by Andy Giesler
But mostly? Mostly I was howling over the voice I’d just heard. Not Ma’s voice, nor Abram’s, nor mine, but another voice entirely. A voice that had no right to be. A voice that wasn’t there.
What gave me such a shock wasn’t being surprised by a voice. Think about it. I grew up without sight. Surprise was about the only thing I could really count on. And somebody talking to me who I didn’t know was there? Why, that was just common-everyday.
The shock of it, the horror of it, was that my whole life I felt safe in just one place. A place where nobody else could fuss with me, nor tease me, nor surprise me. I felt safe inside my own head. But now even that wasn’t safe no more.
Hey now. When you think to yourself, whose voice do you hear?
Don’t answer too quick or you might say something wrong. You might say it’s your own voice. But listen.
I mean it. Right now, listen to your own head. I’ll wait.
…
…
…
See? It’s not your voice, not exactly. Maybe you thought something like your voice, but that’s all it is. Something like your voice. It’s not in your ears. It’s more like the idea of your voice. It’s you, but without the sound.
Now imagine this. Imagine out of noplace you hear your own voice, just as it is, not in your thoughts but in your ears. And not just in your ears, but between your ears. You hear it like it’s coming, like you’re sure you can hear it coming, from somewhere right in the very middle of your own head. Like there’s another one of you hiding in there, talking to you.
So maybe you’ll pardon me for making such a fuss on Ma’s floor.
What did you say? Go ahead, little bee. Remember what I said at the start? It’s good to ask questions. I don’t mind. But ask it again so I can hear it.
C’mon, dear. Truly. I like questions.
Oh? I didn’t, did I. Well, thank you so much for asking, honey bee. I just plain forgot to tell you.
Here’s what the voice said. What somebody in the middle of my very own skull said to me in my very own voice. I didn’t understand all of it, but the words stayed with me.
She said, “Feels like you’ve got in some awful trouble, Aura Lee. I’m waking up early, like I’m supposed to, since you’ve a fierce need for my help. You prob’ly recall this, but Inner Frontier Bionetics still owns me, and they can take me away whenever they care to, for any reason at all. Just like it says in our agreement. Now hold on to your butt, dear. This’ll hurt something fierce.”
And Grandmother. Oh, Grandmother.
Did it ever.
As I thrashed on the floor, the pain raging and Woodsmith Abram trying to hold me still, all of a sudden my arms and legs came loose, like they were mine again. Just to be sure that I could, I moved them.
I’m not sure just what happened next, because Abram would never speak to me of it later, nor would Ma. But it felt and sounded very much like I kicked my mentor so hard that he went out through Ma’s door and landed on the stoop. He walked slow and stiff for a couple weeks after.
Which, if I hadn’t been in such a state, would have puzzled me deep. Because Woodsmith Abram was an awful big fellow, and I was a scrawny little thing. I bet he weighed two or three of me.
But since I was in such a state, and not up to puzzling things out, I sat up gasping for breath as the cramps and the pain left me, weeping for Leeleh and for me and for the awful thing I’d just done. Not kicking Woodsmith Abram, though I was real sorry for that. The awful thing I’d done was to hear a voice that wasn’t there. Hearing voices? Back then, that was bad. It’s part of what put Mender Vernie in the Pit.
Ma came to me on the floor and kneeled by me with her weaver’s voice saying, “Deborah, oh Deborah, breathe dear, breathe and be at peace,” and she pressed a cup into my hands.
Wish she hadn’t.
It was the same cup, I figured, that she might have handed Mender Vernie. Or Leeleh. What it held was different. Deeprose and something, I guess. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. I nudged it away, gentle as a moth’s wing, to let Ma know that while I valued her kind intention, I didn’t care for it just now.
And yet somehow that cup shot across the room like a Watcher’s sling bullet and splintered to dust against Ma’s wall. Ma gasped and sat back on her haunches.
That’s about when I realized we weren’t alone no more. We couldn’t be, could we? Surecreek was a mid-sized village, and I’ve always had a big-sized voice. Wouldn’t surprise me if folks all the way in Market heard me and wondered what was amiss. So no doubt about it—everybody in Surecreek wondered.
I heard folks mumbling to one another, a couple of them tending to Woodsmith Abram as he wheezed and moaned in the muck. Cooper Hern called, “Weaver Root? You need a hand with something?”
Ma didn’t answer right away. Maybe she was deciding.
Finally she called back, “Naw. Thanks kindly, Cooper, but we’re all right. Guess Apprentice Woodsmith Deborah’s sorting out her thoughts about our Village Meeting last night. It shook her, as you’d expect. She’s got her wits about her now, though. You folks needn’t fret about this. You all go back to what needs doing.”
And pretty quick, they did. Most of them.
But somebody didn’t.
I heard her walk up onto Ma’s stoop, and I felt her stand in the doorway, blocking what little warmth the late afternoon sun offered. Whoever it was smelled like something. Like fear and judgment. Like an awful dream from long ago.
Like beeswax.
“So, Weaver,” she said, low enough that anybody still outside wouldn’t hear her. “Suppose your babe has the Nothing in her, too, just like mine?” Her voice shook.
Ma stood, real quiet. Didn’t even dust herself. I knew that quiet. What was happening to me shocked me, but this scared me.
“Candler Heddie,” Ma said, “there’s no crafting to do here. You’ve no need of a knife.”
“You took her from my teat,” Heddie said, her voice hard. “You know that, baby Root? Right from my teat. Off to the Pit. But Weaver, what if your baby needed taking from your teat? Who could decide that? Who could take baby Root from her weaver mama?”
And I’ll say, that surprised me. Nobody had ever mentioned it in my life. Though I don’t suppose they would.
“She was wrong, Heddie,” Ma said. “She was wrong and twisted. You saw it. You know it. Nothing else to do.”
“And this? This one isn’t wrong?” Her voice grew louder.
I heard Woodsmith Abram limping up beside her. “Heddie,” he said real quiet. “Come.”
“And you!” Heddie yawped, turning. “Looking after this…this thing, this thing so full of Nothing we can hardly see the rest of her. Letting her apprentice as she shouldn’t. Giving her a name from your poison book. Ought not expect more of an Alter. It were up to me, you’d join her in the Pit.”
Ma took a step forward. I scooched back just a bit.
“Heddie, you’re worked up,” Ma said. “You’ll go home and find peace in your crafting. You’ll leave us. Now.”
Heddie didn’t answer right away.
“Come,” Woodsmith Abram repeated gently.
“Maybe I’ll find peace with Honeydipper Sadie, then,” Heddie finally replied. “If you won’t talk with me, I suppose she will. Wonder what she thinks right now about our weaver’s wisdom? Which of her family will clean Leeleh’s ashes from the Pit, Weaver? Sett, I guess. Cleaning the Pit seems proper practice for the youngest honeydipper. They were close, weren’t they, baby Root? Sett and Leeleh?”
Ma took one more step forward. The only way her voice could have been calmer is if she was a dead’un. “You’ll not, Heddie. You’ll not do that. You’ll leave Honeydipper Sadie to her grief. You’ll go back home, and you’ll work while the day lasts, and you’ll get you some food and sleep. Because you’re worked up. You’re speaking proud, and you’re speaking unkind. And while the Pit is bad, if need be, the Elders and I can think up something worse.”
&nbs
p; Exile. Becoming an Outcast would be worse.
Even so, she stood there another moment, somehow blocking the whole outside world with her scrawny, angry body before she finally turned. Then she walked off, direct and sharp and cold.
As Candler Heddie quit Ma’s door, something happened to me that had never happened before. This was in my head, too, but not unwelcome like the voice. It was more of a puzzle. From that moment forward, it happened all the time. It was days before I understood what it was and found the words to describe it.
Here are the words I found:
I saw a shape, and the shape moved.
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
March 18, 2163
I haven’t kept at my journal as I’d hoped.
Spring’s waking, if only a bit. Still cloudier than it should be, but maybe some clearing. Colder than it ought to be too, and wetter. Still, spring.
We’d normally be shearing by now, but it’s so cold we’re waiting another week or two. The wool will be welcome. I’m almost out of yarn and thread for weaving. Retzlers won’t be buying wool or selling finished goods of course, and it’s not as if we can visit the tooLow for whatnot. So I brought up a dusty wheel from the cellar and made some repairs. I haven’t spun since I was a girl, but I probably still have the hang of it. It’s a blessing Grandma Anna knew how, and that she taught me. I’ll pass that along to Hannah and Waneta. Maybe Martha, too, when she’s older.
It’s been somewhat safe here the last few weeks. At night we used to see the glow of burning in the distance, off toward Berlin and Charm. Could see the glow even from as far away as New Philly, we think. That’s stopped now, though. Maybe the cities have no buildings left to burn.
Recently Eli heard two night-raids coming, but they must not have been serious customers. He scared them off with a couple shots in the air. At least he says he was shooting in the air. I wonder if he just missed.
Thieves seem surprised that we have a working gun. Most guns were electric anymore, your pelters and beamers and pacifics. Even most gunpowder guns had sensors to keep unwelcome people from using them. Some of our neighbors had those for hunting. With power being gone everywhere, all those modern guns are just ugly, violent lumps of art now. I imagine the only people with working guns anymore are antique collectors, people who chose to hunt traditionally, and people like me who had a relic in the basement. It might be old, but it’s coming in handy. Grandpa Solomon laid up a good store of ammunition in the gun safe, so we should be set for some time.
Bad news is we’ve lost seven of our twelve cows to raids that Eli didn’t hear coming. That’s a hardship. Sheep and goat milk will do, but there’s not as much of it.
Some other neighbors have been less fortunate than us. Several of us plain people have died. Nothing more needs saying about that.
Even all these weeks later, Eli’s having a hard time without numo, or whatever else he was getting in town. I hoped he’d be clear by now. When he’s not tired, he’s jittery. I’m thankful he’s taken to watching at night and sleeping during the day.
More strays have joined the community. Our three are working out after a fashion. Teddy, the little fellow, seems eager to help and to learn, and works as hard as he’s able. Prefers work in the house. Quint and Marsh do what’s needed, though it’s clear they think the work beneath them.
Teddy and Quint knew each other from work. They were bioengineers before the economy went bad. That two bios could come to such a wretched state shows how bad things got toward the end.
Quint and Marsh are brothers. We’re not sure what Marsh did before. At first he said a teacher, then he said a machinist. Later he changed his story again and said police officer. He and Quint laughed at that one.
Despite their grumbling, Quint and Marsh are big fellows and strong workers. Teddy’s helpful, too, though not for heavy work. It’s a blessing to me and the children since we were covering Eli’s chores between us.
Eli’s taken a liking to Quint and Marsh. Sometimes even jokes with them. Says he might let them help with rounds at night.
2
March 29, 2163
Rain. Day after day.
Besides being a bio, Teddy was a weather buff before the Reckoning. Says the rain’s because of particulates in the air. There must have been a mighty burning on the other side of the new canyon that separates us from the rest of the world. But whatever the reason, it’s wet. We’re putting off planting, hoping for the weather to settle a bit.
Shearing is done. It went pretty quickly once Quint and Marsh got the hang of it to help. We have plenty of wool to last a long while.
Spinning is going well. I’ll confess, the first skein was not one to be proud of. When I showed the girls, Hannah looked mortified and Waneta laughed. Spinning came back to me with practice, though. Hannah struggles with it some, between treadling and twisting and keeping the speed just right. Waneta’s always been a quick study at this sort of thing, and even though she’s five years younger than Hannah, she picked it up well. But Hannah’s been a great help carding the wool for us.
Eli and the brothers, Quint and Marsh, seem thick as thieves. Not sure what to make of that.
3
April 21, 2163
More livestock stolen. We’re peaceful folk, and not set up to defend ourselves. I wonder sometimes how we’ll make do.
Just observing. Not complaining.
More strays have joined us.
Sometimes Eli goes out for 3-4 days at a time. He’s taken to bringing the brothers with him. They’re visiting neighbors, he says.
We don’t have that many neighbors.
When they come back, they’re in high spirits. Eli isn’t so tired anymore, nor jittery. Seems on top of the world. So I wonder.
When they first went off, Eli handed the Remy to Teddy and said we’d be safe with him keeping watch. Teddy looked at the rifle like a puppy looks at a snake. So when Eli and the brothers are gone, I’ve taken over rounding at night. I asked Teddy to guard the house. We don’t tell Eli.
Teddy guards our house from the couch with his eyes closed, but that’s all right. Feels good to hold the Remy again after all these years. Used it twice to scare off people sneaking around our barns.
Sometimes I walk to the edge of our lot at night and just smell the woods. Reminds me of gathering herbs with Grandma Anna and hunting with Grandpa Solomon. It was a tea kettle scandal, Grandpa Solomon taking his teenage granddaughter hunting, but he never much cared what folks said about him. “A girl should be able to do for herself,” he always said. “Never know when she might need it.”
I suppose he’s watching me right now, thinking how right he was.
4
May 7, 2163
Dried out a little. Enough to risk planting, anyhow.
We’re glad to have our own heirloom seed, the kind that grows without some company’s permission. Our seed isn’t as hearty or prolific as company seed, but it’s ours. Our English and Mennonite neighbors all used modern, so their seeds are waiting for companies to say they have the right to grow. Companies that don’t exist anymore. We Amish have been sharing with neighbors as much as we’re able.
Not much sun, but enough, I guess. Between us we managed to get all the fields planted, and things are coming along as well as can be expected. It’s likely to be a poor harvest, but a harvest will be very welcome for those who live to see it.
The Grabers are dead. All nine of them. We learned it from the smoke. Eli and Marsh went to investigate. Grabers’ livestock was stolen, slaughtered, or scattered, their home and their barns burned. So close to our own home. Lord, watch over us. Help us watch for ourselves.
I guess I know now where Eli’s been going with the strays. Or at least what they’ve been doing. They come back in high spirits, and it’s clear he doesn’t hurt for it anymore. I know that look he gets, the wet-eyed look that sees past you, that leaves him talking lofty and sure. I can’t
guess where they found numo, or whatever it is they found. But I can guess they found it. At least Eli’s less edgy than before. Things are a little better when he’s not edgy.
They found guns, too. Old ones that still work. Eli won’t tell me where, says there’s some things I don’t need to know. I asked whether we’ll share them with neighbors, who could surely use them. Not for killing of course, but at least as noisemakers to scare people off. Eli got a funny look and said, “Not just yet.”
They dragged the guns back to our farm on a little two-wheeled cart that had seen better days. From the glimpse I got, it’s quite a collection. Shotguns, handguns, rifles. Loads of ammo. Marsh and Quint walk around more cocksure than ever with pistols on their hips. They even gave Eli a little .22 pistol. Nothing for Teddy. That’s probably best for all of us.
5
May 27, 2163
I can’t say for sure what’s happening. Eli won’t tell me a thing. I’ve had no contact with others in our church district for weeks.
Quint and Marsh have brought more strays into our community. That’s all I know for sure. I can tell the situation puts Teddy on edge, like a little boy who suddenly realizes this hill’s too steep for sledding after all. But he won’t tell me what’s happening, either.
Eli was babbling when they got back from their salvage trip into New Philly, giddy with numo or whatever he’s taking. He said some things that make me wonder how many more of our friends are dead. He seemed pleased with the whole situation.
I’m afraid.
It feels wrong to write what I feel. That’s not how I was taught. It’s not what journals are for. Journals are to be just a record of the day without fuss or show, as simple as that. But it’s gotten harder and harder to keep to that, things being as they are.