Halcyon

by Rio Youers

  They touched glasses. Martin finished his drink and ordered another. Just a beer this time. Nolan’s food arrived. He ate it slowly, savoring every bite, then pushed his empty plate aside and asked, “What do you do for work?”

  “Architect,” Martin replied. “Mainly residential, although I’ve been working on the new Onondaga Mall for the past four years.”

  “Lot of pressure, I bet.”

  “Too much, sometimes.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I guess.” Martin shrugged. “I don’t do as much design as I’d like. Architect is my job title, but my job description is trying to get angry people to stop yelling at me.”

  “Sounds like corporate America,” Nolan said. “Everything’s peachy until there’s a buck on the line.”

  “Or eight million bucks that you didn’t budget for.” Martin sipped his beer, then asked, “How about you? What’s your line of work?”

  “I, uh…” The hesitation was brief but Martin caught it. “I’m a recruiter.”

  “Right on. You recruit for businesses? Like a headhunter?”

  “Not exactly,” Nolan replied. Another hesitation. His eyes flickered. “I recruit people who are looking for a better life. A safer life.”

  Martin frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Nolan appeared to consider the question, then pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. From it he took a business card, handed it to Martin. The quality was good but the information sparse: four words and a phone number.

  “Halcyon,” Martin read. He flipped the card over—nothing on the back—then looked at Nolan with a questioning expression.

  “A recent poll,” Nolan said, “placed ‘halcyon’ in the top ten most beautiful words in the English language. Number four, I think. You know what it means?”

  “It’s a bird,” Martin said, digging this information from some dusty alcove in his brain. “A kingfisher, right?”

  “I knew you were smart.” Nolan’s eyes brightened. He tucked his wallet away, didn’t ask for the card back. “It also means a period of joy and tranquility.”

  “But what is this?” Martin tapped the card. “A better America. What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what you think it means.”

  Martin studied Nolan’s chiseled face.

  “Halcyon has been my home for eighteen years,” Nolan said, meeting Martin’s gaze. “It’s a self-sustaining community made up of people who are disillusioned by what America has become. They’re tired of all the self-interest and corporate greed. They’re tired of living in fear. Simply put, Halcyon is a small solution to a big problem. And it works. There’s no crime, no poverty, no discrimination. It’s a happy place.”

  Martin imagined a group of hippies dancing in the moonlight and singing “All You Need is Love.” It didn’t gel, though, not least because mismatched Nolan didn’t fit the image.

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  “With good people,” Nolan responded firmly. “We work together for a common goal: to build the America we want. And we’re extremely particular about who we accept. It’s all about protecting what has taken years to establish.”

  “Makes sense,” Martin said.

  “We have twenty-three people right now. That’s on the light side. There’s usually thirty-plus. But some of our friends have returned to their old lives, and that’s fine. We’d never dream of stopping them. Once you leave, though … there’s no coming back.”

  “It’s a onetime deal?”

  “Exactly. We can’t have people coming and going. Things would get out of hand in a hurry.” Nolan made an exploding gesture with his hands. “Careful management is the key to Halcyon’s success.”

  “Right.”

  “We also ask that, should you leave, you don’t tell anybody about us. That’s happened in the past and we’ve had random people knocking at the door. It upsets the balance of things. Most former residents are good at keeping silent.”

  “So it’s a secret thing?”

  “No. If it was a secret, I wouldn’t have told you about it, and I certainly wouldn’t have had business cards printed.” Nolan displayed an uneven grin. “It’s a selective thing, Martin. There’s a difference.”

  The band finished setting up. They played a few bars of something punky to test their levels. The vocalist announced they were going to start in about twenty, and that shit was going to get loud. Martin wrinkled his brow. He’d been in the mood for something loud at the beginning of the evening, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  “So you all live and work together,” he said. “Farming the land, milking cows, like the Amish?”

  “We work hard, but everything is relaxed. And there’s no religion, as such.” Nolan paused, his eyes momentarily glazed and distant, then he snapped back to the present. “You know, I talk about Halcyon and people always assume one of two things: hippies or Jesus freaks.”

  “I assumed both of those things.”

  “We’re neither.” Nolan said, and shook his head firmly. “We’re a community of goodhearted Americans who have found strength and healing through a new—but in many ways old—way of life. And yes, we’re off the grid, but it’s not like we live in caves and wear bearskins. We have homes with running water, heating, electricity—”

  “Solar power?”

  “Right, with gennies for backup. Our infrastructure is set up so that nobody goes without, although everybody is resourceful and respectful. We shut off lights, we don’t waste food or water. We share and care.”

  Martin drained his beer and winced—he’d gone off the taste. All beered out, Jimmy would say. He considered another shot of Jack, but ordered a water instead.

  “You’re not getting your keys back,” the bartender said.

  “It’s all good,” Martin said.

  “We have builders and electricians,” Nolan continued a moment later, counting off on his fingers. “We have three tutors, one of whom follows national curriculum standards. We have a chef, a landscaper, a dental nurse, and a board-certified physician. He can handle most of our medical concerns, although anything serious has to be dealt with off-community.”

  “Medicine?”

  “Got it covered,” Nolan said. “I said we’re self-sustaining, but there are obviously some things we can’t make ourselves. Medicine is one of those things. Diesel for the gennies is another. Then you’ve got batteries, light bulbs, feminine hygiene products, contraceptives. We used to have this guy who made toothpaste out of bentonite clay and baking soda—worked okay but it tasted like shit. Better for everyone if I bulk-buy Aquafresh at Costco.”

  “Where do you get the money?”

  “We sell what we make,” Nolan replied, then pointed at himself. “More specifically, I sell it. I take care of everything off-community. And believe me, selling quality, organic produce is a piece of cake. Of course, we also accept donations, but they’re in no way obligatory.”

  “It’s quite the setup,” Martin said.

  “It’s idyllic,” Nolan said, leaning closer. “But it’s not for everybody. Halcyon is in many ways a regressed community. There are no tablets or phones, no internet, no TVs. You can’t binge-watch your favorite Netflix shows or email your Aunt Fanny on Christmas morning. It’s back to basics: clean, simple, and human. And that’s exactly what we love about it.”

  “No beer?” Martin asked, smiling.

  “No beer,” Nolan said. He gestured at the bottles glistening behind the bar. “No alcohol at all. It has a tendency to make people either maudlin or violent. We don’t want either. Likewise, there are no drugs. Certainly no guns. And get this … there are no clocks or watches on Halcyon.”

  “What? Really?”

  Nolan’s eyes gleamed. This was obviously a point of pride. “Time of day is not important. We all have jobs to do, but providing they get done, it doesn’t matter when we do them or how long it takes. It’s all part of the liberating lifestyle.”

  Martin sipped his wate
r. It was cold and refreshing. I could’ve done without the booze, he thought. Hell, I could probably do without lots of things. He wondered what even a week in Nolan’s community could do for him. Detox for the soul.

  “Actually,” Nolan continued, holding up one finger. “There is one clock on Halcyon—a wristwatch, in fact. Mother Moon keeps it locked in a box. It’s a reminder, if needed, of the way things operate out here. She says the only people who mark off time are prisoners.”

  “Mother Moon?” Martin narrowed his eyes. “Okay, now you’ve got me thinking cult, and when I think cult, I think Jonestown.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, no.” Nolan belly-laughed, rolling back on his stool. “Mother Moon is a sweet, sweet lady. She has her beliefs, but they’re more … spiritual in nature.” His eyes took on that distant, glazed quality again, if only for a second. “They’re beautiful, too.”

  “Is she the leader?”

  “I guess, in as much as we have a leader, but that’s not a word Mother Moon uses.” Nolan finished his water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She founded Halcyon back in 2000. It started as an experiment but has become a way of life. We jumped from four people to thirty in the two months after 9/11.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Most people stay for a couple of years, then return to their old lives. They use Halcyon as a kind of reset, and that’s fine. There are others who’ve been with us for fifteen years. It’s home for them and always will be. And why? Because they feel safe. And valued. America can’t offer those things, Martin. We think we’re valued, but it’s like I said earlier … everything’s peachy until there’s a buck on the line.”

  The bartender asked Nolan if he wanted another water. He shook his head, requested the check. She rang it up and handed it to him.

  “You want to talk about value,” he continued, flaring his upper lip. “I’m a former Marine, a Gulf War veteran. I saw and did things—was made to do things—you wouldn’t believe. All for the flag. I returned stateside hollowed out and suicidal, but when I applied for disability, which would entitle me to healthcare benefits, the VA turned me down. That’s as big a fuck-you as any person will ever get.”

  Martin shook his head, whistled through his teeth.

  “Things got worse. I lost my job, my family. I was homeless for six years, and then Mother Moon found me. She took me to Halcyon, gave me a purpose—gave me value. And here I am today, happy and healthy, with none of those old, ugly symptoms.” He took his wallet from his back pocket again, slapped a twenty on the bar. “Halcyon can do that to you, Martin. It’s a healing place.”

  “That’s one hell of a story,” Martin said. “I’m glad you found your way.”

  “It’s that quality of life I was talking about,” Nolan said. “It’s a beauty you can’t find in your cell phone, your TV, or any material possession. Most Americans think what they want is more important than what they’ve got, and as long as that’s the case, there’ll be problems.”

  “My wife was killed,” Martin said suddenly. It jumped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “She was a teacher at Flint Wood High. One of the victims.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Nolan said. He exhaled heavily, one hand on his chest. “That’s just terrible. I’m sorry as hell to hear that.”

  “I miss her so much, but the grief is just a part of it. I’m lost … broken. My daughters look to me for answers I don’t have. I feel like a failure.” He closed his eyes. Took a second. The tears threatened. “I keep thinking that, if my kids were going to be left with one parent, it shouldn’t have been me.”

  Nolan squeezed his arm affectionately, then handed him one of the napkins that came with his food. Martin smeared it across his eyes and sighed.

  “Shit, I came here tonight to forget about it for a while. Drink it away.”

  “I see this kind of brokenness all the time,” Nolan said. “We have victims of hate on Halcyon. Victims of terrorism, betrayal, the state, the system. You’re not alone. There are a lot of disillusioned Americans out there.”

  “What the hell happened to this country?”

  “The people pulling the strings aren’t good people, and we’ve been brainwashed into their way of thinking. We need to cut the strings. All of us—three hundred and twenty-five million of us. Then we all fall down. Then we pick ourselves up.”

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “Never,” Nolan agreed. “Not on a national scale, at least.”

  “But maybe on a Halcyon-sized scale.”

  Nolan winked. “It’s still a beautiful country, Martin. You’ve just got to know where to look.”

  The band started with an electric crunch. Nolan jumped, pressed his fingers to his ears, shouted over the music:

  “And that’s my cue to exit.”

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Martin yelled back. “I could use some fresh air.”

  He signaled to the bartender that he’d be back and followed Nolan out of the bar, into a warm night with mosquitoes buzzing around the lights and the ground wet with a brief, recent rain. Nolan strode across the parking lot to a white Silverado with a bluish neon banjo reflected off the hood.

  “Is it on an island?” Martin asked.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You use the word ‘on’ … on Halcyon.” Martin shrugged. “Makes me thinks it’s an island.”

  “I can tell you this much: it’s not far from here, it’s full of natural beauty—towering trees, wild flowers, granite cliffs—and yes, it has views of the water.” Nolan opened the door to his pickup and climbed behind the wheel. “Are you interested, Martin?”

  “Intrigued,” Martin replied, and then thought of Shirley snarling Fuck this life, and Edith with her head resting against his chest, telling him that she just wanted to be safe. He looked at Nolan through the open door and sighed. “Okay. Maybe I’m interested.”

  “Keep hold of my card. Think it over. Talk to your daughters.”

  “And if we want to pursue it—”

  “Call me. There are no phones on Halcyon, but I keep a burner in my truck and check my messages when I’m off-community, usually every couple of weeks.”

  “Could we take a look around? Is that how it’s normally done?”

  “Not anymore,” Nolan said. “It used to be that way, but people coming and going … it was too unsettling. Some of our residents said they felt like zoo animals. It didn’t exactly fulfill our promise of a comfortable environment. I can snail-mail you photographs, though—the cabins, the scenery, the farms.”

  “That’s not the same,” Martin said. “And it’s a big decision to just take the plunge.”

  “You have to think of it like starting a new job,” Nolan said. “You don’t get to try it out while you keep your old job. It’s a leap of faith, and if you don’t like it, you quit. And like a new job, there’s a probationary period. Six weeks. That’s for us as well as you.”

  “I get it,” Martin said, rubbing his chin. “But it’s not just me. I have to consider my daughters, and I’m not sure how they’ll feel about being without their phones or social media—being away from their friends. It’s a huge ask. But maybe we need to step away from everything for a little while. And then there’s the house. Jesus, do you sell, rent—”

  “It’s a lifestyle change, Martin, not a new pair of shoes. If you said you wanted to come now I’d refuse you on the spot. We don’t accept people who make rash decisions.” He started the truck, raising his voice to be heard over the rumbling engine. “You’ve got my card. Let me know.”

  They shook hands, then Nolan closed the door and peeled out of the parking lot. Martin watched his taillights until they floated from view, then went back inside Banjo McCoy’s. He pushed his way to the bar, grabbed the same seat. The bartender brought him another water. He drank it and thought about Halcyon—imagined splitting firewood with a hefty axe, reading Hemingway by candlelight, watching his daughters collect eggs and pick strawberries and learn the
names of plants.

  It’s a healing place, Nolan had said.

  He’d slipped the business card into his back pocket, but took it out and looked at it in the glow of the bar lights.

  “A better America,” he said.

  The band sang their sympathies for the devil.

  * * *

  In the cold light of morning, the idea of relocating to a peace-loving community off the grid—based on one conversation with a stranger—had less appeal. The business card was still in the back pocket of his jeans, slung over the arm of a chair in his bedroom. Martin took it out, considered it for a moment, then tossed it into the blue recycling bin in his office.

  * * *

  By noon—with the customary soul-ache firmly in place, and with the news of a young mother killed in a home invasion in nearby Jamesville—Martin dug through the recycling bin, found Nolan’s business card, and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. He looked at it twice more that day.

  * * *

  On Sunday he googled HALCYON COMMUNITY and found several elderly care homes and a tree sanctuary. He tried HALCYON A BETTER AMERICA and HALCYON NOLAN THORNE and HALCYON MOTHER MOON but discovered nothing of relevance.

  Nolan had said it wasn’t a secret, but Martin wasn’t so sure.

  * * *

  On Wednesday he broke down in Steadman’s, aisle three, holding a can of Wolfgang Puck vegetable soup.

  A stranger hugged him. It was nice.

  * * *

  Martin returned home from work the following day to find that Shirley had cut her hair spiky-short and dyed it black.

  “You think we could have talked about this?” he snapped at her.

  “Not really,” she snapped back. “I’m nearly sixteen years old. I can do what I want.”

  “You’re fifteen, and you can’t.”

  She rolled her eyes and swept from the room, making sure she slammed the door extra hard.

  Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile.

  13

  Things got easier with Edith. They were still a long way from good, but she started to interact more often with the real world. By the tail end of the summer, she was down to fewer than two hours a day in her garden. Martin was hopeful she’d be ready for school when it started again in September.