Worlds Without End by Caroline Spector Page B

exhausting. I jerked awake from another dream about Ysrthgrathe. He was in my mind again. Invading my thoughts and dreams just like he had all those years ago. It made me feel unclean. Like something slimy had crawled across my skin.
    Caimbeul was asleep next to me. He snored a little and I gave him a bit of a push to make him stop. I wanted to wake him and tell him about my dream, but I didn’t. I had learned long ago that it was better not to involve anyone else in matters concerning Ysrthgrathe.
    Outside it was dark. I found flying to be strange, as though I were suspended in time and space. Another manifestation of my distrust of technology. Perhaps all this metal and cold, analytical thought reminded me too much of the Therans. The result of their devotion to purity had ruined so many. Like the Huns, they thought nothing of conquering and laying waste to any and all who opposed them. And like the Romans, they swallowed whole civilizations and digested them into unrecognizable pieces. They so believed in their own purity that they sacrificed the world.
    But all of that time was gone. I had to stop letting it pull me into the past. What was important now was the future. I had to save it.
    * * *
    We landed in the Atlanta airport and made our connecting flight to Austin without any real delays. Oh, there’s always some sort of drek that pops up when you enter the Confederated American States, but I still had a few connections of my own. A few hours later, we were catching a cab from Robert Mueller Airport to my sometime-residence in the western hills of Austin.
    * * *
    “I don’t remember this place.” said Caimbeul. He walked about the room pulling dust covers off the furniture and sneezing as dust flew up his nose.
    The house smelled stale and I was opening windows. The clean, sweet scent of fall floated into the room. It was warm here, even in late October. I like that about Austin.
    “I didn’t come by it until nineteen thirty-four.” I said. “As I recall, you were out of the picture by, oh, about fifty years.”
    “We did fall out of touch.” he said. “I’m sorry about that.”
    “I’m not.” I said. “We had said so many things by then. Things neither of us could take back. No, it was better that we got away from one another.”
    He opened the French doors leading to the balcony that wrapped around the front of the house overlooking the beginning of the Hill Country. Cedar and mesquite trees grew low and crippled by the fierce summers. It was as close to an alien landscape as I could imagine. Even now, when technology tried to cover every centimeter of earth, I believed that this land would reclaim itself if given half a chance.
    “I like it here.” he said. “It reminds me of another place—before . . .”
    “Before the Enemy came.” I finished. “Yes, it doesn’t look the same, but it feels the same. Wild and untamed. There used to be more development here, but since the Awakening, it has gone back somewhat.
    “After the Great Ghost Dance, the water spirits inhabiting the Barton Creek Watershed rose up and drowned a number of developers. They were having some kind of big ground-breaking on yet another big project. Apparently, the water spirits didn’t like the idea, because they carried off the great-great-grandson of Jim Bob Moffett and several of his banker friends.
    “There hasn’t been much development since then, and the people who were living in property that was polluting the creek found themselves being tormented by water spirits. Most of them have left.”
    “Why are you still here?” Caimbeul asked.
    “Professional courtesy.”
    * * *
    We’d stopped for groceries on the way in, and after a quick meal of eggs and soylinks, we retired back to the balcony. Luckily, my freezer was still working and I had a supply of unground coffee beans laid in. We watched the brilliant red sun go down while sipping Kona blue and cognac.
    “Why are we here?” Caimbeul asked. I had been