Chapter Fifty-Nine
On the Saturday after the conferences closed we were up early, because it was time to move I84. Work on the new rail bridge, using Memaloose Island, had been going on for a fortnight with help from Medicine Wolf and a crew Irpa put together, and it was ready for sections of the old one to be reused. Convoys of road surfacers had been moving in for forty-eight hours, and at 6 a.m. I84 was closed between The Dalles and Biggs Junction, traffic diverted onto the Lewis-and-Clark Highway. Jesse and Adam weren't needed but neither would have missed it for the world, nor a bouncy Skuffles, so Darryl, Jill, and Brent came by cloak, while Dan, the Joes, and David's crew went with the Freed.
Despite the hour crowds around Wishram on the north bank were dense, and many had scored closer invitations. The Freed reinforced Sheriff's Deputies keeping people away from large machines, and any number of army engineers were talking earnest physics and maths with civilian counterparts, politicians, Yakama elders, medicine men, and gawkers, Caroline and Penny putting it all on air. Raven was talking to Yakama about animals Elder Spirits were fetching, and I listened for a while but it was more fun to show my new army friends the blouson I wore, humongous nameplate attached, and amid banter and excited engineering chatter we went to watch a human–preternatural team dismantling the old bridge. They had an enormous crane on a floating platform, and barges to take D-shaped sections as they were lifted clear. There was irony in that the last advantage taken of Lake Celilo was getting crane and barges downstream. The pillars, mostly still underwater, would go as soon as they weren't. As the penultimate section swung into the air Washington and Oregon arrived by hydrogen-cell coach with state legislators, and we'd just finished greetings when Medicine Wolf showed up, trotting downriver with an approving whuff at the absence of bridge.
I'd let it have tech specs engineers provided, but while medicine men performed a blessing it did some checking, demonstrating hardened earth engineers agreed they'd be happy to gravel and asphalt. The first stage was tricky because when they'd built I84 the railroad had already been there so only the eastbound carriageway was inside it, the westbound being on a causeway beyond a shallow sough. There was also water south of the eastbound carriageway, a bit of what had been ragged shoreline and was now an isolated and stagnant pond. A curve inland had been marked out, and once everyone was sure they were on the same page Medicine Wolf settled on the last westbound section of I84 that would survive, air and water shivered, and after a moment earth began to move.
Seeing roadway subside into river was enjoyably alarming, but the greater interest was the curving bank that formed, filling the sough and cutoff lake. A wide section of steeper slope beyond, a ragged gully marking the end of high basalt cliffs that ran all the way to Celilo Village, began flattening to meet the bank and a sheer-sided cutting developed — soil compacting, rock moving aside, groaning as it contracted, and the exposed sides gleamed, complex with folded strata. Once it reached forty feet in depth an arched roof developed, and the tunnel proper began, gently rising and immediately curving back west. The roadway needed to gain about eighty feet in elevation to match SR143, and Medicine Wolf was providing some 2000 feet of tunnel, for an easy 1 in 24, before new roadbed emerged into daylight. With pure rock to deal with tunnelling accelerated to fifteen or twenty feet a minute, Medicine Wolf walking forward to disappear into darkness. The nerve-rippling fizz of magic became muffled though it pulsed in the earth, massed engineers picked up jaws and went to look with exclamations of wonder, and I asked Skuffles to command general attention.
"I appreciate the warm feelings in your engineering hearts, ladies and gentlemen, but the clock's ticking, so how about firing up those nice roadlayers? Wolf and fae crews are standing by to help with recycling."
It took some foot-tapping, but engineers are a timely bunch, by and large, and before long shiny new roadway started to restore I84's continuity. A crew set off towards Celilo Village, removing lengths of safety barrier, and would take down signs at the defunct exit. Caroline and Penny had been asking engineers questions, but when Caroline saw us talking to Washington and Oregon she headed over.
"Good morning, Governors, Ms Hauptman, Mr Hauptman, Miss Hauptman. Isn't it extraordinary? Even after everything that's happened lately I've hardly been able to believe my eyes."
"Good morning to you too, Ms Taylor, and that's magic for you. Welcome to the Tunnel of Manitou Love."
Caroline swallowed a laugh. "Is that an official name, Ms Hauptman?"
I grinned, and Jesse snickered.
"Unless anyone really objects. The rail one will be Tunnel Vision, which is snarkier, I grant, but First People like it."
This time Caroline did laugh, as did governors.
"I see why they would." Oregon gave a rueful smile. "Trickster politics has a steep learning curve, I'm finding, Ms Hauptman, but keeps us on our toes. Laughter with everything. And I'll take the chance to say how grateful we are for the remarkable work you did settling the land issues and financial package. A very good deal for everyone, and this amazing protection of the Sacred Space is a fantastic bonus. We're going to have a lot of engineering pilgrims over the next few years, I'd imagine."
"Oh yeah. But you know, ma'am, I told Ms Hauptman after her speech to the joint session I'd never seen anyone expropriate several miles of interstate before, let alone get cheered for it. And now it's a fantastic bonus?" Caroline laughed again. "Of course it is, and that's Trickster politics too. Is that what you mean by synergy, Ms Hauptman?"
"Not really, Ms Taylor This is just being practical. Synergies are less predictable, especially if magic's involved."
Oregon sighed. "And you did predict this, while we stared incredulity."
"I expect to be doing that quite a bit in the next few years, Ms Hauptman." Washington had a half-smile. "I'm even looking forward to it, mostly. But I think an army engineer wants you."
An army engineer did, having discovered the rock of the cutting walls was extremely dense basalt of a kind never yet described. I nodded, observing that rock removed had to go somewhere and greater density provided enormous strength while avoiding spoil. He blinked.
"That's …"
"Efficient, Colonel? And free, but no kind of automatically available, as we need to remember. By all means talk to Medicine Wolf or Ol' Manitou River, and feel free to propose projects in their respective basins, but you'll need better arguments than human desire and convenience. Medicine Wolf is reconfiguring itself permanently — body-piercing, more or less."
He blinked again. "Ah. I suppose. Thank you." He stared at the rock in his hand. "Basalt with a density of 7.5 g/cc. Dear Lord. I can think of a dozen things it could make possible. What should we call it, I wonder?"
"Direwolfite?"
He gave a weak grin. "That will do nicely, thank you."
He wandered off to rejoin equally bemused colleagues, and I got back to trickster politics via the value of direwolfite as a name. It occurred to me that getting Medicine Wolf to provide a pillar of it somewhere people could whack it with a hammer would be wise, if we didn't want idiots stopping to chisel at walls, and an appalled Oregon added NO STOPPING signs to the list of new ones needed. After she'd spoken to a state official we walked down the eastbound carriageway, speaking to the crew reclaiming safety barrier, and met Irpa coming the other way, the rail-bridge having been reduced to pillars and a convoy heading downstream.
"Hey, Mercy. I prefer building bridges to removing them, but it's done. And have you seen what Medicine Wolf did for the new bridge?"
I was regaled with an enthusiastic account of instant coffer-dams and magical forms allowing ridiculously rapid pouring of a beautiful concrete arch, with the puzzle of whether what happened after that could be called a cantilever or was just a beam. Most of me couldn't care less, as long as it worked, but Irpa's passion made it interesting, and she was equally taken with cutting and tunnel, running a hand over smooth rock and laughing when I told her its new name.
"Good one, Mercy. You sure don't get rock like this any other way."
"Trolls are into geology, Ms Thorsden?" Washington sounded genuinely curious. "Because of bridges?"
"And caves. We don't mine, but do quarry. Rock's always been handy, and ashlar's better, however sexy concrete may be."
The sexiness of concrete occupied us a while, but I was better pleased with visible progress. Lane-marking had started, paint gleaming, and crews were installing a central reservation with power for lights. Roadlayers had disappeared into the tunnel, noise echoing back, and I was saved further concrete rhapsodies when a civil engineer emerged from the tunnel to tell us Medicine Wolf onto widening 143. Leaving Caroline behind but acquiring engineers with torches, we set off up the tunnel, finding daylight visible as soon as were round the opening curve, dodged roadlayers, and did some marvelling at the clean lines. A quick calculation when Jesse asked told me that with four twelve-foot lanes, hard shoulders, and central reservation we were talking a half-circle with a radius of forty feet, meaning some four million cubic feet of rock had been moved aside in — I checked — less than two hours. Nice work if you could get it, which I could, a point Jesse appreciated though Jill and Oregon gave me fisheyes in the gloom.
We emerged into daylight through another cutting with gleaming sides to see Medicine Wolf already a mile further on. SR143 had become slip road, feeding in to the new line of I84, and the land's profile had been adjusted, rock from the southern, upslope side displaced to level the downslope, providing a wall to the south and a drop to the north. Anywhere else there'd have been animal underpasses, but the double-step of the roadway would keep ordinary beasts south, while the Sacred Space would keep less ordinary ones safely inside.
Adam's crew was already putting in security fence along the drop to the north, defining the Sacred Space, and there was a sign in the middle of one section.
CELILO FALLS SACRED SPACE IS PROTECTED,
BY LAW, ANIMALS, AND MAGIC.
TRESPASSERS WHO AREN'T EATEN
WILL BE PROSECUTED.
PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE GRIZZLIES, COUGARS, BOBCATS, RATTLESNAKES, COYOTES, DEER, MOOSE, OR ELK.
The wording was Coyote's, with the graphic design setting up the doubletake, but we'd all liked the joke, and Irpa hooted when she read it. Engineers were grinning, governors appreciated trickster politics some more, and you couldn't say we weren't being upfront.
"On the same principle as the pillar of direwolfite, we'll put a fancier one in Biggs Junction so people can take selfies." I looked at Oregon. "And your call, ma'am, but it occurred to me the diner and gas station wouldn't object to a sign a mile east that said it's the last halt before Celilo Falls Sacred Space, where there's no stopping for however many miles."
Oregon added to her list, and once we'd thanked the fencing crew, and set about catching Medicine Wolf, Jesse and Irpa started suggesting more. Beware of low-flying Thunderbird was probably not necessary, nor Please do not feed the salmon, but warning about ambient magic was sensible, and not climbing or damaging trees that would soon be growing upslope as well as inside the fence. Oregon wanted commemorative plaques crediting Medicine Wolf and me, and couldn't be persuaded to leave me out but agreed to include Elder Spirits. She also wanted a display at the Deschutes River State Recreation Area, saying what could be said about Celilo Falls and its history. There were plenty of old photos up on Wiki or local history sites, but I referred her to Dan Strongbear, warning he would want images minimal and Yakama on staff.
Jill and I were kicking it around, trying to explain the way someone like Dan thought, when Caroline caught us, having fast-talked her way through the tunnel, and asked about the sign. Then we all caught Medicine Wolf, and conversation lapsed. Visible movement of rock and earth, morphing and hardening into readiness for tarmac, was an absorbing fascination. Skuffles was half-drunk on washes of magic, for which I couldn't blame her — it was very strong, and the swirling patterns of power imposing preferred order would have been mesmerising if I'd let myself sink into them. I picked out the sequence of mobilisation, remoulding, and resetting with focused magmatic heat, and a quick hand to the earth confirmed it was much warmer than weather could explain, but once I'd seen it repeat I pulled out, damping senses to offer Caroline commentary. Irpa reckoned what was moving was being compacted by about ten percent, and an engineer added that the surface was cambered in a way he thought British, looking askance when Jesse laughed.
"You're exactly right, sir. We have a Brit in the pack, and we've all heard … diatribes covers it, about US roads having an appalling lack of camber. When he heard we'd be building new interstate he demanded to speak to Medicine Wolf."
Ben had, reining in expletives but intense about this particular hobby-horse, and as proper drainage and banking are always better than not, while standing puddles are a nuisance even if they don't freeze into menace I'd arranged it. It had implications for the way US-made cars abused suspensions, dear to any mechanic's heart, so while observing general US specs, camber had been added to UK specs, and as it turned out Oregon was happy to have signs about that too, while Washington, proud of very low road fatality stats, suggested adding reprofiling to all resurfacing. A grinning Adam gave him Ben's number.
"Now that's synergy, Ms Taylor. We happen to have a British wolf big on camber who bent Medicine Wolf's ear, while the governor has an eye on how safe Washington drivers are and Montana drivers aren't. Rub together, and hey presto, a statewide — bistate? — bistate road improvement initiative. I've never been to the UK, but apparently there's a corner near Swindon that makes you want to turn and go round it again."
"Really?"
"So I'm told. The wolf in question swears by it, and has never met an American corner he didn't despise."
"Right. And you've never been to the UK. Huh. I bet not many of the last dozen presidents could say that. May I ask where you have been?"
"Canada, Mexico, and Greece for two weeks when I was at Wazzu. Classical history trip. Until recently overseas cost too much."
"That I get. Being co-Alpha ties you down, too, I'd guess."
"Some, yeah, though being two gives us short-term flexibility."
"Un huh. I know you won't make assumptions, but are you looking forward to travelling more."
"I guess. Carbon footprints need thinking about, but if this happens I'll surely be seeing new places, always interesting."
"Is the UK high on the list? Traditional allies, and so on?"
"Not especially, Ms Taylor. A Brit annoyed me not long ago, so I'm not feeling much like heading that way. A history holiday somewhere would be nice, though, and if Asil stays in Spain I'll probably go there."
That shifted conversation to Asil, whose diplomacy among European wolves had become public when he co-chaired a meeting between wolves and EU people. Adam had heard the political slap at the Brits' oafish Prime Minister, giving me an appreciative look, and with any luck so would the Oaf. I might have an Anglo half but my only special relationships were with people.
SR143 paralleled the old I84 and river for several miles, but west of Celilo Village swung south, and with ploughed fields appearing Medicine Wolf shifted pattern, creating all new roadway on the northern side. The drop became higher, and where 143 passed the farmhouse responsible for the ploughing it provided an exit and bent the line north, raising the wall. The farmer was the only person inconvenienced by the new route, and that plus compensation for increased traffic noise were part of the deal. The wall would muffle it, but with a natural cliff only yards north room for manoeuvre was limited. After a wiggle back south, with access from the farm, there was another straight stretch, then a major deviation. We'd dropped twenty feet or so from the tunnel exit, but a sixty-foot drop was needed to rejoin I84, and 143 did it with a sprawling double-S-bend that took it to the west bank of the Deschutes. Medicine Wolf ignored that, save to provide an exit when it abandoned 143, and sank I84 into a second tunnel that would over a mile-and-a-half drop the necessary height and more, at 1 in 24, go under the Deschutes confluence, and rise to rejoin existing I84 a quarter-mile west. It took nearly four hours, and though most engineers followed Medicine Wolf, waving torches and cameras, the rest of us stopped at the entrance, and with Brent, Jill, and Irpa I used the cloak to collect a Benny's preorder for a welcome lunch.
In the distance we could see roadlayers leapfrogging one another towards us, and conversation was about the efficiencies and side-effects of concentrating effort, with meditative reflection. For most humans, including governors, it was the first time they'd been close to serious, sustained magic, and seeing was believing. I knew Medicine Wolf was willing to reduce carbon footprints, and enjoyed doing new things, but what that would translate into was anyone's guess. There wasn't much call for new highways within the Basin, but Washington and Oregon had a lot of iffy mountain roads that could do with widening. Maps were produced, and engineers who'd preferred pizza got in on the discussion.
Skuffles trotted around examining the land between Carlisle Spring and the cliffs overlooking the Deschutes Confluence. It was dull scrubland, but that would be changing before Friday, and I spent a while talking with Jesse, who had her next intranet to think about. We could see most of the triangle that was Sacred Space, sloping down to the old I84, cliffs to the east, lower bluffs behind Celilo Village. Escarpments cut across it, remnants of erosion during the Cascades Orogeny, and though I didn't understand the hydrology I knew they had mattered to Medicine Wolf and Underhill in planning irrigation. We could make out Wishram clearly, crowds still dense though they had nothing to see.
There is not much soil for trees.
"Medicine Wolf will take care of that."
How?
"Breaking up the rock and adding water, I think, but maybe Underhill has old mulch available."
Skuffles gave me a look, Jesse grinned, and we talked interlocking things needed to reforest rocky slopes until there was something to see. A section of I84 began to vanish, tarmac compacted into rock as the tunnel became a long cutting, rejoining the old road, and with exits to the Celilo–Wasco Highway it was done. Engineers waving torches, we all walked through the tunnel, marvelling anew at clean lines — save for a single vertical etched into walls at the deepest point, marking the thalweg dividing Wasco and Sherman Counties.
We emerged into daylight to find Jim and other Yakama dancing around a cheerful Medicine Wolf. Jim had been overseeing contractors installing barriers restricting access to the remnant of I84, now the Sacred Space Spur, signs declaring that only First People, Preternaturals, and those invited by Yakama elders could enter, on penalty of prosecution, with warnings about magic and animals. I knew what today meant to Jim and wouldn't have interrupted, but he turned and gave a bow.
"I did not think I would ever see this day, She Doesn't Only Fix Cars, and can hardly hear myself think for the spirits' dancing."
They will calm when they have explored my new shape.
"I dare say, Medicine Wolf, but as I feel much more like dancing than thinking, it is well enough."
"There's still tomorrow, Jim. I'd save the dancing for Friday."
"I can still dance for a week."
"And welcome, but count me out."
Next day, after attending early service and avoiding the excitements of another sermon, I went back, only Skuffles with me besides guards. Medicine Wolf started at the Deschutes end, giving the Union Pacific mainline, running through the Gorge, a second tunnel under the Deschutes, while the BNSF freight line that picked up the Deschutes valley eighty miles south and followed it to the confluence, got a third that merged with the other under the ridge. The wider tunnel then gained height over nearly six miles, about which even BNSF's massive trains could not complain, a graceful bend aligning it with the old tracks beyond the western end of the Tunnel of Manitou Love. The new bridge was nearly finished, sections of the old being slotted into place, and Union Pacific and BNSF had track-laying engines at work as soon as there were tunnels, so while checks were ongoing there was consensus road and railway could reopen Tuesday, as promised, and under budget — already laughably low.
In the cool evening I found myself in the Celilo Village longhouse, talking to some happy Nez Perce from Kooskia about plans to rebuild in proper style and salmon. The village had once been a town with seasonal population spikes, but with the Falls gone it had become one street by an interstate, the last census recording only forty-odd residents. What it would become was unclear, but they'd been looking hard at sonar maps of terrain still under water and talking to elders who remembered. One or two had been wondering about the slopes at the bottom of the bluffs, but I reminded them those would be forested by Friday, and got owlish looks.
"Truly, She Doesn't Only Fix Cars? I have heard this said, and am learning better than to disbelieve you, but … mature trees? Like those that shield you and the Freed from image-stealers?"
"Truly, sir, though those are all oaks, and we'll have a mix here. Underhill doesn't do evergreens, but there'll be ash, beech, rowan, and alder. Open enough for large animals, dense enough to get lost in. I doubt we can make the Falls completely unphotographable, but cameras are so not going to work around here."
"Large animals? Elder Spirits are serious about that?"
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"No reason, but it was Coyote who said it."
I laughed. "Jesse has my often-dastardly Da behaving quite reasonably these days. And they're all onboard — you'll have serious biodiversity, but don't ask me how it's going to work as an ecosystem if wolves and cougars aren't hunting deer, moose, and elk. From what Raven was saying this morning you'll probably have to feed them."
An elderly Yakama woman laughed, and raised a glass to me. "President-soon-to-be-elect She Doesn't Only Fix Cars, She Drops People Right In It. I've hardly dared think it, but it's really happening, isn't it?" She laughed again. "When the young bucks get back to shooting the falls in canoes, we should call it the Coyote Ride — first you race along, then the river drops out from beneath you."
"Right," I told her. "How else are you going to say hello properly to salmon heading the other way?"