Origin & Earth (The Orris Project Book 1), page 15
Lauren selected one of the small optical machines and began spinning dials and checking the viewfinder. After she finished the adjustment she said, “It’s not perfect, but look, and hurry.” Garrett bent over the viewfinder and could see a rounded segment of steel tube framing, one third clad in sheathing, all floating in nothingness, drifting across the viewfinder’s field. Its angular awkwardness was such that it could be nothing but real. No good movie director alive would allow for the framing to be that awkward. After the segment escaped from view, he sat hard on the bench behind him. She stepped back and sat next to him, closely. He noticed she had intended for their thighs to touch. She leaned back and then over onto his shoulder, with her hands clasped in her lap. Garrett instinctively and without reservation put his arm around her. The butterflies were gone. He was sure she was as invested as he was.
“I’m not sure I have the words for tonight.” He turned his face to hers. “I’ve never been an emotional man, but this experience has turned me inside out. Twenty-eight hours ago, I was sure I wanted to spend time with you. Five hours ago, I realized my feelings were much stronger than that, and now I’m enamored with you. But even though we both love this stuff… it will ultimately tear us apart.” He breathed in and looked up at the sky. “I’m not sure what to think or what to do. It’s not a paradox, it’s a conundrum, and I’m not sure I understood the meaning of that word until this moment.”
She placed a hand on his chest. Her expression was blank, as if in deep thought. “There is no solution,” she said.
He took her hand from his chest and kissed it. “Well, there has to be something,” he said. She turned her face into his chest. Garrett looked down at her. She looked up, and they kissed, truly, for the first time. “I want to spend every minute I have left here with you.”
She offered him a small smile. “I told you before, I’m yours.”
Chapter 7
Roma
1
Coming up from a thirteen-hundred-year stint was nothing compared to the longer ones he had already done on Earth. The Envoy had not needed to look for a cave; he knew of four from his exploration with Marco Clotz on the few days they had off during his months with the Clotz family. On their various expeditions, he had revealed to Marco his true story. Garrett confided in him on the condition of absolute secrecy. He enjoyed talking at length with another person about his true history, his true time on planet Earth, and his true intentions for the future.
The Envoy had selected the furthest cave from the Clotz farm, as it was also the deepest, and close to the road to Rome, which was his next destination.
Even before his eyesight had returned, and without water, he could sit up. He heard a whistle and assumed it was wind blowing over the mouth of the cave, some eight hundred feet from where he sat. He knew it would be important to get hydrated, no matter how good he felt, so he located his bag by touch and pulled it onto his lap.
Alarm rose in his mind when he uncinched the throat of the bag. It did not feel right. He always put a loose knot on top of a tight one, but the bag had only one loose knot. When he reached in, he discovered the reason. The first object his hand touched was foreign. It was an object that had never been in his possession before. It was weighty, had hard edges and corners, and was a bit… sticky. Curiosity exploded in his mind. No one knew where he was, not even Marco. He desperately wanted light so he could inspect the object. I suppose I would also need sight for the light to do me any good. He chuckled at his own joke. He concluded that his sight had returned, but that it was pure darkness where he was.
He drank a bottle of water, waited for fifteen minutes, and stood. He found he could carry himself well. Possessions accounted for and strapped in place, he listened and felt the walls and spent the next hours navigating out of the cave.
His sight had returned, as confirmed by the soft moonlight in the cave entrance. He walked out into the cool night air and sat in the dim, white light. The foreign object from his bag was a bundle of papers, folded twice and coated in something sticky. He brought the pack close to his nose and breathed deeply, hoping to identify the substance. It was mostly odorless, but he thought it may have been wax.
With the papers deposited back in his bag, he pulled out a fresh bottle of water, drank all of it and laid down on his back. Staring at the night sky, he waited for the sun.
2
When there was enough light to read by, he again withdrew the papers and carefully unfolded them. As he did, flecks and flakes of the sticky substance separated and fell to the ground. When the papers were open and he could gaze upon the script, he recognized Marco’s hand at once. He read the date at the head, and the words ‘I found you when I was twelve years old.’ It went on from there, but Garrett refolded the papers and put them back in his bag. There were a lot of pages and a lot of writing on each, and he wanted to save them for a time when he had a lot of waiting to do.
He got to his feet and walked down to the path below, turning southwest. The path was a faint track when he had gone under, but he stepped up onto a wide and cared-for road. In the east, the sunrise assured him he was traveling in the right direction. The Clotz’s had told him that if he intended to walk to Rome, it would be an eighteen- or twenty-day walk if he walked all day, every day. Garrett had no intention of walking that much and would hitchhike as much of the distance as he could.
Three hours into the morning daylight, he came upon a horseless wagon loaded high with barrels on the side of the road, pointing in the direction he was traveling. The barrels looked brand new, each branded with the name Monteprato. About twenty yards off the road were the horse and the man, the horse drinking from a small brook.
“Hello!” Garrett said in Latin. The heavy, balding man looked up the shallow incline but did not speak. He reached down and grasped the reins on the horse and led it back up the slope.
“Latin?” the man said as he crested the incline. “Can you speak Italian?” Garrett shook his head. The man nodded. “You may have some trouble in this area. What other languages can you speak?” Garrett shook his head again, knowing that Osan, Destrian, Rheeta, Bordell, and Temura would not count. “Nothing? What? Are you a thousand years old?” The man squinted hard as he was facing the sun. He wore humble clothing with a large, brimmed straw hat and looked as though he were in his sixties.
“I’ve traveled far and come from a place that only speaks Latin.”
“Sardegna?” the man inquired.
“No, it is far to the northeast.” The man shrugged his shoulders and asked where he was going. “My destination is Rome.”
“Rome? Well, you may find some there that you can speak to. You’re lucky you ran into me here. I taught Latin for thirty years before I retired to my farm. I’m only delivering these barrels as a favor to my brother.” He led the horse to the front of the wagon and began fixing the buckles. “You can ride with me for part of the way. I’m not going that far, but it will save your feet for a while.” Once finished with the buckles, he walked up to Garrett and extended his hand. “My name is Francisco Monteprato.”
“Garrett Rhodes.”
They rolled along the road for about two hours. During the time, they passed through beautiful hills and orchards. There were several vineyards dotting the countryside, and one apparent timber operation. The scenery differed greatly from the bleak desert Garrett had remembered from what felt like only months ago. They had to pause once to wait for a herd of sheep to cross the road but did not have to wait long. As they approached a town, or even a small city, Garrett could see a gaseous white column rising high into the sky. Before they reached the oddity, the driver tensioned the reins of the single horse and spoke to it in a kind voice. The horse stopped.
“Well friend, if I take you further, it would be in the wrong direction,” Francisco said, and pointed to their right. “This is the road you will want to continue west, then south to Rome.” He extended a hand toward Garrett again. “It has been a pleasure traveling with you.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Monteprato. Can I ask you, though? What is that?” He pointed to the column of what he assumed to be a blend of smoke and steam and then lowered himself from the wagon to the earth.
“Oh, that’s the mill. Lumber. They have one of the newest steam engines there. The world is changing, son, it is changing for sure! Good luck in your journey, Mr. Rhodes.” Garrett waved as the wagon once again rolled along the hard-packed road. Once he had fixed his gear, which was revealing the effects of age, he set out on his western course. Dory-10, synthetic or not, the material was beginning to fray and split. The company had claimed it would last for ten billion years, and it took Garrett just over eight billion to prove them wrong. The thread in his bag had also become useless, as he had discovered on Clotz’s farm; it would snap every time he tried to draw a length to mend with.
3
After two hours on foot, a caravan of three horse-drawn, covered wagons approached him from behind. Although none of the drivers spoke the dialect of Latin that Garrett knew, nor any Latin at all, they understood Roma and gestured an offer to travel with them. Garrett climbed aboard the lead wagon, seated to the right of the driver, and with the failing daylight decided he had enough time to read at least the first of Marco’s letters:
April 4, 563 -
Garrett,
I found you when I was twelve years old, about three years after you left our farm. As the years passed, I reflected on our tireless conversations as we roamed the countryside. My older and matured twelve-year-old mind realized that although you had set off for Rome, you had also said you would go into a long sleep before reaching it. It took me three years to understand that the reason you expressed so much interest in the surrounding cave systems was because you intended to use one. So, I searched, and then I found you. As you may have guessed from the date on this letter, that was ten years ago. Although I found your body, and you were gone to all of us forever, I was still too immature to understand that I could communicate with you, and so only now am I doing so. I also speculated that you may have made up all your stories to entertain a young boy’s mind; but I have visited you twice since, and never once did I get the scent of death. Because of that, I choose to believe you were telling me only the truth of your adventures.
I will write and keep these letters, and if I am so fortunate to live a long enough life, I will deposit them among your possessions before I die. As a reminder to me, and based on your unintentional guidance, folding them, and coating them in wax, to preserve them through the years.
During your time with us, you had become like family, and so I thought it would be prudent to update you on our family’s histories as they become apparent. I am very happy to report that there is no sad news. Mother and father are well, and father, although having surpassed his fiftieth year, is still as active on the farm and in the brewery as he ever was. Mateo married shortly after you left us and now has four children of his own! His wife is Cerelia, and she is a very tired woman. Ha! It was my great fortune to meet a girl who is now my wife. Her name is Marquesa, a beauty who also carries my first child. We no longer live on the farm, but for a price that my father helped put up, we purchased a small tract for ourselves only up the hill.
The twins have set themselves on very different paths. Bria is betrothed and set to marry in the summer, and then she will go to live with her husband in Bordano. Luna has asked to live with me and Marquesa, if only to get away from all the children on the farm. We are worried about her. She is a beautiful young girl, as you may imagine, having known her, but there is an affliction about her we cannot understand.
The brewery is nothing like you might remember. Father had another building put up behind it, just to store the barrels, and now Monteprato supplies us with ten times as many new barrels as you would have known. There are no other major brewers for a hundred miles, as we’ve used your guidance to make Clotz Ale the finest in the region.
I will write you again, but for now I will say goodbye, and Godspeed,
M. Clotz
Garrett placed the first letter behind the rest, folded them, and placed them back in his bag. The light was no longer sufficient for reading, and he had to strain to make out the last of Marco’s first letter. He smiled at the thought of the boy he had befriended and was glad he spent so much time and effort communicating with him; a man who would never know how much meaning and good cheer such letters could possibly bring to the Envoy. He was also happy when the caravan broke for the night, and he could sleep.
4
The sun had not yet come up when the lead driver began rousing them from their rest. The youngest driver, as he had done the night before, gathered the horses and led them to a small creek thirty yards from where they camped to water them. He was more of a boy than a man; probably thirteen, with long, curly black hair and a deeply tanned complexion. He was a younger-looking version of the other two drivers, who Garrett suspected were all a part of the same family.
Garrett could see that they had a fire the night before, and the lead driver was now resuscitating the flames. The young driver finished watering the horses, then handed the lead driver a kettle laden with water from the brook. The older man placed the kettle on a metal rack suspended over the small fire. He spoke to the others in a language that was unfamiliar yet similar to the Latin he had learned from the Clotz’s. He pulled a satchel from his bag, opened the kettle, and poured the contents into it, replacing the kettle lid after the satchel was empty. More chatter before the young driver emerged with four metal cups, each with a small handle. The lead driver poured the kettle off into the four cups and took one for himself. The young man handed the single cup left in his right hand to the other driver, separated the two in his left hand and offered one to Garrett. Although he did not know what the beverage was, he took it and sipped. It was hot; it was delicious; it was bitter; it was aromatic; he loved it… whatever it was. When he finished, he handed the cup back to the young driver.
The lead had already stamped out the fire and was checking the harnesses on the horses. “Andiamo!” he said, and they were off again. Soon after they pulled away from their camp, Garrett took the notes from the bag again and read the next two letters:
December 11, 575 -
Garrett,
I’m afraid we’ve suffered a major tragedy earlier this year. Both of my sisters are gone. This past May, while giving birth to her fourth child, Bria passed, and I’m sad to report that the child did not survive the bad pregnancy either. Upon the news of her twin, Luna’s already fragile mental state became insufferable for her, and she disappeared. We discovered her body the next day, as she had cast herself off the north side of Tenna Hill, where we sourced the water for the duct all those years ago. The drop was sheer, and as you must know, fatal. Bria’s husband allowed for us to bury them next to each other, on his family’s land in Bordano.
Mother and father are still with us, though father is not as active on the farm as he once was. Mateo has taken over fully for years now and runs the entire operation. All of his children now work on the farm as well as my oldest boy, whom I named for myself, and my second boy, whom I named for you. Young Garrett is now the age I was when I met you! I have one other, a young girl of six years who is named for her mother, Marquesa.
Except for the sad news of my dear, sweet sisters, we are all healthy and happy.
Godspeed Tosgaire,
M. Clotz
---
May 17, 586 -
Garrett,
Father passed away two days ago. He had been ill for over a year. He was seventy-three. A good, long life for a man. I should be celebrating him, but I admit I am just heartbroken.
I am now myself at forty-five years, older than you and my father both when you spent that summer with us. I am beginning to feel the age in my joints and muscles. My wife insists my mind has also become soft. I love her for many reasons, but her humor pleases my soul. I have begun an experiment with a more and more popular beer seasoning. It’s a flower that grows on a vine. I have only three hundred plants, but if it proves itself over time, I plan to give the entirety of my small plot to the flower for the sake of the brewery. A lot of work, though!
Mateo has been slowly relinquishing the operation of the farm and brewery to his eldest son, Luca, named for our father. Luca is an ambitious young man and has visions of expanding the brewery beyond the farm. He even married into the Monteprato family. He says it was for love, but the only thing uglier than his wife’s face is her rotten personality. Between you and me and the stars, I believe his ambition drove his choice.
I will leave you to your sleep,
Godspeed Tosgaire,
M. Clotz
Garrett shivered at the revelations and felt sad about the death of the elder Luca, whom he admired. Silly, though, he thought. They are all long dead now. He placed the two letters he had read to the back of the pile and found there were only two left. As he lifted the first to glance at the second, he frowned. The handwriting on the last letter of the series was not Marco’s. He decided he did not want to know, then. He would let it be a mystery for a while longer.
