The Light of Hope

by Ernie Lindsey

  Squirrel hangs his head and looks away. For a brief moment, panic squeezes my muscles and I feel a tension cramp forming in my lower back. This is it. They’ve come far enough. They’re going to abandon me.

  “We recognize this area, don’t we Squirrel?”

  “Yup.”

  “Me, too,” Marla adds. “About five miles west of here is Big Bear Valley.” She takes the shovel from James and scoops more dirt into the grave.

  The wet, musty scent of freshly dug soil used to be the smell of planting season back in our encampment. Corn, beans, cabbage, any seeds that survived the winter went into the ground. I watch as a pile of dirt lands around the old man’s neck.

  Now we’re planting something different. Now we’re planting death.

  “And what does that mean?” I ask, relieved that they’re not going to leave me alone.

  The others gather around, as if the entire group is addressing me. Marla shovels, while James, Squirrel, Cara, Evelyn, Brant, Hawker, Greely, and Farrow form a small half-circle.

  “What?” I say, confused.

  James lowers his voice and softly says, “I know you don’t want to leave your folks behind, and I promise, we’re not deserting your people, but we have to find food. Real food. And trust me, we’re with you all the way, every single one of us, but we’re not going to make it if we can’t find game or get something real in our stomachs. Five miles west of here there’s an old army outpost. The last time we were through that direction, a couple of years ago, we found an old shed that was absolutely stocked full of boxes of that military food that never goes bad. We took as much as we could carry and lived off it for weeks. It tasted like rabbit dung but it filled our bellies.

  “We were thinking that maybe if—maybe if you wouldn’t mind, we could go check it out and see if there’s any left over. It’s a risk, but we didn’t take it all the last time, and it was so grown over and hidden, I doubt anyone would’ve found it since then. Heck, even we found it by accident.”

  Squirrel chuckles and digs the toe of his boot into soft earth. Sheepishly, he adds, “Yeah, I had to pee and lucky for us all, I picked the right clump of bushes.”

  I’ve listened politely this whole time, but what they’re asking is madness, and I tell them so. “First, let’s be clear on something; you want to go five miles there and five miles back, just to see if a shed of food might still be around from two years ago? And two, you want us to leave my people behind for how long, huh? We’re exhausted and weak, James. How long is it going to take us to go ten miles for the possibility of nothing? Think about everything that could go wrong back here. We’ll have bodies to bury. And I can’t risk leaving my mother and father with these people.”

  “Caroline,” James pleads, “we haven’t seen them in days anyway. They’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t do it. It’s too dangerous.”

  Their shoulders droop, faces saddened, and they look so defeated I have to offer them something, because I realize that I am no longer their leader, no matter how much they look to me for guidance. They don’t need my permission. I’m not in charge.

  I sigh. “It’s madness, but I’m not going to stop you. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  James smiles. At least I think he does. Sometimes it’s hard to see behind that bushy black beard. “We have to do this,” he says. “If we steal more food and we’re discovered, your people die. If we don’t find more game, we starve to death. If we’re dead, we can’t help you fight this war. Look at it this way, Caroline, the further we are away from the noise of forty thousand people, the more game we’ll be able to find. We can track out there. We can hunt and not have some damn blackcoat scare away our dinner because he’s got a shaky trigger finger. If someone else raided the old base and the ready-made-food isn’t there anymore, anything else we find to eat will be extra.”

  He has a point. As crazy as the idea is, I don’t have the energy to argue otherwise. “Go,” I tell him, patting his shoulder. “You guys can go and bring me something back. I’ll stay and keep an eye on things here.”

  James tugs my ponytail. “No, ma’am. You’re coming with us.”

  I shake my head. “James, no, I need to keep—”

  “Your folks will be fine,” he says, tenderly. “You can’t walk another hundred miles, much less fight, if you’re nothing but skin and bones. You don’t have any fat to burn. You nor Marla, either one. Squirrel, too, and I’m afraid if we don’t get something to eat, something other than that mint piss, we’ll be digging three graves before long.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. We leave tonight.”

  I agree, and somehow, I feel comforted that James is taking charge again. It’s been awhile since I’ve allowed someone to have complete and total control of the direction I’m taking. Grandfather had even gotten used to my opinions and had allowed me to make decisions for the both of us, well before he passed.

  Grandfather. How I miss him. The dirt clumps landing on the dead man at our feet give me pause. I feel bad for him. He was someone’s grandfather, and now he’s a hollow body. Soon, he’ll be a part of the earth, and he’ll fertilize a few blades of grass. At least he’ll serve a purpose in the after. I think about Grandfather and how we left his body behind. We never had time for a proper burial, and I wonder if his spirit is at rest without it.

  I wonder how many spirits are around me right now.

  Grandfather, Grandmother, and Ellery? Maybe Hale? Maybe Ellie Tilson, the blonde girl who died back on the battlefield outside of Warrenville? What about Mosley? In all my recon missions throughout the forty thousand citizen-slaves, I’ve never laid eyes on him again. Perhaps the blackcoat guards murdered him. Perhaps he took his own life because it was too much to bear, or he was never able to envision himself in chains.

  So much death around me, so many people buried, and it leaves me saddened by the souls who are likely wandering the land, looking for a way home, wherever that may be.

  When Marla drops another shovelful of dirt onto the old stranger’s face, it’s so final that I have to look away. My shoulders lurch, and I absolutely cannot stop the tears from coming. I feel the security of James nearby. He puts an arm around me and pulls me in close. The rough material of his jacket scratches against my cheek. He smells like sweat and ground-up mint, with a hint of blueberries. It does little good to mask the overpowering fragrance of days without a bath.

  I don’t mind, though, because it’s a comforting smell. It’s the scent of someone who has worked damn hard to help me through the utter insanity that has entered my life over the past month. I ease into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He hugs me tighter, and I bawl, great rivers of tears rush down my cheeks, pouring so heavily that they could carve valleys.

  James is my rock. I have a father who is alive and well—so far—but James has become more of a father figure to me over the past month than my actual father ever will be. If I remember my verses from the Bible correctly, or as something I’m making up on my own, James is my rod and my staff: he comforts me.

  If I ever told James that I just compared him to God in my mind, he would laugh me right out of the forest. However, like the pictures the Elders used to draw back in my encampment—what feels like years ago—God is a large man with long hair and a full, flowing beard. James isn’t too far off from that.

  The thought of James laughing at me eases back my tears, and I manage to get my whimpering under control. I sniffle, snort, wipe my nose on a dirty, rain-soaked sleeve, and then I brush the remaining tears away from my cheeks, the ones that haven’t been washed away by the increasing downpour.

  “You okay, little girl?” James asks. He smiles and takes a step back, knowing that a couple of weeks ago, the “little girl” comment would’ve gotten him a punch in the gut.

  “I’m fine,” I say, crossing my arms and looking up at him. “I needed that, I think.” I’ve been going backward for the past couple of weeks. While we were retreating, I naturally stepp
ed into the role of leader and it felt right, and it felt good. Then, when I got to our capital and I learned just how little control I actually had, my confidence began to wane. Then, Finn’s betrayal shredded any sense of power I had remaining. It ruined me, and I haven’t been able to fix myself.

  I’m a mess on the inside.

  I’m taking a horribly fast ride back into childhood, and, for now, I’m okay with it.

  How will I fight back against the DAV leaders, their army, and Finn the Betrayer when all I want to do is curl up underneath the heavy boughs of a pine tree and have someone comfort me?

  I am a shooting star, burning bright at first, and the further I fall, the fainter I get, until I’m extinguished, where I’ll become a jagged, black rock.

  When we began this journey, chasing the tromping citizen-slaves through the forest, I was hell-bent on revenge, taking down Finn and the entire DAV, freeing my people.

  Now all I can think about is making it through another night.

  I don’t have the energy to care anymore. My soul is weak. My spirit is fading.

  I hope James’s plan works.

  3

  By the luck of miracles, the shed is intact, still swarmed over with bushes, briars, and stray limbs, and it remains full of food.

  We sit in a half-circle around the doorway, outside of the shed. The foliage is thick enough overhead to give us protection from the rain. In here, we’re hidden from everything in the forest. This would make a good blind to hunt for deer and bear if we had time to hang around and monitor their daily watering and feeding patterns.

  Yet, as it stands, we make do with food—if you could call it such—that tastes even more like we’re chewing on wood mulch, but it’s food. Marla, the only Republicon who can read, points out that there’s an expiration date on the side of a large wooden crate. She says, “It’s good for another three years.”

  “How long’s it been here?” Squirrel asks.

  “Doesn’t say,” she replies. “Oh, wait, com… Commish—commissioned on July 4th, 2051.”

  Squirrel gags and spits out the block of…whatever it is he’s chewing and scrapes at his tongue with dirty fingernails. “Really? That’s, what, two hundred years ago?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” James says. “That thing tells us we got three more years before it goes bad, we need to fill up on it while we can, take as much as we can with us like we did last time.”

  Squirrel shakes his head. “And how come we didn’t think to check if it was two hundred years old when we ate it then?”

  “Does it taste any different?” James grins.

  “Now that you mention it, I guess not.” Squirrel shrugs and takes another bite, then tries not to wrench up his mouth in unintentional protest. “What do you think we’re eating, anyway?”

  Marla examines the silver-colored wrapper in her hand. “Only thing it says is ‘nutrition blocks.’ It’s probably a mix of cow anus and dried fruit.” She winks at me.

  Squirrel, understanding he’s being teased, defiantly takes another bite. “Mmmm,” he groans, “love me some cow anus.”

  “Gross.”

  The rest of us chuckle and I have to admit, as much as I hated the idea of abandoning the citizen-slaves, the food is worth every bit of effort. I wish it tasted as good as the bulk feels, but miracles can only grant so much.

  When our laughter dies down, James squints and cocks his head to the side, listening closely. He holds up a hand to quiet us. His eyes follow the sound of something off in the distance. I’ve spent most of my entire life in the forest, hiking, scouting, hiding, or stalking prey, and I know what everything sounds like—except for now. I can’t peg what James hears.

  I tap him on the shoulder and mouth, “What is it?”

  He puts a finger to his lips then holds up the bottom of his jacket. He grabs the zipper and wiggles it, pointing.

  I work my mouth around the words “You heard a zipper?” and he nods.

  That’s something I didn’t expect. Another human? Could it be a stray scavenger? It shouldn’t be any roaming citizens of the PRV, the ones who had escaped into the wilderness during the DAV army’s southern invasion. Wouldn’t they head further westward, toward the boundary of Kentucky? Anywhere but here, right? Any free PRV citizen should know that this area wouldn’t be safe. Not now, not ever. Unless of course it’s someone confident with the wilderness who felt he would be safer on his own.

  I could take guesses forever, and I’m wasting precious time listening to the voice in my head instead of the underlying noise of the forest; water drips from limbs, wind whips through the leaves above, and…there it is. The unnatural clatter of rocks, as if a foot has slipped on moist, mossy granite.

  We all cinch our muscles up tighter, the racket a clear indication that we may be in danger.

  My mind starts scrambling through possibilities again.

  What if it’s a blackcoat soldier and he’s tracked us five miles away from the march? It’s a strong possibility. Just yesterday morning, I had noticed a guard—the one we call Horse Head—had glanced in our direction, up into the woods where we were observing, after an uncontrollable sneezing fit took Squirrel by surprise.

  We ducked, he turned, and then he stared long enough for my insides to go gooey. Thankfully, he readjusted his rifle against his shoulder then resumed corralling the herd.

  Don’t be stupid. A lazy blackcoat wouldn’t waste the energy. And besides, they barely have enough guards to watch over everyone as it is. They wouldn’t risk losing the help.

  James motions for everyone else to retreat into the storage shed. Silently, he tries to insist that I need to go with them. I pinch my lips together, shake my head, and refuse to budge when he tries to push me after them.

  He furrows his brow at me.

  I point to my eyes with two fingers, then use the same ones to point out beyond the thick, impenetrable layer of brush. I don’t say anything out loud, but he knows what I’m asking.

  Can you see anything?

  No, he indicates with a short headshake. He motions with his hands. It’s too thick.

  I point to my chest. Let me see.

  He rolls his eyes. Okay, fine.

  I spent years doing this in my own forest. Way back when I first heard the drumbeat of the war rhythm echoing down through my valley, I had been taking refuge from the rain in my favorite clump of rhododendrons. Thick branches along with clusters of dark green leaves made for a perfect hiding spot, yet it also gives me an advantage now. I have practice at picking things out through a cluttered field of vision.

  I remember Brandon’s words—God rest his soul, and another spirit who might be nearby—when he first trained me.

  Look for colors that don’t belong.

  Learn the movements of the forest. Find something going against the pattern.

  Use your instincts. If your gut says something is different, trust it.

  James should know this, and I don’t doubt that he does, but he’s many years older than I am. My vision is better.

  When I lower my head to find a better line of sight through the scraggly layers of leaves and twigs, I find a spot that stretches all the way out to the forest. I can see a smattering of tree trunks, stained dark with dripping rain, a cluster of boulders, and then the land dips down and away before it rolls up to the hillside to the north of our position.

  I wait. James waits.

  I’m beginning to think that he didn’t hear anything, or if he did, the person may have gone on by, a weary traveler minding his own business.

  I hope so. That would be best for everyone involved.

  But then I see it, and my breath catches in my lungs.

  It’s a flicker of green that doesn’t quite match the color of the surrounding leaves, dark green emerging from behind a fat oak trunk.

  It’s a jacket. I can see the grayish buttons on breast pockets. It’s my turn to put my finger to my lips and hope like hell that James stays quiet or that Squirrel doesn’t hav
e another sneezing fit from inside the storage shed.

  Arm, shoulder, the side of a neck and then…long, dark hair. A cheek emerges. A full face follows it.

  I think that’s…wait, yeah, I recognize that face. That’s one of her men. What was his name? Didn’t they call him Darwin? Something like that?

  I’m slightly relieved. I know this man, and I reach for James to let him know it’ll be okay when I see Darwin’s arm cocked and pulling backward. The motion is a familiar one. He lifts his bow, arrow nocked, string pulled back close to his right ear.

  He’s aiming into our patch of cover. In fact, he’s aiming directly down my line of vision.

  What? No. Wait!

  I shove James. He’s much, much larger than I am, but it’s enough to send him sideways by six inches. The arrow whispers past, splitting the area between us in half, sailing so close to my arm that I can feel the wind rush past. It buries itself in the storage shed’s door with a loud thunk.

  It’s too late, but James covers his head and ducks. He can’t control his reaction. “Whoa!” he shouts.

  From up the hillside behind us, I hear her voice. I thought she’d gone. I thought she’d disappeared and moved away from this war, to claim her own land somewhere else.

  “Who’s in there?” she shouts.

  Crockett.

  James pulls his hands away from his head, stares at me. He purses his lips together and glances up at the sky, as if he’s asking God, “Really? Now?”

  “You’re covered on all sides, thief. Who’s there?” she shouts again, closer now.

  “Crockett? It’s James and Caroline. Call your man off, okay?”

  “Oh ho! James and the Kinder, huh? Saw them people marching over to the east. Looks like you didn’t win the war, hey now, little girl?”

  “I’m serious, Crockett, get that man to stand down, and we’ll come out.”

  “I don’t think I can do that.” She’s flanking us, coming around from the western side now. “You’re stealing our stash.”