The jowly visage of the onetime Exxon CEO filled the JumboTron—he was smiling and waving at the crowd, who were smiling and waving back.
“Good evening, Governor Bruce, and good evening, people of Vermont!” he said, beaming. “I want to say that I’ve never had the chance to visit Vermont due to the fact that you have no deposits of oil or natural gas, but I do know that you have a number of very fine filling stations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary, for joining us here tonight. And thank you for all the help you’ve given us in recent days in tracking down the terrorists in our state!”
“We’re always eager to help fight the war on terror—and I hear that we managed to rescue that pretty young Olympian from the terrorists who’d been holding her.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary—and Trance Harper will be with us in just a few moments.”
“Well, give her a big hug for me. Now, I think we’ve got a special treat for you tonight. I hear that any second, fifteen of our Air Force jets will be flying overhead in formation, just to give you Vermonters a reminder of what freedom sounds like. Military parades are an important part of our country again—we paid for it, after all, and we’re not afraid to show our might!”
“Um, Mr. Secretary, sir, I fear we had to scrub that mission because we’re having a big snowstorm here, and the planes are grounded. But maybe we could give you a sense of how much noise we can make up here. Folks, can you join me? U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A.”
On TV, thanks to a strategically placed microphone, the chant sounded loud, as if tens of thousands of people were joining in, instead of the six hundred clustered around the governor at the far end of an empty hall.
“I know all real Americans thank you for that witness,” the secretary of state said. “And I just want to take this chance to tell anyone out there who might be thinking of voting for secession just what a bad idea it is. Your federal government supplies you with your Social Security check, your disability, your Medicare—think about that. I know that some of my ancestors tried to secede from the Union a long time ago, and I know that they wish they hadn’t because it didn’t work out so well. The great thing about America is, everyone has a chance to change it. Every person, every corporation, everyone is on an equal footing in this great land. As that great Vermonter Daniel Webster said, ‘Liberty and Union, Now and Forever, One and Inseparable.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary!” said Governor Bruce. “And I just want to say, you’re invited up here to the Green Mountain State any time you want to come.”
“God Bless the United States of America,” said the secretary of state.
As his picture disappeared from the JumboTron, a new image appeared on the screen: a live shot of Trance, still in her green spandex, standing next to a man in a dark suit wearing sunglasses and appearing to speak into his lapel.
“Burke’s hamming it up a little, I’m afraid,” said Vern. “I mean, sunglasses?”
“Still, the governor looks relieved,” said Perry, and indeed, on the monitor they could see him embracing Trance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, most of you saw our hometown hero Trance Harper on TV last night, explaining the web of terror that has fostered this so-called independence movement,” he said. “I’m sure she’s still worn out from her ordeal, so we don’t actually need her to say anything, just to wave at you so you can see she’s okay.”
“Actually, Governor, I’m feeling fine,” said Trance, as she cut toward the mike with Burke and Gardner running interference. “And I’m getting better at this public speaking thing—I think this is about my fourth speech this winter, which would also be about my fourth speech ever. So hopefully it will be pretty good.
“Better than last night, anyway—because last night I was feeling a little pressure. Here, let me show you. Most of you saw this picture on your TV”—up popped the video of Trance, speaking woodenly: “. . . terrorists made me say things I did not believe.”—“What you didn’t see was this other video of the same scene, which my friend Perry should be able to show you now.”
Instantly there appeared a wide shot, with Trance still reading—but this time Dave was standing at the edge of the frame, his Glock pointed at her head. A gasp went up from the crowd in the hall, and just at that moment Perry hit another button—silently the roof of the great hall began to slide open. It didn’t take long for the governor to notice, partly because snow began to swirl in through the opening, caught in the floodlights around the upper deck. On TV, though, viewers simply saw the image of Trance at gunpoint, and heard her speaking live.
“As you can imagine,” said Trance, “what I said last night was not true. It was dictated to me by Agent Dave and Agent Chet, who are not quite FBI but definitely government, and who were holding me in the upstairs barracks at the Ethan Allen Firing Range. Thanks to my friends Vern and Perry, to my former teammates on the Vermont biathlon squad, and to a bunch of other people for setting me free earlier today. None of them are terrorists, or anything like terrorists. The only people who have pointed a gun at me, or handcuffed me, or burned down houses, or done anything at all like that, are federal and state officials. They’re not terrorists either—I think they’re mostly just in over their heads.”
By this point, the great dome of the Bruce Facility was half open, and the snow was streaming in. Perry flicked another button, and suddenly a camera mounted in the rafters for overhead views turned on, showing the great empty arena with the small cluster of people huddled at the far end. A low whining noise was audible in the background, like an oversized mosquito, and then suddenly over the lip of the stadium came a motorized hang glider, circling around the empty seats. It towed a banner: “The gods of the valleys,” and seconds later another of the craft appeared, this one with the other half of the message: “Are not the gods of the hills.” As they began to descend to the artificial turf, a third ultralight soared over the edge of the roof, trailing a banner that read: “Drink Heady Topper.” It buzzed the crowd around the podium, and the pilot dropped hundreds of coupons for free pints of the state’s most famous ale, which sent people scrambling into the aisles.
“What you hear is the sound of freedom,” said Trance. “I’ve heard those great jets the secretary of state was talking about, and they may have their place, but here in Vermont the sound of freedom is low, quiet, small. It doesn’t drown out everything else.”
Two state policemen finally managed to push past Burke and grab Trance, and the governor pushed his way back to the microphone.
“Fellow Vermonters,” he began—but suddenly his mike went dead, and the JumboTron showed instead a picture of Vern and Perry back in the classroom full of computers.
“Hello, Vermonters. I imagine the state police may want to find us too,” said Vern. “We were going to wait till after Town Meeting Day, but I think we’ve made our point, and we might as well go off to jail. Don’t worry too much about us—the same legal team that represents Ms. Sylvia Granger of Starksboro has agreed to take on our cases as well. So—Chief Augustus—we’re in room 332 of the journalism building, and we’re ready to answer for our role in helping flood the Walmart.
“Until the police arrive, maybe we can tie up a few loose ends for you TV viewers. First of all, Daniel Webster is not from Vermont. He’s from New Hampshire, which is a different thing altogether. Beyond that, I said the other night that I had absolutely no interest in running an independent Vermont. But I would like to point out that I have received an interesting e-mail from the fourth-grade class at the school in Weybridge proposing that the national tree of Vermont be the maple, the national animal the catamount, and the national drink a glass of milk. If and when I’m able to resume broadcasting, via the Internet from a new studio I’ve heard about in Starksboro, I will be promoting all three of those suggestions, though I think we should perhaps break the beverage category into juvenile and adult. I will be campaigning for craft-brewed beer as the
state drink for those of us above the age of twenty-one—and frankly, I have noticed that in other countries they seem to get away with a lower drinking age. But those are discussions for the future, if we even decide we want to think about our own small nation. Listen to your neighbors at town meeting, and follow your hearts.
“And Perry, I think you have some things to add too?”
“Only one, really,” he said. “Our website has actually been up more often than not the past few days, and I’ve been tallying your choices for a new national anthem. I admit that I was a little worried about how many people were voting for ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ from the 1943 film by the same name. It’s a fine song, but a little . . . So I’m happy to announce that the number one choice for Vermont’s national anthem, and actually by quite a wide margin of 14,321 votes, is . . . ‘O-o-h Child,’ first recorded by the Five Stairsteps in 1970. It peaked at number eight on the Billboard Hot 100, and it’s been covered by dozens of artists since, including the version by Dino in 1993 that made it to number twenty-seven on the charts. We’re going to hear the version by Miss Nina Simone, sometimes called the High Priestess of Soul, who was born Eunice . . .” At that moment the camera showed a policeman grabbing Perry by the arm and yanking him away, but not before he pushed one more button on his laptop, and suddenly the camera was showing the arena once more, the floor now white with snow, and the growling contralto of the Carolina-born singer filling the hall.
Someday we’ll get it together and we’ll get it undone . . .
Someday when the world is much brighter . . .
Someday we’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun.
People danced, people threw snowballs, people tried to get Trance’s autograph as the police led her away. The governor stood by himself at the podium, pulling the lever that should have caused the dome to close.
29
“I call to order the two hundred thirty-eighth annual town meeting of the town of Starksboro,” the town clerk and moderator said. “We have two major items on the warrant this year: a motion to buy a new road grader, and a motion to advise the legislature on seceding from the United States. But first, as is our custom, announcements. Lunch today will be provided by the sixth graders at the Robinson School, who are raising money for their trip to Quebec City. It’s beef stew, and I’m told all the ingredients are local. Are there other announcements? Mr. Larson?”
“The plow hit my mailbox during the storm last week and I think the town should replace it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Larson, that should probably be raised during new business at the end of the meeting, but I would also recommend you talk to the highway superintendent during lunch. Anything else? Chief Granger.”
Sylvia, who was sitting next to Trance in the last long row of metal folding chairs, rose. “I’ll make the fire department report later—and I’m warning we may need an appropriation for new radios. But first I just want to give my thanks to everyone who came out to fight the fire at my house, and who helped me later. As you know, the state’s insurance company is going to build me a new place to live. But, thanks to my lawyers, they’re also worried about any mental distress I might have suffered. I explained to them last week that my mental distress would best be treated by nice warm water, and so they kindly offered to build a community swimming pool next to the school. I signed a paper saying that that would take care of my troubles, so construction will begin early this summer and probably be finished by winter. See you all there.”
She sat down and squeezed Trance’s hand as people applauded.
“Thank you, Chief Granger. If there are no further announcements, then let us begin discussion on the first question we face: Should the people of Starksboro advise the state legislature to consider seceding from the United States of America . . .”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
An advantage to writing a fable is that you get to append a moral to the end. In this case it’s not “We should all secede.” Instead, it’s that when confronted by small men doing big and stupid things, we need to resist with all the creativity and wit we can muster, and if we can do so without losing the civility that makes life enjoyable, then so much the better. So far, Americans have distinguished themselves in the age of Trump: the first full day of his presidency saw millions of (mostly) women in pink pussy hats on the street, followed in subsequent days by sights of conscientious Americans flocking to airports to protect immigrants, or thousands of New York bodega owners shuttering their shops for a day in protest of the new regime’s Muslim ban. This nationwide unity of dissent is just what the situation demands.
Secession, by contrast, has a limited but interesting recent history. Vermont actually had a minor-league attempt at a secession movement about a decade ago, but it collapsed when the organizers colluded with a collection of rancid southern racists. California’s CalExit movement may be, circa 2017, the current most popular version, driven by the fact that the fifth-largest economy on earth has the same two senators as Wyoming or, well, Vermont. Anyway, we’re early into the Trump dispensation—if things turn truly sour, you’re all welcome to come to the Green Mountain State. We’ll teach you to drive dirt roads in mud season and make sure you get a welcoming case of hoppy ale on your doorstep; almost any of you, in turn, would make this place a bit more diverse. . . .
The characters in this book aren’t based on actual people (though I did borrow the names of a few of my favorite local journalists for the press conference scenes). For example, although Vermont’s governor, Phil Scott, is a Republican, he’s been a stalwart opponent of Mr. Trump, for which many thanks.
I’m grateful to many friends for their help. My colleagues at 350.org and throughout the climate justice movement have taught me most of what I know about activism (though those who want to cause trouble effectively can shorten their learning curve by picking up the new organizing manual, This Is an Uprising by Mark and Paul Engler). My colleagues at Middlebury College, led by the remarkable Laurie Patton, sharpen my thinking—and Mike Hussey and the college’s crack crew of ski-trail groomers let me dream of skiing like Trance, or at least Vern. Radio may seem an old-fashioned medium to some, but not to me—in fact, my daughter Sophie has recently taken her first job in podcasting, at WGBH, one reason I’m currently so fascinated by the sound of the human voice appearing out of the ether. As always, my main sounding board, and my main joy, is my wife, Sue Halpern (an actual novelist).
Many thanks to early readers of this book: Sam Verhovek, Andrew Gardner, Naomi Klein, May Boeve, Jamie Henn, Peter Sarsgaard. Gloria Loomis and Julia Masnik agented with their usual panache. And it is a particular pleasure to be reunited with David Rosenthal, who edited my very first book, The End of Nature, all the way back in the 1980s. He figured out how to make this story stand up; I’m very grateful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill McKibben is the author of many books on the environment and related issues—his first book, The End of Nature, is generally regarded as the first book about global warming for a general audience. It has been published in twenty-four languages and was serialized in The New Yorker, where McKibben was once a staff writer. His work appears regularly in newspapers and magazines around the world.
As a founder of 350.org, the global climate campaign, McKibben has helped organize demonstrations in 191 countries, and was a leader of the fight against the Keystone pipeline and for divestment from fossil fuels. His work has been recognized with, among other prizes, the Right Livelihood Award, sometimes called the “alternative Nobel.” He has had a new species named in his honor, Megophthalmidia mckibbeni, which some biologists describe as a “pesky woodland gnat.”
McKibben has lived in Vermont for many years, roaming the mountains and forests on both sides of Lake Champlain in all seasons. The Schumann Distinguished Scholar in Environmental Studies at Middlebury College, he was named Vermonter of the Year in 2012. He lives with his wife, the writer Sue Halpern, and their
dog, Birke, on the edge of the Green Mountain National Forest’s Breadloaf Wilderness.
The author gratefully acknowledges permission to reprint lyrics from:
“Ah Mary,” words and music by Grace Potter. © 2007 Hobbitville Music. All rights administered by Seven Peaks Music. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
“Ooh Child,” words and music by Stan Vincent. © 1970 (Renewed) Kama Sutra Music, Inc., and Frantino Music. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Unart Catalog Inc. (publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.
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