Arc

Chapter 1

I am the last of my kind. Whether I can be called the last hope for humanity is another matter. For now I am simply a chronicler.

Innumerable causes inspire me to begin this narrative. I will not mention the trivial, obvious, or other bases that will become apparent in the narrative. And I'll admit there are some motives I may not wish to reveal, at least not yet.

A less manifest cause, although perhaps inferential for some, is that I have more knowledge, by far, than anyone else on Earth, or as everyone else calls this moribund place, Arc. I'm the only one who understands why Arc exists, why people are here, and why the world is in its present situation, which I must say, is grim.

I admit, too, that I feel a certain urgency to do this because of the condition of my mind, short-term memory especially. I hesitate to say more about that for now except to point out that there is the suggestion of urgency in that.

Perhaps more than any other reason, I made a promise a long, long time ago. I never, before or since, felt the need to keep a promise in all my hundred or so years. Now I do, for this one and only this one thing.

Over the decades, and long before I found myself marooned on this island, I read many books, letters, diaries, and such, most no one alive has ever seen. Many of the texts are long defunct, sometimes because of me. Others had their own reasons for doing away with knowledge. It seemed like a good idea when I did it. Now I think not.

I am not a selfish person, nor egotistical, nor am I greedy. I don't think I'm guilty of any of the petty, day-to-day peccadilloes. So am I a disinterested observer? Maybe.

I'll admit I don't really care much about anyone or anything else. Scorn towards me accounts for little, really, whether justified or not. My obligations are much deeper than such superficialities and are far more complex than the moralistic platitudes of dead religions.

I don't ever expect to be punished for being prideful nor for any other presumed negative affectation. I've been punished a right fair amount as it is, I'd say: my exile here, alone, and for so long, for one set most palpable. Innumerable others, some even more egregious, queue behind those most recent.

Enough of this pointless musing on ethics. I could start this chronicle from any number of places. I will not do much more than keep myself alive whilst I proceed in this undertaking. If I don't get this down quickly, the stories could be gone in a blink.

I think I will begin at a time hundreds of years ago, right before Arc came into being. Yes, there was a time when this place did not exist. We need a context for what is, what will be, and what has been, and origin will provide some context.

This LaMiel character kept good diaries. His were some of those texts that are long gone now. I committed much of the better prose to memory.

A side note. No one but me knows what an airplane is, or was, rather. Suffice to say it was a device in which people flew through the air, if that simple fact can't be gleaned from the narrative. Nevertheless, LaMiel sat in an aircraft at the beginning of this story.

Albert LaMiel looked out the small window then at the images on the glossy paper in his trembling hands. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw from the aircraft's windows or in the photocopies. He had been far away for a long time, maybe intentionally. LaMiel had an excellent understanding of world geography but the coastlines in the satellite images were so changed that even the continents were unrecognizable.

From the window at sunrise he could see vast equatorial forests below, only dead brown. They were over northern South America by this point in the journey. The rainforest was gone, just gone.

He handed the photocopies back to the U.S. Marine colonel who sat across from him. He had not said much more than his name since the trip began, which was Paul Gaffney. LaMiel called him Colonel Gaffney or sir as often as he could. A tall, thin, man still obviously quick and strong and intimidating, despite his age, LaMiel guessed about sixty. The officer's gun metal gray hair was cut close to the bone and he never smiled, at least had not yet for LaMiel. The colonel was probably suspicious of scientists, or maybe he thought the view and the papers told enough and needed no commentary. LaMiel had many questions, but was far too cautious to start a conversation, especially given his accent, subtle but still apparent despite his years away from home.

You don't look French, was a phrase he had heard far too often, as he had on boarding the plane several hours before at Mawson Station in northeastern Antarctica, although the colonel had not been the culprit. The remark seemed innocent enough, even when followed by a self-indulgent chuckle. LaMiel had always transformed his resentment into diffidence since the comment made some sense. His Celtic French heritage meant he did not look like the stereotypical Frenchman, except for his large bent Gallic nose. They only noticed his discordant traits: rangy arms and legs, red headed, and freckled. Someone would usually ask him how his tall ancestors had survived the Napoleonic wars, smiling at him because they had thought of something original to say to someone with too much education. He usually tried to laugh to make them feel good about themselves, and he never mentioned how often he had heard the comment.

LaMiel had no idea why he had been chosen for this mission. He did not expect to be able to convince anybody of anything. The U.S. President had insisted they send only one representative. LaMiel was as articulate as others who might have gone, and he had a clear idea of what they wanted, those were reasons enough. His conciliatory and non-confrontational demeanor made him the best candidate in the opinion of some. He was not sure if his personality was at all endearing to the colonel.

The Marine officer’s voice startled him when he finally began talking about what they could or couldn’t see from the aircraft windows.

That’s from radioactive fallout, sir... the dead trees... from the Sub-Continental War, at least, what the flooding hadn't killed first. He sat straight and stiff as he had the whole journey, hardly moving as he spoke, with no hand gestures, his palms flat on his knees, long arms straight, and there was no change in his facial expression. His accent was faintly of the southern plains. The colonel continued.

The war disseminated rapidly. Hopefully it’s contained now. Once the Arab states engaged the devastation consumed really all of North Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. Now the fallout is deployed in a swath hundreds of miles wide centered just above the Equator, killing more each time it circles the globe. LaMiel waited before asking any questions. Then offered the first that came to mind.

How many nukes? How did it start?

Not as many as you might think, Gaffney said. But one’s enough, isn’t it? The nuclear super-powers failed to launch. Some wanted too... I reckon that's good or bad... depending on your perspective. LaMiel noticed the colonel's diction had become more informal. Maybe it meant he was less suspicious of him. Gaffney continued, still looking at LaMiel, as if giving a battlefield report to a commander.

The Pakistanis blamed terrorist organizations for the first detonation. All that mattered is that Mumbai had disappeared in one blast. The CIA confirmed that the radiation signature was Pakistani. They denied it... deny it still, what's left of 'em. Of course, the Indians aimed all their weapons at the Pakistanis. We’ll never know how it started, exactly. Can't say if it matters. Could be a terrorist group had stolen the weapon, who knows? But whatever, they both emptied their arsenals at each other and every old enemy they could think of and lobbed a few more here and there for good measure. It's an easy sort of diplomacy once you get started with it... Then the Israelis got involved, really thought they had no choice once they were bombed. There’s nothing left to fight over in the Holy Land anymore. All together, NORAD catalogued more than twenty detonations, mostly aerial and very effective, over major population centers. LaMiel thought he should be sobbing. Everyone expected problems from global warming to precipitate other crises but no one could imagine the particulars, especially not LaMiel and his colleagues, isolated for so long on the planet's margins. The colonel kept at it, evidently needing to be shriven, as though as a soldier he might have done something to prevent the wars.

The President pleaded with those involved, nothing. NATO was helpless too. They’ve got their own problems anyway. Thousands of refugees are fleeing southern Europe every day, mostly headed north, those that survived the fallout. Our intelligence proved shoddy too. Egypt had the bomb, no one knew that... so did Indonesia for God's sake.

Are any governments left? LaMiel asked.

Japan is fairly stable. Islands seem to do best, if they've got a little high ground... They sink everything that gets near. Can't blame 'em, I reckon I'd do the same. Must expect a nuke themselves any day. The British government has relocated to the rural Scottish Highlands. England, what’s left of it after the flooding and the plague, or whatever it was, is a bunch of gang hideouts. The situation’s really bad on continents, like in China. Much of their cropland is flooded, rivers have backed up, some clogged with rafts of corpses... livestock and humans... been raining in sheets some places for weeks on end... others are dry as the panhandle. Small wars are going on all over, many with sticks and stones, but effectively still, and over just the basic means of survival. People will kill just to groan for a few more days. LaMiel waited a few minutes before speaking.

Yes, we heard about the bubonic plague, and others, and some of the conflicts, just not many details... before we lost all our radio station broadcasts, the real ones... about two years ago now. We get a few satellite feeds, what we can pick up at the Antarctic Circle... not much really... mostly from lunatic warlords. Usually not worth listening to.

There’s no shortage of those guys. Sometimes they provide a little stability. But it’s only a matter of time before their people turn on them too. Even the biggest enclaves are failing. No one’s going to follow anyone who can’t provide a few basic needs, and not many people can do that for long anymore.

But we’re going to see the U.S. government now. It’s functioning? LaMiel still held out some hope for survival and recovery, on some scale, but the whole point of his project was based on the most pessimistic outlook. The colonel looked at him and nodded gravely.

That’s right. But there’s not much productive capacity left, anywhere. We’ll all run out of supplies. It’s over. The co-pilot emerged from behind the cockpit door.

We’re going to divert course again, due west, he said. We’ll be running from the dawn for a while before we head back north.

Another toxic cloud? the colonel asked, his tone somber and resigned rather than inquisitive.

No, this one’s a storm. Been more and more of these lately. It’s as big as the Gulf of Mexico, would fill it if the original gulf were still there. We’ll have to fly over land. My advice is to not look down. He popped back into the cockpit.

Before now, LaMiel had stared down at empty ocean mostly, mourning the drowned cities where millions of inhabitants had once lived. He wondered if he even cared whether the President approved the Mawson plan. What was the use of trying to survive in a world so devastated that everything you held dear was gone? And who could imagine humanity's survival depending on a few egghead scientists in Antarctica?

As the plane banked west, LaMiel resisted the temptation to look at the ruins below for as long as he could. He caught a few glimpses of what had been countries, in a lengthy dawn as they flew ahead of the sunrise, few lights other than fires across Mexico. Then they turned north, in full daylight, where the American southwest looked to be in a similar state of apocalypse.

Dark thoughts stalked LaMiel through the long hours until the plane landed at a makeshift military base near Denver. He was hustled into a waiting helicopter that flew him to a landing pad on top of the former Bank of America building now serving as the nation's seat of executive power, what Gaffney had called the Pent-Up-White House. The colonel escorted LaMiel, unshaven and still wearing his scruffy, smelly Antarctic clothes, to the President of the United States. His office and living quarters were on the top floor, the penthouse suite.

President Jon Amundson was seated at a large oak desk, his gangly arms folded across his ample belly and his long legs stretched out to the side, looking out a large window to his right. He turned his head when LaMiel and the colonel entered. The President had clear blue eyes and sandy hair, gray at the temples. He had aged fast in recent years; what were once dimples were now deep grooves gripping his mouth. An aide, another Marine, seated LaMiel in a comfortable chair and brought him a cup of hot coffee. He was amazed at how different it was from the ersatz beverage back at the station. He wondered if this was good news about D.C. in Denver, decent coffee being a sign of thriving civilization to LaMiel.

The President was up in an instant, moving much faster than LaMiel expected, offered his hand briefly, then backed away, never taking his eyes off his guest, and sat again, twisting back and forth a few times in his chair as if to test the bearings. The President didn't bother with pleasantries. As soon as the aide with the coffee left the room, Amundson spoke.

Young man, you look like you might have some questions for me. I’ve seen that expression on many a face lately. LaMiel blushed realizing that he might still look stunned from what he witnessed on the journey.

I… no… Mr. President, LaMiel said. In spite of all that had happened he was still uncomfortable asserting himself. The colonel told me some. Is it really over? Are we done for?

I don’t know, Amundson said. I just don’t know. We’ll hang on here as long as we can. Try to build some kind of economy from snips and scraps but I have to tell you, I’m not optimistic. Another aide entered, also uniformed, rushed to the President’s side, and whispered in his ear. Amundson shook his head slowly and frowned. He stared at the aide for a moment, his expression like a marble lion.

Send whatever you can, he said to the aide, and bobbed his head once. LaMiel stared as the man left. The President spoke in the long drawl of his home state of Arkansas, which made him sound a little backward to LaMiel's academic ears, but he knew Amundson had graduated first in his class at Brown and was a former Fulbright scholar.

You probably saw the storm, Amundson said, his voice neutral. LaMiel nodded. He had trouble believing a single hurricane could fill the Gulf of Mexico. The President continued. We’ve had several like that this season. This one’ll hit Chicago and Minneapolis... not the first they've seen. It's on top of Arkansas already... he gestured towards the back of the retreating aide, suggesting the interruption had to do with the President's home state.

Amundson continued: it’s an island in the middle of a warm, shallow sea. A good ol’ boy I knew once is running things down there. Not sure I know him anymore. We can’t help anyone much anyway. And Arkansas Island keeps getting smaller. The amount of erosion just one of these monster storms can bring is astonishing, just astonishing. They've pounded away, year after year now. The rivers on the plains became lakes, then seas, now a lot of it's practically an ocean, like when there were dinosaurs here, I've been told, but not good for much. We're the dinosaurs now... it seems. Anything else I can tell you? LaMiel opened his mouth to speak but then closed it. He couldn’t think and didn’t know what he wanted to know. He couldn’t imagine any worse news. He found it odd the President of the United States was briefing him, but he hoped it meant he saw LaMiel as someone with a plan and needed to be indulged. The President offered more details.

I know you've been cut off down there in the Antarctic... seems like you've had plenty of time for reflection with what I've heard... but I suppose you've got a few radios or something like that, a way to reach us anyway. But there's no real news anymore anyway. He stuck a thumb out at the colonel. And I know you might as well have traveled with crate of cut nails if you wanted any details. The colonel did not react. Amundson chuckled. Of course, everybody's pretty tight-lipped... except for me. Then his face set like concrete, and in a similar gray color, perhaps preparing for more disturbing revelations.

The President seemed to be trying to make a case for the Antarctic project for LaMiel. Maybe the President was saying all this as explanation for why he would not or could not support the plan, instead of why he should. Regardless of his intentions, Amundson kept at it.

All the major coastal cities are gone... as you probably knew... New York, Miami, LA, of course, all of Florida, really. And that’s just in the States. We’re one of the lucky countries, at least up here, as far as fallout and toxins go. Anyway, we got out as many as we could. There’re a few thousand here with us in the mountains, more arrive every day. We can’t get into most places what with the gangs, thugs, and warlords. Not that there’s many people left to rescue. He kept eye contact with LaMiel and paused long enough to suggest he welcomed a question.

So there’s not much hope?

When the inland cities became crowded with refugees we thought we might be able to restore order, but there just wasn’t enough food. With coastal plains flooded we can’t grow much more... way too much rain in one place, not nearly enough in another. Add the diseases, and now the radioactive fallout is on its way… We regrouped here, seems pretty stable; help all we can, when we can… We need something else. I hear you crazy scientists have come up with some nut-job plan to create a new civilization in Antarctica. You want to tell me more about this knuckle-headed idea?

Three hours later, Amundson was still listening and LaMiel’s throat was sore from talking; he had not expected the President to press him for so long and ask for so much detail. Finally, Amundson ran out of questions. LaMiel was amazed at how much the President knew about science, he always seemed so folksy on TV. There were so many variables it was impossible to give even a wild assessment of their chances of success long term. LaMiel told the President early in the conversation that the most likely outcome of the project was that the colonists would get a few more years of life than most of the world's people. He made no promises about saving humanity.

President Amundson stood up and stretched, then walked to the window and stared out over the city to the Rocky Mountains, a framed postcard despite what they knew was beyond. He seemed in deep thought. LaMiel stood, hesitated a moment, and then joined him. The President startled him by speaking without looking his way.

No one has ever seen them completely free of snow until a few years ago. LaMiel noticed some terracing equipment that clung to the edges at the lower elevations, puffs of smoke marking their progress. Maybe they could grow some grain there, certainly vegetables anyway, and there must have been other plots in and around Denver. Would it be enough to sustain a society and could they stave off other threats? The President must have been calculating the odds, so LaMiel did not disturb him.

Amundson stood there for at least ten minutes, swaying slightly. The pioneer scientist waited by his side. If the President's answer was no, he'd be disappointed but not devastated. The colony idea had been a long shot. The best LaMiel could predict was that only insects and smaller creatures would mutate quickly enough to survive anywhere else.

He thought of the Save the Planet bumper stickers of his youth. Even then, he'd realized that the planet itself was not at risk from man's foibles. Earth would keep orbiting the sun for millions of years, barring some quirk of the galaxy. Millennia from now, maybe sooner, new life forms would emerge, evolve and repopulate the air and land and seas. Maybe even intelligent life, in a few million years, the thought was humorous. What good had thinking done them? They thought themselves into the disasters.

Some suppose we aren’t meant to survive, LaMiel said, venturing a comment.

Yes, young man, it does seem like the planet has whipped out a big old bottle of Lice Rid and is determined to remove a dangerous infestation... us.

There’s been much pondering over the meaning of life at Mawson Station, LaMiel said. But we've decided the Australian settlement will be the nucleus of a new civilization... and we are committed. We chose to be optimistic pioneers, nits and parasites though we may be. He turned back towards his chair, something of a sanctuary now, to let the President finish his contemplation.

President Amundson finally left the window. He walked towards LaMiel and then came to a stop behind his desk. LaMiel sat. After several minutes of staring at a spot in the distance behind LaMiel, the President spoke, still standing.

I’m going to approve your crazy expedition and get you set up down there soon as possible with enough of whatever you need to keep you going for the next twenty years or so. After that, you'll be on your own. Might as well send it to a few hundred souls in Antarctica instead of ravaged American cities. Like you say, the isolation might protect y'all longer, from toxins or warlords or whatever. We've stopped trying to guess what would come next. We can’t provide nearly enough for anybody else anyway and most of it gets wasted, especially anything you might use over the long term, what with the fighting. People just eat the seeds as quick as they can, use the hoes and shovels to kill each other. We've hoarded a lot of other stuff too... meant to rebuild something... somewhere. We never did really know where for sure. He sighed and tapped the desk blotter with his index finger. Most everything is at our military bases... The colonel will fly you around. You can make a shopping list if you want, or just see what we've got, mark what you think you can use. Then I'll have a few of our C-130's bring it all down... while we still can.

The President came around his desk and perched on the corner, one foot on the floor, the other swinging like a sand wedge. He cleared his throat. His eyes were steady as he looked at LaMiel, who had no idea what was coming next.

Now, I’m fixing to ask you for a favor, young man. But I want you to know, you’ll get your pioneer colony even if you turn me down. He paused for a moment and collected himself, seeming to make a final decision on an important matter of national interest. I want you to take my little girl along with you.

The President’s daughter, a pretty, reluctant darling of big media in the days when big media still existed, was twenty-four, hardly a little girl anymore. LaMiel figured she had a right to be cynical towards the public, since nobody seemed to really care about her, or her interests, and instead focused on her fashion sense, whether she wore the right color shoes to this or that function, or what pet she might choose next.

After her father was elected she had not appeared often in public. She was said to be shy, most unlike her politician parents. She’d been a student at the Peabody Institute for Music in Baltimore when the catastrophes began--as conditions worsened and everything shut down she’d joined her parents in Denver.

LaMiel looked at President Amundson’s eyes, seeing the deep sadness there. The President knew without doubt that humanity as they knew it was doomed. But to send his only child to Antarctica, knowing he and his wife would never see her again, was almost beyond LaMiel’s understanding. Most people wanted to stay closer than ever to their nearest and dearest now. But this scientist was not a parent.

Mr. President, you understand that our chances are...

The President cut him off. Of course I do. But the way I see it, your colony at Mawson is about the only idea anybody’s come up with that isn’t crazier than bats in a beehive. As you may have heard... even from way down there in the Antarctic, some of our esteemed members of Congress are still advocatin’ loading up a bunch of people onto rockets and blasting ‘em into space to find other planets to colonize. He looked at the floor, as if he could see the politicians scheming on the floors below. They’ve already got thousands signed up, ready to go, mind you. Others are trying to genetically engineer humans, plants, even livestock that can survive in this mess, maybe resist the toxins, the radiation. Not many people ever cared much for GMOs... and that was just feed crops and such... but people, chickens, cows... who knows what'll come of that, some sort of Frankenstein crap, I suppose. We need something else, something realistic, down to earth, maybe way down.

Amundson paused and squinted his eyes and rubbed his chin as though it itched, in a gesture that millions, even LaMiel, had seen countless times on television. Satellite television in the Antarctic had been unreliable even when the President first took office, but they had occasionally picked up programs before all the stations went off the air.

I’d like our girl to have a chance, no matter how small, the President said. She didn’t get much from me or her mother while she was growin' up. We were too busy runnin' for public office, whatever good that did. I’d like to think she’d be an asset to the colony. She’s smart, she’s talented, she isn’t afraid of hard work or rough conditions. And, growin' up the way she did, she knows how to get along with just about anybody.

I'm sure, sir, yes, of course.

I tell you young man, I'm glad I asked for you, and only you. Can't stand loud committees. Can't say I'm happy sending my girl off with a Yellow Jacket though, the President laughed, stood, reached out and slapped LaMiel on the shoulder, but I don't suppose I can remember when they played the Razorbacks last... can you?

No, sir... President Amundson, I... uh... can't recall. LaMiel did not want to admit his ignorance of American football. He had suffered through a few games with friends and colleagues, not understanding very much, At Grant Field near Georgia Tech in Atlanta where he had finished his graduate training. Soon after, people stopped playing team sports. Halfway through the first game he learned how to watch the crowd and enjoy their reactions.

The deal was closed and LaMiel spent the next few weeks flying around on well-guarded transport planes, to heavily fortified military bases, back to Denver several times for meetings, sometimes with the President and First Lady, then out again, requisitioning supplies from numerous government warehouses all over North America. The last stop was Denver.

LaMiel stepped off the cargo plane and was surprised to see the President and First Lady, Sonia, as he was supposed to call her now, along with their daughter Joan waiting for him. He hoped he was not in for another tea, although he did not dislike the First Lady's company, she just made him uncomfortable. She had insisted on meeting him before, once she agreed to her husband's plan for their daughter, and LaMiel often felt like a young suitor being screened by overprotective parents, in a way, he supposed he was, but he had yet to meet their daughter until now. He assumed there would be no tea party on the tarmac. There was an urgency about the scene and the President had never greeted him at the airport.

The youngest Amundson looked unhappy. Most of her blond hair was stuffed under a navy watch cap, with little care for how it might appear, and she did not look up, just kept her arms crossed tight in front of her, as though she were trying to squeeze herself out of her oversized black wool coat. Her parents were pretending to be unconcerned. More than a dozen armed men, mostly Marines, others in plainclothes, stood nearby, appearing ready for something, LaMiel hated to imagine what. None of the men or soldiers looked at him. He noticed Colonel Gaffney, who had not been with him on his last flight because of some new crisis. The colonel was the aide nearest the President but still several meters away, giving the family plenty of room. The colonel acknowledged LaMiel’s faint smile with a nearly imperceptible nod.

The President offered his hand, which LaMiel shook, and the First Lady did the same. As you probably figured out, Amundson said, this is our little girl. LaMiel put out his hand. Joan Amundson took his offering briefly but didn’t make eye contact. She set her jaw and looked straight ahead avoiding the eyes of both her parents too. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. The lining around her eyes was red. Then she looked down and squeezed the olive duffel bag between her knees.

Could I have a word with you Mr. President? LaMiel asked.

Of course young man. The President stepped towards the loading ramp of the transport jet where the noise of the engines would obscure their dialog.

LaMiel begged the President and the First Lady to come along, to be a part of the Antarctic colony. By that time, he’d gotten to know the President well enough to respect him as a leader and to like him as a human being, even though he’d disagreed with most of his policy decisions before the catastrophe, but now he was a founder of the colony. The same went for Sonia Amundson, although she did tend to be a little overwhelming to someone who spent most of his life swathed in thick layers of clothing at the bottom of the world, rarely shaving or even combing his hair. His world was a long way from the circles where the rather formal First Lady normally moved. The President turned him down, as LaMiel had thought he would.

Amundson said: you know the old saying about the captain and the first mate going down with the ship. Me and my first mate have talked all this over. I won’t leave the office, even though I’m as useless as a pecker on a pinecone, and Sonia won’t leave me. Our girl's not too happy about us staying but she’s smart. She knows it would kill her mother and me for us to have to watch her die. Or to know she’d have to see us go. That had been their final meeting. When LaMiel and the President turned back to the others, Joan had already boarded the plane.

A popular saying from The Books of Arc, Volume II

Chapter 2

LaMiel's trip was 585 years ago. I still don't know what to make of him after all these years of having him infest my head, that is, whether he and the others did the right thing or not. We shall see.

In some ways, I know him better than I know the present day inhabitants of Arc. But how well can we really know anyone? Conceivably, I am in a better position to know people present or past than anyone alive.

I have spies everywhere in Arc. None of them know much beyond their own tiny sphere. It's amazing, really, how little they know. They do provide me with a great deal of information, even if all from their own narrow and usually biased perspectives.

Maybe that's a problem for me right now, too much information, and too much filled with judgments I don't care about and often disdain. Perhaps if I knew more about the past it would be as confusing as what my informants send me about the present.

The pile of missives and jars of letters in my tiny thatch hut only grows larger. So much of it is drek, useless detail, and I imagine there is much that never reaches my small, sandy shore, given the modes of transmission.

Despite how much I hate this island, and how much nonsense I must sift through, I would be far worse off if I had to gather information myself. I hope to leave eventually, true, but until then, I will rely on whatever arrives and do my best to compile what I have into a reasonably comprehensible form.

So, to continue, I think Arc's story is the sum of its numerous lives, some more important than others, a few, very important. The present day is the most critical, I feel. As I've said, this is a grave time for the world, so in my narrative I will put my focus here and now, LaMiel's new beginning aside, which we will have occasion to revisit, surely.

I have decided to follow only a few individuals who I believe are key to Arc's future, whatever that may be. I will reemphasize that I can't imagine, predict, or even influence the future to any great degree. Of course I will do all I can in regards to the latter, this chronicle being no small part of that.

Lately I have tried to sort through all the information I have and tweeze out what is necessary and what is not. It has also allowed me to devise a set of questions to put to my informants. Thus, I expect to receive more pertinent information in the future, once I can communicate better with my sources.

They generally fear me, fools, and will not venture to meet me face to face. I think they wish to maintain my isolation as well. Maybe they are not so foolish then. But most still think I possess supernatural powers, so idiots after all.

Anyway, I know of a young man who may move the course of events a great deal. He would not fear me and he is far from idiocy. I have a report that floated in only yesterday from one of my better spies who actually does more than observe.

The events occurred just a few days ago, 400 kilometers south of here. This informant will prove very useful indeed.

Jonamiel stood on a rock in the middle of the river, a coil of rope in his right hand, a lasso in his left. The giant fish twisted and turned, wrinkling the water's surface as it made its way upstream toward where Jonamiel stood.

His heartbeat quickened as the fish entered the engineered section of the river. Here it was forced to surface more often in the shallow, fast-moving water. His kinsmen had placed barriers in this section of the Climbing River generations ago to make fishing easier. This was their tribal fishing grounds.

Long, diagonal weirs jutted out from each bank, pointing upstream and narrowing the channel in the center to about a meter. The water piled up behind the dams, then rushed around the opening at the top, or topped the weir in low spots. Any fish swimming upstream were forced into the narrow channel where the speed of the constrained current slowed their progress and made them easier to catch. Sturgeon, especially the larger ones, didn’t respond to hooks.

Jonamiel's people, long before he was born, had also made the river shallower between the weirs, making the water even swifter compelling the fish to surface more often. Sturgeon fishing had become a popular sport in recent generations. The men of Amundsal all competed to catch the biggest.

Jonamiel jumped from his rock to the left wing of the weir when he saw the huge fish change course. Instinctively it sought the safety of the deepest water. Jonamiel’s arm muscles were cramping; he’d held them too long in the same position. He stretched and rolled his shoulders but his eyes never left the fish. It surfaced, showing a third of its body. This one could easily top four meters. He had decided to try and ride the sturgeon even though his elders would disapprove. Only proven warriors were allowed to ride them. Jonamiel’s father was an accomplished rider; his brother had done it several times, and his uncle, watching from the bank, was one of the best.

Jonamiel knew the rationale behind the prohibition; he had heard it before: too dangerous for the untrained, too much risk of loosing a valuable catch, too easy to damage the precious roe. Jonamiel was sure he was ready. Once the others saw him ride, he expected to be forgiven for the transgression.

Jonamiel waited, jiggling the loop of rope in his left hand, his expression serious. The fish was tiring, having worked its way through the shallows, its movements slower. Jonamiel shifted his feet for better position. As expected, the sturgeon changed course to avoid the rock weir and headed for the opening where Jonamiel stood.

Several villagers saw the fish surface and called out when they saw its size. It was a fat female, one of the biggest of the season, full of valuable roe. A few of Jonamiel’s kinsmen coiled their own lassos and moved closer to watch, more interested in his imminent catch than their own prospects. Their shouts attracted the attention of others on the bank and farther down the weirs. People cleaning fish on the riverbank left the shade of the forest flanking the Climbing River and came down the bank to see better.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonamiel saw something move in the dense trees behind a group of children playing on a strip of beach just beyond the river's bend. The older children were standing in the water, cheering Jonamiel; the youngest were playing farther up the beach near the forest, fifteen meters farther along. He took his eyes off the fish and stared at the dark wall of spruce and hemlock for a moment. It must have been low branches moving in the wind. The woods here were too well traveled by hunters to allow dangerous beasts. But the old stories of strange creatures that inhabited the forest made everyone wary.

He heard people shouting and found his fish again. The sturgeon was almost on him. Its pointed mouth was at least half a meter long and each of its spiny plates were as big as a man’s hand.

Jonamiel raised the lasso and spun it in a slow circle, keeping the loop as large as possible. He shook wet hair out of his eyes. His ride was about to begin.

At the last moment, he threw his lasso and the loop slipped around the fish’s head. He pulled it tight and jumped onto the sturgeon’s back, one bare foot on either side of its spiny central ridge. It almost felt like something was cutting into his tough soles. He knelt briefly to get his balance, gripping the fish's sharp dorsal fin, then stood, holding the rope with one hand and raising the other in the air, not like standing on the back of his horse, but similar enough. The onlookers went wild. So did the sturgeon. Jonamiel would not be able to stay on more than a few seconds, and then he would need help pulling the fish to shore. He felt the bony plates shift under his feet as the fish thrashed and plunged back downstream, desperate to dislodge the rider on his back. Jonamiel held on, grinning and waving his free hand in triumph.

You’ve got him… Don’t wait too long! It was Uncle Montford, shouting advice. But Jonamiel was enjoying himself too much to cut his ride short, though he must have heard the warning in his uncle’s voice. The rest of his kinsmen were cheering. They didn’t seem too concerned about the rules after all.

A collective gasp came from the crowd as Jonamiel dropped the rope and leapt from the sturgeon’s back into chest-deep water. He'd deliberately let the giant fish go, and had yet to even use his knife. As the fish fled for deep water, Jonamiel swam toward the far bank, yelling for Montford and others to help.

He had seen the three hooded figures slip from the trees behind the excited children, who were still focused on Jonamiel and the fish. He shouted and waved his arms over his head, trying to warn them, but that made them jump up and down and cheer even louder, now upset that he was letting the fish go. His heart was pounding--he'd never reach the children in time, nor did he have a plan.

One of the hooded figures pointed to two of the younger girls playing on the back of the bar. In an instant, the other two had grabbed the girls and bundled them into heavy sacks. Then they vanished back into the forest. It happened so fast that the older children, standing in the shallows facing Jonamiel, never saw the kidnappers. Nor did Montford and the other fishermen; the curve of the river blocked their view.

Jonamiel ran from the water, yelling for the other fishermen to follow him although he couldn't see them. The older children, who were taking care of the younger ones, quickly missed the little girls and began screaming and yelling for their parents. Jonamiel grabbed the oldest girl by the shoulders.

Tell Montford the girls were kidnapped... tell them to follow me... in the forest. There were three kidnappers... three... get warriors.

The girl's face was rigid with terror but she nodded. Jonamiel plunged into the trees.

Branches and briars lashed his face and almost naked body. The under story was dense but made the trail easy to follow. The kidnappers hadn't bothered to avoid breaking branches or trampling bushes. About fifty meters from the river, Jonamiel caught sight of one of the robed figures not far ahead and drew his long knife from the sheath on his back, the one he had planned to use on the sturgeon. The kidnapper was obviously waiting to deal with him, or other pursuers, and give the others time to escape with the girls.

The shrouded figure drew a broad, curved sword, and lunged toward him, slashing viciously, unfounded anger behind his heedless thrusts. Fortunately, the kidnapper seemed to know nothing about swordplay, being off balance much of the time. But Jonamiel had no sword. His quickness saved him and he felt the blade exhale on his chest. He feinted left, then darted forward as the figure slashed wildly again. Jonamiel got inside the arc of the blade, his training telling him how to deal with his enemy. He gripped his long knife with both hands and stabbed, aiming for the heart. His aim was true, and he put all his considerable strength behind the blow, but his knife blade snapped like an icicle.

Jonamiel dived aside and rolled under fallen tree trunk resting a meter off the ground just as the curved sword struck the wood above him. He could see his adversary trying to pull the blade free, yanking in rage. Jonamiel grabbed a branch, rotten but with a solid core, and leapt onto the trunk. The hooded figure looked up as Jonamiel brought the branch down on his head with all his strength.

To his surprise, the kidnapper turned and ran, his long, dark cloak flapping behind, the light through the trees flashing off its iridescent fabric. Jonamiel ran along the prone trunk and leapt on his enemy’s back, riding him to the ground. Jonamiel tried to get his fingers around the kidnapper's throat. Failing, he grabbed the back of the man’s hood and ripped it off, along with the upper part of the robe. Jonamiel saw the kidnapper's bald head. His skin was blue-tinged.

It was a Koblatten. The man-creature bucked Jonamiel off his back and jumped up, twisting around and glaring, his huge, blood-red eyes fixed on Jonamiel's face. He jabbed at Jonamiel with his sword. The young fisherman leapt back. The circles of red skin surrounding the Koblatten's eyes made them look even larger and more menacing.

The raider was big and well protected by black polished armor that looked like metal but flexed with his movements. His armor had broken the forged steel of Jonamiel's best knife, designed, he thought, to pierce any metal. His enemy would not run again; Jonamiel could see it in his forbidding eyes.

The creature grinned as he saw Jonamiel pull a short dagger from his belt. Compared to the Koblatten's sword, it was a pitiful weapon. The blue face split in a sinister, black-toothed smile and the Koblat warrior charged, attempting an overhead, diagonal blow. Jonamiel dodged again, escaping the sword by a leaf's breadth. He couldn't play cat and mouse with the Koblatten forever; eventually the curved sword would find his bare flesh. The Koblatten began stalking him, closing for the kill, more patient now, and more dangerous than when he had been the angry slasher.

Jonamiel heard shouts as other Amundsal fishers came crashing through the woods after him. He yelled to guide them and again danced away from the sword's blade. The Koblat man pulled a knife and flung it at Jonamiel's head, then turned and ran.

Jonamiel veered to his right but the blade sliced his forehead as it flew past, opening a deep gash over his left eye. Blood poured from the wound. He drew the back of his hand across his face to clear his vision, then ran after the fleeing Koblatten.

As Jonamiel pounded after him, he had to keep wiping blood from his eyes. He couldn't see well enough to avoid hitting tree branches and knew he was falling behind. Blind, he tripped and fell hard against a tree trunk, banging his head. He crumpled, then, pushed to his knees, dizzy and blinded again by the blood in his eyes. He wiped it away; he was at the edge of a clearing, one of several where Amundsal woodcutters had lately harvested timber.

The Koblatten was nowhere in sight but Jonamiel heard the loud flapping of wings, as though a huge flock of birds was taking flight from a sandbar. He grabbed a handful of moss and mopped his eyes again, turning his face upward. Through blood-blurred vision, he saw three giant winged silhouettes spiraling above the trees. They disappeared quickly in the direction of the Great Bay but the deep beating of their wings was slow to fade. Jonamiel stood wearily, feeling sick at his failure to stop the kidnappers, holding the moss to his bleeding head and waiting for the others to find him. So it was true. The Koblatten did ride giant birds. They must be huge to carry a full-grown man in armor.

Jonamiel felt his stomach turn over. The little girls the man-creatures had taken must be terrified. And he'd failed to rescue them. He should have paid attention to the movement he'd seen in the trees just before he caught the sturgeon. If he hadn't been so eager to show his skill as a fisherman, he might have saved them. His Uncle Montford, his father's younger brother, was the first to push through the heavy growth into the clearing.

They were Koblatten, Uncle, Jonamiel said wearily. They kidnapped two little girls and took them away on giant birds. Listen; you can still hear the flapping of their wings. Half a dozen other men burst into the clearing and Jonamiel repeated what he'd said, dreading what he would have to say.

You're sure they were Koblatten? Did you see the birds? Who were the children? We should go after them! The frustrated men milled about, hatchets, knives, and spears, mostly fishing equipment, ready to fight an enemy that had already vanished.

Uncle Montford took Jonamiel by the shoulders, looking at the blood dripping from the cut above his eye. Are you badly hurt?

Jonamiel shook his head, looking down. The cut was messy but his real pain was over his failure. Just bloody, Uncle. I'm so sorry I couldn't stop them.

Montford patted his shoulder. Did you recognize the children they took? We didn't stop to see who was missing.

Jonamiel swallowed hard. They took Ellaglen and Shiraglen, Uncle, he said softly. They took your daughters.

Montford's roar of anguish made Jonamiel feel worse. He reached for his uncle, hoping to comfort him. Montford jerked away. No, please, not my babies! he screamed, his eyes wild, glaring into the sky. We've got to go after them; we've got to get my girls back.

He looked around frantically at the other men, who were as helpless as Jonamiel. Help me! Somebody get horses; we have to...

Althen, one of the tribe's elders, put an arm around Montford's shoulders and held him tightly when he tried to break away.

My son, the girls are gone. Even with the fastest horses, we cannot catch the Koblatten birds. They are over the Great Bay by now. We must go to Visreal and ask the council for help.

Montford clutched Althen like a desperate man drowning. Yes, yes! My fellow warriors will help; my brother Mielford is first representative of the central valley. Then he began babbling incoherently. Althen looked at Jonamiel.

Go, now, find your father and tell him to convene the council at once.

Montford threw his head back and howled like a man whose heart was being ripped from his chest, then fell to his knees, sobbing. It was the worst sound Jonamiel had ever heard. Jonamiel's throat hurt and he had to gulp back tears. Ellaglen and Shiraglen were his cousins; he'd teased and chased them and made them giggle their whole lives. They were innocent children, still wearing little girl shifts. It would be another year or two before Ellaglen, the elder girl, graduated to the long skirts and tunics of a one approaching womanhood. What could the Koblatten possibly want with little girls?

Jonamiel felt rage surge inside; he'd been angry plenty of times but it hadn't felt anything like this. He wanted to kill the Koblatten who had taken those little girls, especially the one he'd fought, who had prevented him from reaching them.

Althen looked at Jonamiel again and bobbed his head several times. Run. Find your father. Tell him we'll bring Montford to council as soon as possible. First he'll have to break the news to his wife. The elder shook his head, his dark blue eyes filled with pain for his kinsman. Curse the Koblatten. Their kind have never caused anything but misery and death. I thought we had taught them a lesson those many years ago. Only the oldest warriors even remember what they look like. Arc would be a better world without them.

Chapter 3

Jonamiel was accustomed to running, fully armored during training sessions, even for kilometers at a stretch. He kept up a fast but steady pace, avoiding the people at the river so he wouldn't have to stop to explain, even though all he wore was his breechcloth, he could get clothes later. He definitely did not want to be the one to tell his aunt, Chereglen, her daughters had been kidnapped. Jonamiel feared it might kill her; she was a delicate woman.

Within half an hour, he was passing his brother's trellised grape vines that stretched across the gentle hills and down into the valley. On the opposite side of the road, in fields stretching to the horizon, young wheat stood shoulder-high to a spring lamb. The hamlet of Jonamiel's kin group stood beside a small tributary of the great Climbing River where he'd battled the sturgeon. He must have been relieved when he saw the thatched roofs and plastered white walls of his hamlet, each cottage with its own neat picket fence and vine-covered trellises. Everything looked just as it had when he'd left early that morning for the river with the others.

The spring gardens were filled with young flowering plants, most not yet blooming. His father always planted sunflowers along the front fence; the stalks were already a meter tall. They seemed to grow a foot's length a day in the summer when the sun never set, and they always followed the sun, their faces head high. His father had grown sunflowers for his wedding to Jonamiel's mother and he had kept the tradition every year of their marriage, thirty years by Mid-Summer season.

If the Koblat could swoop down and kidnap children, none of his people were safe, those poor, terrified little girls. What was happening to them now? Were they still alive? Why would the Koblatten kidnap Amundsal children? They were known to take and sell slaves in the desert markets, but surely such little girls could not be valuable enough as slaves for the Koblatten to risk outright war with Amundsal, one of the most powerful nations in Arc.

Jonamiel's mother was in the garden, weeds flying around her. She gardened intently, as she did most things. Mother... mother... where is father? Jonamiel half-shouted as he dashed toward the fence. Something terrible happened at the river. He shoved open the gate and stopped to catch his breath.

Svetlaglen whirled, a handful of weeds still in her hand. Jonamiel, is someone hurt? Am I needed?

His mother was a skilled medicine woman. She provided much of the dried green feverfew leaves for the central valley, one of their most needed medicines. Her section of the barn was an apothecary lab. Her hair was white, pulled back from her face with silver combs, but she had more energy than women twice as young.

No, Mother, no one is hurt. But Montford's daughters have been kidnapped. The Koblat took them on giant birds.

Svetlaglen's hands flew to her mouth and her dark blue eyes widened. Jonamiel, this can't be true! Montford and Chereglen must be out of their minds. She burst into tears and Jonamiel embraced her, tears leaking from his own eyes. He cleared his throat.

Mother, I need to find father so he can convene the council. Where is he?

Svetlaglen wiped her eyes. Gone to Visreal with Glenamiel to take last fall's casks to market. She noticed the cut on his forehead; it was still oozing blood. She composed herself. That looks deep. I must treat it. She tried to tug him toward the house.

The bleeding’s stopped, Jonamiel protested. I'm fine.

Jonamiel grasped her small, work-roughened hand in his larger one. I have to find father, now.

She nodded. Of course you do. What am I thinking? Drimnal can catch up with your father and Glenamiel within the hour. Jeffrivan’s in the stable; he'll saddle your horse. In the mean time, I'll get something to clean that wound and bandage it.

Svetlaglen hurried toward the white-walled cottage, glancing at the handful of weeds she held as though she'd never seen them before, then threw them angrily aside and wiped her hands on her apron. Jonamiel ran toward the barn.

The structure was large, with stalls enough for six horses, though they only kept five, including Jonamiel's stallion, Drimnal. The big, black horse snorted and stamped as Jonamiel pushed open the door to earthy smells of hay and animals. Jeffrivan, the young stock tender, was forking up manure-coated straw. He looked up in surprise as Jonamiel rushed in, still wearing his fishing breechcloth, although now dry.

Help me saddle Drimnal, he said, unlatching his stallion's stall and reaching for his halter. The horse jerked his head, then whickered, nuzzling Jonamiel's hand.

Jeffrivan 's eyes widened. Of course. Jonamiel. But your forehead . . .

It doesn't matter. Just hurry.

How was the fishing? Did you talk to Cheralexi? The stable hand smirked as he slid the saddle onto the big stallion’s back and expertly tightened the girth belt.

Not today, Jonamiel answered impatiently.

Well, you’d better be quick. Jeffrivan teased. She has many other choices you know.

Svetlaglen rushed in, carrying her smaller medical kit along with leather breeches, a fresh linen shirt and boots. As she applied a poultice and bandaged the cut over his eye, Jonamiel pulled on the clothes.

Hold still for a second, his mother insisted. You never could keep still.

Jonamiel tried to keep his head in one position as he pulled on his boots, balancing on one foot and then the other. Drimnal snorted and kicked his stall, indicating his eagerness to run.

Moments later, Jonamiel was on the road to Visreal, his stallion galloping at top speed through the orchards. The bright green leaves of the trees shone silver in the typically low sunlight of Arc and small green fruits filled the stems; apples, pears, and quince in this orchard. Usually Jonamiel would have looked for the legs of pretty girls on ladders, thinning fruit. Not today, he wouldn't.

In less than an hour, he saw the dust cloud behind the wagon and then, around the next curve, the broad backs of his father and brother side by side on the wagon's seat. Behind them in the wagon bed were two layers of white oak wine casks that bounced with every jolt of the wheels. Drimnal snorted and threw his head back, automatically challenging the draft horses pulling the wagon. Like most stallions, he was arrogant.

His brother and father looked up in surprise as Jonamiel reined the snorting stallion to a walk. I thought you'd still be fishing, the elder man, Mielford, said. What happened to your forehead?

Koblat raiders kidnapped Montford's girls, Jonamiel blurted the words, shaking with relief that he'd found his father. Mielford would