Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

For a week I waited off the coast for Mara, taking daily trips back in, to watch the campus through binoculars. I knew my birds were wandering in search of food, deprived of the steady diet I had supplied. Bobbing up and down, I could not focus well through the lenses, but even from so far across the water I could feel the advancing presence of the medium.

I caught no sight of Mara. If she had made it back from Peter's house I would have seen her. Finally, I gave up hope of her rejoining me there. My supplies were gone, and since it did not seem advisable to land again in that dense area of control, I sailed north to find the strip of land where we had planned to meet if she encountered some delay.

Once the wealthy had lived there, just up the coast from the city. Their houses stood magnificent and deserted, huge beamed and shingled castles in the marshland, with windows all uncurtained, and fireplaces that once had roared on summer nights.

Not now. But I found shelter, and driftwood to burn. There was even food, in cans, still edible after all these years, and I ate wild tomatoes from a greenhouse. Libraries had been common when those houses had been built, and as the winter progressed and Mara still did not arrive, I read from the great men of thought.

The closest stars shine brightest, but what have these beacons truly shown us? Once upon a time, we were God's chosen people and our home the center of the universe. We had souls instead of an unconscious. Darwin, Freud, Copernicus, what is left of us? Another random species in the corner of some galaxy, not even able to decipher our own thoughts.

These books did keep me busy for a while, though. Waiting, I spent the thawing days of spring in quiet self-sufficiency. While searching though one office I discovered an old set of notebooks, bound and empty, in a leather satchel. For some reason I decided to keep them with me, although it wasn't until months later at sea that I began to write.

Often, I wandered down to the beach, where the coastline bared its bones, and the ocean's tranquil patterns pulled me out to trace the clouds. I longed for company.

On one such expedition I uncovered a large wooden shed rotting in the grass up from the beach. The plums and briars had all but buried it, but pulling them aside I forced the old door off its hinges. Inside was a sailboat, in surprisingly good condition. Fashioned after an Eskimo design, it had three hulls. The tiny cabin had little room for provisions, but the sails were in a bag and still intact.

I dragged the boat down to the water and managed to figure out how to sail it. Fast and light, it had one great advantage over my own little skiff. It needed no fuel.

Mara had not come, and I had waited far too long for Tarni's wingscoop still to be at the plantation. As I write now, I know that Sand and Tarni left Backdoor after our message reached them, and did indeed come to pick up Mara. But that spring on the beach, I only knew that I would never rest without finding out Mara's fate. That is my feeling still. I can only hope the whales will soon unveil her whereabouts, that I might find her. During the days I practiced sailing, and built a larger cabin on the boat. At night, I read. Then, one evening in early spring, dozing by the fire with my books and dreams to keep me company, I looked out a window. What I saw had me running outside before I knew it.

The Aurora Borealis pulled its drizzling veils of color across the stars. The northern lights. When Backdoor had been active, the silent displays had followed every departure. Since the town was closed, there had been none this spectacular so far south. It meant the anchor had touched bottom once again. The loophole had been navigated. But who had gone?

It was less than a week afterwards that the whales came, swimming past my cliff, hundreds of them, bellowing and whistling. It had been years since they had let me contact them. I watched them for most of the day, and then gathered my belongings and walked down to the sailboat.

The whales were everywhere, all sizes and species. They gathered quickly around me, and in the splashing frenzy I felt strangely welcome. It seemed for the first time in many weeks, that I was not alone.

One small dolphin carried something in its mouth. I have seen it many times since then, but still I don't know what it is. I can only describe it. It looks like a large piece of jewelry, with legs. A single gem a foot across, with complex facets symmetrical and brilliant, held by a silvery setting with long legs that fold and unfold from between the dolphin's teeth, almost as if to wave at me.

Even now,they will not let me touch it. They carry their possession like a passenger, this strange mixed pod of whales and dolphins. I have followed their migration northward ever since, hoping to learn the fate of Mara and the others. For the whales do have the story. Bit by bit I gather it, recording everything I can in these old notebooks, on the lines of these old pages.

The summer is now all but passed on into fall. Since the newborn year has thawed, I have not once gone back to land. The aging year will freeze much sooner at these latitudes. Still, I sail northward, trusting my companions. At first I used the simultron to reach them, but now their story finds me even without it. There is no need for the simultron anymore. If I am crazy then at least I must be a creative lunatic, for the story is appearing on its own. If I am sane, then my channel to the whales has found a medium beyond that of the simultron.

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