“Carpe diem,” said Bill Mason. “Seize the day.”
“Exactly,” said Socrates. “An excellent thought. We must be true to our own nature. The shortest way to live with honor is to be in reality what we appear to be.” |
“That’s the way I figure it,” said Crockett. “Come | on, Jim. You can sit around here growing fat or help me find Santy Anna and give him what he deserves.”
Bowie sat for a moment, mulling over Socrates’ words. The Greek philosopher had an uncanny knack of ferreting out the truth with a few simple questions. For months, Bowie had been feeling restless. Life in New Athens offered no challenge for a frontiersman. Crockett’s appearance only served to underscore the emptiness of his own existence.
Searching for Santa Anna meant nothing to him. Unlike Crockett, he had no personal score to settle with the Mexican. His past had died at the Alamo. He was free of old grudges, old hates. Yet, thinking that, he suddenly realized he wanted to leave anyway.
In an instant of epiphany, Bowie realized that the reason for his departure didn’t matter. It was the trip
itself that counted, not the final destination. The meaning of life was in the living, not the ending. Perhaps that was why all mankind had been reborn on the banks of a seemingly endless river.
“Well,” he said, a smile slowly forming on his lips, “I guess I could use a change of scenery.”
With a whoop of excitement, Crockett grabbed Bowie by the shoulders. “Now that’s more like it! The two of us, together again, lookin’ for trouble.”
“Hey,” said Bill Mason. “Count me in. I’m no adventurer, but there’s a few people on the River I’d like to find. Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald, for starters.”
“Why not,” said Crockett. “No reason we can’t hunt for those fellas too. Whoever the hell they are.”
“I, too, would like to join your party,” said Isaac unexpectedly. For the first time since Bowie met the man, there was a glimmer of hope in his haunted eyes. “My nightmares are driving me mad. Only one man can put those dreams to rest. He, too, must live somewhere along the River.”
Bowie glanced over at Socrates. “What about you, my friend? Want to come along? Or are you satisfied to remain here?”
“In my old age,” said the philosopher, a sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘ ‘the good citizens of Athens voted to put me to death for corrupting the youth of that city. Too many of those same people were resurrected in this community.
“Lately they again grumble about my endless questions. They think I mock the gods. Unfortunately, they are right. One taste of hemlock is enough. Better that I travel with you than risk a second sentence. If I die, let it be because of my own stupidity, not another’s.
294
Robert Weinberg
“Besides,” he added. “I have asked many people, ‘What is justice?’ In all my years, I have yet to receive a satisfactory reply. Perhaps somewhere on the River is an answer to my question.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Crockett. “Tomorrow we’ll build us a canoe and head out.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bowie, raising his hands for silence. “I agreed to help you find the General, but I ain’t planning to commit suicide. How many times you die already, searchin’ on your own?”
“Seven,” answered Crockett. “Or maybe eight. I lost count a while back.”
“I figured as much,” said Bowie, his mind racing. Crockett hadn’t changed much since his days on the frontier. He had grand ideas but little patience for details. “Only way we’ll accomplish anything is by staying alive. Maybe death ain’t permanent anymore, but it’ll scatter our party to the four winds. So we gotta make plans, big plans. Traveling by canoe ain’t the answer. We’ll need a boat, a good one, and a crew to sail her.”
“A boat?” said Crockett. “And crew? Why?”
“I’ve learned quite a bit from some of the other folk translated here during the past few years. Not all the people on the River are as friendly as the citizens of New Athens. Take those cannibal friends of yours, for example. The five of us don’t stand much of a chance on our own. There’s strength in numbers. That’s why a crew is important.”