by Rob Hart
“That sounds bad.”
“So you know what the Soldiers of Gaia did? These people you’re protecting? They marched the guy in charge to the edge of the lagoon and pushed him in. He drowned in toxic pig shit. Then they tried to burn the place down, but ended up killing half the pigs in the process.”
“So… some asshole was doing some shitty thing to the environment and they killed him. Look, I’m not going to say he deserved to die for that. But you have to acknowledge that this whole thing is a little more complicated than the way you’re presenting it.”
“Bullshit. We know they’re hitting something soon. We just don’t know where, or when. There are a dozen potential targets within a hundred miles of here. We don’t have enough to move on. These are not good people, Ash. Why are you protecting them?”
“So you’re the good guys?”
“Yes, we’re the good guys,” he says, smiling, thinking he’s reached me.
“You don’t act like it.”
“Now isn’t the time to debate tactics. This is about saving lives.”
I know the responsible thing to do here would be to help them.
I know that.
But Tibo’s words are ringing in my head. Marx’s, too, for as much as I hate that.
The Soldiers of Gaia are terrorists. And I don’t give a damn about color or creed or geography or end goal. Terrorism is the thing that took my dad. Just thinking about it lights a blue flame at the center of me that unless I hold it in check, threatens to consume me.
But the game is rigged. The more of these stories I hear, the more I realize that the winner is always going to be the guy with the gun, or the guy with the money, or the guy with the badge.
No one’s doing this for the guy who ends up sick from toxic pig shit.
Or the guy who’s sink catches fire.
I’m going to figure this out and take it to Sheriff Ford. He strikes me as an honorable guy. He’s given us and this place far more credit and respect than these assholes, who thought the best way to achieve their goals was through shock, awe, and liberal doses of pepper spray.
“You can fuck yourself,” I tell him. “I don’t know about any book. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Katashi nods, like he’s weighing his options. I don’t know what those options are, so I turn to leave. Figure at this point, what do I have to lose?
“Hey,” he calls after me. “About your passport application.”
That stops me cold at the door.
“You think we haven’t run checks on every single person who’s come through here?” he asks. “I know you applied. Fleeing the country?”
“Taking a vacation.”
“Either way, all it’ll take is a phone call and the application gets held up. I imagine you’re leaving soon, given the expedited processing. So I’ll make you a deal.”
Bastard. “Go ahead.”
“Whether you have the book or you don’t, that’s irrelevant. You’re going to get it for me. I’m going to knock on this door first thing tomorrow morning, and you better have it. If not, the passport goes bye-bye.”
He stands up and takes a couple of steps toward me, gets in my face, his nose nearly touching mine.
“That’s not all, either,” he says. “I can make your life very hard. I’m talking full weight of the FBI hard. If you have so much as a speck of bone dust in your closet, we will find it, and use it, and exploit it until you never see natural sunlight again. So it’s in your best interest to keep this conversation between us, and get that fucking book for me. You got me?”
A year ago that threat wouldn’t have worked.
Now I have a literal skeleton in my closet.
By closet, I mean at the base of a tree off a hiking trail in Portland.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought. I’m going to give you a chance to come around. Think real hard about where you’re going to land on this. Because you’re with us, or you’re with them. You have to choose. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I’m not much for team sports,” I tell him, exiting the bus.
There’s nothing on it for me to protect. Whatever he wants to have seen, he’ll have dug up. He has my name and my address back home and everything. I consider going back for the book and the cipher, but he could follow, so I head back to camp. Make sure he sees me do it.
I need to have a talk with Tibo, anyway.
As I climb onto the boardwalk I cross a plank of wood that says: If we all had a bong we’d all get along.
The Swedish couple that’s been visiting for the past couple of days come out the back of the main dome, carrying roller cases behind them, heading toward the front of camp. They were supposed to be here another week. But with two people dead and the FBI sniffing around, it was only a matter of time before people began to clear out.
Tibo comes out of the main dome, sees me, and runs up to me, Zorg keeping pace next to him.
“There you are,” Tibo says. “What the hell happened? And where’s Aesop?”
As soon as I stop jogging, it hits. The nausea. That fuzzy, exhausted feeling. I need food. I need caffeine. I need more of that tea.
“Can we talk in the kitchen?” I ask Tibo. “Alone?”
“First, is Aesop okay?”
“He accidently ingested poisonous mushrooms. But we went straight to the hospital. They transferred him. He should be fine.”
Tibo shakes his head. I climb into the kitchen and open the coffee maker, dump in some grounds and some water, feel a bug crawling up my arm, so I stop and itch and the itching won’t stop so I really dig in. I mutter curses under my breath.
“Fucking monster fucking bugs in this stupid fucking forest,” I say. “I fucking hate it.”
Tibo gets closer. “Ash, what bugs?”
The frustration that’s been pending all day explodes at the base of my spine. I swing my foot out and kick a cupboard, splitting the wood.
My brain feels like it’s trying to crawl out my ear.
A moment’s peace. That’s all I want.
I sit on the floor of the kitchen, put my head in my hands.
Breathe deep. Concentrate on where I am. Filter out the noise and the bad feelings.
Tibo sits next to me.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Detoxing.”
“Shit man. DTs?”
“Yeah.”
“Ash… what the fuck is going on? You’ve been on your own planet the last few days. More than usual.”
I drop my head back against the cabinet, stare at the point where the dome meets its apex. At the dark, heavy wood keeping it aloft over us. Stained and darker than the rest, from smoke and heat and moisture.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Tibo says.
“Turn on the radio,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Just turn it on.”
He stands and goes to the ancient stereo and clicks it on. Rage Against the Machine again. I stand, pour myself a mug of coffee, drop in a little cool water to even it out, and put the kettle on so I can whip up some valerian tea. I grab a handful of granola out of the stash and wash it down with the coffee. Get to where I feel a little bit settled.
And I tell Tibo everything.
About not trusting him. About the cipher, and the book, and someone stealing it from me. About the trip with Aesop, and how he made me stop drinking. About who I saw at the bonfire, and my suspicions about the fracking site, and about Katashi, because fuck that fucking asshole.
I tell him about all of it and he listens silently, nodding at points, his face never changing. Serene and calm. He pours himself a cup of coffee halfway through, keeping an eye on the door, making sure no one is close enough to hear.
He takes this all very well.
“Magda, Gideon,” Tibo says. “That sucks. I would have thought better of them. Well, Magda definitely.”
“They’re playing for the Soldiers. And they’re planning something.”
“How do you know I’m not going to give it to him?”
“Because it’s you. You are incapable of doing things the easy way.”
“I don’t know. He’s going to fuck shit up for me and for the camp. I need to buy some time. He can’t hold the passport up once it hits the mail. If I can squeak out another day or two, I might be okay.”
“Well, you know what the answer to that is,” Tibo says, like it’s obvious.
“What?”
“How could you not realize that?”
“My brain feels like pulped newspaper. Fucking tell me.”
“Give him a different book. Make one up. How would he know the difference?”
“And maybe they realize I’m fucking with them.”
“You want time? That’s time.”
“Okay, that makes some sense. So that’s step one. Step two is, what do we do about the Soldiers?”
Tibo opens a cupboard and takes out a bag of pecans, shakes some out into his hand, chews them, staring out the window, at the green expanse of the forest. I take this contemplative moment to pull the kettle off the stove, dose out some water into a mug, and load up the tea strainer with some valerian root, my hands shaking and spilling chopped brown stems onto the counter.
“Here, let me do that,” Tibo says.
He places the stems in the filter, tamps them down, closes it, and places it in the mug. Turns to me.
“I’m happy to see that you’re not drinking anymore.”
“Well, it was an expensive habit.”
“Don’t joke. I know you were doing it to cover something up. That’s not good. I didn’t say anything because I figured you’d tire yourself on it and come around. You fall into funks and come out of them. But this one was bad. And, honestly, I was getting a little frustrated with you.”
“Let’s call it even,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I kept all this from you. I should have come straight to you.”
He nods.
“So all of this, you investigating this—is it because you thought I might be responsible for Crusty Pete’s death?” he asks.
“No, I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
“Why?”
“You’re not a killer.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
The level of his voice doesn’t change. “Ash. I cut the rope. I killed Pete.”
Tibo looks at me, unblinking, like he told me the weather report. I don’t know what to say and I’m digging for some words when Zorg pokes his head into the kitchen.
“Zorg doesn’t mean to interrupt, but we’re getting close to dinner…”
Tibo nods. “Sure. Why don’t you two get started?”
“We need to talk about this,” I tell him.
“And we need to get the people who haven’t abandoned us yet fed. Get started and we’ll talk about this later.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Not a debate,” he says.
I hold his eyes for a second. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by what happened and I wonder how he pulled that off.
People handle killing in different ways, I guess.
Tibo leaves and Zorg comes in, hovering by the doorway, in an open vest over his bare, small chest. In the center is a red cartoon heart, the size of a silver dollar, tattooed into his skin. Sloppy, like a stick-and-poke job. He looks at me like a puppy.
“So…” he says.
“Let’s get to work. Asian stir-fry. We can bang that out quick.”
Hanging from the ceiling is a wok that’s more than two feet across at the top. I pull it down from the hook and place it on the stovetop, get it fired up. Line up a big pile of vegetables—mushrooms, peppers, onions, garlic, broccoli, snow peas. Then I grab a few blocks of tofu out of the chest fridge.
“Chop chop,” I tell Zorg, pulling a knife out of the block and holding the handle out to him. He takes it and attacks the vegetation with confidence.
I rush through the prep, thinking about what Tibo said. It tracks, sort of, that he killed Pete, in the sense that he’s been distant and vague, on top of there being some kind of strife between the two of them. But I can’t make the connections. The ‘why’ of it. Every time I get on a train of thought for too long, it derails, crashes, and burns, and I have to start at the beginning. It’s hard to focus, especially with the temperature in here climbing. I pour myself a big mason jar of water, down the entire thing in a few gulps, and pour another.
Zorg senses that something is off because he keeps throwing me sideways glances, until finally he dives in.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look like you’re not feeling well.”
“I’ve been better.”
“Want to talk about it?”
My gut response is to say: Not really.
But Aesop was right. Talking about things has helped. Versus what I’ve been doing for so long, hiding a part of myself so no one could see it. Staying away from the circle, sitting on the bus, drinking myself into oblivion, until there was nothing left but a void.
So I try something new.
Because something new has to be better than where I am.
“Delirium tremens,” I tell Zorg. “The price you pay for self-medicating with alcohol.”
“That’s what the valerian root is for, then?”
“It is. Aesop hooked me up.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Not as bad as yesterday. Still not great.”
“Some people it’s a day or two. Others it’s weeks. It can get much more extreme than this. You should be okay.”
“How do you know that?”
“My dad.”
The period on the end of that sentence is a fine point that brooks no further conversation.
When the stir fry is done I dump it into a big bowl, check on the rice. It needs another few minutes. I slam the lid back on.
“I’m sorry again I was such a dick to you,” I tell Zorg.
He shrugs. “I’ve heard worse.”
“Seriously though. Everyone here is so goddamn nice and I haven’t done much to deserve it.”
Zorg shrugs again. “Community is all we have.”
I remember those words from someplace, like hearing a bell off in the distance. It takes me a second, and then I’m standing on a street in Portland. Someone helped me who didn’t have any business helping me, but he did it anyway, because, according to him, community was all we had.
Something I never really thanked him for, either.
I’m a little sad it took hearing that a second time to properly recognize it. But Hood was right, and so is Zorg. Community is all we have. This is a big bad world full of assholes, and if there’s an opportunity for a few like-minded folks to buckle down and do the right thing for each other, it’s worth taking.
For the first time since I got here, I realize I’m going to miss South Village when I leave. I still think it’s a good thing to go. I’ve never been to Europe, and tickets to Prague are expensive. I probably can’t get a refund at this point.
Anyway, I’ve got a bone church to visit.
But this is a place I’d be happy to come back to.
Monster bugs and scary toilets and heat like I’m sitting in an oven. Everything.
I check the rice again and it’s done, so I dump it into a bowl. Zorg carries it out and I ring the dinner bell, then head down to the chalkboard to list all the ingredients.
The circle assembles slowly as Tibo stokes the flames in the center of the clearing. It catches as the sun approaches the horizon, washing the woods in golden light. The no-see-ums are out, buzzing about my skin. Real bugs being slightly more comforting than imagined ones.
There’s an odd hesitancy to the proceedings. I take my spot on the bench and Tibo nods at me as the circle clo
ses. Half the size of what it was two days ago. Sunny and Moony are here. So are Alex and Job. That makes me happy. Makes me feel like they’re still on our side. Everyone else is scared off or plotting destruction or, in the case of Katashi, found out.
Tibo bows his head and thinks for a minute.
“South Village is a very special place to me,” he says. “Some of you may not know this, but the reason I picked the name was to pay tribute to the East Village in Manhattan. It’s where I grew up. It used to be a thriving artistic community. Now it’s a commodity, where artists are pushed out to make way for people with money. The things we have aren’t supposed to last forever. Sometimes you have to accept fate and move on. This was my next thing. This was my answer to a world where art and community have been devalued. I truly believe these are the things that will save us.”
He sighs. “I’ve made mistakes. Some of those mistakes are coming to bear on the camp right now. I have done things that are rash, and irresponsible, and thoughtless. I’m still learning. Through that, I want to thank you all for being here. Given what’s happened, you would have left if you didn’t believe in it.”
I know Tibo isn’t talking to me, but it feels like he’s talking to me.
Without even realizing I’m doing it at first, I hop down off the bench. The leap taken, I’m able to step toward the circle. No one notices me.
“I love this place, and I will fight like hell to ensure that it survives,” he says, eyes still downcast. “But I want you to know that I am thankful for each and every one of you. I am thankful for your contributions, and your compassion, and your understanding. Even though there are things I’ve done that maybe I don’t deserve it. Thank you for believing what I believe in…”
He looks up. Stops mid-sentence, locking eyes with me as I step between Zorg and Moony. They sense someone is coming and part to allow me in. When they see it’s me they’re both taken aback. But then they stretch their hands out to me. I take them. Zorg’s is small and warm, sweaty from being in the kitchen. Moony’s is rough and bony. Her long fingers wrap around my hand and seem to meet on the back of it.