by Andy Giesler
“Please! There’s a man hurt real bad upstream along the creek, up by the little waterfall!” I yelled. “His head was hit and he fell asleep. Bring your weaver and your mender!”
He chewed on that a moment before answering. “Something don’t seem right,” he said. “So late in the season, seems I’d have heard of foragers nearby. And I don’t suppose we’d usually care to send our Weaver Wenettie and Mender Lora so far away, up the creek at nightfall.” Then after a pause, he said, “I’m no Watcher Witless, girl. You just come in here, and we’ll get a look at you, and we’ll decide.”
Which I was not in no way going to do, for oh so very many reasons.
“Please, watcher! I must run back. Weaver Root of Surecreek is already with him. She found him while she was out, then she came to our camp and sent me running for help. She warned me that the watchers of Dott were known for being wise and wary, so she sent proof. Remind Weaver Wenettie that about ten years back, when she and Weaver Root were on pilgrimage down toward Greencreek, they came on a wild hive and they smoked it for the honey.” Which I knew for true they had. Why, I’d helped set the smoke myself. I still recall that honey today. It tasted sweeter for the luck of finding it, and for the work of fetching it, and for the tingle of fear at what those bees might do.
“Well, all right then,” he yelled down. “I’ll tell Weaver Wenettie and see what she says.” He sounded like he meant it. “Even so, you go to the gate. It’s on the other side of Dott. Come inside while you wait. Outside the wall is no place for you this late in the day.”
“I promised her I’d to go right back,” I yelled. “I’ll meet your weaver there. Remember! Upstream at the little falls!”
By the time he managed to yell “Wait!” I was already making my way back up the creek as quick as I could.
When word of my escaping the Pit came around to Dott, if it hadn’t already, I had no doubt the place would swarm with runners and hunters and maybe even shepherds. So many folks looking for the mysterious, vanishing, unfamiliar caller. So I waded in the creek for a while to help hide my trail, though the water was awful cold. When I couldn’t feel my feet no more, I came up out of the water and onto the northwest bank, being sure to climb out on rocks and not on sand nor loamy soil. Then I made my way off into the woods a short ways to wait, shivering like a hummingbird set to slumber.
Before long, I heard them coming up the stream, speaking in low, wary voices. I recognized the voice of Weaver Wenettie of Dott, and there were three others with her, most likely their mender and a couple of watchers or runners. Once they’d passed, I headed west a while longer before bedding down as best I could and shivering myself to sleep in Shepherd Gabriel’s blanket and a pile of dry leaves.
Word would spread. Word always spread. Within a few days, nearly every person in the World That Is would know the story of the girl who escaped the Pit. Who nearly killed a shepherd. Who must be reported or captured or, at great need, killed. Later, if they heard the story of the mysterious unfamiliar caller who visited Dott, right next door, trying to save the shepherd’s life, maybe they’d think more kindly of me.
But I expected not.
In all the World That Is, there was only one person who I knew would surely ignore the stories and the warnings and do what he could to help me, at whatever risk to hisself. But Woodsmith Abram was back in Surecreek, where I dared not go.
And in all the World That Is, there was only one other person who I hoped, for no good reason at all, might just possibly be willing to help me. I knew the way, sort of, but I wasn’t sure I could get there, alone and hunted and without no sight.
As I fell asleep, the leaves rustling with my shaking, I decided I’d try. Tomorrow I’d begin the long walk to Through.
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
October 24, 2163
Dire wolves.
Of all things under the sun. Dire wolves.
We might have gotten a visit from Irish elk, or aurochs, or antique bison. Maybe musk ox or two. Even a mammoth might have been a welcome sight if we’d figured out how to deal with it.
But no.
We got a pack of dire wolves.
And in the spirit of unvarnished honesty, I am not just observing. I’m complaining.
They’re not even dire real wolves. Bios at the Olde Renew Zoo down toward Coshocton used old DNA to make real dire wolves some years back, but those weren’t impressive enough. Folks couldn’t tell them from ordinary wolves. Hardly anybody came to see them, so the zoo’s bios mucked with their genes. A vicious bit of this and a monstrous bit of that. They’re much worse than dire wolves ever were. Now people go down there just to watch the enormous, not-really dire wolves tear things apart at feeding time.
No, I don’t suppose they go anymore. But they went. We went. Eli took us to watch. More than once, too. I’ll confess, it was a sight.
So now, thanks to those bios and whoever threw open the Renew Zoo’s gates, on top of everything else that’s happening, those of us who are left will enjoy visits from slavering, ill-tempered, broad-bodied, shaggy, prehistoric beasts four feet high or more at the shoulder.
Marsh was staring out the window laughing himself weak, watching like it was a show, while the wolves took three of our sheep. Broad daylight, bold as brass. I killed two and maybe wounded another before they decided to take their leave of us.
Two fine pelts. Very fine.
Not worth three sheep.
2
October 28, 2163
Yesterday, Quint and Marsh returned from one of their outings. They brought with them a bio who had worked with Teddy and Quint before the Reckoning. Ernst Grauber. Sounded German or Austrian. He seemed less feral than our strays. Through the evening he glanced at me now and again, and I saw worry in his eyes. Worry for me, I think.
I heard some of their conversation as I served them dinner.
When the Reckoning happened, everything modern went dead everywhere. But that’s about all that happened. No explosions or fireworks. Just broken gadgets and an unfamiliar quiet and people feeling sick if they’d gotten too used to their naughts.
But right before the Reckoning, about five minutes before, Ernst was talking with a woman they worked with. Lim something. For no reason that Ernst could see, she suddenly started screaming. Then she blistered, and her skin pinked, and a little smoke came off of her, and she fell over dead. As though she was cooked from the inside.
Then the Reckoning happened, so there weren’t a lot of police asking questions or investigating or running down leads. Police were trying to keep alive, just like the rest of us.
Teddy said Lim was a specialist in some sort of naughtwork architecture. I don’t recall the words, but it sounded as if she had a knowledge of naughts like few others. They wonder whether it’s why she died, but they couldn’t understand how.
Teddy and Quint offered to let Ernst stay with us, what with winter coming on. On the face of it he considered it, but I don’t think he really did. He just said thank you, that was so very kind of them, but he needed to be out searching for some people. I think he wanted nothing to do with what the strays are creating here.
They’ll send Ernst off in a day or two with a gun and a little food. He seemed a decent fellow. I imagine he’ll be dead by spring.
3
November 10, 2163
I convinced the strays to let us have Sunday worship meetings again.
Sort of.
This will be a lean winter. We’re better set than most families, I think, but it’ll be hard even for us. What we lack, someone else might have. So I spoke with Teddy and Quint about it. I don’t speak with Marsh when I can help it. He’s a frightening brute.
I said our chances of seeing spring were better if we shared information and supplies with the other families in our community. And to do that, we’d need to meet. I said one meeting a week seemed good.
And as the Strays probably wouldn’t w
ant to bother themselves with all this women’s work, we could take care of it for them. I didn’t call them “strays” when I said it. I said Protectors. I said it with the capital “P.”
Since Wednesday is shopping day, and there’s no more shopping, I said that might be a good time to do it. So I offered that we could host the women of each household here in our barn, once a week on Wednesday, to share however we can to survive the winter.
Teddy said it made sense to him. Quint shrugged and said, “What the fuck.” So that was our blessing for Sunday meetings on Wednesday. We’ll meet in the morning and share a common supper for lunch. It’s a shame the children can’t come, but I didn’t want to push it too far.
We had the first one yesterday. It was both wonderful and heartbreaking to get reacquainted with the other women.
Now we know for certain that all of our men and older boys are dead. Not only ours. Many good men who came to us for shelter, alone or in families, are dead, too. I suppose the strays killed any who didn’t agree with them.
We wept, though quietly.
I wondered whether the strays might sit in and listen, to make sure we weren’t stirring up anything. But the truth is, they don’t care whether we stir anything up. If anybody causes trouble, they’ll kill her or her children, and the rest of us will sit back down again.
So on the face of the thing, it’s not for worship. And really, we mostly shared news. No reading of scripture or singing from the Ausbund. But we prayed as best we could without sounding like we were doing it. And we even did some of what we were supposed to do. The strays didn’t seem to care, and none were listening in as far as we could tell. We spoke Deitsch just in case.
We can’t call it worship, but we need to call it something. Since we end our meeting with a common meal, as we would have after Sunday worship, we’re going to call it “Common.”
4
December 2, 2163
Two years.
It’s only been two years since the Canberra Rogue. The first naughtwork that could jump from one person and take over another’s body.
The first chimera.
For decades they said that was impossible. That they knew for an absolutely certain fact it was impossible. Then they seemed surprised when their tools turned on them. We weren’t surprised. Yet their tools turned on us, too.
Only two years. How could the world come to this in only two years? Things were hard before, with the riots and the wars and so many people poor and hungry. But none of us could imagine this. How many died? How many will?
It’s not my place to ask, but I need to. How could God let this happen?
5
January 17, 2164
This week, raiders killed our last cow. Marsh killed the raiders, but that’s cold comfort. We’re down to small livestock and poultry. Sheep, goats, pigs. Chickens. Geese.
Three nights ago, Marsh said he “wanted some pork chops,” and he walked out to the barn with his pistol. I about let him do it, knowing I’m the only thing standing between my children and the strays. But I also know we need those animals. Some are for eating, but if we use those animals like an icebox whenever some stray gets peckish, we’ll lose our breeding stock. I don’t know whether there’s a future after this winter, but if there is, we need those animals.
So, of all the foolishness, I followed him.
I tried to explain it to him on the way across the yard. He knocked me down.
I ran ahead and stood between him and the side barn door, and I tried again. He knocked me down again. Then he kicked me in the back so hard it might have cracked a rib.
I followed him into the barn. The strays have secreted a few guns around the property just in case. Or not so secret, since I know the property better than they do. So without thinking it through very well at all, I pulled an antique Glock from behind the baling hook shelf and called Marsh’s name loud and rough, like I was yelling at a child about to walk into traffic.
He turned around and looked down the barrel. Then he laughed.
That shook me some, but I told him he would sit his butt down right then and listen to me, or I’d shoot his darned balls off. He smirked and shrugged, but he sat down. I don’t think he listened. But at least he sat while I talked.
Before long, Quint came out to see what was keeping us. He was going to do something about me, but Marsh just laughed again. “Let the bitch bark,” he said.
I never did convince Marsh. But for all the many things that are wrong with him, Quint is still a bio. He heard the sense in what I said. Then pretty quickly, Quint convinced his brother.
When I finished saying my piece, I handed the pistol to Quint. My heart was pounding and sweat was running down my sides. I was pretty sure I’d die for daring to take their gun, let alone point it at them. “Do what you need to,” I said.
Quint pressed the barrel against my temple. I about wet myself, but I managed to keep my face calm, and I never took my eyes off of Marsh’s. After a moment, Marsh shook his head at Quint. He wasn’t smiling with his whole face, but his eyes looked like he wanted to laugh some more.
As he left the barn, he snorted and gave me a swat on the behind. “Bitch got balls,” he said. So for the last couple days, I’ve been “the Bitch” whenever they refer to me. And somehow it doesn’t sound like they mean it as an insult, though my ears take it as one.
We’ll have Common tomorrow. Marsh said that the women of Common are to decide what animals will die and when. That’s now part of our role in keeping us all eating through the winter, and maybe beyond that.
Marsh said he’ll tell the other strays too, when he sees them. He’ll tell them that they must do what the women from Common say, so long as it’s about food. And that if they don’t, he’ll “send the Bitch to shoot their darned balls off.”
6
January 21, 2164
Teddy found me while I made rounds tonight. He reeked of liquor. “I’m your Protector,” he said. “I have rights.”
“I don’t need your protection,” I said.
“Well, whether you think so or not, you have it,” he said. He almost sounded afraid. “And I have rights.”
He kissed me. I wept. He looked ashamed and left like a dog that’s been scolded.
Teddy’s hardly much bigger than I am. I’ve lived a life of peace toward others, but if he tries that again, or more than that, I’m not sure what’ll happen. Over the years, I imagined so many accidents Eli might have. Eli didn’t live long enough to have one.
Teddy might.
Before he kissed me, Teddy pulled off my bonnet and cap. Said I should wear my hair down. That it might be pretty. That I should set it free.
And while I’m not vain, in all truth, I suppose it was pretty, my hair. I like it better this way, though. It’ll be chilly in winter, and an extra chore to keep it shaved. But it’ll be pleasant in summer, and I won’t need a cap to keep it in place.
Bible says if my head’s not covered, it should be shorn. So now that I’ve decided to shave my head, I don’t suppose it needs to be covered. I’ll leave my cap on my dresser tomorrow morning.
I like the smoothness of my head. Feels clean. Feels right. And looking in the mirror, I can say without vanity that it suits me.
Besides, it’s one small way to spite that bastard Teddy.
Oh, I know it. “Bless them which persecute you: bless, and curse not.” And I do believe in my heart that’s true, that it’s the right way to live. Even so, in calling him a bastard, I’m not cursing. Just observing.
Because Teddy is a bastard.
Shepherd Gabriel
1
Shepherd Gabriel and the Curious Companion
At first, before he opened his eyes, Shepherd Gabriel imagined he was in a weaver’s hut. It smelled of herbs, roots, and mold. There was a warm closeness to the place. He could almost hear the overfull shelves too nearby, leaning their contents precariously toward him. But when he opened his eyes, trying to blink away the film, he could ju
st make out her long, black hair. Broad cheeks and a narrow chin. Hard eyes scouring him from beneath razor-sharp bangs. Livv. So this was Haven.
“S’up, Livv?” he said thickly.
Livv didn’t laugh, or even smile, but then she rarely did. “That was exciting,” she said.
“You know me. Always eager to entertain.” It hurt to look. He closed his eyes. And still there was the smell. “Where are we?”
“Weaver Almeda of Littleford’s.”
He opened his eyes again. “Where?”
She shrugged and nodded toward the clutter.
“How long?” he asked.
“Three weeks.”
It took him a moment to catch up with her words. “You sat by my bed for three weeks? Darling. Didn’t know you cared.”
“We took turns, but I’m glad I’m here now. They would have fetched me if I wasn’t. Guess you were in a coma or something.”
He started to nod, then at the jolt of pain he thought better of it. “Why not Haven?”
“Well, you know. These damned naughts are handy, but they make our doctoring skills a little weak. It’s been what? Three, four hundred years since we dealt with a coma? And Hovan didn’t make it in the end. So I figured a weaver and a mender had as good a chance to save you as we did, or better. But when they’re not tending you, we have the place to ourselves. Nobody here but us shepherds.”
Until that moment, until his head had cleared enough to really take in the room, and Livv, and his own body, he hadn’t felt it. The absence of it. “Why are my naughts still down?”