She was almost relieved when the dark consumed her, for she could at least see approaching headlights around each tight turn. Her car sunk into the shoulder on the side of the road that was up against the hill and not the ledge where there were no guard rails. Here she sat, lost in the woods and doomed. With a sigh, she turned around and pulled her heavy coat from the top of one of the boxes on the backseat. McCrea would be traversing this road either en route to or from the house where they were to meet.
Otherwise, she would probably be spending the night in the car. She still had a couple of apples, some crackers and two cheese rounds in wax. She turned off the engine, but left the lights on in case a car came along the narrow road. She settled back and closed her eyes. A very familiar face drifted into her mind: Sometimes the longing to see him one more time, to talk to him for just a little while was overwhelming. Forget grief—she just missed him—missed having a partner to depend on, to wait up for, to wake up beside.
An argument over his long hours even became desirable. Forever lasted four years. She was only thirty-two and from now she would be alone. And she was dead inside. It was the butt of a flashlight that had made the noise and holding it was an old man. The scowl on his face was so jarring that she thought the end she feared might be upon her. Piece of crap indeed! It was a new BMW convertible, one of her many attempts to ease the ache of loneliness. But thank you very much for the insight. His thin white hair was plastered to his head and his bushy white eyebrows shot upwards in spikes; the rain glistened on his jacket and dripped off his big nose.
You going to the McCrea house? So, she would have a bed after all. McCrea had a heart, there would be something to eat and drink. She began to envision the glowing fire in the cottage with the sound of spattering rain on the roof as she hunkered down into a deep, soft sofa with an old quilt wrapped around her. Her car groaned and strained and finally lurched out of the ditch and onto the road.
The old man pulled her several feet until she was on solid ground, then he stopped to remove the chain. He tossed it into the back of the truck and motioned for her to follow him.
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Along she went, right behind him, using lots of window cleaner with her wipers to keep the mud he splattered from completely obscuring her vision. In less than five minutes the blinker on the truck was flashing and she followed him as he made a right turn at a mailbox. The drive was short and bumpy, the road full of pot holes, but it quickly opened up into a clearing. The truck made a wide circle in the clearing so he could leave again, which left Mel to pull right up to… A hovel!
This was no adorable little cottage. It was an A-frame with a porch all right, but it looked as though the porch was only attached on the one side while the other end had broken away and listed downward. The shingles were black with rain and age and there was a board nailed over one of the windows. It was not lit within or without; there was no friendly curl of smoke coming from the chimney. The pictures were lying on the seat beside her. She blasted on her horn and jumped immediately out of the car, clutching the pictures and pulling the hood of her wool jacket over her head.
She ran to the truck. He rolled down his window and looked at her as if she had a screw loose. She showed him the picture of the cute little A-frame cottage with Adirondack chairs on the porch and hanging pots filled with colorful flowers decorating the front of the house. It was bathed in sunlight in the picture. She said I could have the house rent free for a year, plus salary. She raised her voice to be heard above the rain. And certified nurse midwife.
Seems like you shoulda come up here and look the place over and meet the doc before making up your mind. Headlights bounced into the clearing as an old Suburban came up the drive. Actually he cackled as he drove out of the clearing. Mel stuffed the picture under her jacket and stood in the rain near her car as the Suburban parked. It was pretty well splashed up, but it was still obvious it was an older model. The driver trained the lights on the cottage and left them on as the door opened. Out of the SUV climbed this itty bitty elderly woman with thick, springy white hair and black framed glasses too big for her face.
She pitched a cigarette into the mud and, wearing a huge toothy smile, she approached Mel. I meant to get over here yesterday, but the day got away from me. You said it was adorable! Precious is what you said! Do you want to stand in the rain or go inside and see what we have? Without comment, the little white-haired sprite stomped up the three steps and onto the porch.
Rather, she tested it gingerly. It had a dangerous slant, but appeared to be solid in front of the door. A light went on inside just as Mel reached the door. Immediately following the dim light came a cloud of choking dust as Mrs. McCrea shook out the tablecloth. It sent Mel back out onto the porch, coughing. Once she recovered, she took a deep breath of the cold, moist air and ventured back inside. McCrea seemed to be busy trying to put things right, despite the filth in the place.
She was pushing chairs up to the table, blowing dust off lampshades, propping books on the shelf with bookends. Mel had a look around, but only to satisfy her curiosity as to how horrid it was, because there was no way she was staying. There was a faded floral couch, a matching chair and ottoman, an old chest that served as a coffee table and a brick and board bookcase, the boards unfinished. Only a few steps away, divided from the living room by a counter, was the small kitchen. The refrigerator and oven doors stood open, as did most of the cupboard doors.
The sink was full of pots and dishes; there were stacks of dusty dishes and plenty of cups and glasses in the cupboards, all too dirty to use. She went to the front door and pitched it out into the yard. She shoved her glasses up on her nose as she regarded Mel. That old man in the pick-up had to pull me out of the mud just down the road. Been drinking again is my guess. I have a big house with no room in it—filled to the top with junk.
It would take all night to clear off the couch. That husband of hers can be a handful. Then ignoring Mel completely, she went to the refrigerator and stooped to plug it in. The light went on immediately and Mrs. McCrea reached inside to adjust the temperature and close the door.
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She felt a lot safer here than in the house where her hostess would be lighting a gas water heater. She had a passing thought that if it blew up and destroyed the cabin, they could cut their loses here and now. Once in the passenger seat, she looked over her shoulder to see the back of the Suburban was full of pillows, blankets and boxes. Supplies for the falling-down house, she assumed. But then, at first light….
A few minutes passed and then Mrs. McCrea came out of the cottage and pulled the door closed. Mel was impressed by the agility with which the old woman got herself into the Suburban. She put a foot on the step, grabbed the handle above the door with one hand, the arm rest with the other and bounced herself right into the seat.
She had a rather large pillow to sit on and her seat was pushed way up so she could reach the pedals. Without a word, she put the vehicle in gear and expertly backed down the narrow drive out onto the road.
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We got all the most challenging cases and hopeless patients, and did a damn fine job if I do say so myself. By tough, I thought you meant medically.
The only thing she really dreaded was owning up to Joey. Plus, she was fascinated by the ease, speed and finesse with which Ms. McCrea handled the big Suburban, bouncing down the tree lined road and around the tight curves in the pouring rain. She had thought this might be a respite from pain and loneliness and fear. A relief from the stress of patients who were either perpetrators or victims of crimes, or devastatingly poor and without resources or hope.
When she saw the pictures of the cute little town, it was easy to imagine a homey place where people needed her. She saw herself blooming under the grateful thanks of rosy-cheeked country patients. Meaningful work was the one thing that had always cut through any troubling personal issues. Not to mention the lift of escaping the smog and traffic and getting back to nature in the pristine beauty of the forest. The prospect of delivering babies for mostly uninsured women in rural Virgin River had closed the deal. Working as a nurse practitioner was satisfying, but midwifery was her true calling.
Joey was her only family now; she wanted Mel to come to Colorado Springs and stay with her, her husband Bill and their three children. Now, in the absence of any better ideas, she would be forced to look for work there. As they passed through what seemed to be a town, she grimaced again. Damn, this is a big rain. March—always brings us this nasty weather. He makes a lot of house calls, too. They passed a pleasant looking steepled church, which appeared to be boarded up, but at least she recognized it. There was the store, much older and more worn, the proprietor just locking the front door for the night.
A dozen houses lined the street—small and old. The street was wide, but dark and vacant—there were no street lights. The old woman must have gone through one of her ancient photo albums to come up with the pictures. Or maybe she snapped a few of another town. She looked at her watch. Nor did she have an umbrella. Her jacket was now drenched and she smelled like wet sheep.
Once inside, she was rather pleasantly surprised. It was dark and woody with a fire ablaze in a big stone hearth. The polished wood floors were shiny clean and something smelled good, edible. Over a long bar, above rows of shelved liquor bottles, was a huge mounted fish; on another wall, a bear skin so big it covered half the wall. There were about a dozen tables sans tablecloths and only one customer at the bar; the old man who had pulled her out of the mud sat slumped over a drink.
Behind the bar stood a tall man in a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, polishing a glass with a towel. He looked to be in his late thirties and wore his brown hair cropped close. He lifted expressive brows and his chin in greeting as they entered. Throughout the series, several main characters lose their original grails and must seek free grails to survive. Though the grails provide for all needs and the climate is hospitable, further attempts to affect the environment are frustrated by the near-complete lack of metals and ores on the planet.
The only building materials available are bamboo, wood, and human or fish bones and hides. Pockets of flint eventually depleted provide material for tools.
With technology limited to the paleolithic level, the surrounding mountains are impassable. Travel along the river is hindered by division of the Riverworld into thousands of empires, monarchies, republics, and other social systems, each only a few kilometers long and housing 90 people per square kilometer. Because the distribution of populations along the river seems random, the character of these nations can vary wildly within a very short span; whereby one can enter dangerously unknown and potentially hostile territory in less than a day's journey. The reason of the existence of Riverworld is initially a complete mystery.
Another character, Peter Jairus Frigate , bears a striking resemblance to Farmer himself, and shares his initials. There are two versions of the character: The story gradually reveals that the Riverworld was created as a moral test for humanity. In the Riverworld universe sapience is the result of an artificially created soul, known as a wathan , created by a generator developed and distributed among various worlds by an unknown ancient alien race.
Wathan generators create wathans which attach themselves to sufficiently advanced chordates. Wathans are indestructible but become detached from the body upon physical death and wander the universe without purpose. The first race to create wathans were adept tool users , but lacked individual sapience.
Self-awareness increased their capabilities by an order of magnitude, and as the creators of wathan technology, they were able to "catch" wathans released by their own deaths, resurrecting themselves until individual resurrections became impossible. As this happened only to the wisest and most ethically advanced wathans, the people supposed a process of "passing on", comparable to the Indian religious concept of Moksha. With this in mind, they traveled the universe, placing wathan generators on worlds that could host wathans, thereby creating other sentient species. Once they created a species they determined they could trust, they tasked them with creating more sapient species after the whole of their own species had "passed on".
This cycle occurred several times until the creation of humanity. Humanity's creators are a race of aliens known, among their human allies, as "the Ethicals", who brought Wathan technology to Earth, installing both a generator to produce Wathans and a collector to catch and store Wathans—and the human personas and memories accumulated by them—for later retrieval. The reason given for the collector was that humans were both extraordinarily civilized capable of "passing on" within a single lifetime, as did Gautama Buddha , and extraordinarily barbaric capable of genocide , slavery etc.
Children who died before age five are resurrected on a "Gardenworld": The repetitive physical environment was to encourage a concern with inward rather than outward circumstances, while the poverty of natural resources was to prevent the development of a higher technology, and the food provided by the grails, the presence of abundant water and potential shelter, and the resurrections were to obviate economy. Alcohol, marijuana, and the LSD-like dreamgum were provided for recreational purposes and to assist contemplation. Confusingly, it is only starting in the third volume The Dark Design that the true Peter Jairus Frigate appears — the one in the earlier volumes was in fact an impostor.
Note that in Farmer's other major series of books, World of Tiers , a major character also has the same initials as the author: Paul Janus Finnegan who usually goes by the nickname Kickaha. This character is also a fictionalized or one imagines an idealized version of the author. Since the publication of the original books, several authors have been licensed to use the Riverworld setting for their own stories - see "Works" towards the top of this page. Copies of this guidebook were provided to the authors of the stories published in Tales of Riverworld and Quest To Riverworld , as this book summarizes the chronology, characters, geography and technical details of the Riverworld universe.
A television series loosely based on the Riverworld saga went into production for the Sci-Fi channel in but only the feature-length pilot episode Riverworld was completed. It was first aired in At one point, the pilot was available online through the Joost software worldwide except in the United States and Canada. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This article is about the book series. For other adaptations, see Riverworld disambiguation. Riverworld and Other Stories".
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