Audubon gave him a dutiful smile and went back to eyeing the map. Atlantis' west coast and the east coast of North Terranova a thousand miles away put him in mind of two pieces of a world-sized jigsaw puzzle: their outlines almost fit together. The same was true for the bulge of Brazil in South Terranova and the indentation in West Africa's coastline on the other side of the Atlantic. And the shape of Atlantis' eastern coast corresponded to that of western Europe in a more general way.
What did that mean? Audubon knew he was far from the first to wonder. How could anyone who looked at a map help but wonder? Had Atlantis and Terranova been joined once upon a time? Had Africa and Brazil? How could they have been, with so much sea between? He saw no way it could be possible. Neither did anyone else. But when you looked at the map…
"Coincidence," Harris said when he mentioned it at supper.
"Maybe so." Audubon cut meat from a goose drumstick. His stomach was behaving better these days —and the seas stayed mild. "But if it is a coincidence, don't you think it's a large one?"
"World's a large place." Harris paused to take a sip of wine. "It has room in it for a large coincidence or three, don't you think?"
"Maybe so," Audubon said again, "but when you look at the maps, it seems as if those matches ought to spring from reason, not happenstance."
"Tell me how the ocean got in between them, then." Harris aimed a finger at him like a pistol barrel. "And if you say it was Noah's flood, I'll pick up that bottle of fine Bordeaux and clout you over the head with it."
"I wasn't going to say anything of the sort," Audubon replied. "Noah's flood may have washed over these lands, but I can't see how it could have washed them apart while still leaving their coastlines so much like each other."
"So it must be coincidence, then."
"I don't believe it must be anything, mon vieux," Audubon said. "I believe we don't know what it is —or, I admit, if it's anything at all. Maybe they will one day, but not now. For now, it's a puzzlement. We need puzzlements, don't you think?"
"For now, John, I need the gravy," Harris said. "Would you kindly pass it to me? Goes mighty well with the goose."
It did, too. Audubon poured some over the moist, dark meat on his plate before handing his friend the gravy boat. Harris wanted to ignore puzzlements when he could. Not Audubon. They reminded him not only of how much he—and everyone else —didn't know yet, but also of how much he —in particular—might still find out.
As much as I have time for, he thought, and took another bite of goose.
Avalon rose on six hills. The city fathers kept scouting for a seventh so they could compare their town to Rome, but there wasn't another bump to be found for miles around. The west-facing Bay of Avalon gave the city that bore its name perhaps the finest harbor in Atlantis. A century and a half before, the bay was a pirates' roost. The buccaneers swept out to plunder the Hesperian Gulf for most of a lifetime, till a British and Dutch fleet drove them back to their nest and then smoked them out of it.
City streets still remembered the swashbuckling past: Goldbeard Way7 Valjean Avenue, Cutpurse Charlie Lane. But two Atlantean steam frigates patrolled the harbor. Fishing boats, bigger merchantmen —some steamers, other sailing ships—and liners like the Maid of Orleans moved in and out. The pirates might be remembered, but they were gone.
May it not be so with the honkers. Audubon thought as the Maid of Orleans tied up at a pier. Please, God, let it not be so. He crossed himself. He didn't know if the prayer would help, but it couldn't hurt, so he sent it up for whatever it might be worth.
Harris pointed to a man coming up the pier. "Isn't that Gordon Coates?"
"It certainly is." Audubon waved to the man who published his work in Atlantis. Coates, a short, round fellow with side whiskers even bushier than Audubon's, waved back. His suit was of shiny silk; a stovepipe hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head. Audubon cupped his hands in front of his mouth. "How are you, Gordon?"
"Oh, tolerable. Maybe a bit better than tolerable," Coates replied. "So you're haring off into the wilderness again, are you?" He was a city man to the tips of his manicured fingers. The only time he went out to the countryside was to take in a horse race. He knew his ponies, too. When he bet, he won… more often than not, anyhow.
He had a couple of servants waiting with carts to take charge of the travelers' baggage. He and Audubon and Harris clasped hands and clapped one another on the back when the gangplank went down and passengers could disembark. "Where are you putting us up?" asked Harris, who always thought about things like where he would be put up. Thanks to his thoughts about such things, Audubon had stayed in some places more comfortable than those where he might have if he made his own arrangements.
"How does the Hesperian Queen sound?" Coates answered.
"Like a pirate's kept woman," Audubon answered, and the publisher sent up gales of laughter. Audubon went on, "Is it near a livery stable or a horse market? I'll want to get my animals as soon as I can." Harris let out a sigh. Audubon pretended not to hear it.
"Not too far, not too far," Coates said. Then he pointed up into the sky. "Look— an eagle! There's an omen for you, if you like."
The large, white-headed bird sailed off toward the south. Audubon knew it was likely bound for the city dump, to scavenge there. White-headed eagles had thrived since men came to Atlantis. Seeing this one secretly disappointed Audubon. He wished it were a red-crested eagle, the Atlantean national bird. But the mighty raptors—by all accounts, the largest in the world —had fallen into a steep decline along with the honkers, which were their principal prey.
"Well," he said, "the Hesperian Queen."
The last time he was in Avalon, the hotel had had another name and another owner. It had come up in the world since. So had Avalon, which was visibly bigger and visibly richer than it had been ten years —or was it twelve now?—before.
Harris noticed, too. Harris generally noticed things like that. "You do well for yourselves here," he told Gordon Coates over beefsteaks at supper.
"Not too bad, not too bad," the publisher said. "I'm about to put out a book by a chap who thinks he's written the great Atlantean novel, and he lives right here in town. I hope he's right. You never can tell."
"You don't believe it, though," Audubon said.
"Well, no," Coates admitted. "Everybody always thinks he's written the great Atlantean novel —unless he comes from Terranova or England. Sometimes even then. Mr. Hawthorne has a better chance than some —a better chance than most, I daresay—but not that much better."
"What's it called?" Harris asked.
"The Crimson Brand" Coates said. "Not a bad title, if I say so myself—and I do, because it's mine. He wanted to name it The Shores of a Different Sea" He yawned, as if to say authors were hopeless with titles. Then, pointing at Audubon, he did say it: "I'd have called your books something else, too, if they weren't also coming out in England and Terranova. Birds and Critters, maybe. Who remembers what a quadruped is, let alone a viviparous one?"
"They've done well enough with the name I gave them," Audubon said.
"Well enough, sure, but they might've done better. I could've made you big" Coates was a man with an eye for the main chance. Making Audubon big — he lingered lovingly over the word—would have made him money.