by Andy Giesler
I didn’t answer. We both knew she was right.
“I don’t understand, then,” I said. “This is the time to make a chimera, by Eulee’s list, and this is the place. And here you are.”
“Oh yes, that is true. This is the time and place for waking the Nothing, and I am mightily impressed that you saw the pattern of things. But that pattern was not meant to be seen by anyone. And though it saddens me to say so, no promise from you would make me believe our secret was safe.
“Three days past, we came here with a young tanner from Muddy Bend. Using the Holy, we set the tanner on his path. Each time we perform our ritual, I change it, learning what I can from past rituals in the search for a better result. I did so hope that this young man might receive the Gift. But he did not. It is clear that the Chimera’s Curse is upon this young tanner from Muddy Bend, who will soon be a tanner no more. So now we wait to learn the chimera’s final form. If it is more like a beast, we will set the chimera to sleep and release it some ways off as our humble gift to Gebohra Muerta, and as our righteous curse on the shepherds, may it end them all. For don’t even the shepherds say that chimeras are Her children?
“But if the chimera is more like a person? Well, that is a most hopeful sign, and one we might learn from. It marks progress toward our goal. We will look into the chimera very closely and see what we might learn from it, and we’ll hope it leads to something better ahead. Tell me, do you recall the Weaver’s Burden?”
Of all the things I might forget, it could hardly be that. “A shepherd might watch the flock, but only a weaver may cull it.”
“Yes. That burden lies heavy on me, heavier than on most. I do so weary of it. It twists me to deal so with folks’ lives. But we see the need of it. The good that it will bring to everyone is far greater than the awful cost to these few. Perhaps more than any time since Grandmother Root, this is a Badbefore that will give us all a Goodafter. For if we accomplish the task we have set before us, that will lift the Weaver’s Burden from us all. There will be no need to cull the flock, for all the flock will become as shepherds.”
As I listened to her I believed—and I still believe—that she spoke true. She saw these awful works as our road to better things, no matter the cost. To my consternation, a part of me felt the sense in it. This was true and mighty Badbefore, pointed direct at a true and mighty Goodafter.
I pressed my face harder into the gap. “Humble Weaver, you’ve no need to worry on me and what I’ll tell folks,” which was the beginning of a lie, though one I hoped might save my life. “There’s good and proper sense in what you say, no matter how bad this—”
But now it was her turn to step between my words. “Sadly,” she said, and she did sound sad, “this chimera seems on a beastly path. We will wait to know for sure, but I do not believe we will learn much from this one. And the waiting is hard for us who must watch over it. As the change takes a chimera, the Nothing snaps sinew, rips muscle, cracks bone, then it builds them all back up that it may tear them down again, and yet again. The chimera’s shape is constantly changing for days until it settles on a form. In between these changes, while it heals, the chimera sleeps for quite some time—sleeping long and ever so deep. But then it wakes and rises again, shuddering with rage. For the most part that rage is from its awful pain, I think, but also from its hunger. And gracious, how they hunger. Even all these years later, it remains an astonishment to me.”
That’s when I heard something moving in the cave behind me.
A pop. A scrape. A rumble.
She said, even softer than before, “It appears our young tanner of Muddy Bend has ended his nap. In our few meetings I have grown fond of you, Woodsmith Root. I will miss you.” Then she called, louder than I’d expected, “We are finished!” and feet came walking to retrieve her.
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
August 4, 2164
Well, of all things.
Today, Emma Miller brought me the “community’s judgment.” She brought it meekly, but she brought it.
The community, apparently, is the six women who refused to take up violence against the strays—as was their right, and for which I bear them no ill will. And their “judgment” is that, because we’ve abandoned our community’s Ordnung, the rest of us are to be shunned unless we repent and say we’ll set aside violence for good.
As though we still had that sort of community. As though they could chase us out of the homes we’ve suffered so much to save.
She quoted from second Thessalonians at me. And Matthew, for heaven’s sake! Cutting off hands and feet and gouging out eyes. I know it’s a metaphor, but gracious that upset me, so I asked her whether that sounded like a God who permitted no violence under any circumstances. She stayed calm and said I could compound my violence with blasphemy if I wished, and while it was not her place to judge me, we must consider carefully or they would no longer be in fellowship with us.
I thanked her for her concern, and I said I’d speak with the others and get back to her. But I said that might take a while, because I wasn’t sure how to speak with Abbie Kauffman, Deb Stolzfus, Pinkie Stutzman, and their daughters, who had at least as much say in this whole business as Emma did, and probably a good deal more.
It pleased me just a little that she left in a huff.
The community’s judgment. Really!
Of all things.
2
August 8, 2164
In the last three days, Emma stopped by my house twice more with the “community’s judgement.” The last time she came with the whole “community,” which by then had grown to eleven women. Apparently she’s visited every family more than once, and some have repented for surviving the strays.
She also said that, with the strays gone, we should return Common to what it was meant to be, meeting every other Sunday. And because it would be a worship service once more, those who are Mennonite or English should no longer attend, no matter how much she loves and respects them.
With all our men dead, it looks very much as though Emma has quietly appointed herself our bishop.
Today was Wednesday, so we talked it over at Common. By which I mean Emma pointed out gently and with regret that we were most likely bound for Hell unless we repented (reminding everyone several times that it was not her place to judge), and I replied very calmly that she might want to think through how she’ll evict a gang of violent sinners who are known to use guns and poison.
Which was maybe not the most grace-filled moment of my life.
But still. Goodness.
Emma informed us that if we will not remove ourselves from them, they will remove themselves from us. She said they’ll also pray for our souls, though the way she said it, I’m not holding my breath.
We’re split more or less down the middle. Thirteen families will stay, eleven will leave, with some of the families made up from the broken remnants of others. I’m distressed so many are leaving, especially since all of us are more likely to survive if we stay here together. But it’s clear we can’t reconcile our ways of seeing the world.
I’m not sure it matters, but I want to record the names of the thirteen families that remain. If they care to, those who are leaving us can record their own names for themselves.
Eicher. Katie’s Graber. Rebecca’s Graber. Stolzfus. Nussbaum. O’Leary. Ramirez. Sara’s Schwartz. Hannah’s Schwartz. Schroeder. Stuckey. Troyer. Washington.
Before the Reckoning, most of our families were plain people, whether Amish or Mennonite, and two were English. I don’t know what we are now, and frankly I don’t care a whit.
Emma’s people have agreed to tolerate our presence through harvest. We’ll send them off with half of everything we bring in. At first Emma said they only cared to receive the harvest from their own lands, which I know would be less than the rest of us receive. I said whether they wanted it or not, we’d give them a share of ours.
As though it matters
anymore who owns what land. Gracious.
They plan to scout down south for a place to live, maybe down toward Coshocton or Dresden. If the dying down there has been anything like the dying up here, there might be land and buildings for the asking, even whole farms, so long as they’re willing to evict some feral animals and move some corpses.
After Emma’s people left the meeting, I told the rest that while I’ll grieve to see those others go, I was glad to be in the company of us who remained. And that anyone who thought thirteen was an unlucky number never had the pleasure to know such good and loving folks as these. That these fine families have made thirteen a blessed number.
Esther Stuckey stood up quietly for a bit, looking uncomfortable before the group. Then she said that before Common, she’d spoken with the other women who remained, and they wished to make me the community’s bishop.
First, I apologized for laughing.
Then I told them how much their offer meant to me. But I pointed out that only men are ministers or deacons or bishops, and as our men have been murdered, we’ll need to find a new way. And besides, even if I wished to keep to the old ways, I’d make a poor bishop. I admitted that I couldn’t guide them in worship because God and I weren’t on speaking terms just then. I didn’t feel a part of His community as I had before this all happened, and especially since before the boys died.
I wasn’t sure how they’d take that, but they didn’t throw me out. Some looked worried, some nodded, and all of us gathered to hug one another afterward. So that’s something.
But I wish I hadn’t laughed. I really do.
3
August 26, 2164
We’ve found a place for them to live.
Their first scouting trip nearly ended in disaster when they were set upon by a pack of dogs. Emma insists it was dire wolves, but it clearly wasn’t—from the size of the bite marks, and also from the fact that any of them are still alive to talk about it. Rachel Knepp won’t use that leg anytime soon, but she’ll probably live. After that, Emma deigned to let me come along on the second trip.
We found them a home a good ways down 93, a little past Plainfield. They’d have preferred several small family farms, not a big industrial one, but it has the buildings to get them through the winter, and plenty of land. It’ll be a good place to branch out from in the spring. It’s a solid couple of days’ walk from us, and it’s across the Tuscarawas, so Emma said it would do. It seemed important to her that she get at least one river between us.
Heading down there, we walked well off the highway rather than right on it, so that we might see others before they saw us. But even so, we didn’t see another soul the whole way down, which I suppose was good. More troubling is that we didn’t see a single cow, horse, or bison. Most folks might eat lab-grown meat, but our neighborhood is still big animal country. Yet they’re all gone, eaten by animals and hungry people, no doubt. The woods, too, have been cut far back from where they were in places.
On the way back up, we swung through Plainfield for a look, and I went into a textile shop that Nettie Glick spotted on a side street. A family in there just about shot me, but I dropped my rifle and got my hands up quick enough to settle them. A husband and wife and two teenaged boys, the man standing in front of his family, all of them looking like they’d seen twice as much of Hell as we have. They wouldn’t give their names, which struck me as funny, though I was careful not to laugh. I tried to imagine why on Earth it mattered. Maybe they’re worried about roving gangs of Amish identity thieves.
I offered to bring them back up with us, but I could tell the answer right away by the way he flinched and gripped that antique shotgun. Emma had stepped into the doorway behind me by then, her hands up high. She offered that when she and her people moved down after harvest, the family was welcome to come have a look, and to join them if they cared to. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.
Early the afternoon of our first day coming back up to Sugarcreek, my binoculars showed something far up the road jogging toward us, though jogging’s probably the wrong word. Better to say it was loping. We ran off into the brush and hid as best we could, probably a hundred meters off the highway. When the thing got even with us on the road, it stopped and sniffed the air for a bit. Nettie gave a little whimper, and the thing shrieked and charged at us. Since it was moving wildly, I aimed for center mass. After one in the chest it got back up, and after one in the belly it got back up again. I managed to put one in its head just before it fell on us.
It looked like something in between a man and a woman with mismatched animal parts growing from it. Ram’s horns and ears like a rat’s. The teeth and fur reminded me uncomfortably of a dire wolf’s. Even in the short time before it reached us, its chest and belly wounds had begun to heal.
So. A chimera. Which is awfully troubling.
Teddy’s best guess was that the Reckoning somehow shut down everybody’s naughts, including the chimeric ones. He said the right kind of disturbance in the Wicc power field might kill most naughts, and any that survived should be dormant or broken. Since they can’t wake up without a Wicc signal, and since all the equipment has gone dead, that should have been the end of chimeras. He said it made a kind of brilliant, twisted sense. Like maybe somebody brought the Reckoning on purpose just to stop the spread.
And yet yesterday we found that chimera. I suppose it might have survived since before the Reckoning, but bits of it sure looked like dire wolf, and the dire wolves were well contained at the Renew Zoo until after everything went bad.
So maybe this was a new chimera. Maybe there are still gadgets out there somewhere generating Wicc power, just lying around waiting to wake people’s naughts. And if the naughts that get woken are the chimeric kind that hop from one body to another? Lord. That would be so very, very bad.
Heaven and Hell. What sort of world is left to us?
4
September 4, 2164
I don’t care to jinx us, but I’m hopeful that food this winter will be much more plentiful than last.
It’s a relief that we managed to spare some of the poultry and small livestock. Enough for breeding, I think, even if we send some down with Emma’s group, which we will. We won’t eat anything from them but eggs and milk this winter, but things might look up after that.
Harvest will be far better than last year, and spread more evenly around the community. We took farming very seriously this summer. Contrary to my expectations, even the strays learned a lesson last winter. Some of them helped in the fields before we escorted them off. We’ll have enough food to get us through, and probably some to spare.
That and our encounter with the Plainfield family got me thinking.
For the last couple of years, I’ve hardly thought of anything but our community, yet the world is still out there. No doubt countless people have died, but others must still be alive. With the strays gone and Emma taking her group, it’ll be empty here. We’ll have space for three or four times as many people as are left to us. We’ll have the need for more hands to tend our fields, and also to defend us.
So I’m leading a scouting party to see what we can see. Even if we only learn more of what’s out there, it’ll be worth it. But I have the foolish hope that we’ll find some good folks to join us, too.
Time is pressing at me. We have to be done before the heart of harvest, when we’ll all be needed here. And if we don’t do it this fall, I can only imagine how many more lives winter will take.
When I raised this at Common, Esther volunteered to join me before I’d even asked. And I’m glad for it. She’s quiet, but with what she carries from the last two years I’m sorry for anybody who crosses her. In the end we settled on a party of six. That should leave enough to defend all those who stay behind. The ladies have been practicing with firearms, and we’ve been setting up fences and traps and regular watches, so I hope everyone will still be alive when we return.
We’ll head up by Canton-Massillon, since that’s pro
bably the most populous place nearby that’s still within the new canyon ring. I hope to see the canyon. It sounds quite a sight. We’ll walk that direction ’til the world ends.
It’ll be hard to tell who’s safe to bring back home and who’s not. But I think I’ve learned to trust my own good sense better than before, and I think I’ll do what’s needed, not just what seems polite. Esther’s got pretty good sense, too. Between us, I hope we’ll figure it out.
5
September 21, 2164
It’s a comfort to be home. Such a journey. Maybe I’ll write it down sometime.
All of us who left came back, except for Esther.
Just one. Such a small number, yet I can’t count the loss.
We brought fourteen others back. It was seventeen to start, but one of them got up in the middle of the night and started killing. I don’t know why. He just went off. Esther brought him down, and she died doing it.
I don’t know. He seemed a good fellow. Esther and I both thought so. Makes me wonder about the others. But if we just shut our eyes and hide here, pretending the world’s not out there, we’ll die.
They’re all kinds. From Canton-Massillon, Wooster, Mt. Eaton, and in between. There are two families of three, and the rest are in ones and twos. Eight men, six women. A warehouse worker, a vidi, two sex workers, a kindergarten teacher, a mechanic. A lawyer, of all things. So many kinds. For every one we brought, we passed over two or three. I hope we gathered up the right ones.