Windrider
The Navigators towered over the desert. Unmoving, enigmatic, ominous, they thrust ribbed bowls at the sky. Moonlight filled the bowls, silvered the supporting beams and struts, and touched the network of ground rails that connected the giants with each other.
They shall be a sign of my promise to you.
George hunched forward on his horse. The wind was warm and dry out of the north. The breath of the Almighty. “God is good,” he said.
Marty lowered his cowl, and reached into his saddle bag. He had to push the staff aside to get into it. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, pushed the staff back into place, and patted Bonker's neck. Then he raised the glasses to his eyes. “Amen,” he said.
There were eighty-three of them, of identical dimensions, each approximately ten stories high from its wheeled base to the highest point on the bowl. Most of the Navigators pointed in the same direction, toward the southwest, at an elevation of about thirty-two degrees. A few, out of step, looked elsewhere, two or three toward Ayer's Rock, others away to the east, one toward Hammond as if it were contemplating him. Several had collapsed into the dry earth.
George could almost feel the presence of the Almighty. Iris is gone to look for Eden. The Navigators showed her the way, as they shall one day show the way for you.
“'There was a time when we sailed the twilight,'” said Marty, smiling at him, citing the line that was one of George's favorites.
George responded: “'And the greatest of those who rode the wind was Iris.'” They slowed and stopped. “It's always good to come here.”
Marty moved in the saddle, and made a face. He was no longer young, and his muscles did not like long rides. He sighed and handed the glasses to George. “It is. And maybe tonight the old promise will be fulfilled.” The wind pulled at his white hair.
George knew he didn't really believe that. Not for a second. He looked through the binoculars. The great sentinels stood silently. “God in his own good time,” he said. And when the sun grew deadly, Iris fled beyond the sea, to find a green, cool land.
Marty frowned. “Let's hope so,” he said.
“You don't believe a word of it.”
“Wish I could.”
“Even with the evidence in front of your eyes.”
“George, just because you have a mystery that doesn't lend itself to easy explanation, you can't assign it to divine intervention.”
“What else could explain them? Where do you think they came from?”
“Where'd the Melbourne Tavern come from? Somebody built them.”
Marty was small and intense with angular features and a long nose and a tendency to scoff at everything. It was a bit unnerving to be out here with a guy who didn't hesitate to challenge the divine powers, who made no secret of his views. When the lightning came, George hoped he'd be at a safe distance.
“Truth is,” Marty continued, raising his voice to get over the wind, “I suspect there never was an Iris, and there's no land except this one.”
They were walking the horses forward. “But they've moved, Marty. How do you explain that?”
“Who says?”
“Everybody.”
Marty laughed. “Well, maybe we'll find out today.”
George felt the sting of his partner's skepticism. He looked around. The land was cold and dark. A few hills rose in the west. “It's been a long night,” he said. “You want to quit until tomorrow?”
Marty stretched. “We're right on top of them. Let's go settle it.”
George wished, in this region, he'd keep his voice down. It wasn't respectful. “Okay,” he said. “If you're up to it.” He knew that Marty didn't like being reminded of his age.
They rode toward the nearest Navigator. George felt the power of God in its enigmatic lines, allowed it to flow through him. Iris, pilot of the Almighty, show me the way. The childhood prayer, grown mechanical by usage, had a special meaning here, in this ultimate sanctuary.
Its base was a thick flared shaft, enclosed by steel mesh and crossbeams. Marty rode directly up to it, reached out, and touched it. “It's been a long time,” he said.
“Does anything look different?” George asked.
“Not as far as I can tell.”
Most of the bowls were at the same angle, and those that were at the same angle also pointed in the same direction. A few were out of step, tilted up or down. One had been knocked off its base altogether.
Marty looked up at the Navigator. He shook his head and made faces and rode back a few yards and came forward again. Then he rode around the base, studying the bowl from all angles.
“What do you think?”
“I don't know,” he said. He climbed down from the horse, and pulled a binder full of pages from his saddle bag. He set it on the ground, near the base where it was sheltered from the wind.
“George ??” he said.
But George was already unhooking the lamp. He touched a match to it, settled the glass back in place, and held it to give Marty some light.
Marty got down on his knees, flipped pages in the binder, found what he wanted, and took a straight edge out of his pocket. He laid it against the paper. Then he shook his head, looked up at the Navigator, and backed off a few paces. With George at his side, carrying the lamp, he circled the Navigator again, a few feet farther out this time, alternately raising and lowering his eyes. “Very good,” he said. He rummaged in his saddlebag and produced a writing board and more paper. “Be easier to do this in daylight,” he said.
“Keep going,” George urged. “Let's find out.”
The binder contained sketches of the Navigators, made years ago when Marty had been here with Josh Cooper. Cooper had always said he knew what the Navigators were, but if he did he forgot to tell anybody.
Marty looked at the drawings, looked at the Navigator.
“What do you think?” asked George.
Marty shook his head. “Don't know yet.” He untied the staff from the horse. It had a sighting device at one end and a sharp point at the other. He walked off thirty paces, and planted the staff in the earth. George stayed with him. Marty checked the angle of the bowl against the line of the base. He compared the angle against the horizon. And against the small building at the far edge of the field. The place they called the Chapel. He wrote down all the results and went back to compare them with the drawings. Then he raised a fist in triumph. “It's true,” he said. “It has moved.”
George sank to his knees.
“How about that?” said Marty. Breathlessly, he paged through his charts, and laid more rods around the area.
George's own faith had lapsed in recent years, although he had never admitted it to anyone. Now, he felt the full power and thrust of its return. It flooded through him, and tears welled in his eyes. “Do you mean,” he said, when he could trust his voice, “that it has moved on the track?”
“Oh, no, I don't think so, George.” He was pacing off the distances between his markers. “Nothing has traveled on these rails for a long time. But the bowl has changed its position. Its angle. It's looking higher in the sky than it was the last time I was here. And it's turned more to the north.” He bent down to take a line of sight. “Yes, there's no doubt about it.” He marched from staff to staff, squinting and drawing lines on his writing board. “Very good,” he told himself. And, “Yes, of course. Has to be.” He sat down periodically and re-examined the binder. He prowled in circles. He stood tapping his pencil on the writing board. When he'd finished, he put everything back on the horse. Then he clasped George by his shoulders and squeezed, and George saw that his cheeks were wet. “Yes,” he said, squeezing out the final consonant.