While at this elevation and distance it served little purpose to even hazard a guess at the actual height or girth of the larger members of this vast evergreen forest, still Big Jon arrived at a mental assessment. Those mighty firs had to be all of one hundred and fifty—or even one hundred and seventy—feet tall! And in their higher canopies they appeared packed so very close that only a few gaps showed, none of them large enough to indicate clearings of any appreciable size.
As he continued to gaze down on that gigantic forest, one undeniable truth quickly made itself apparent to Big Jon: that unless there was plenty of free space beneath that vast canopy—between those huge boles and below the lower branches, where the sunlight must surely be shut out and undergrowth mainly absent—no power on Earth was ever going to force a way through; which of course included the convoy’s trundles and every other vehicle that had found the going hard even on what was left of the old roads, let alone through a trackless green fastness!
But on the other hand, who could say? At this distance appearances might well be misleading, deceptive even through powerful lenses…. Oh really? Yet despite having serious misgivings about that last, still as Big Jon lowered his binoculars he was telling himself there was always hope…
For all that the column had remained stationary for only a minute or so while its leader surveyed the way ahead, a handful of men had come forward from their places several vehicles back to see what was the difficulty. One of these was the chief mech Ian Clement, and following the line of Big Jon’s worried, fixed gaze, he too looked down into the valley at what he had to assume was the prospective route ahead. In that same moment it was as if he read his leader’s mind, and:
“Big Jon!” The chief mech groaned and shook his head. “Even a quick glance down there tells me we’re in really bad trouble, and that’s a fact! The vehicles are just about done in as it is—but now, with that great green barrier down there? I mean—”
“I know what you mean!” the leader growled, at once silencing the other. “So please be quiet, Ian, and let me think…”
By which time Zach Slattery had come hobbling up front; and as the small group of ominously silent senior clan members made way for him, he leaned against the rauper’s jutting prow, joining his peers where, as a man, they stared helplessly down into the valley.
Momentarily lost in thought, finally Big Jon saw Zach, gave himself a shake and said: “Well then, old friend, how about it? Your mind is ever sharp, so do you see any choices we can make? Do you have any suggestions?”
“There are always choices,” Zach answered, his voice a grim rasp. “Unfortunately, I can’t see one that will do us any good! As for suggestions: while I don’t know about anyone else, right now my own mind feels like a huge dark vacuum: horribly empty!”
Nodding his understanding—and speaking quietly, almost to himself, but knowing he must decide one way or the other—Big Jon then said: “Maybe if we stay up here and leave the road, it might just be possible to follow the high ground west, and—”
At which point:
“Not a hope in hell!” the chief mech barked, forsaking the customary niceties. “What, we should leave the road—potholed, creeper-ridden relic that it is—and drive cross-country? That was bad enough when there were so-called badlands, but at least we could see where we were going! I mean, these shrubs and this greenery and what all, it may be pretty to look at, but if anything it makes the going just as rough as driving through scrub and rubble, and at the same time hides the many pitfalls! Let’s have one thing understood: even if we stay on this ruined road, we can only cover a few more miles before the wheels, axles and engines give up the ghost. But to leave the road, to go off it? Well, I don’t know…” Finally beaten, defeated, the chief mech shook his head. “I just don’t know…” And as his words petered out he could only offer an impotent, almost apologetic shrug.
Then for a long moment silence reigned, unticlass="underline" “And so much for that choice!” said Zach. “But Ian is right, of course.”
“Yes, I know he is.” Big Jon nodded tiredly.
“Which leaves us with the valley,” said Zach. “But at least it’s downhill!”
“That’s right,” said Ian Clement, resigned to the fact that his work was at an end, that he’d done his best but could do no more. “And if the gears should burn out,” he continued, “or the engines decide to quit, I suppose we can always freewheel—at least to the bottom and as long as the brakes hold out!” And he offered a derisive, humourless snort.
“And then, when we’re down there,” said Big Jon, “depending on how things look close up, there’ll be other choices to make. Whether or not we try to push on through—but of course that’s if any of the vehicles are still functioning—” and he glanced at the chief mech. “Or—”
“Or abandon the vehicles to the trees and go on foot,” said a new, younger voice: Garth’s voice, from where he’d joined his father at the front. “Of course, we’ll still have the bikes and no lack of fuel. The outriders—as they were—should still be able to scout ahead, finding us the easiest routes. And if just one of the smaller trundles is still working and able to squeeze through, maybe we could use it to carry fuel, arms and ammunition. As for the animals: all their lives they’ve known only us; we’d have to carry the birds in their cages, I suppose, but the beasts, what’s left of them, will need to go on foot along with us. Which I’m sure they will, just as long as we’re leading and feeding them…”
Done with speaking, Garth looked in turn at each of the men and found all of them staring back at him—some slightly disapprovingly, perhaps—but none of them offering any opposition or argument against the logic of what he’d said. And as for Big Jon:
Looking down at Garth from the rauper’s turret, the leader blinked twice and said, “The voice of youth: a calm voice, with nothing of panic in it. The voice of reason, which admits of no insurmountable difficulty but looks to the future—any future—because there has to be one! And people, I like that sort of voice!”
“And why not?” said Zach. “For there’s a lot of commonsense in what it says and a good deal of hope even in what it doesn’t say! Let’s face it, we can’t be far from journey’s end, not now…just a few more miles at most. Are we suddenly grown incapable of walking? No, not at all! Myself, I’ve only one good leg but I’ll give it a go. And anyway, what with the convoy’s mileage recently: why, for all the time it’s taken we might just as well have walked the last twenty or thirty miles!”
“That’s very true,” said Big Jon, scanning the faces of the elders—some of whom still seemed dubious—as they turned to look up at him. “But at least before walking we can coast, well, for the next few downhill miles at any rate! So then, does anyone have any better ideas? No? Then you’d best get back to your places, for time’s wasting and the future’s damned impatient!”
And a few minutes later the convoy was underway again…
Chief mech Ian Clement’s predictions were proving all too accurate: one of the larger tractors and the water bowser failed to make it down into the valley. The latter’s driver jumped for it, saving his life when his cumbersome vehicle toppled on a crumbling surface, burst open and lost its load. As for the tractor: worn-out, its engine coughing and sputtering, it simply gave up the ghost, coming to a grinding halt where its front wheels ran into a deep rut and refused to come out—which meant that the trundle it towed was also stuck there. Wear and tear, bad fuel, harsh conditions: all of these things had taken, and were still taking, their toll. For even as the column crossed the valley’s floor toward the mighty forest, yet another vehicle quit; which left many travellers hanging on like grim death to groaning and heavily overloaded trundles, trying to keep up as best possible by running alongside, and disappointed to be on their feet even sooner than they had anticipated.