by King, Ryan
"May we sing?" asks Sarah. Singing is normally frowned upon unless it is part of working.
Jonesy considers for a long moment and then nods. "Okay. Just knock it off when I say."
We begin to pull and after a minute Sarah launches into a song we all know well with a beautiful tenor. I join her doing my best to provide harmony.
There was a Golden Age,
Many a long year ago,
All our life a stage,
And the nights a 'lectric glow.
Our hearts were full to burst,
And we knew no loss or fear,
But then the earth was cursed,
And our lot was dirty tears.
The Plague took our life,
And destroyed all we'd built,
Men took up the knife,
And fought 'til blood was spilt.
Long were the dark dark years,
Where hunger stalked its own,
Then death was always near,
And we reaped as we'd sown.
But life is sweet and good,
And we are the lucky few,
Those left when all have stood,
And the old has turned to new.
Jonesy notices other workers coming our way down the road. He turns to tell us to "shut up", but before he can get the words out Sarah's voice rises in a loud clear anthem,
For we are alive, alive,
And he is alive, alive,
And she is alive, alive,
I am alive, alive!
"Hush," hisses Jonesy slapping his whip across the back of the cart. "You damn girls don't say 'boo' until you get the chance to sing and then it's damn near enough to bring down what roofs are left."
I glance over at Sarah and I catch the barest hint of a smile. Impressed at her daring I nod at her. It is a minor thing to do something we know the Protectors do not want, and gains little if anything, but it is a small victory.
And it proves that we are capable of resisting, should we choose to do so.
That we are indeed alive.
*******
The night is our only time of real freedom. The Shriekers used to check on us. Before the Treaty they even broke into homes at night. Now they leave us alone. We can hear the loud music and garish laughter in the distance if we listen. We consciously ignore it. None of us would ever laugh that way and wouldn't even want to. It was too overdone, almost a dare for something terrible to happen. We didn't need any dares for that.
Dinner is the typical large kudzu salad topped with goat cheese and whatever nuts, berries, and home pressed oils we are able to find or make. It is the one meal where everyone typically gets to eat until they are full. The Protectors sneer at kudzu salad, but it is sweet and Grandpa says it's filled with nutrients. It also helps the little ones to sleep at night if their bellies are nicely satiated.
Most of the dark room is filled with teenagers, small children and women, more than a hundred in all. The Chit Girls are serving duty at the Shrieker House, so we watch after the children of their unions. It is men that are noticeably absent. Those present are either old or maimed like Grandpa, allowed to live as an example. It makes me wonder again about my father was and if it really was Clay as some have whispered. Either that, or he was killed by the Shriekers like all the other men after the Rebellion. Most of me doubts this. Still, sometimes I cannot help it. I dream that he was a good man. True and wise and strong. Like Grandpa, but younger and not so sad.
There are some adolescent boys around. When girls came Of Age they can Take the Chit. Boys have no choice, they are taken into the Shriekers as Prospects. Most end up working for them doing minor tasks. Some even make it to the level of Protectors eventually like Jonsey. A few are never seen again once they enter the Shrieker House.
Broily stands and we all fall quiet. It has been less than a year since the old man's right hand was chopped off by Clay. Broily had dared to write letters and arrange for them to be smuggled out of town by the few traders through Newton heading east. Grandpa said Broily was a fool to have written the letters at all. Everyone knew the Knights of the Watch were a myth, and even if they weren't, they would be unlikely to help the people of Newton.
"Tonight I will talk about Before," Broily says dramatically as if this wasn't what he talked about every night at Remembering Time.
Unlike the other kids, I don't groan. The stories from Before are fascinating to me. Although it is always difficult to believe most of what the Sad Ones say about those times.
Broily glares out over the dim tightly packed room and it becomes still. The old man commands respect because he is one of the few left who can read and write, although I'm pretty sure Grandpa can even if he won't admit it. The Sad Ones would have us believe that there was a time when nearly everyone could read. We know that can't be true.
"At the End," says Broily, "we didn't know it was the End. This was before the plagues and the famine and the chaos. We had food to eat whenever we wanted and walked around without fear of someone whipping or killing us. It was an age of wonder. It was also an illusion."
Many of the Sad Ones nod. All of them had withdrawn into themselves I see.
"Back then it was all about making money. Money is something you accumulate so you can buy other things you want," Broily explains.
"But you said you had all the food you wanted," says Ginny, a little girl in pigtails seated near Broily's feet.
He frowns. "We did at that, but it was the money that allowed us to get the food. The point is we were able to get more than we needed, more food, more of anything. It was unbearable for us to consider we couldn't instantly have whatever it was we wanted. But it wasn't just us, it was everything. Money was the ends, not the means. This is what caused the Great Plague."
Some of the Sad Ones cough reflexively at the memory.
"We had seasonal sicknesses every year, pandemics. Little plagues if you will. They would sweep the globe and set off a panic for a few months before some big pharmaceutical company miraculously produced the perfect immunization or cure. The cure always worked, and it was always expensive. A little plague would vanish from the earth and we would have a reprieve until the next winter."
"Because they were making the plagues," yells out Little Eaton who has probably heard the story a dozen times already.
Broily shakes his head. "We didn't know that. It wasn't until the Great Plague that governments were able to prove this crime. By the time they shut everything down, it was too late." The old man remains silent for a moment, his jaw tight. "They called it T-path. Some scientists think it was a synthesis of Spanish Influenza and measles. Like Spanish Flu it took the strongest and left the young, old, and weak alone, something about using the body's immune system against itself. 'A work of art' one scientist described it on television before they knew the cure didn't work. I think they were even proud of T-path. Those brilliant minds in those laboratories were drunk on the power of creating and taking lives. There was no one to stop or even watch them, just as long as the profit margin remained in the black. Competition was growing fierce among the pharmas, sometimes we had two or three little plagues a year. We'd buy the cure they produced in their laboratories and go on back to our oblivious lives."
"But the cure didn't work on T-path," I whisper surprising myself.
"They waited too long," continues Broily not hearing me. "I'm sure there was some sort of marketing formula for the best time to release the cure for highest profits. Typically it was at the point of maximum worldwide press coverage to optimize the publicity of the cure. Usually that meant several million dead, but T-path was different. By the time the cure was introduced, the original contagion had mutated, the cure didn't work. The irony is that those who caught the original T-path, and received the immunization, had immunity to the T-path 4, Red T-path, and Cromel's mutations. The problem was that the T-path mutations inherited the originally designed T-path long gestation period. This was in order to spread the contagion to as many people as possib
le before that person became obviously sick, and thus increase exposure and subsequent profits."
"Lot of good it did them," grunts Grandpa beside me.
"The governments and the corporations tried to step in, but all they really wanted to do was quarantine the sick so those folks would die without infecting their privileged selves. If you tested positive for any form of T-path, they locked you up in camps. Everyone who was immune, of course, still tested positive so we were herded into the camps with the rest. Little food or water, no medical care. Desperate men and women with a ticking death sentence. All the fear and depravity of mankind burst forth eventually in the world and for those of us with immunity all we could do was hide...and endure. Once enough folks died we were able to break out of the camps and return to our homes. But it had all changed."
I glance at mother. She stares at the ceiling vacantly as her hands knit. I wonder if she was remembering or seeking to distract herself.
He indicates those in the room, "All of us here are descended from someone who received the cure and either escaped from those horrific camps or hid away somewhere."
"And now we're immune," says little Ginny cheerfully hugging a soft lump of dirty cloth that might once have resembled an animal.
"Yes," answers the old man. "I'm sure T-path and all its mutations are still out there somewhere. Maybe dormant, sleeping for now. It never infected animals, of course, that wouldn't have been very profitable, so maybe without human hosts it is truly gone. For all we know it's still ravaging other parts of the world."
"Tell us about the years after," cries another of the little ones. "How the Dark Times and how the Shriekers came, and the war they fought so they could protect us."
Broily gazes around the room, meeting the sad eyes of his fellow survivors from that time. "Not tonight, little ones, it is getting late."
I wonder how terrible those days must have been. We hear at least one version of the Story of the Great Plague every week during the Remembering, but they never talk about the Dark Times. It must have been truly horrible.
"Tell us about the Knights of the Watch," says Lucas, a small sandy-headed boy who many thought was one of Reaper's children. If so, the little boy is unexpectedly sweet, not inheriting any of his father's tendencies.
The adults in the room groan in unison. They know that this is a stalling technique to keep from going to bed, but Broily is obsessed with the Knights and unlike everyone except the little children he actually believes they existed somewhere. To me, the idea of men risking their lives to help others they didn't even know, was as far-fetched as the flying steel birds the Sad Ones speak about, more so even.
Broily settles back down with his face more relaxed. I notice there is even a childish twinkle and delight in his eyes. "In the early days it was the worst. No one knew what was going to happen. People kept expecting the government or some powerful corporation to come rolling in to save them, but those organizations were long gone. Whole cities simply vanished into great spasms of violent rapine and murder. Desperate animals and men fought over the corpses. Mothers ate the infants that only months before they had lovingly suckled. Fires blotted the sky so that some thought the sun had vanished forever. It was all gone. Those that were left wished for death."
I notice Mother had stopped her frantic knitting and was listening. With a flash of intuition I realize that Broily wasn't the only one who wanted to believe. The image of an eye, painted onto a wall comes to mind. The Shriekers obliterate any symbol of the imaginary Knights of the Watch, so these eyes rarely last long, but they still appear on occasion. Maybe others want to believe as well.
"Out of that despair of death and ruin, men of strength and valor emerged," Broily proclaims triumphantly. "They banded together to protect and defend what they could. These men did not abandon their charge and they fought off the attacks of the marauders, the mobs, the road gangs, and the rogue soldiers. The Knights watched over these small pockets where people could survive like humans. Eventually these small pockets began to communicate with each other and became --"
"Broily," cries out Crazy Reuben, "have you ever actually seen one of these Knights of the Watch? Better yet, have you ever even talked to someone who's seen them?" I notice without surprise that in addition to his normal erratic behavior Reuben is also drunk. Most likely from the peach wine or schnapps he makes for the Shriekers.
Startled, Broily opens his mouth and then shuts it again before finally answering. "Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack."
Reuben snorts. "Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."
"It means," explains Broily with exaggerated patience, "that there is more evidence that they do exist than that they do not. And if they are out there, they could --"
"They could what?" asks Reuben. "Come help us? Start a fight with the Shriekers? Don't you think you've had enough of that? Next time they'll chop off you damn tongue, or maybe even your head instead of just the hand you write...excuse me, wrote with."
Broily turns pale and then red.
"That's enough for tonight," says Mother loudly, startling me. "Good night everyone, we have a long day of work tomorrow and let us all thank the Protectors for what we have. That is the purpose of the Remembering and why we are allowed to meet like this. Let us not abuse their generosity."
There are several murmurs, but the crowd in the room begins to move and break into bits and pieces as everyone makes their way either back to a home or the Dormitory.
I was embarrassed for Mother though I can't say why. She walks beside me as I push Grandpa's wheelchair. He looks up at Mother and I tense for what would likely be one of his rare reprimands.
Instead he reaches out and takes Mother's hand. "Well done, Margaret."
She looks down at him and actually smiles. They grip each other's hand firmly before releasing and glancing around furtively to make sure no one has seen them show affection.
There is so much I don't understand. There is so much they will not tell me.
*******
The next morning I discover Victor. I might not have found him except for the sound of rain on that cloudless day. Looking at a fresh eye painted on a wall in mud, I almost don't place the sound at first.
Mother didn't have gardening this morning, so I walk alone. I stop at the sound of rain striking a surface. The sound ceases, but then starts again. It was like water droplets hitting a roof. A nice sound. A soothing sound, totally out of place here.
In the shadows under the ruins of an old burned out house I see movement. A faint shifting of light that seemed to correspond to the noise. Approaching carefully I peer into the shadows.
The movement and rain noise cease immediately. I think I heard a faint whimper. Someone is down there.
"It's okay," I say as soothingly as I can. "No one's going to hurt you."
I hear fast breathing. It might be one of the rejected Shrieker Girls. They were sometimes Cast Off and then had nowhere to go.
"Come on out please, it must be cold down there."
"Cold," says a deep voice.
My eyes widen and I fight the urge to run. It is a male voice and it doesn't sound old or boyish. It is strong...yet something isn't right about it.
"Well, it will be warmer up here in the sunlight," I say, being sure to stay back out of reach.
"No hurt Victor," the voice says. "Safe here."
"Is that your name?" I ask. "Victor?"
A large head and face tentatively materialize out of the shadows. Childlike eyes look at me fearfully from underneath long dirty hair. "I Victor. No hurt?"
"I won't hurt you," I say. "Can you please come out of there?"
The eyes leave mine and look to the left and right. He mumbles to himself, shakes his head, and begins to retreat.
"I bet you're hungry," I say. "We've got some food."
The big head reappears with a bright gleam in his eyes. Saliva actually begins to run down one corner of his face.
I hold out a hand. "Com
e on now. It's okay. You can't stay under that old house."
He hesitates before reaching out with a gigantic hand attached to a huge muscled forearm.
I'm tempted to retreat from him, instead I hold myself steady and allow him to enfold my hand in his. I'm fearful he will pull me down with him or crush my hand, but he holds it gently as he climbs out of the darkness.
I had already gotten a sense of his largeness, now I realize he is gigantic. Reaper is the biggest man anyone had ever seen and Victor is easily six inches taller. His filthy rags barely cover scared rippling muscles. He steps out carefully on bare calloused feet. In his other hand he holds tightly to a long dark wooden tube nearly five feet long with a cord tied around each end for easy carrying. As he moves the rain sound starts again.
"The rain noise," I say in wonder.
Victor grins shyly. "My rainmaker."
"Can I see it?" I hold out my other hand.
He jerks his hand from mine and pulls back with the tube held protectively in his arms. Tears form in his eyes.
"It's okay," I say holding my hands out to him. "I'm not going to take it from you."
Victor stares at me suspiciously for nearly a minute before dropping his eyes. "Food?"
My whole goal had been to get him out from under the ruined house. Now I begin to wonder what I am going to do with him. The Protectors will kill any grown man they see, especially one so huge and strong. They won't stop to find out that he is as crippled in his mind as Grandpa is in the legs.
"Come on," I say leading him towards our house. Victor hesitates, then follows. It isn't far but I look around the whole way afraid someone will see us. Fortunately, we don't encounter any other residents. It helps that we are on the very edge of the Borderland.
"This way," I say taking him around to the back. Something tells me I need to get Grandpa's help before bringing Mother into this. Both are cautious, but Mother is especially so. "Wait here," I tell Victor after placing him behind the corner of the workshop. I knock and then enter.
Grandpa looks up in surprise. "Teal, aren't you supposed to be at Morning Shift?"