“I’m a light sleeper … You know that, I ’spect?”
Malila poured herself a mug and tasted it with a grimace before amending it with cream and sugar. Malila had decided she must learn to drink coffee, a wholly American beverage, but was stalking her goal with caution.
Moving to the table, Malila sat down next to the old man. The house, other than easing arthritic wooden joints with the occasional click, was quiet.
“Young Master Ethan has gotten you up early, my friend. How are you enjoying his company?”
“He is so fascinating. I’ve never seen a baby before, of course, but he watches me now. I think his eyes are going to be dark like Moses’s, but his hair is fair like Sally’s.”
“Beware, my friend. I can see signs of seduction.”
“Seduction?”
“Cave infans! Beware the babe!” Jesse said in mock alarm.
“Now you are making fun of me.”
“Not at all! Name me another race of humans who can convince an otherwise rational being to feed, house, clothe, cajole, sit up nights, do trigonometry with, and otherwise tolerate them for twenty-odd years for such paltry returns in goods and services. Babies are a transcendent mystery and a perpetual snare for the unwary!”
“Ethan? He is a sweetheart.”
“Too late …”
“One would think you don’t like children, Jesse.”
“I dinna say I wasn’t a fellow victim! I have eight children, some adopted, and they all are grown and useful people … except for Alex, my youngest. He is a bit on the wild side. Comes of his mother dying when he was five … No, I misspoke: it comes of his father being a grieving widower.
“He is just in college now, but I keep him on a tight rein, moneywise, and he knows I show up on the odd occasion. We shall see what becomes of him.
“I love all my children and, thank God, haven’t had to bury any. They are all sweethearts, and they all had messy diapers.”
“Another mystery of the outlands, I suppose,” Malila said in mock seriousness.
Jesse laughed. “Is it? Do you think we have children for our own reasons? I don’t think that is likely, my friend. Babes, now, have you noticed, are their own selves from almost the beginning. It’s like babies command us to birth them, not the other way round, doncha see?” Jesse smiled.
“Dr. Johnstone, you are a terrible man,” she said, hiding her smile behind her coffee mug.
She stood and moved to Moses’s tiny office, just off the kitchen, leaving the door open, and keyed up a camera showing the interior of the milking barns. Malila watched as the ordered chaos of cows lined up for the attentions of the milking machine.
Moses stumbled in and piloted himself to the table, sitting down before opening his eyes and starting when he saw Jesse was already there.
“G’mornin’, Mose! ‘A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of your hands …’” Jesse intoned with glee.
“Careful, old man! Ethan might wind up bunking with you!”
Malila had by then come back into the kitchen and poured Moses a mug of black coffee; he took it with both hands.
“The cows aren’t getting up quite so early today,” Malila said.
“Could be the cold,” responded Jesse.
“They should like the cold, shouldn’t they?” she asked.
Moses stopped to look at her.
“Well, I mean, I had some time, and you showed me how to use your interface, Moses. Back-bred Piedmontese, aren’t they?
Moses’s eyes lit up.
“They are. Come from the mountains of Northern Italy … got here in the early twentieth century,” said Jesse.
“I know,” said Malila, smiling before turning back to talk to Moses.
“It was all right to do that, wasn’t it? I was just looking at your breeding books. I wanted to see the original dame and sire.”
“Moses tells me the whole herd is Piedmontese,” inserted Jesse.
“I know, Jesse,” she said. She then continued, “But why use that breed for dairy at all, when it’s double-muscled?”
“For a fact, the whole herd is a myostatin-null line. The original sire was Imbutu, and the dame was India, so the same allele with both. Best to be able to breed true with my own stock.” Usually so laconic, this sudden enthusiasm of Moses’s almost made her laugh.
“So you don’t have to buy bull-semen straws to artificially inseminate,” she said.
“To keep the cows in milk,” said Jesse.
“She knows,” said Moses. “Sally and I are trying to be self-sufficient. Originally, the breed was kept for milk, you know.”
“So the calves you cull go to meat, and the ’statin-null gene gets you top dollar,” Malila finished for him. “Have you thought of breeding around the year, less likely to depress the meat market prices?”
Jesse laughed. “Mose, my friend, a month ago Malila had no idea where veal came from, and now she’s giving you advice,” observed Jesse, fetching him a sharp blow to his non-coffee-bearing arm from Malila.
“Heck, Jesse. I guess we just found us a girl with some country in her after all.”
Moses lifted his cup in salute to Malila, who responded with the most graceful curtsy consistent with her bulky gown and her own half-filled cup.
When the two men began cooking breakfast in earnest, Malila went, now well warmed, to her loft to dress.
Throughout that winter, Jesse would make the long ride from Bath and arrive late on Friday night to claim his traveler’s portion. He would stay until midafternoon on Sunday. Sally always evidenced surprise and annoyance at his appearance … and always had an extra plate in the oven for him.
Jesse, Malila noticed, made a habit of donating to Sally the “stray” ham, “fugitive” five-pound sack of sugar, or “excess” bolt of gingham that regularly and inexplicably stowed away for his weekly trip to New Carrolton.
After dinner on Saturdays, Jesse, Sally, and Moses usually sat before the fire in the big front room. After tuning up what Malila was told was a banjo, Jesse accompanied Moses as he played his guitar. Sally sometimes sang and sometimes accompanied on a violin, drab from dustings of rosin and worn from generations of fingers. The songs started out silly, with catchy lyrics and infectious tunes, but gradually changed to haunting ballads, long refrains of lost loves and last times set to tunes than made her weep.
Jonathan Ashton, Jonathan Ashton, Jonathan Ashton was lost in the fire.
It was in the year of the great conflagration; Jonathan Ashton was lost in the fire.
He went for a soldier; he went for a soldier, to keep his land and his house and his wife.
The fire it took him; the fire it took him. He left his land and gave up his life.
Jonathan Ashton, he had a wee baby; his wife bore the son through the flame and the strife.
His son is a grown man and fights for his own land. Jon Ashton’s son has Jon Ashton’s life.
Malila watched Jesse’s hands as they flashed along the frets of the odd instrument. Stanza followed stanza, sad, sweet words making her nostalgic for what she did not know.
Later as they talked quietly, Malila moved to examine the old man’s hands. When she touched him, Jesse looked up until their eyes met, and then he submitted. Malila wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She turned his large, compliant hand over and back, studying the blue veins that writhed just under the skin, the odd fine lines of old scars, and the long and regular fingers. They were muscular hands but lacking Moses’s calluses. The old man laughed uneasily as her examination continued.
“People used to say you could read a man’s past and his future by looking at his hands. I’ll bet you haven’t seen anyone’s with more of both than this one, my friend.”
Malila smiled but did not relinquish Jesse’s hand.
The old man knew mor
e about her than anyone in her life, even Hecate. He had seen her, her body, her failings, her despondency, her fears, and her meanness … and he had chosen to be her friend. And not just a friend. Where she and Jesse were going was unknown land to her, like their trek last fall, but this trip was ever so much sweeter. More than anything, the love felt right. It felt good.
The snowbank, in the lee of the house, kept winter long after the rest of the landscape had surrendered to the green of spring. In addition to the blue jays, cardinals, house finches, sparrows, and chickadees, now the bread crumbs summoned several kinds of yellow birds that would “see-see-see” each other away from the charity. The next week, they were gone, moving north with the sun.
Malila smiled at herself. Where before she had expended so much effort on seconds and minutes, now time inhabited the slow broadening of the days, the dance of a young infant’s development, the gradual evolution of a snowbank in the lee of the house, and her growing attachment to these savages of the outlands.
CHAPTER 46
STAMPING GROUND
Eastern Kentucky, RSA
Midafternoon, April 8, 2129
Malila sat next to Sally and rocked Ethan as Moses walked alongside the wagon. The land undulated toward them at the slow pace of the horses, with its moist, fetid, fecund smell blowing from across the fields and up from every waterway. The black and white of winter had retreated with the flashing colors of strange birds and the spread of greens across the expanses, even into the ruts of the road. The sun warmed her eyelids as she dozed.
For the first time since her arrival, Malila was away from the farm, on the way to some sort of festival. The mood among the outlanders, however, was grim. It was a two days’ trip to the meeting place. They would be there just three days before returning the two days home.
The light buckboard, with scant provisions and bivouac gear, was an easy load even on the unpaved and winter-rutted roads. Once they got to Worthville, however, the road was macadamized and widened. At every turn, they met another family going in the same direction and with the same somber air about them. Irrepressible children, nonetheless, orbited among the growing number of slowly moving wagons, checking in and extorting a “toll” in the form of almond “shekel” cookies baked for the purpose.
Voices were hushed and words perfunctory. Sally had Ethan to feed and the rolling household to maintain. Moses appeared distracted, almost morose. Malila was left to her own devices. Oddly, they had brought along a yearling lamb, a gorgeous and beguiling creature, pure white with a black muzzle and a tail in a constant clockwise spin. He rode inside the buckboard for the trip. At the evening’s stop, Moses lifted him down, placing him in a halter before letting him graze. The wayside campsite filled up by late afternoon with other families, each with their lambs. There was little of the busy socializing that Malila had grown to expect among the outlanders.
By the second day, Malila had settled into the rhythm of a long trip. Swaying to the lurch and pull of the horses at their stolid pace, she watched as each new hill was approached, climbed, and discarded, like a passing wave. After cresting a modest rise that afternoon, she caught her first glimpse of Stamping Ground, laid out before them.
Entering the large meadow from every direction, wagons were stopped by marshals wearing red armbands. When it was their turn, they were directed west to a site near the tree line, into a spot with “Stewert, S&M, and etc.” neatly printed on a lath stake.
The next several hours were spent making the site a comfortable, if simple, encampment. Moses erected tents for himself and Sally, for Ethan and Malila, and another for cooking. Tent sites were designated for Captain Delarosa and Jesse, whenever they would arrive. Throughout that afternoon, the subdued gathering of outlanders swelled until the huge area was filled except for broad avenues left for travel, fresh privies, and water stations for each section of tents. A large wooden cross stood in the east with a purple sash draped around it.
The initial novelty having rubbed off on the hard seat, Malila was glad to stop traveling. As instructed, she led the lamb on a tether to a lath enclosure, up a somewhat-muddy footpath to the graveled main road. The attendant, a woman near her own age and solemn like all the outlanders she had met the last few days, took the lamb and placed it in a stall. With the now-unneeded tether, Malila was handed the receipt, a short section of lath dyed crimson with a number burned into it, without any additional words.
As she retraced her steps, Malila noted how good she felt. She had enjoyed being on the road again. It reminded her of the trek with Jesse. As difficult as that had been, the pleasure of discovering each new valley and river was like one of Jesse’s poems: dramatic, cadenced, and memorable.
The woods, so monochromatic during the snows of winter, appeared indistinct, almost frothy, in the green waves that swept over them. Brassy green, yellow green, the purple red of small trees, and the wispy white smoke of others alternated with each new vista. Up higher on the hills she could see dark greens and impossibly vivid masses of scarlet flowers. The outlands seethed with new life.
She was looking forward to this gathering, whatever it was. Sally called it the Return. Like much of what she had seen in the outlands over the last four months, the name was at once prosaic and opaque. Several days of meeting new faces and enjoying new experiences would be a treat after being on an isolated farm for the entire winter.
And then she recognized one more reason she felt so good. The background hum from her O-A had actually vanished. It had been there since that terrible night while she’d awaited her fate in the dark prison cell at the Battry. Ever since then, the dull visceral hum had been a part of each waking moment, at times an aching reminder of her loss. She had eventually been able to ignore it. People could get used to anything, Jesse had told her once. And now it was gone. She felt buoyant, uplifted, and a little homesick. The hum, when she thought of it, was the last vestige of her belonging to the Unity. She was now, well and truly, abandoned to the lands beyond the Rampart.
Instead of the usual pleasant dinner conversation, they ate their evening meal in silence. Malila, Xavier, Moses, and Sally all sat down to a rather parsimonious meal of flatbread, cheese, and dried fruit. Today Moses extended the usual prayer aloud and made some reference to “passion,” confusing Malila even more. Sally had made a point that sexual encounters among outlanders were discouraged unless the partners were registered with the association.
Moses and Xavier lost the toss for kitchen duty, and Malila, tired from the journey, was asleep before Ethan.
Next morning, the somber atmosphere of the encampment continued. Malila sought some relief from it by playing with Ethan as he endeavored to roll over. Numerous attempts involving a chubby leg waving tentatively in the air ended in failure. Finally, with a little more arching of his back and a sudden revolution, he triumphed. Ethan’s worried look of surprise changed to a grin and a shriek of laughter when Malila applauded.
“Is that my grandbaby? What a darling! He looks just like you when you were his age.”
A woman, taller but very much built along the same lines as Sally, bustled in through the open tent flap, trailing a beaming Sally. Malila suppressed an impulse to salute.
She was dressed in a dark, rather plain dress with a high collar but wore pointy-toed tooled leather boots that came to her midcalf. The older woman’s chestnut hair, streaked with silver, was caught up into a loose bun, held in place by a leather band and secured by a wooden pin.
“You must be Malila. Pleased to meet you, honey. I’m Sally’s ma. I live way over in Campton in Wolfe County with my new mister. Sally’s dad was killed almost eight years ago now. ‘Till death do us part’ and all. I knew Sally’d make a wonderful mother. She has been singing you to high heaven all morning. I just had to meet you. I’m Tabitha, but call me Tabbie; everyone does.”
Her monologue continued, leaving Malila feeling winded. By the time Tabbie had fin
ished, she was in possession of the best seat, a mug of hot tea with “a splash of milk and one-and-a-half sugars” in it, and Ethan.
Sally beamed as she watched her son’s initial uncertainty dissolve into happy acceptance of his grandmother. By the time Ethan had circled around to Malila again, he was ready for a nap. She put him down into his travel crib, all carefully supervised by Tabbie.
“Has Malila earned her woman’s mark yet, Sally?” Tabbie asked.
Sally smiled. “Just the other day. Ethan turned four months old the beginning of the month, and he was seven days old when Malila came to stay.”
“Have you chosen a pattern yet? This will be your first one, won’t it? You must give some thought to the pattern, honey.”
Sally pulled out a page of brown paper with dark marks on it. “Of course I have. I thought I would use a daisy at the end.”
“Yes, a finial. A daisy is a good choice, especially for a woman’s mark. I like that. Now you can do a wreath, as Ethan was born so close to the Coming. Nancy Burton in McAfee, she does a snake with its tail in its mouth. There are all kinds of basic shapes, you know, hun.”
“I wanted to keep the vine, so’s people can realize the connection between us.”
The older woman paused to look at her daughter and smiled. “That is sweet, Sally. Your father would have liked that.”
Shaking her head slightly, Tabbie continued, “Now we have to add the ousqua10, the moon cycles, and the vines.”
The two women huddled over the paper adding and subtracting for hours, while Malila watched from a distance with growing uncertainty.
Finally, Sally gave her approval, and Malila was allowed to see the final design: graceful lines and crescent moons disguised as the leaves of a sinuous vine terminated in a seven-petaled daisy. It was primitive and elegant in its own way with lines dividing and rejoining in a complicated dance that made the drawing seem to writhe on the paper.
“What do you do, now that you have a design?” Malila asked.
Outland Exile: Book One of Old Men and Infidels Page 25