The Unfinished Land by Greg Bear

Author:Greg Bear [Bear, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781328592361
Google: Oc5nDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1328589900
Publisher: HMH Books
Published: 2021-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

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The northern third of the Ravine had been overgrown centuries past by mats of vines like no growth Reynard had ever seen—strong enough to hold trees that had toppled from the steep sides. The trail they followed twisted among great columns of stone spaced like struts in broken wagon wheels. These held back crushing and groaning walls of melting ice that released pools and swirls of their own fog. They saw their way only by cold, scattered stars peeking through the mats. Kern, Reynard, and Widsith hewed close to Kaiholo. But they moved too swiftly in the darkness for the boy, and he stumbled often over roots and stones.

By the time they reached the end of the path, the roof of vines had been ripped open by the fall of several of the largest trees, and now, eyes adapted to the starlit dark, they saw a high, wide wall of close-hewed and fitted stone—a wall that must have once been interrupted by hundreds of windows that were now, along the lower reaches, chocked by flat, ugly bricks, as if, for those inside this wall—this advanced face of an unlikely fortress—the gloom of the Ravine was still too bright. Narrow steps had been thrust into the wall, crumbling and cracking the stones. Anyone who dared to climb was protected only by a winding, crumbling balustrade of woven wicker, following the steps in their jagged, back-and-forth ascent like some prodigious basket-snake.

Reynard kept close to Widsith, who followed as Kaiholo and then Kern began their climb. He paused and reached for what he thought were flowers growing around the wicker.

“Do not touch,” Kern cautioned. “Many biting things here.” He opened one hand to show scars on a palm.

Reynard withdrew his fingers. Small and brilliant red even in the shadow, the flowers resembled little sprouts of flame rising from circlets of blue petals. At the nearness of his fingers, they withdrew like anemones on a tidal beach and chirped like crickets, taunting him.

“She collects Crafter refuse,” Kaiholo said, and showed scars on his own palm—unmarked by tattoos. “Fascinated by all things Crafter!”

“Plans for creations never approved,” Kern added. “Undeveloped or forgotten schemes. Ephemera. Things that know not any way home, nor whether home awaiteth. She arrangeth them like a gardener, even here. As for those devilish, nipping flowers—they came here as seeds carried by strange clouds from the krater lands, falling in muddy rain.” Kaiholo looked up at the narrow holes in the thick canopy of vines. “Best avoid such rain, or you will be crusted like a reef.”

After they had all passed, the flowers slowly reemerged and shivered.

The first flights of steps took them, slowly and cautiously enough, to a wide indented cleft. From here, more steps forked like lightning ascended to a few open porticoes, which passed through roofless walls and led to more staircases halfway up this next prodigious, sealed-off facing.

Even this high above the blocks of melting ice, the air burned and clogged Reynard’s nose with the pervasive odor of an unholy, devilish chill.

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