Deklin rolled his eyes and returned to his coloring. “Easy Peasy.”
Wren reached out and grasped Coru’s arm. A moment, pregnant with hope ticked on by. Wren swallowed, asked, “H-how do you know you can fix them, Deklin?”
With a long-suffering sigh, Deklin dropped his crayon and turned around in his chair to view the string of numbers projected on the wall. “They’re all sad and broken. See the equal sign?”
They all nodded, looking at Deklin, at the numbers, at each other.
Catherine was crying soundlessly, already seeing that Coru would leave them soon.
Bill’s expression was a mixture of happiness and confusion—happy they have the solution to this number mystery, confused as to why it would cause Catherine to cry.
Coru’s face was both afraid and open. Afraid this was just the imagining of a young boy, and open to the hope the boy was right and could give them the answers he’d been searching for since he’d arrived back in WEN 2046. He could save Cloud Rez, the people on Surface. Maybe he could save them all.
Deklin pointed to the wall and explained, “That means things need to be the same on each side. My Pops taught me that when I was little.”
Wren jumped into Deklin’s head, saw the numbers as he saw them, as happy, colored characters, eager to play with their neighbors. Already he was creating new colors, in the form of numbers and plugging them into the equation where they belonged.
Coru gasped at her side, seeing Deklin’s vision through his link with her mind.
Catherine moaned softly.
In the blink of an eye, the row of numbers across the wall glowed with happiness at being joined together as they should have been all along.
Wren staggered to the seat beside Coru, fell into it awkwardly and choked out, “Could … could you write them all down for us — for Coru? It’s very important these numbers all get fixed for Coru, Deklin. So very important.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “I guess,” he answered doubtfully. “Don’t you know how to fix them?”
She grasped his hand with both of hers. “No Deklin. None of us knows what you know. You are the smartest number person here. Only you can fix them.”
He looked at their faces in astonishment. “You don’t know?”
Coru came to sit on the other side of Deklin. “We don’t Deklin. None of us can do what you can do.”
An expression of pride washed over Deklin’s face. “Only me?”
Wren nodded her head, not trusting her voice.
Here before her was the potential salvation of an entire civilization. Right here, in the head of this innocent boy.
31
OUTLANDERS AND FREELANDERS
Deklin wasn’t always up for playing the numbers game. They were forced to proceed at his pace, letting him fix the numbers when he was up for it, and leaving him be when he wanted to play with his goats, or with the other children, or listen to a story, or just be a kid. It was grueling to wait, yet, when Deklin was up for it, the equations were repaired in mere moments, like magic. What Deklin could do at a glance, none of them could do in a lifetime.
And so it went, the days and weeks passing, the days growing short, the snows beginning to fall then melt, then fall again, only to melt again—a signal that winter was on its way to D.O.A.
And Charles Wood’s mathematic equations were repaired, one by one, the precious information tucked away in Coru’s backpack.
The number of hours the family spent indoors rather than outdoors increased, bringing with them new challenges and time to rest and reflect and to get to know one another better. A whole lot better. Sometimes too much better. This was the time to keep civility in mind, to mind your manners, to remember that this wasn’t all about you.
Books were treasured; they were read, swapped, then reread. Games of chess, of monopoly, of backgammon, poker—a penny a point—lasted days. The children learned how to knit simple scarves. Wren taught Sandy and Wyatt how to paint. Dan dreamed and planned what he would build next spring, always keeping detailed drawings and notes in a small book he carried everywhere, talking it out with anyone who would listen.
Sandy built a puppet theatre for the children, spurring them to make puppets for every fairytale Bill read to them, with major productions launched each week, presented Saturday nights to their captive audience. Nicola and Mattea roamed the perimeter, checking for intruders every day, taking Hero and Ol’ Henry along, with the bonus of providing a steady supply of fresh rabbit for the stew pot. Mattea taught Malcolm how to whittle, starting with a simple whistle — which Catherine confiscated immediately, much to everyone’s relief.
Malcolm moved on to other carving and a true talent was born as he produced detailed renditions of the wildlife that lived all around them. Catherine baked; oh, how she baked. Food had become extremely important to the family, and Catherine was their northern star.
Wren learned to crochet and was working on an ambitious project — a large rug for the great room — made of doubled and tripled up strands of any scraps the others were willing to donate. It even had a name: El Monsterous and was predicted to be completed as early as 2056! She also journaled, recording everything that had happened since she’d first ventured out of D.O.A. to find the world had changed.
Olivia nested — she was pregnant now, filling everyone with hope, and the adults with secret fears. Fears of the birth itself, out here in these rustic circumstances, and fear the virus was still present, and the child might not be immune as they were. Olivia refused to consider these as obstacles, viewing her pregnancy as a positive sign for things to come.
When Randy wasn’t hovering around his wife, he spent hours writing out basic medical information, step by step and in plain speak, to be shared with anyone who might need it in the absence of medical help. He predicted the people in the world as they now knew it would need to educate themselves on all things, and this would be his way to share out his medical knowledge with as many as he could.
Coru drew. He’d started at Wren’s insistence, a version of the therapy Randy had recommended to get Coru’s hands back into motion. Once his fingers began to cooperate with him, Coru drew everything he could find in nature. Sketched it, drew it. Colored it, with paints borrowed from Wren, with crayons borrowed from the children, or simply drew them with pen and ink, or lead pencil, simple renditions of the land, especially the trees—trees, trees and more trees. The ever-changing sky, the restless river. Birds — Bald Eagles, Barn Owls, Sand Pipers, Chickadees, Canada Geese, Grouse, Robins, Ravens, Woodpeckers, Hummingbirds. Wildlife—chipmunks, moose, elk, white tails, bears, beavers, porcupines, field mice, the cats, the goats, the horses, the chickens, the pigs, everything and anything was fair game for Coru. All were to be precious reminders for when he left this place and returned to his own world, keepsakes from a land and time he had grown to love. He slowly filled the pages of the book Wren had given him with incredible images. Wren felt like an amateur next to his skills.
Soon the snow came and didn’t go away. Chores changed, grew harder. There was much more wood chopping needed, tending the animals was a bigger responsibility, clearing the snow was a daily task and not only around the homestead. Keeping the paths for escape clear was a major effort. Ensuring the trannies received enough light each day to sustain their charge and remain reliable rides should escape be needed was another priority. Bugout bags were prepared and stood at the ready, hung in a row on the wall just inside the main cabin’s porch.
Washing clothes was not hard, but drying them became a challenge. Catherine had lines strung across the high ceilings, which were filled with a colorful array of clothing and linens day and night. All around the perimeter of the two lofts and the walk way that joined them, clothes and bedding were draped. The wood stove made short work of drying them, but just as one load was folded away, another took its place.
The cats grew fat on mice, the dogs spent less time outdoors and more hours curled up before the fire. Missy’s milk finally dried up,
and Deklin’s goats became their number one source of dairy, both for the family and for the hungry pigs they’d adopted. The chicken’s egg production never waned, supplying an important source of protein for D.O.A., more than earning their grain and fresh bedding and the task of shoveling out their leavings.
Sean encouraged the boys to fill the composter he’d built down by the garden with their shoveled animal leavings with the promise of giant strawberries and hundreds of juicy apples and cherries if they did. They grumbled at the chore, fresh fruit next summer not a sufficient bribe, but Catherine’s hugs did the trick.
Turned out Sean was a bit of a romantic who loved to sing. He had an incredible singing voice, and could coax snacks from Sandy any time, day or night just by singing his request and showing puppy-dog eyes. She was such a soft touch, she simply could not refuse the man. This pleased him mightily. He wrote songs as well, funny ones, limericks, really, that featured members of the family and produced gales of laughter when he sang them. No one could stay grumpy once Sean got ahold of them.
Christmas came and went, marked by a special dinner Catherine, Sandy and Wren worked on for days. The cabin was too small for a tree, so Bill created a beautiful evergreen wreath for the wall, decorating it with dried apple rings and clusters of dried rosehips. It was beautiful and brought smiles to everyone.
Over time small wrapped packages gathered below it, homemade gifts to one another. Colorful lumpy knitted scarves from Rhea, animal carvings from Malcolm, personalized songs from Sean, herb-flavored honeys from Bill, hand-made puppets for the kids and bars of honey-oatmeal soaps for all from Sandy. There were warm rabbit skin hats from Mattea and Nicola, framed pencil portraits of each family member from Coru, herbed cheese from Deklin and Wyatt, coated in wax and stamped with the recipient’s initials. Wren contributed hand-bound journals, with rabbit leather covers, Olivia and Randy had created personal first aid kits for everyone, packed neatly inside draw-string bags Olivia made from old denims, designed be tied to a belt when traveling. Everyone got a colorful, thick wool vest from Catherine, with a package of salted caramel toffee tucked inside.
Dan’s contribution was hunting knives for all the adults and for Wyatt and Malcolm, with carved bone handles and blades he’d made himself. For the younger children, he had a box filled with dozens of magazines he’d collected over time when he scavenged, with scissors and homemade glue to craft with. This was the hit of the day, the children’s eyes lighting up with the possibilities. As a special gift for Catherine, he created an incubator from a series of plastic bins and a warming light, promising her he’d teach her how to hatch out some of her eggs this spring to ensure the flock prospered. Catherine cried with happiness over hatching eggs with Dan in the spring.
The Christmas meal was two dozen stuffed grouse, supplied by Mattea and Nicola, with all the trimmings and set out by candlelight. They gathered around, eating slowly, enjoying the food, the company and conversation, the crackling warmth of the woodstove, the strength of the walls that protected them, the security of the forest around them, the good fortune of having found one another and this place. They ended the evening singing old Christmas carols and telling stories, some that brought a tear, others that brought a laugh. It was the most wonderful Christmas Wren had ever experienced and all it had taken was kindness and simple items at hand.
The winter continued without incident. It was anywhere from eighteen to forty below Celsius, on any given day and it was as they had suspected — and hoped — no one was willing to battle that kind of weather to search for survivors out in the wilderness. One error, and the intruder would die. Wherever the other Outlanders were — it felt strange to refer to themselves by this name — they were staying put. It seemed that D.O.A. would be safe, at least until spring.
And just as winter plodded forward, it also retreated, giving way to warmer winds, longer hours of sunlight, nature pushing back, making way for new life, new growth, new leaves on the trees. Birds were back, twittering to one another in the forest. Returning Canada geese filled the air with their honking, such a welcome call announcing that life was back in business here in the north. The pair of bald eagles also returned to their nest high in the tree across the field in front of the main cabin, a sight that filled Wren’s heart with hope that the cyclical pattern of nature would bring about peace and prosperity for those who remained here in the north.
The snow disappeared for good by the end of April, and in its place mysterious fogs rolled in from the warming river each evening and lingered for hours, cloaking the homestead in mystery. People ghosted in and out of the mist as they moved about, animals too, appearing silently from the edge of the forest, only to disappear again as if they’d never been there at all.
The air was filled with the smell of damp earth, and the sweet scent of last fall’s leaves breaking down into new soil.
The family burst out of their winter confinement, eager to be free of their heavy winter clothes and boots, free to run outside, to work the earth. They took to staking the animals and hobbling the horses outside to graze on the sudden burst of fresh green grass and golden carpet of dandelions that rolled between the two cabins. Dandelions – these dreaded weeds so hated by city people intent on the perfect lawn, yet so welcome here in the north — the first blossoms for the bees, who were out and about, already bobbing from flower to flower, gathering precious nectar.
As soon as the ground could be worked, Dan, Coru, Wyatt and Malcolm were at it, turning the soil, enriching it by digging in animal and leaf compost.
While the men did the heavy lifting that was needed to prepare the garden, Wren and Nicola took over scouting the perimeters of D.O.A., Wren scanning, Nicola pushing her own mental limitations, struggling to hear what Wren could hear. The more they practiced, the better Nicola became. She couldn’t touch Wren’s abilities, but she could read with Wren, piggy-backing on her scan, hearing and seeing with her. Soon Wren could cast her mind out, monitoring to the south, for instance, with Nicola channeling Wren’s scan and monitoring north. Their sharing went both ways — Nicola taught Wren how to hunt for small game, how to ghost through the forest as Mattea had taught her over the winter.
Often hours would go by without saying one word aloud — everything was communicated inside their heads. On these long excursions, Wren grew to love her thousand acres more every day, realizing just how wonderful this section of land was. Old Jacob Spencer had been right — this was a slice of heaven.
Sean, Mattea and young Wyatt set to working on fencing the meadow between the two cabins for the animals. Within a week, the goats, the horses, Ed the mule, and Missy and Junior — who was no longer a junior but a very big boy — were released into their new pasture. It was quickly realized this was not the place for Junior; Junior needed more room. After much consideration, the family decided to take Missy and Junior to the next property over and set them free. They would find the wild herd soon enough, and if lucky, Missy would meet up with a nice boy… And well, nature would take its course. They planned to recapture Missy — they hoped — after a few months, bring her back onto the homestead, and if she had made a fortunate connection during her summer roaming the pastures, she would calf out and begin producing milk again.
If not, the good thing was she could feed and water herself all summer. It was their best option.
During their daily runs and scanning, Wren and Nicola sighted Missy and Junior often after that. The pair were thriving with the wild pasturing cattle and looked healthy and fit. Good decision, they exchanged silently.
They were also preparing to go off D.O.A. to discover if there was in fact a place called Freeland, and if it was somewhere they wanted to go, though leaving D.O.A. was not what any of them looked forward to. They loved their homestead. Maybe one day it would be safe, but that day wasn’t now. Much needed to change for that to happen.
Plus, it was time for Coru to return to his home. Only the inner circle knew Coru would not come back. During their fact-findi
ng trip, he would fall by the wayside, they had decided, a story they would have to sell to the family when they returned without him.
Whenever Wren thought of Coru leaving, her chest tightened, her throat closed and she had to brush aside the thought, not wanting the others, especially Coru himself, to know how much she cared for the time traveler. Coru was never destined to be here with her. But, oh how she wished he was…
As the date for their planned departure grew closer, she found herself pushing aside these thoughts more and more, fighting to keep her mind clear of sentiment. This was no place for her to make a connection. Sometimes, she even wondered if she’d finally made the connection because it could never come to pass. Hadn’t she spent much of her adult life avoiding growing close to a man, any man, in that way? Yes, she had.
Coru was safe — Coru was leaving. She was pathetic.
She pushed away her feelings once again. One day, the others were going to catch on, then where would she be? She’d never spent so much time marshaling her own thoughts.
The team that was set to go was Deklin and Wren, Mattea and Coru. Deklin for his knowledge of the equations, math skills, and possible influence on the Freelanders — if they were advanced enough and willing to take on Charles’s work. Wren because of her telepathy and ability to act in Deklin’s best interests in all situations, as he was such an innocent. Mattea for his tracking skills, strength and speed, and for protection once Coru left them. Coru because of his ability to protect — this was his cover story for those not knowing his real purpose — and to deliver him to the mouth of the Time Bore to return to his world, his promised task complete.
Nicola was too valuable to the homestead to travel with them, though she longed to come. She knew every trail, she knew how to hunt. She and Mattea worked so well together now, it was almost as if they were of one mind. Catherine and Bill were not candidates for the trip, Bill because his heart wouldn’t allow it, Catherine because she wouldn’t leave Bill. Plus, there were the children. Sandy was all about the children. Sean was all about Sandy and both he and Dan were all about the family. They would hold down the fort; they would protect. While the Freeland group was away, Sean, Dan and Nicola intended to build a bugout shelter by the hidden pond they’d discovered last year, a muster area in case of emergency. Always good to have a Plan B.
Lost Sentinel: Post-Apocalyptic Time Travel Adventure (Earth Survives Series Book 1) Page 35