life. All his sorrows, all his pain, the terrible things he’d done.
“Everything is forgiven, my darling, my love. All is forgiven, nothing is lost. Everything you have loved will come back to you. That is why you have come.”
He moaned and shook. He cast his cries upward to the heavens. The waves moved in and out in their ancient rhythm; the stars poured down their primordial light upon him.
I’m here,
Liz, his Liz, was saying.
It’s over now, everything will be all right. Oh, beloved, I am here.
It took some time. It took days, weeks, years. But this was unimportant. It would pass in a blink, not even. All things fell into the past but one; and what that was, was love.
XIII
The Mountain and the Stars
And thence we came forth, to see again the stars.
—DANTE ALIGHIERI,
INFERNO
85
“Shut it off,” Lore said.
Rand stared at her, expressionless. They were on the engineering deck—heat stifling, air throbbing with the engines’ rhythmic roar. Rand’s broad, bare chest shone with sweat.
“You’re sure about this?”
They were down to their last ten thousand pounds of fuel.
“Please,” Lore said, “don’t argue with me. It’s not like we have a choice.”
Rand raised the radio to his mouth. “That’s it, gents. We’re powering down. Weir, switch the generator to the auxiliary bus—bilges, lights, and desalinators only.”
A crackle, then Weir’s voice came through: “Lore said that?”
“Yeah, she said it. I’m looking right at her.”
A moment passed; the thrumming ceased, replaced by a low electrical hum. Above them caged bulbs flickered, failed, then, as if with reluctance, sparked back to life.
“So that’s it?” Rand asked. “We’re dead in the water?”
Lore had no answer to that.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
She made some vague gesture. “Forget it.”
“I know you did your best. Everyone does.”
She had nothing to say. They were twenty thousand tons of steel, drifting in the ocean.
“Maybe something will still work out,” Rand offered.
Lore ascended through the ship to the deck and climbed the stairs to the pilothouse. It was the morning of their thirty-ninth day at sea, the equatorial sun already blazing like a furnace. Not a breath of wind moved the air; the sea was absolutely flat. Many of the passengers were camped on deck, huddled in the shade of canvas shelters. On the charting table were the sheets of thick, fibrous paper on which Lore had run her final computations. The currents when they’d rounded the Horn had nearly stopped them cold; running at full throttle, they had barely powered through, huge waves blasting over the deck, everybody vomiting helplessly. They had made it eventually, but day by day, as Lore watched the fuel gauges drop, the cost grew painfully evident. They had stripped everything they could and jettisoned it into the sea: pieces of bulkhead, doors, the loading crane. Anything to reduce weight, to buy one more mile with the fuel they had. It wasn’t enough. They had come up five hundred miles short.
Caleb entered the pilothouse. Like Rand, he was shirtless, the skin of his shoulders and cheeks flaking with sunburn. “What’s going on? Why did we stop?”
From the helm, Lore shook her head.
“Jesus.” For a second he seemed dazed, then looked up. “How long?”
“We can keep the desalinators running about a week.”
“And then?”
“I really don’t know, Caleb.”
He had the look of a man who needed to sit down. He took a place on the bench by the chart table. “People are going to figure it out, Lore. We can’t just turn off the engines and not tell them anything.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“We could lie, I guess.”
“There’s an idea. Why don’t you come up with something?”
Her sense of failure was overwhelming; she had spoken too curtly. “Sorry, you didn’t deserve that.”
Caleb took a long breath. “It’s all right, I get it.”
“Tell everyone it’s just a minor repair, nothing to worry about,” Lore said. “That should buy us a day or two.”
Caleb stood and put one hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
“Who else is there?”
“I mean it, Lore. It’s just bad luck.” He tightened his grip, giving her a sharp squeeze that offered no comfort at all. “I’ll put the word out.”
After he’d gone, she sat alone for a time. She was exhausted, filthy, beaten. Without its engines, the ship felt soulless, inert as stone.
I’m sorry, Michael,
she thought,
I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.
She dropped her face to her hands.
It was late in the day when she descended into the hull. She met Sara as the woman was closing the door to Greer’s cabin.
“How is he?”
Sara shook her head tersely: not well. “I don’t see how thing can go on much longer.” She paused, then said, “Caleb told me about the engines.”
Lore nodded halfheartedly.
“Well, let me know if I can do anything to help. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“You’re not the first to say that.”
When Lore said nothing else, Sara sighed. “See if you can get him to eat. I left a tray by his cot.”
She watched the woman move down the passageway, then quietly turned the handle and stepped inside. The air had an unwashed smell of sweat and urine and sour breath and something else, like fermenting fruit. Greer was lying faceup on his bunk with a sheet pulled to his chin, his arms lying at his sides. At first Lore thought he was dozing—he slept most of the time now—but at the sound of her entry, he rotated his face toward her.
“I wondered when I’d see you.”
Lore drew a stool to the edge of the cot. The man was a shadow of a shadow, a shell of bones. His flesh, a sickly yellow, possessed a damp, translucent appearance, like the inner layers of an onion.
“I guess you noticed,” she said.
“Hard not to.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up, okay? A lot of people are doing that, and it’s already getting old. Now, what’s this I hear about you not eating?”
“Hardly seems worth the bother.”
“Nonsense. Let’s scoot you up.”
He was too weak to rise off the mattress on his own; Lore drew him to a sitting position and wedged a pillow between his back and the bulkhead.
“All right?”
He offered a faint, courageous smile. “Never better.”
On the tray were a cup of water and a bowl of porridge, also a spoon and cloth. She draped the cloth over Greer’s chest and began to spoon the porridge into his mouth. He worked his lips and tongue hesitatingly, as if these simple actions required tremendous concentration. Still, he managed a good amount before waving her off. She wiped his chin and held the cup of water to his lips. He took a small sip; she could tell he was humoring her. She had noticed, while feeding him, a basin at the foot of the bed, stained with blood.
“Happy now?” he asked, as she put the cup aside.
She almost laughed. “What a question.”
“Michael picked you for a reason. That’s no less true now than it was thirty-nine days ago.”
Suddenly the tears came. “Oh, goddamnit, Lucius. What am I going to tell people?”
“You’re not going to tell them anything yet.”
“They’re going to figure it out. Probably a lot of them already have.”
Greer gestured to the bedside table. “Open that drawer,” he said. “The top one.”
Inside she found a single sheet of heavy paper, folded into thirds and sealed with wax. For several seconds she just looked at it, dumbfounded.
“It’s from Michael,” Greer said.
She took it in her hand. It weighed almost nothing—it was only paper—but it felt like far more; it felt like a letter from the grave. She wiped her face with the back of her wrist. “What does it say?”
“That’s between the two of you. All he told me was that you weren’t supposed to open it until we arrived at the island. His orders.”
“So why are you giving it to me now?”
“Because I think you need it. He believed in you. He believed in the
Bergensfjord.
The situation is what it is; I won’t tell you different. But things may work out yet.”
She hesitated, then said, “He told me how the passengers died. How they killed themselves, sealing the ship and channeling back the engine’s exhaust.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lore.”
“I’m only saying he knew it was a possibility. He wanted me to be ready.”
“We’re not there yet. A lot of things can happen between now and then.”
“I wish I had your faith.”
“Feel free to use mine. Or Michael’s. God knows I borrowed his lots of times. We all did. None of us would be here if we hadn’t.”
A brief silence passed.
“Tired?” Lore asked.
His eyes were heavy-lidded. “A little, yeah.”
She put her hand on his arm. “You just rest, all right? I’ll come check on you later.”
She rose and went to the door.
“Lore?”
She turned at the threshold; Greer was looking at the ceiling.
“A thousand years,” he said. “That’s how long.”
Lore waited for more but there was none. Finally she said, “I don’t understand.”
Greer swallowed. “In case Amy and the others fail. That’s how long before anybody can go back.” He took a deep breath and let the air out slowly, closing his eyes. “I’m only saying this because I might not be around to tell you later.”
She let herself into the passageway and returned to the pilothouse, where she sat at the chart table. The sky beyond the windscreen showed evening coming on. A mass of clouds, as thick and textured as wads of unspun cotton, had moved in from the south; perhaps they’d be lucky and get some rain. She watched as the sun dipped to the horizon, flaring the sky with its final light. A sudden weariness enfolded her. Poor Lucius, she thought. Poor everyone. The world could do without her for a while, she decided, and she laid her head on the table, cradling it with her arms, and soon was fast asleep.
She dreamed of many things. In one dream, she was a girl again, lost in a forest; in another, she was stuck inside a closet; in a third, she was carrying a heavy object of unknown type and could not put it down. These dreams were not pleasant, but neither were they nightmares. Each unfolded seamlessly into the next, depriving them of their full power—no climax was reached, no mortal moment of terror—and as sometimes occurred, she was also aware that she was dreaming, that the landscape she inhabited was harmlessly symbolic.
The final dream of Lore’s thirty-ninth night at sea was hardly a dream at all. She was standing in a field. All was quiet, yet she knew a danger was approaching. The color of the air began to change, first to yellow, then to green. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck rose, as if with a static charge; simultaneously, a great wind swirled up around her. She tilted her face to the sky. Clouds of black and silver had begun to form a whirlpool overhead. With a crackling explosion and a biting smell of ozone, a bolt of lightning jagged the ground in front of her, blinding her utterly.
She began to run. Sheets of rain commenced to fall as, above her, the furious, whirlpooling clouds congealed into a single, fingerlike cone. The ground was shaking, thunder crashing; trees were bursting into flames. The storm was pursuing her. It would sweep her into oblivion. As the finger touched down behind her, the air was rent by a deafening, animal roar. Its power seized her like a fist; suddenly the ground was gone. A voice, far away, was calling her name. She was lifting into the air, she was soaring higher and higher, she was being hurled off the face of the earth …
“Lore, wake up!”
Her head jerked from the table. Rand was staring at her. Why was he so wet? And why was everything moving?
“What the hell are you doing?” Rand barked. Rain and seawater were pelting against the windscreen. “We’re in real trouble here.”
As she attempted to rise from the bench, the deck heaved sideways. The door flew open with a bang, rain and wind blasting into the pilothouse. Another groan from deep within the hull and the deck began to heel in the opposite direction. Lore went tumbling, sliding down the deck and smacking into the bulkhead. For a moment it seemed that they would just keep going, but then the motion reversed. Gripping the edge of the table for balance, she fought her way upright.
“When the hell did this start?”
Rand was clutching the edge of the pilot’s seat. “About thirty minutes ago. It just whipped up from nowhere.”
They were taking the sea broadside. The lightning flashed, the heavens shook; huge waves were crashing over the rails.
“Get below and fire the engines,” she ordered.
“That’ll use the rest of our fuel.”
“No choice.” She strapped herself into the pilot seat; water was sloshing over the floor. “Without helm control, this is going to pound us to pieces. I just hope we have enough left to get through this. We’ll need all the thrust you’ve got.”
As Rand exited, Caleb appeared out of the storm. The man’s face was white as a ghost’s, whether with terror or seasickness, Lore couldn’t tell.
“Is everyone below?” she asked.
“Are you kidding me? It’s like a screaming contest down there.”
She yanked the straps tight. “This is going to be rough, Caleb. We need every hatch sealed. Tell people to tie themselves down however they can.”
He nodded grimly, turned to go.
“And shut that fucking door!”
The ship heeled into the next trough, listing at a perilous angle before rolling up the other side. With nearly all of their fuel gone, they had no ballast; it wouldn’t take much to capsize them. She looked at her watch; it was 0530. Dawn would soon be breaking.