Rachel asked anxiously, “Was there anything left of Eugene? The university? The library?”
“Nothing in the whole city. Everything had been burned.”
Rachel let her breath out wearily. “Probably firestorm from the bombs that hit Salem.”
“Must’ve been. Anyway, I realized then that I had a better chance of finding somebody alive on the coast than anywhere inland. It was a long way round and a long time traveling for me to come to that.”
Mary’s eyes were burning. “Yes, we came to the same conclusion. But we didn’t find anyone.”
“I did.”
She stared at him. “You found someone else?”
“Yes.” He shifted, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. “Two days west of Eugene, I stopped to camp, and I was laying out my bedroll when I saw two men standing by the fire. Lord help me, I had my rifle up ready to shoot before I even thought about it. That’s what those people in the Siskyous taught me. But I didn’t shoot. I went over to them and saw they were both old. At least, they looked old. I never did know how old any of them really were.”
“Any of them?” Rachel asked sharply. “How many were there?”
“Six, altogether. Three couples, husbands and wives. They lived on a farm south of the road. Before Armageddon they lived near Eugene. They were neighbors, and they stayed together when they ran away after the fires came down on the city. There’d been sixteen to begin with. The three couples, eight children, and Martin’s mother and aunt. All the children and the two elder sisters died in the Long Winter, and no babies had been bom since. They were all weak and half-sick, and I think they’d given up caring about anything. They didn’t even seem to care much about living. One of the women—her name was Ann, and I’ve never known a kinder woman—she said to me, ‘To every thing there is a time.’ Quoted me the verses from Ecclesiastes. She said that’s the way it is with life. You have to take what comes. I asked her if she believed in God and Jesus Christ, and she said… it didn’t make any difference.” Luke shook his head, bewildered still. “They were so good to me, so peaceable. But I didn’t understand their peace. Not one of them ever prayed; they never had services. Martin said once if God could let Armageddon happen, he didn’t see any reason to praise Him.”
Rachel asked, “How did you answer that?”
“Well, it was hard to answer. I mean, when I was with those people…” He pulled his shoulders up and back in an unconscious gesture Mary had noticed before. “I told Martin that Armageddon was part of God’s plan, that it meant the Second Coming. But he just smiled and went on with his work. They asked me if I wanted to stay the winter. It was the middle of December, and walking day after day in rain or snow didn’t sound so good. Besides, I knew they could use some help with the farm. So I stayed. For seventy-two days. I notched my stick every night. Two weeks before I left, Ann died. She… had a lot of pain. I helped dig her grave, and I was the only one who prayed for her, though I know the others grieved for her. I decided I had to leave; I had to keep searching. Martin told me he’d once seen smoke in the hills farther south, so I figured I’d better go see what I could find that way. Well, I wandered those hills for a couple of weeks and didn’t find any sign of people, so finally I decided to head for the coast again. The rain set in about then, and it seemed like I could never get dry or warm. I reached the coast at a town called Reedsport, but it was just like all the other towns I’d come across—half-burned, all grown over with weeds. Nobody there. By then I wasn’t feeling good, but I didn’t stop. The Lord was still guiding me, but my body wasn’t up to His guiding. I don’t remember much of the last few days. I just knew I had to keep going north. I didn’t know why.” He smiled, first at Rachel, than at Mary. “I’ve been gone from the Ark for nine months and walked over a thousand miles, and I saw nothing but desolation. The only people I found—well, in their own ways, they were crazy. But now I understand: this was God’s testing of me. He meant for me to finally come here.”
The fire had burned down to flame-licked coals, and its gilded light drew them together in a span of warm silence. At length, Rachel said, “A remarkable journey, Luke. Thank you for sharing it with us. But I think it deserves sharing with others, too.”
Luke stared at her. “What others?”
Rachel didn’t answer that. She rose, went to the mantel for one of the candles, lighted it in the coals of the fire, and took it with her when she left the room. “I’ll be right back.”
The dogs and cats stretched themselves, and Mary started to rise, but her right leg responded with a spasm of cramping. “Damn, I’ve been sitting still too long.” She looked up to find Luke standing above her, hands extended.
“Let me help you, Mary.”
She surrendered her hands to his and let him pull her to her feet. And why, she wondered, should that leave her trembling like a silly adolescent? She flexed her leg to restore the circulation. “You must be exhausted, Luke.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about me, Sister.”
“I won’t worry about you anymore—not after hearing that story.”
“It’s the story,” Rachel said as she returned, “that you must get down in writing.” She handed him one of her small, bound sketchbooks. He opened it, but couldn’t seem to make sense of the blank pages.
“There’s nothing in this book.”
“Not yet. Luke, you must put your story in it. I have a good supply of India ink, and you can use my pens.”
He still frowned at the book. “I… I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“You said it for Mary and me.”
“Yes, but that was just talking.”
“Then write it as if you were just talking.”
“But why do you want me to write it down? If anybody wants to hear it, I can tell it to them.”
“Not after you’re dead,” Rachel replied flatly. “Luke, your story is important to your people and your children and their children, to let them know what the part of the world you saw was like. If nothing else, it will warn them to stay away from the Siskyou Mountains.”
He laughed at that, then, “Well… maybe I could write it, like you said, as if I was talking to somebody, but you’ll have to help me.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Luke turned, sought in the shadows for the books on the shelves. “Did anybody else ever write anything like this?”
Rachel took up the poker and began teasing the coals of the fire together. “Thousands of people have, Luke. I don’t know offhand what I have here.” She straightened. “Well, I do have a facsimile edition of the diary of William Clark. I’ll find it tomorrow.”
“Who’s William Clark?”
“Half of Lewis and Clark.” Then when he still looked blankly at her: “Lewis and Clark were nineteenth-century explorers.” She finished banking the fire and turned the damper. “And now I’ll say good night. Morning comes early. Come on, Shadow.” She lifted the dog and put her down on the floor, then departed, the candle lighting her way, Shadow limping behind her.