The Balance of the Spans

The words of Karrenz ipn Underspan, Thirteenth Historian: In the two hundred and twenty-first year, the slavers came downstream along the edges of the border marsh in a drawn out armada, their skiffs propelled through the shallow waters by long staves thrust down into the mud. The poles rose, fell and pushed in cadence to the skin-topped drums of the coxswains. As they reached the end of the marsh and entered the deep of the True River, they shipped their poles in favor of broad-bladed oars. Leading the way in a rusted metal coracle powered by a roaring outboard, the Abominator of Nyork exhorted his familiars onward. The wake of his boat cast a long vee behind him, framing the left and right boundaries of the invasion. Skirling pipes and pace-timing drumbeats signaled the approach long before we saw them, but as they grew close, the Abominator's cries of conquest carried across the bay.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

Karrenz: Painted head to toe in salted black muck, his horn-helmed brow turned high, the Abominator cried out for our children and their mothers, to take back to Nyork as his own. His fleet eddied around the piers like a swarm of gas-flies. For three days they circled and screamed and threatened, and for three days we watched, waited, and sharpened our spears. They climbed the piers of Upstream Span on the third night and found us waiting. They clawed and slashed and stabbed and burned. The Abominator led the charge, sowing death with his great axe. They pushed us back and back, all the way to the Gantry; they drove us to the edge of that vital connector, threatening to sever Upstream and Down from each other. We bent, but we did not shatter. With our own blood we turned them back. We fought for our lives. For our families. For the Balance. In the end we sent the slavers down into the water, one by one. The Abominator, bleeding from a dozen wounds, stood alone. Leaning on the splintered haft of his axe, his bone mask shattered, he cursed us. At the end, the Khan himself took the honor and killed him. We hung his body from Upstream's East Tower saddle. And there his bones remain, bleached by the sun and picked clean by the gulls, as a warning to any who would threaten us: the reach of the Abominators does not extend to our waters.

The People respond: Delamor stands on the Balance.

#

1.

Sheena found herself shaken gently awake in the still grey hour before the dawn. A blurry figure loomed over her, slowly resolving out of the shadows into a familiar shape. Janeth, her older cousin.

"Whatsit?" Sheena whispered, her voice thick with sleep.

"Sorry to wake you so early," Janeth said, "but I need you to come with me on my rounds today."

Sheena sat up, weariness washed away in excitement. Janeth slipped outside. Sheena rubbed at the sleep in her eyes and fumbled in the shadows for her pants. As she pulled them on Darr stirred, grumbling, then quickly settled again. Sheena kissed the bare, rounded shoulder, then made her way outside. The air hung heavy with morning, thick with mist. Janeth held out a flask of hot tea, and Sheena curled her fingers around it.

"Blessings, Cousin, this is just so."

"Littlest I could do, for disturbing your rest," Janeth said with a smile.

Sheena sipped the tea and followed her cousin, stepping lightly over the spots where the Underspan half-deck was prone to rattling.

"So, what's the occasion?" Sheena asked.

"Do I need an excuse to spend the day with my favorite cousin?"

"I've been asking to come with you on your rounds since I was a guppy."

"And what do I always say?"

" 'Time for every season and all things in the Balance', or some such crabshit."

Janeth's soft chuckle carried in the still, breezeless air. "Well, let's just say that the season has come, and the Balance requires your presence," she said. Sheena snorted, but her grin couldn't be contained. They reached the ladder, and she handed the tea back to Janeth, who took a long drink before sliding the tea into one of the inside pockets of her vest. They climbed up to the Deck, greeted by the colorless light of false dawn. In the dim, the growbeds stretched away on either side until they disappeared into fog.

"Where are we bound? What's the first stop on your rounds?"

"So impatient, Cousin. Let's take our time. I want you with me all day, and a Keeper takes whatever time is needed. Fair?"

"Fair indeed," Sheena replied.

#

The words of the Smaller Snead, Ninth Historian: In the one hundred and eighty-seventh year the Dry Blight came to Downstream Span. The taters, tomats, pepps, and beans—all crumbled to ash in our hands. The soil itself had determined to kill us. The faithful afternoon rains fell into dead earth. None of the new seeds took hold. All of the sproutlings failed. Naught grew but death. The fishers and crabbers put forth day and night, wandering far from the safety of the Spans. They cast their lines and threw their nets and brought back a harvest that was never enough. It was the fourth and worst of the Starveling Years, and we grew bright-eyed and sharp as days stretched into weeks. Even so, we didn't turn against each other, to feast and rend like the savages on shore. Instead we sang and danced with our dwindling strength, and prayed for renewed earth. When those prayers failed, we prayed for a quiet, easy death, if that was to be the will of the Balance.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

S. Snead: Daben and Jarid, father and daughter, were not so determined to die, and even more determined to serve the Balance for the sake of us all. They took the biggest fishing boat to sea, far beyond the sight of the Spans. We thought them gone forever until they returned ten days later towing their catch, bigger even than their boat. Sharks scavenged at its bloody hide and Jarid rode upon its back, driving them away with her harp'n. The leviathan fed us, brought us back from the edge of death, gave us strength. We gave the largest share to the dirt foragers, to give them strength for a journey that was the only option left to us. They would hazard far past the marshes in the west, sneaking to the distant solid ground and braving its barbarian tribes, returning with new soil to grow. And so they did, trip after trip. Leaving in groups of five, returning often in pairs or alone, but with their boats sitting low in the water from the weight of the fertile, dark soil they carried. The year was hungry, and twice more Daben and Jarid ventured beyond the sight of shore, deep out to the sea, to bring us life. They went out for a fourth time, and never returned. But the new western soil was fulsome and the seedlings grew, and again our crops covered Downstream Span, with plenty for all to eat. Daben and Jarid. Two of us, though neither of them bridge-born. Daben we took in twenty years before, carrying Jarid in swaddling cloth, themselves near starved to death. They in turn saved us, and brought a new chance at life to the Spans. The Balance saved, at the cost of their lives.

The People respond: Delamor stands on the Balance.

#

2.

Janeth knelt at the edge of the growbed and took a clod of earth into her hand. She beckoned Sheena closer. Janeth made a fist and the damp soil crumbled. She held her palm up under her cousin's nose and Sheena sniffed at it. The smell was deep, loamy and rich. An undertone of gentle decay.

"Good soil this year, sure," Sheena said. Janeth inhaled deeply, with satisfaction.

"The best in years."

"A'planting, today or tomorrow."

"As the Balance wills. I'm thinking tomorrow. Rain will come early today."

"You would know. You've always had the feel."

"Come on," Janeth said, carefully brushing the earth from her palm back into the growbed. Not a speck escaped. They walked slowly up the curve of the Span, heading toward Gantry but stopping short of it at the base of East Tower. They stepped on to the lifter platform, and Janeth tugged the rope. Far overhead, a gentle chime echoed. Sheena's stomach dropped away as the lifter shot upward, accompanied by the clacking ratchet of spinning gears and the hum of unspooling rope. She grabbed at the railing. The counterweight blew by them with a rush of wind, and Janeth let out a soft whoop.

"Never gets old!" she gasped.

Sheena said nothing, only tried to hold her gorge, and was barely successful. They slowed to a stop, and she gratefully followed Janeth out on to the tower platform.

"Well, that's just about my keenest part of my day," her cousin said. Sheena didn't trust herself to reply, so she just nodded. A man stepped forward, raising his hand.

"Morning, Keeper," he said.

"And fair daybreak to you, Griff," Janeth replied. "All quiet?" The man handed her a looking glass and shrugged.

"Not a sound, nor a glimmer of light 'pon the waves."

"All's well then," she replied, raising the glass to her eye and scanning the horizon to the south and east. After a moment, she pivoted to scan the other direction, looking past the grey-green bulk of Upstream Span to the north of the Great Bay.

"And no signal from Upstream neither, Keeper. Quiet night in all."

"I thank you for your watch, Griff,"Janeth replied. She reached into her vest and pulled out a small cloth packet.

"Your peppered rockfish?" he asked hopefully.

"True to ya," Janeth replied.

"Ahm," Griff murmured, unfolding the cloth. For a moment there was silence, except for the man's enthusiastic chewing. Janeth peered out to the east, and Sheena watched her.

"I come up here to sing out the dawn," Janeth said at last, turning to her cousin.

"Is that one of the daily duties of the Keeper?"

"No, though the checking of the watch is such. I just love the sunrise—"

"—And you've been singing all the days I've known you."

"Fair said," Janeth replied. A moment later, she began to hum. It was soft at first, and wandering. It felt to Sheena like Janeth was finding her way towards a song, but was just sort of exploring the idea for the time being. Out to sea, the sky was lightening from leaden ash to an orange the color of salt koi scales. Janeth's humming grew louder, and she opened her mouth here and there, fuller notes slipping out, but still quiet. A sliver of gold sliced across the horizon, carving apart the joining of sea and sky. Janeth's voice slid fluently into full, wordless song, and she raised her arms like she was offering an embrace. Day sprang upon the waters, the light expanding. The song joined it, rising along with the sun. The tone was clear and smooth, Janeth effortlessly sliding from note to note. The last of the greyness faded before a brilliant blue, and the Keeper's song carried the sun the rest of the way up like she was birthing it from her soul. As the bottom arc pulled free from the sea, she lowered her arms and the song faded away. Her voice broke on the final note, and though Janeth's back was to her, it seemed to Sheena like she might have wiped at her eyes. She heard a quiet sob from the corner of the platform. Griff's seamed face was tracked with tears. He dragged a sleeve under his nose, and his shoulders gave a great hitch.

"I'm sorry, Janeth—" he began, but she stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be bothered."

The man nodded, looking plenty troubled indeed, but he tried to hide it with a smile. "I thank you for the fish, Keeper."

"And I thank you fair for keeping the watch." He nodded again, blinking. "Now," she continued, stepping back on to the lift, "your relief should be waiting down below. We'd best be on our way."

#

The words of Jasen Farmer, Seventh Historian: In the one hundred and twelfth year, the great lost ship hove into view at the mouth of the river. The Allure of the Seas, she was called, and it was a tricksome and uneasy name she bore. She churned north'rd, spewing coal-smoke that drifted like a dark cloak, furling out to sea behind her. The giant vessel seemed as long as the Spans, and she was crammed to the gunnels with the hungry, the sick, and the desperate. Allure was a ship of death, whose death was upon her nigh by the day she arrived. They saw us by the light of the sunrise, as if we were a salvation come with the dawn, and they determined to make their new home on our Spans, whether we would welcome them or not. We explained about the Balance to their chief, the white-clad Captain Picket. We showed him the Formula—the decks for crops, underspans and gantries for people. A single arrival for a sole departure and no more. A birth for a death. A fraction of stretching of numbers, on either end. We had no room for the Allure's hundreds. Two, we could take. No more. This was unacceptable to the people of Allure.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

Jasen: Captain Picket, all in his white finery, but with eyes black as oil, was unmoved. Allure's engines were failing, her seals giving way, the internal pumps dying one by one. She was slowly sinking, and would be on the bottom of the sea within the month. If we would not share our home with them, they would take it from us. Barring that, they would take what we had and be on their way to firmer ground, leaving us to starve. At the first they tried grapnels and rope ladders, sending boarding parties to test our resolve. We showed it to them, and they stood back, licking their wounds. We didn't give them a second chance. It was our own Khan, the Crafty-Jak Shafdoe, who led a small boarding party that scaled the side of the Allure in the night. He slit Picket's neck and heaved him over the side. He fired Allure's engines and turned her out to sea, then locked the rudder in place. He sent the others home, then barricaded the door of the bridge behind them. They were home, wet and exhausted, by the time the sun again breached the sea. It was said you could hear the wails rising from the Allure's decks for near all the morning, before she vanished over the horizon and was gone forever, taking our Khan with her.

The People respond: Delamor stands on the Balance.

#

3.

The descent was even faster than the ride up. Sheena closed her eyes and held on tight. She heard Janeth give a contented sigh as the platform dropped away, and when she opened her eyes after they'd come to a merciful stop, Janeth's face was split in a wide smile of childlike glee.

"Definitely the best part of my day," Janeth said. "Even better than the ride up, don't you think?" Sheena tried to smile in return, couldn't muster one, and just nodded. They stepped off the platform, and Janeth caught the eye of the broad-shouldered man standing off a little to the side.

"'Lo, Jaren," she said.

"Morning to you, Keeper," the big man replied. He wrapped Janeth into a hug and lifted her off the ground. Sheena heard her cousin's back crackle as the joints separated.

"Oof, put me down, you two-tentacled octopus!"

Jaren grinned, setting Janeth back to the deck with the care of a mother for an especially frail infant. Janeth reached into her vest and pulled out another small cloth packet.

"For your little one."

Jaren unwrapped the cloth, revealing a tiny stub of yellow wood, sharpened to a dark point and tipped with orange rubber.

"Where did you get this?" Jaren asked.

"The Keeper has her ways, and mysterious may they be."

"Eilen's going to lose her mind for this, Janeth. I can't … I just …"

"Just tell her to put it to good use."

"She's going to want to draw you a picture, first thing."

"I can't wait to see it."

For a moment, Jaren looked like he was going to snatch Janeth up into another bone-popping embrace. Instead, he gave a little shake like a man waking from a daydream and stepped on the platform. He pulled on the rope and the platform shot up and away. He raised his other hand in farewell as the lift rose out of sight.

"Why do you do that?" Sheena asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The rockfish for Griff, the pencil for Jaren's daughter."

Janeth took her arm and led her away from the platform a few paces, back to the edges of the growbeds, the rich, dark earth now well-lit from the risen sun.

"Being Keeper means holding true to the Balance. Every day, with every action. Everything you do, every choice you make, is for the greatest good for the greatest number of us."

"So you're reminding them that you're also caring for them individually?"

Janeth smiled at the response. "That's not a bad reason, actually." For a moment, Sheena was transported back to her childhood, sitting in a circle at Teacher Widdick's feet, being praised for a correct answer.

"But that's not really it," Janeth said. "At least that's not the main reason. Not to remind them. It's to remind me that I need to care about them individually if I'm going to care about everyone equally. Now," she continued, squinting out at the sun, "let's head down to Eastgate to see about the night's catch."

There were a handful of bicycles leaning against the side rail just past the platform rig. Janeth pulled one away and rolled it over to Sheena. Sheena thought about all the times she had seen her cousin about on her Keeper's rounds, almost always astride a bike. "Never walk when you can ride, cousin?"

"Exactly," Janeth said, mounting up. As they pedaled away, she said over her shoulder, "And it gets easier, you know." They started to pick up speed as they started down the sloping deck toward Eastgate.

"What does?" Sheena shouted over the hum of the tires and the rush of the wind.

"Platform rides! I hated them at first, too."

They rode past one of the central rainwater collection points, where a handful of people were adjusting one of the irrigation feeds from the holding barrels. Next was Old Bannet's shack. He was plying his craft outside in the sun, shaving points into the ends of driftwood spears. He nodded in greeting as they shot by, moving even faster now. By the time Eastgate came clearly into view at the bottom of the long slope of the deck, they were absolutely flying. Sheena hadn't been on a bike since she was a kid, and couldn't remember ever riding this fast even during those days. Her cheeks hurt from grinning, and she worried for a second about swallowing an errant skeeter. But she let it all go. The wind was blasting past her face, blowing her hair back behind her and roaring in her ears. A shout exploded out of her before she realized what was happening. She barely heard Janeth's replying cry as it whipped over and past her like a scrap of cloth caught in a 'cane. Eastgate went from distant to looming in a spare handful of heartbeats, and Sheena squeezed the brakes. Janeth went careening along for a few more seconds before slamming to a squealing stop at the very end of the deck, her front tire actually coming to a halt in an inch of water.

#

The words of Isak Leibowicz, Fourth Historian: In the seventy-fourth year we were tested by the Deceiver. A man appeared at Westgate of Downstream Span, where the lanes of the deck disappeared under the bars of the gate into the softly lapping brack. The Deceiver claimed to be an ambassador from the Re-Constitutioned States. Wiserly, he called himself; he came with papers, marks, and signs. A stack of bona fides thick enough to gut a fish on. We took him within our gates, upon our decks, gave him succor of our feed and rain, for he was hungry and thirstful. We gave him shelter and rest, for he was weary and greatly sore from his journey. He stayed for twenty-one days, sowing lies and promises empty as the false night wind. The ambassador told us the worst was over, that the government would take us in, guard and shelter us, give us the food, water, medicine, and protection we needed to survive. All we needed to do was swear an allegiant oath to the Governor of the East and send back a tribute of crops, the first fruits of our spring and fall harvests, as a tax.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

Leibowicz: We paid the tax for three years, and saw nary a sign it was worth more than an alewife's scale glinting in the sun. The Governor of the East sent us no medicine, no supplies, no protection. All he sent was the tax man, twice a year. All we had to show for it were bellies even emptier than before, and the Balance was strained to the point of breaking. Then the tax man came three times, and we suffered through a full Starveling Year, our third, as a result. The next year the tan man came, and told us it was the first of four visits. The Re-Constitutioned States were growing, and needed our fine crops for the bellies of its administrators and bureaucrats. We sent him away, his boats empty of the fruits of our soil. The Governor sent Wiserly back to us, with the tax man and a platoon of marines to lend weight to his words of negotiation. But the marines' rifles were rusted and bent-barreled, while our arrows and harp'ns flew truly. We sent Wiserly back to the Governor alone, secure in knowing that he would fully convey our message to him, and yet would sow no more lies without a tongue. And so, as we threw off the shackles of the tax man, we resolved to tolerate only truth from those not bridge-born, and to pay no more taxes to anyone. And so it has been.

The People respond: Delamor stands on the Balance.

#

4.

"Oh, but that's fun," Janeth said, as Sheena pulled up.

Sheena couldn't help but grin in reply. "Maybe that's your favorite part of the day after all? I liked it better than the platform ride."

Janeth leaned closer. "The ride's plenty fun, but not so much what comes after," she whispered. "Stay close enough to hear, but don't say anything, alright?"

Nan was sitting in a shaft of sunlight bordered on either side by stark shadows that were cast by two support poles for the main southern girder-rope. She was mending one of the crab cages, weaving the thin bark effortlessly. She looked up as they approached, but her hands never stopped moving, following the intricate steps through long-learned rote.

"Keeper," she said.

"Hello, Nan."

"Help you?"

Janeth sighed. "Do we have to do this every time?"

"You tell me, Janeth. Every morning you ride yourself down here to ask about the catch, and every morning I tell you, and every morning you tell me it's not good enough."

"Well, what did you have today?"

"Seventeen pounds."

"Not good enough," they said in unison, with Nan's rising sarcasm nearly drowning Janeth's soft response.

"Look, Janeth, I don't know what you want from me—"

"I want twenty-five pounds a day."

"—and I'm telling you we can't do more than twenty—"

"That's not enough."

"—with the resources we have!"

"And I've told you time and again," Janeth said, "that it's not about the resources you have, it about how you use them. You've been thinning the catch on the eastern flats for years."

"We've been over this, Keeper," Nan sneered, "We're not trapping on the west side."

"I know what you've said. Too far to get from Eastgate to the western flats, and too many outlaws prowling the banks."

"It's not efficient, and I'm not putting my people in danger to hit your damn quota."

"You're putting all of us in danger. You're putting the Balance in danger," Janeth said quietly. Nan's mouth worked silently, then snapped shut. Her shoulders slumped, but her eyes were squeezed half-shut with anger and she never dropped her gaze from Janeth's face.

"So," the older woman said finally, "what are you going to do about it?"

"I've already done it, Nan, I'm just here to tell you," Janeth said. "You're moving your team to Westgate tomorrow, and starting the day after you'll be plying the western bank. I've had Jaymes move his greenhouse to Upstream Span to make room."

"Do you have any idea how much work that would take? I don't have the people—"

"Teacher Closkey's agreed to have his oldest class help you. They'll be here this afternoon to get started on packing, and they'll be seconded to you until the move's complete to your satisfaction. He's calling it a field trip."

"Doesn't help me deal with the brigands on shore. You going to give the kiddies spears and send them out with me and mine?"

"The Khan and I agreed to juggle the guard rotation to give you two lookouts a shift. They'll be out with your people on the flats to keep peace."

Nan set the basket, now completely repaired, between her feet. She pushed a wayward lock behind her ear.

"No more excuses, Nan," Janeth continue. "All of us serve the Balance, and that means changing as the Balance changes. Seventeen pounds isn't going to work."

Nan stood slowly, the years showing in the stoop of her shoulders but never touching the brightness in her eyes.

"That's twice you've invoked the Balance with me, Keeper. You're using it as a bludgeon."

"I've tried the baited hook for months. You didn't leave me any choice."

Nan sighed, and her eyes sought the deck at last. "I'm a stubborn old woman, and not ashamed to admit it." She looked up again. The silence stretched out, and then at last: "We'll ply the western flats."

Janeth spit in her palm and held her hand out. Nan did the same, and they gripped each other. Sheena could see the tendons standing out on the back of the grey-haired woman's hand as she clamped down, but Janeth only smiled calmly back at her.

"I thank you fair, Nan."

"Alright, Keeper."

And then it was over. Janeth led Sheena down the ramp along the edge of the water, through the small door set into Eastgate, then on to the adjacent dock just outside. A small boat was moored, bobbing patiently. Janeth silently motioned Sheena to the bow seat, untied the guideline, then settled herself between the oars.

#

The words of Isak Leibowicz, Fourth Historian: In the fifty-eighth year, Upstream and Down, two great spans standing and living two hundred strides apart, became one. In truth, we were separated by more than water. In the years before, Downstream Span had forgotten the Balance, and the second Starveling Year came upon her decks, as the First Khan had predicted. Downstream could not raise enough crops to feed her growing brood, and they fished the waters around us to bare nothing. Upstream sent every mouthful that could be spared and more, but what use is a single tomato or potater when there are a hundred too many mouths to feed? As Downstream starved, so nearly too did Upstream; she shared unto the brink of her own famishing. Downstream called for more aid. They begged of Up to send more food. But Upstream could send no more, lest both spans die. At the end, also as the Khan had predicted, the Balance was restored.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

Leibowicz: As is our way, we did not turn on each other. The people of Downstream Span did not come across the water in their boats to climb the pilings and thieve and plunder. They threw no lines to scurry between spans in the night to raid Upstream's crops. Nor did those on Down give in to the ultimate weakness and turn to the flesh of man to sustain. In the end, most of Downstream's people withered and died. A handful of the strongest left in their boats, slowly rowing through the swamps to the west with the last of their strength. They headed for solid ground, even as they knew they lacked the strength to reach it; even as they knew that if they did, the barbarians waiting there would gladly do to them what they had resisted doing to each other. At last there were only a handful of survivors left on Downstream, mostly children, and a small enough number that the Balance could be stretched just enough to withstand the further strain. Upstream people rowed across the two hundred strides, carrying a sack of peppers and a line of fish, and brought them back from the brink of death. A council was called, a vote was taken. The choice was clear—the Spans must be united, to ensure both would survive, to ensure both followed the Balance. And the Keeper must be empowered and separated from the Khan, to ensure enforcement of the Balance with fairness and equity to both Spans. Thus, the Gantry was built, joining forever the decking of the two Spans, a thread of life and connection, holding at Mid-Span. And Thus, a new Keeper was chosen, to serve alongside the Khan and the Historian to lead the people.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

#

5.

They rowed back along the side of the bridge, angled gently towards Upstream and its Westgate.

"I've never seen you like that with anyone," Sheena said.

"Nan's the most obstinate, stiff-necked soul you'll ever work with on these two bridges, cousin. She respects strength and directness, and even then sometimes you have to come at her with the Balance as a bludgeon, as she put it."

"I'm still shaking."

"Not ever a pleasant thing to have to do, say true. But sometimes necessary."

"How do you do it? It can't be easy."

"Some people you can work with, discuss, debate, reach a mutually-agreeable position; the Khan is that way—this one is, at least. Some, like Nan, you fight and scratch and claw and drag them to your will. But at the end of the day, the Balance is served or we wither and die. To fight, to confront, is easy as the night breeze in that context. Now mind the pillar."

They'd crossed the distance between Downstream and Up, and one of the support piers rose out of the water over Janeth's back. Sheena reached out as they went by, absorbing the gentle impact, and Janeth backed the oars to hold them in place.

"Take hold for a moment, cousin, I want to show you something."

The little boat settled alongside the metalwork, and Janeth quickly looped the guideline through a gap in the metal.

"What is it?"

"Look down into the water," said Janeth, "Can you see anything?"

"I'm not sure. Looks like maybe there's something bigger below us, but I can't tell for sure."

"When Othmar-Amman (blessed-be-his-name) built these spans, the supports were settled into great concrete blocks that rose above the waves, to keep the metal girders free of the water. Of course, the Slow Flood changed that."

"Of course."

"Now look up, along the support as it rises from the waves. What do you see?"

"The color changes. You can see that from the Deck, though. Orange-going-green, as always."

"Not always so, but for generations it has indeed been true. Look here," Janeth said, reaching out and scraping gently at the metal with her thumbnail, just above the waves. She held it up, and Sheena could see the flecks of orange staining her cousin's nail. "Rust."

"Rust?" Sheena turned the unfamiliar word over in her mouth.

"Eater of metal, insatiable appetite, slow but inevitable." Janeth leaned back, crossed her arms, and waited while her cousin considered.

Sheena just managed to get her head turned as the vomit shot up her throat, and her sick went into the water instead of the bottom of the boat. She heaved for long moments until she was at last emptied, and when she sat up, Janeth was smiling sadly and holding out the flask of tea.

"Rinse your mouth, cousin."

"Why did you show me this?"

"You need to see," Janeth said, as Sheena swirled and spat the lukewarm tea into the water.

"I wish you didn't. I wish I didn't know." Sheena wiped at her eyes with the neck of her shirt, stemming the unbidden tears.

"I understand, believe me. I felt the same when Old Judd showed me, the first time I went on rounds with him. But you need to know. You need to see," Janeth repeated. And then, seemingly changing course: "Four generations ago, one of the Sojourners came back."

"Thought none ever did." Sheena tried to settle her stomach with a small sip of tea.

"There's a story. I'll show you," said Janeth. She leaned into the oars and pulled the boat out and away from the pier, continuing toward Upstream's Westgate. A gull, disturbed by the sudden movement, exploded from its nest among the pilings with an indignant cry. It took off, buzzing the boat, and headed toward the sun, skimming along the waves. They sat in silence.

Sheena tried to absorb it all, to understand. The boat knifed through the water as Janeth muscled the oars. Sheena couldn't help studying each pier as they went by, noting how high the rust had climbed. She felt adrift, as if she were bobbing in the middle of a 'cane instead of moving purposefully over calm waters. Westgate drew closer, her cousin shipped the oars, and they coasted to a stop at the dock of Westgate Up. Murad and Chance were on guard duty, leaning on their spears but scanning the near shore. Murad raised a hand, smiling in greeting. Chance never stopped watching. Inattention invited mauraders.

"Morning, Keeper," Murad called, opening the heavy levers that secured the gate. He stepped through and caught the rope Janeth tossed him, quickly tying the boat to the cleat. He held out a hand to help Janeth up and out, but she swatted it away playfully and stepped easily on to the deck. Sheena stumbled on the gunnel and almost went over the side into the deep, but Murad snagged her arm. Even so, her left foot came down with a splash where the water lapped up the deck. Murad laughed, but not unkindly, as he hauled her forward.

"Easy there, Sunshine," his voice had a musical quality and his smile was bright. If it hadn't been for the scars, you'd never have known the man had once nearly met his end at the teeth of a monster white. Or that he stood ready to take the life of any stranger who approached the gate with ill intent.

"Thank you, Watchman," Janeth murmured, taking Sheena's arm and leading her through the gate. As the passed through on to the deck of Upstream proper, Janeth kept her arm threaded through Sheena's own, and they walked upwards towards center span. They passed more growbeds, freshly-turned for the coming planting. Then a net repair station. Then a series of smoking huts and drying racks. At each place, the people working called out greetings to the Keeper. These she returned, but never stopped or slowed her pace. Finally, as they approached Upstream's West Tower, Janeth broke the silence.

"It's about hope."

"How? What hope can there be?" Janeth stopped, faced Sheena, and took her other arm. Her grip tightened.

"Cousin, do you believe I love you?"

"Never doubted, never will."

"Good. Have I ever told you a lie?"

"World of difference between telling me a lie and not telling me the truth."

Janeth ducked her head and frowned slightly. "Say true," she sighed. "But my intent is to tell you the truth, and always has been. And now is the time for it. And if you've never doubted my love, don't start now."

"So where are we going?" Sheena asked.

"Come on," Janeth replied, swinging along beside her once again. They walked up to the left side of the West Tower, and its inset door heaved open. A small, dark man climbed out and straightened slowly, blinking in the sun. His locks were even grayer than old Nan's, and they reached his waist in a thick bunch, tied in a bundle with a fraying rope. He solemnly gripped Janeth's outstretched hand, pulling her close. They leaned together, foreheads touching, for a long moment. At last they broke apart, and Janeth turned to Sheena and motioned her forward.

"Good morning, Historian," Sheena said.

"Just us here, young lady. Call me Karrenz."

"And I'm Sheena, if you please."

"Of course you are," Karrenz said, smiling. Deep lines grooved around his eyes and nose. He squinted up at the sun, then nodded at Janeth. "You made good time. Thought your talk—or the result—would have taken longer."

"My cousin's more resilient than even she thinks," Janeth replied. Then, to Sheena: "Karrenz is a friend. Come inside." Sheena felt a thrill quiver through her, fighting against the dread. No one but the Historian and Keeper—and the Khan, with permission from the other two—was allowed within the Archive. Janeth stood aside and motioned for Sheena to follow Karrenz through the small doorway.

#

The words of Professor Janine Hovey-Smith, the Second Historian: The third year was the Plague Year, the year of tragedy and mourning. Our greatest loss. When the first of the death boats arrived, carrying a family of five, only the youngest was sick with the red fever, which none on the Spans had ever seen. Upstream took them in. The Khan commanded it; to remain a society, he said, we must embrace mercy. There was room. We had not yet grown to fill the Balance. In those days, there were still doctors. Two on Upstream, three on Down. The doctors of Upstream, Perez and Stransky, were the first to sicken, even as the youngest of the new arrivals died. And that was just the beginning. The red fever tore through Upstream Span without any of the mercy the Khan had preached. The rash appeared first, deep red and spreading from the hands and neck. Then a fever like fire; the sick with their eyes shining far too bright. The sores next, weeping and bleeding. The coughing, never ending, the body almost shaking apart as the throat swelled and bled. At the last, blood from the eyes, the nose, the mouth. Life in agony, death in days. First in a trickle and then a flood they came. The sick and dying, crammed into anything that would float. Rafts, canoes, fishing trawlers, and sailboats. More and more boats approached, full of the red death, the people on them desperate for help, trading on rumors of the doctors on our decks. The Khan, his own eyes blazing with heat, his voice raw, barely able to whisper, spoke his last words: save the Spans, close the gates. And then he was gone, his last command carried out even as his life poured itself out upon the soil of his beloved garden.

The People respond: Delamor stands.

Professor Hovey-Smith: And so the gates came down at either end of each span, shutting out the plague. A flotilla of death ships floated against them. The dying begged and pleaded, bargained and cajoled, railed and threatened. They beat upon the gates with the last of their strength. In the end, some even coughed and spat their deathly blood through the bars, trying to infect our people in their rage. We closed our ears to them, our eyes full of tears. And Upstream died. The red fever ravaged her, sparing none from its touch. All were sickened, and nearly all died. In the end, only seven of the original hundred and twelve survived. No sense or reason. Some old, some young, some male, some female. And at last, the flood of plague ships slowed again to a trickle, and then stopped. They no longer floated about the gates, clamoring in their death throes. Instead they drifted away, silent and still. The waters around us were cleansed by the tides. Those left on Downstream and the spare remnant of Up mourned the terrible loss. None was greater than the loss of the Khan. Our only joy was that one of his sons was among the survivors. Ali-Reza, the first of the bridge-born. Too young to understand the death all around him, but old enough to be torn apart by the death of his family. We held him to us as we rebuilt what was lost. We raised him on the stories of the Khan. The Great Engineer. The Founder. And he, when grown, became Khan. Even so, and more importantly, he became the First Keeper of the Balance.

The People respond: Delamor stands on the Balance.

#

6.

Historian's Tower was cool and dark inside, after the brightness of the day. But as Sheena's eyes adjusted she noticed the light was not as low was it seemed at first. There were four openings high up the inside of the tower, and a series of cunningly-placed mirrors situated in the corners reflected and diffused the sunlight, creating a dim glow throughout. Motes danced in the warm shining, a happy counterpoint to Sheena's trembling.

"Welcome to the Archive," Karrenz said, spreading his arms wide and turning in a quick circle. He seemed a much younger man within his own space. The walls were lined with metal shelves that stretched high overhead, almost to the windows. The topmost rows were completely sealed with plastic sheeting, but Sheena could see the books behind. The shelves further down also had plastic draped over them, but open at the bottom and sides to form curtains. Most of the shelving was completely full of books, or stacks of paper bound in cord, or sheaves of scrolls in leather sleeves. A wooden ladder on wheels rested in a track that would carry it from wall to wall. A small metal desk stood almost apologetically in the center of the room, in the center of the refocused sunlight. There was a scarred wooden chair before it, the seat polished glossy from years of use. A stack of paper commanded the center of the desk, held in place by a copper mug. Sheena sneezed. Karrenz laughed gently.

"I did the exact same thing the first time I stepped into this room."

"It's beautiful, Karrenz."

"If you love words, and you love our people, and you love our story, it's the loveliest place in the world, my child."

"The Keeper and the Historian are the two people who must work in harmony to maintain the Balance," Janeth said. "The Khan leads us all, but we two help guide the Khan."

"She's too polite to say it," Karrenz added, "but what she means is that the Historian and the Keeper lead the Khan, only in such a way that it feels the other way around."

"Why?"

"Because power must be measured and balanced, just as the life of the Spans depends on the Balance of food, water, and people," Karrenz replied. "But that is a lesson—or rather a series of discussions—for a later time. You are here for the story of Zsolt Hightower."

"The Sojourner who returned?"

Janeth nodded in reply and turned to Karrenz, who had just pulled a small, clothbound notebook off a shelf just higher than his head. The plastic fell back into place with a soft rustle, stirring the dust into a small gyre. Sheena fought another sneeze.

"He was in death's own nets when he found his way back home—starving and sick," Karrenz began. "Zsolt Hightower, Deputy Historian. He took the Sojourner's Crook in the one hundred and fortieth year, after a quarter of the harvest went blighted and the Balance was left with an insufficient cushion. It was a mild crisis, as they go, requiring only a single sacrifice. He went south, to hear him tell it, until he came to another set of Spans. I will let him tell you the rest in his own words." Karrenz handed Sheena the notebook. The pages were filled with small, neat lines.

#

The words of Zsolt Hightower, Deputy Historian and The Sojourner Who Returned; as told to the Larger Snead, Eighth Historian: When the harvest failed, I took up the Crook. No, that's a shit start. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to be honest. I'm starting over. "Failed" is too strong a word, and "took up" too weak. The harvest was lesser than hoped, sure, and a sacrifice was required to maintain the Balance—but only one. And I snatched me up the Crook like a drowning man grabs tide's last flots'm. Life on the Spans, I just couldn't face it anymore—I'm only saying this because my time is short and I don't give a shit who knows. I couldn't stand to walk the same decks trod by my Ayme, she who should ha' been my wife, and the man she chose instead. And the little feet of their children, who should ha' been mine. Couldn't do it.

Gimme a little water, would you?

I don't remember much of the ceremony, except for when you pressed the Crook into my palm. You couldn't even look me in the eyes. You were disappointed I was leaving, I think. Or knowing you, maybe just annoyed to have to train a new apprentice. Even so, you gave me a big ol' hug and said some nice things—I remember the tone if not the exact words. There was singing, and food, and drink. Dancing. Readings and stories. You did some nice recitations.

Next day, I took to the water as soon as I could see my hand in front of my face. I couldn't wait to be gone. I went south along the western shore of the Shallow Sea, for no reason but I liked the feel of the sun hot on the left side of my face. The freedom, the openness of the water, it was incredible. I got to know how the fishers feel, and I started to think I chose the wrong job. That's the life, I thought, out there on the water. I didn't have to see Ayme and her man, holding hands as they walked the Deck.

I rowed when I wished, and rested as I wanted. I made my little bag of carrots and beans last for three days, and then I fished. I drank the rain every afternoon. It was glorious. At night, I drifted under the stars as I slept.

After a hand of days, come nighttime, I came to the city. Half-drowned Balmurr, if the histories and my direction of travels match up rightly. A handful of tall, half-broke buildings came up from the waters. Some giant, cracked chimneys sticking up like the fingers of a giant climbing out from the waves but dead in the trying of it. I anchored the boat, 'cause I wanted to explore one of them buildings in the morning. But when the darkness came, strange red fires lit the top floors. It was a weird, flickering light, and there were these hungry screams echoing across the water. I couldn't tell just then if it were animals or man, but I was done with it. I raised anchor and rowed all the rest of the night. I didn't feel like I was on some grand adventure no more.

Another hand of days on, I came to the Fallen Spans. A big ol' mess of twisted remains of girders and decks and towers all rising up from the water. At first I couldn't tell whether it was a single bridge or two, but by midday I was able to tie up on the remains and climb to the top for a better look. The view was sure. Once two huge spans had rose above the waves. Like our own home, but bigger, I think. Leftovers from before the Slow Flood and the Collapse and the red fever and the rest. Couldn't tell that anyone'd ever lived on 'em. Saw a sign half-buried in the rubble, could read some of it. 'Lane, Jr. Memorial', whatever that is. Or was.

What I found, what turned me around and sent me running back here, was the orange stains on the metal. The same color I seen creeping out of the water at the base of our own Delamor Spans. It was everywhere I looked. And the metal was brittle, weak enough in some spots to break off in my hands. Just left a red-orange stain and a smell like old blood. I took a piece of the metal and headed for home. I needed to tell you and the Keeper and the Khan what I'd found. Listen, you great ol' bastard. Delamor won't stand forever. She's gonna fall. Just like Lane.

By the blood of the Builder, I'm thirsty. Can't I have just a sip more?

It was as I passed back by Balmurr that they came for me. Men, not animals, but much the same. Three boats, madmen dressed in skins and screaming for my meat. I couldn't outrow them, though I tried for half a day. They were hungrier'n I was scared, I guess. Decided not to die tired, so I slowed to face 'em and took up my Crook. I remember thinking I didn't care much to die, only that I was mighty disappointed I'd not make it back here to warn you.

As the ferals reached me, I set my mind to Ayme and tried to die well. How was I s'posed to know they weren't much for the swim? The Crook gave me reach, and I pulled two of them into the water before one of them gave me this. Seemed like such a little cut at the time, just a nothing.

I kept 'em off me for a while. They circled 'round, paying no mind to the cries of their drowning friends. How they drooled and hollered, Snead!

They came again, and I sent another one into the drink. Used the pointy end that time. That was enough for them, and I sent them back to Balmurr hungry, fed with a few choice words. I tell you bravely sure, but I was trying not to lose my stomach all the while. Not too shamed to say that now.

Don't rush me, you great old lummox. I know I don't have much time, but I'm going to tell this the way I want, damn it. I need 'nother blankie, can't you see how my bones are like to crack from this cold?

Rest of it is clear enough. Take this, show the Keeper and the Khan. This is what our bridges will become. Our spans will fall. See how easily it breaks?

Come on, just one more sip, you grump. That's better.

Ayme.

#

7.

"This rings true," Sheena said, though she was still feeling lost. "If Othmar-Amman (blessed-be-his-name) built our Spans, he or someone like him could have, would have, built others." She paused for a moment, gathering herself, then continued. "They believed him?"

"Not at first," Janeth replied.

"But Snead went back into the records, into the diary of the First Khan," Karrenz continued. "He found a single, fragmentary reference: '…worry about the structural integrity of the bridge and the spread of rust. Every fleck of orange is a reminder this is a temporary solution at best. Enough time, enough weather, we'll be in trouble. We'll find something better, safer, more sustainable. Maybe next year we will be able to send out…"

"You have that memorized, by the sound of it."

"Every Keeper, every Historian, since the days of the Larger Snead does; they learn it by rote when they take hold of the Balance," Janeth said. "The First Kahn wrote it the year before the red fever took him. Until Hightower's return, the meaning was lost. Or unconsidered, at least."

"The Spans will fall," Sheena said, again feeling the cyclone churning in her gut as she forced the words out.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Tomorrow?" Karrenz replied. "A generation or two? No one knows. But eventually, they will fall. Maybe from the weather, if a big enough 'cane hits, maybe just from time and their own weight."

"And only you know?"

"The three of us: Keeper, Historian, and Khan. All three keep the knowledge, from one to the next."

"How could you not tell us? Don't we deserve to know?"

"Would you really want to, though?" asked Janeth. "Would you really want to live each day, knowing that your very home, the place that's kept us safe for generations, is failing under your feet? Think for a moment about the job of the Keeper. What would that do to the Balance, if everyone knew?"

Sheena thought for a moment, sipping tea and wishing for some of Brant's moonwine instead.

"Collapse."

"Too right, faster than the Spans themselves could fall. It would destroy the Balance. It would destroy us. Everyone making out for themselves and their families, with no thought to the welfare of all. Hoarding, stealing, running with no plan or purpose in mind."

"We could leave."

Karrenz moved the chair, pulled it out, and sat down. He was moving like an old man again. He smiled up at Janeth sadly. "And go where? Scatter to the winds and waves and die alone? Or Sojourn in a single exodus, wandering the wilderness with nowhere to go, subject to banditry and starvation, worn down to nothing?"

"So what do we do? What are we doing? We can't just sit here and ignore it."

"No, we can't. And we don't," Karrenz said. "We keep the Balance, and we search for a home."

"The Sojourners?"

"Just so," Janeth replied with a gentle smile. "Since the return of Zsolt Hightower, we give all Sojourners orders in secret to seek a new home for our people. And one day, one of us will come back, with news of somewhere safe. Somewhere crops will grow to the limit only of our strength of imagination. Where we can grow, not caged in by the tyranny of the Balance."

Sheena cringed at the mild blasphemy, and then again as true realization dawned. "What do you mean, one of us?"

"I take the Crook after the next full moon," Janeth said.

"Why you? You're still young, and you're the flood-damned Keeper!"

"Because Tyrna and Athmad are having twins, and because we only lost one elder last year," Janeth replied softly.

"And because she keeps telling me I'm too old, and that I'm needed here, and that she'll hobble me if I try," grumbled Karrenz.

"Because Keepers are not immune from the sacrifices the Balance requires," Janeth continued, "and because I have to lessen the strain on the cushion. Because not only elders take the Crook. But mainly because I'm going to find us a new home."

"How?"

"I'm not going to give up. Karrenz has been generous with his time, and in lending me the older records. We've gone through the histories, back to the first years, when the first Sojourners took up the Crook and left us so that others could live. They've gone in all directions, but mostly east toward Wider Atlant, or south and west to Washing and Balmurr. Very few have gone north through the marshes of Philadel to Nyork and beyond."

"Because north is too dangerous. The Abominator—"

"Has held black sway for generations, yes. And while he controls the coast of the Shallow Sea and down the True River for fifty miles, I don't think they own more than that heading inland. I'll go straight north, maybe a little west."

"There's another early entry in the Founder's journal," Karrenz said. "We found it late last year. He muses on places where we could live. Especially, he mentioned one place he was hoping to take his family before the Slow Flood overtook the Spans and he decided to build here instead. He talks of wide spaces, a land of lakes, open sky, good farmland, and few people."

"Where?"

Janeth spoke slowly, as if she were tasting the words. "Canada, he called it. A place named Saskatchewan."

Another realization hit Sheena like a cresting wave. "And who will wear your Keeper's vest?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Janeth smiled, and Karrenz chuckled. He took the mug off the stack of papers, slid an empty sheet in front of him, and pulled the nub of a pencil from behind his ear.

"Thank you Karrenz," Janeth said, taking Sheena's arm and steering her gently towards the door as Karrenz waved a vague goodbye, his eyes never leaving the page. The pencil whispered softly against the rough grain of the paper. Janeth opened the door and sunlight stabbed in, blinding them. They stepped out into it, and Sheena sagged against her cousin under the weight of the brightness.

"Come on," the Keeper said, "we have a few more stops to make."

THE END

Bio: JD Baker is a former counterintelligence agent and combat veteran. For the last 20 years, he has worked in national security and law enforcement, with a focus on counterterrorism, human trafficking, counterintelligence, and climate risk and resilience. He writes about the things that keep him up at night.

E-mail: JD Baker

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.