The Divide

by Jolina Petersheim

  “That’s different. I told her we’d let her dad know where she is.”

  The look deepens. “And I’ll tell her I’m taking her back to him.”

  “But Liberty isn’t safe.”

  “It’s now safer than here.”

  Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I carefully control my breathing. I wait until I feel steady enough to say, “Your uncle won’t find out what I’ve done.”

  “You don’t know that, Leora. You really don’t. He has ways of finding out everything.”

  “But that doesn’t mean anybody else is in danger.”

  “You’re wrong about that, too.” Sal pauses. “Everybody in your circle’s at risk.”

  I turn from her, trying to hide my fear. My voice catches. “Sal. What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not putting Colton at risk while you figure it out.”

  My body begins to shake with adrenaline. “Do you think I should warn the community?”

  “That’s up to you,” she says.

  “They don’t believe in killing, even in self-defense.”

  “So you think they’d kick you out?”

  I murmur honestly, “I don’t know.”

  “Well. Bishop Jabil sure wouldn’t kick you out if you were his wife.”

  I look back at her and, despite the darkness, can see a cool calculation on Sal’s face that alarms me. Is she suggesting this so I remain safe, or so Moses and I no longer have a chance?

  I declare, as a reminder to her and to myself, “I’ll only marry for love.”

  Sal shrugs, lifting a brow. “The risk, in that case, is yours.”

  “There is a risk either way.”

  Moses

  I climb down from the barn loft and see Jabil’s in the stall, cleaning the hooves of his mare. Moving to the horse’s back leg, he trails a hand down her shank. The mare lifts the hoof, and he begins cleaning that one as well.

  I ask, “You hitching up the horse to take your uncle’s casket to the cave?”

  He nods. “You slept right through his service.”

  “Sorry. I could ride with you to the cave now, though, and help you unload it.”

  “Thanks,” he says in a way that makes me unsure if I’d be welcome.

  “We found the girl last night,” I continue. “Near the cave. The one whose dad I killed.”

  “I heard. She okay?”

  “Yeah, she seemed fine . . . besides being hungry and cold.”

  “That’s a relief.” A couple of seconds pass before Jabil continues. “Charlie’s not too happy about the girl being brought back. He’s already complaining about having another mouth to feed.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He exhales. “I wish.”

  “Well, you’re going to wear yourself right out if keeping Charlie happy’s your goal.”

  “It’s not. But he’s also done so much for our community.” Jabil switches the hoof pick for a currycomb and begins dragging it over the mare’s matted coat. “I don’t want him to leave. Truth is—” he glances over for the first time since our conversation started—“I’m not any good at leading. I’m only good at supporting those who do.”

  I wasn’t expecting this from him. I especially wasn’t expecting him to confide this to me. But Jabil probably got as little sleep as I did last night, and the deprivation’s loosening his tongue. “Your father and uncle were leaders,” I say. “I’m sure it’s somewhere in your blood.”

  Hooking the currycomb on a nail, Jabil picks up a brush. He looks tired as he runs it over the mare’s protruding ribs. “How am I supposed to do the hard things—make the hard decisions required of a bishop? I can’t even work up the nerve to put down a starving horse, when we’re starving too.”

  “Maybe one of the other deacons will take your uncle’s place.”

  “They resigned. Nobody wants to take his place.”

  “Not sure if I should congratulate you or offer my condolences.”

  Jabil throws an old saddle pad over the mare’s back. Tufts of hair flutter in the morning sun slanting through the barn’s open door. “Saw Leora come in here last night,” he says. “Was she still with you when Malachi got shot?”

  “Yeah.” I shift uncomfortably. “But nothing happened.”

  He mutters, “You’re lucky it didn’t.”

  “I respect her, Jabil.”

  Straightening his back, he turns. “That doesn’t sound like respect to me.”

  “What would you have done? Thrown her out?”

  The fight leaves him. “I couldn’t do that.” He sighs. “Like I said: I’m a bad leader. Unable to separate myself enough to do the hard things that need done.”

  I’m feeling out of sorts. I don’t know my place enough around the community to start on a project, and yet I don’t want to just sit around all day, doing nothing. Sal comes walking over as if she can sense this. “Hey,” she says, “I’m about to ask if I can leave with Colton and Angel.”

  I move to let her stand near the fire. “Heading back to the metropolis of Liberty?”

  She nods and holds her hands over the flames. “I wondered if you’d like to come along.”

  Her invitation seems off. I say, “You want me to help out with the kids or something?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. We could split up once we reach the road.”

  Sal and I turn when we hear the barn door open. Jabil comes out through it, propping the door with a piece of wood that he wedges into place with his boot. He props the other door as well and motions to someone inside the barn. Myron Beiler drives the sled through the opening. Jabil ties his mare to a hitching post, and the men walk over to Bishop Lowell’s former residence. Jabil soon comes back out, carrying one end of his uncle’s coffin. Myron Beiler has the other end. The two men carry the coffin over to the sled and load it carefully in the back.

  I watch the community members slowly gather around the sled—the women, and even some of the men, making a point to touch the coffin and say their tearful good-byes. Jabil must sense my presence because he pivots toward the fire, but he does not acknowledge me. I return the cold stare. Jabil didn’t have the courtesy to tell me my offer of help wasn’t wanted; he’s just letting me see for myself that Myron is going along to the cave instead.

  Sal looks at Jabil too. “Quarantine or not, aren’t you ready to get out of here?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, not letting myself think of Leora. “I am.”

  Sal

  Moses hasn’t said one word since we left the compound. I take that back; he’s said three: “I got it,” which was his reply when I offered to help him pull the sled because I didn’t want him to think I’m a freeloader and regret escorting us down to the highway. I know why he’s been quiet. I saw his face when we were leaving, before Jabil and Myron even had the chance to maneuver the bishop’s casket through the gates, and I saw Leora’s too.

  All morning, she’d been on the verge of crying as she stood in the cabin, watching me pack up Colton’s clothes and toys she’d somehow scrounged together from whatever threadbare stuff she owned. But then, when Moses pulled that sled out through the gates—Angel holding Colton on her lap, the quilt Leora insisted we take wrapped around them—Leora just crumpled.

  There’s no other word for it. It’s like she was standing there, waving to our strange little group, and the next second, her knees were in the snow. Moses saw this too. He’d turned around to take one more look, but he didn’t go to her when she fell. He just about-faced, as if the sight of her hurt him. The skin flushed above his beard, and the blue of his eyes turned to water. He moved forward with the sled, and the gate shut behind us—dividing Leora from Moses the same as they’ve been divided since they met. Tell me, how am I supposed to compete with star-crossed lovers? The force Jabil used to close those gates showed he felt the same.

  Leora

  Halfway down the mountain I stand, looking over the ridge. There is such a hollowness in my chest, it
’s as if the man who walked off two days ago left with a part of me too. I don’t know when—or if—Moses is coming back. He didn’t even say good-bye, and I try to comfort myself by thinking this is not because I don’t mean enough to him, but because I mean too much. Deep down, however, I admit I feel foolish for entertaining this thought. Suddenly, he shows up after months of not seeing him, and the whole time I never knew if he was dead or alive. Then, like an apparition, he is gone—once again out of my life, and once again leaving me with nothing but confusion that causes me to wonder if Sal’s manipulative suggestion concerning Jabil is right.

  Face chapped with grief, I lift my snowshoes and struggle through the drifts that have shifted during my brief spell in the woods. As I draw close to the community, I can see the dark form of a horse at the wood’s edge, outside of the perimeter fence. I walk toward it and can tell, within a few yards, that it is Jabil’s mare. Jabil holds the horse loosely by the halter, his forehead bowed low and resting on the mare’s neck. I continue toward them, but neither Jabil nor his horse notice me. I see the glint of a knife in his free hand, and my heart aches at the realization of what he’s about to do. Jabil brings the knife up to the mare’s throat. I cry out, “Jabil, don’t!”

  Startled, he turns to look at me, his eyes wild with desperation. “I have no choice, Leora,” he rasps. “We are starving. We have to find food.”

  I’m not aware that I am crying again until I taste the salt of my tears. This isn’t just the slaughtering of the horse, which belonged to Jabil’s father. This is the end of our civilized humanity. Burying our dead in caves and choosing between feeding our own children and feeding the daughter of a stranger: have we forfeited our souls in exchange for survival?

  I step closer to Jabil and gently peel his gloved fingers away from the knife’s hilt. He turns to me. His eyes close. “I have to,” he says again.

  “I know,” I murmur. “But why don’t you get Charlie or one of the other guys to do it?”

  “No.” His answer is firm. “It wouldn’t be right. I must do it myself.”

  I step back and watch as Jabil places the knife against the underside of the mare’s neck. Tears flowing from clenched eyes, he pulls hard across her throat. Blood instantly rushes out of the wound, drenching Jabil’s arm. The horse stumbles and then goes down with force. Jabil kneels by her head and caresses her mane. After a few short bursts of movement, she lies still. Jabil’s head remains down, and his back shudders as he weeps.

  I step slowly forward and rest my hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  He murmurs, “I am a wimp.”

  “No, Jabil . . . you are human.”

  I walk behind the sled. Contrasted by snow, my bloodied footsteps fit perfectly inside the bloodied footsteps of the men using their own power to haul the last two hundred pounds of meat to the compound. The gates—flanked by pine resin torches—creak open to admit us. The men strain against the ropes. Shadows shape-shift across the compound facade, as five pairs of booted feet dig for traction. The runners begin to move, and the sled slides though the gates.

  Relief of a winter’s survival floods each square foot of the compound, as effervescent and heady as ginger mead. The majority of the women stand around the fire near the spring, conversing and staring in wonder at the horse’s back straps, which drip fat onto the coals beneath the spit. The children feel this relief as well. Layered in dirty clothes and with uncombed hair, they play tag while darting in and out of the firelight like woodland nymphs. My sister, Anna, is among them, laughing with joy. My spirit rings with the sound.

  Esther Martin breaks away from the women and walks down the snowy path. Though thin and pale, her eyes shine with a clarity I haven’t seen since before her Claudia’s death. “Thank you,” she says, pressing a warm stone mug into my hands. “For everything.”

  I take the mug by the handle and breathe in the bittersweet scent of spruce needle tea. “You’re welcome, Esther,” I murmur. “I only wish I could’ve done more.”

  “We all wish that.” She looks away before saying, “I’ve decided—if I’m going to love the ones in front of me well—I have to stop yearning for the ones who are already gone.”

  Her words scald my throat. I swallow them down hard. “I think you’re right,” I reply.

  Commotion erupts near the fire. Turning, we see Jabil signaling the meat is done. He lowers that hand, and the community—following their leader—grows quiet. He looks over, finding me in the crowd so effortlessly, I sense he’s always been aware of my place inside it.

  “My dear people,” he begins, “thank you for entrusting me with your care. Gott has, once again, provided for us, and I pray for his divine guidance as I lead you in the days ahead.”

  Outside the walls, the wolves begin to howl as they are no doubt drawn in by the scent of the entrails left in the wake of our slaughter. The circle of life has never been so easy to see. I lift my mug to Jabil, and a smile creases the lines around his eyes. For the first time, we are pulling toward something, together. A team.

  Moses

  MAY

  MONTHS HAVE PASSED since we’ve come upon any signs of the rumored Agricultural Resurgence Commission, causing us to wonder if they moved on, disbanded, or weren’t much of a group at all. However, when I enter the two-story house—smiling at the ironic Welcome! sign greeting me—I see the blinds are pulled down over French doors, fracturing what little light can make it through the gaps. But the dark letters ARC are easy to spot on the wall next to the fireplace.

  Heart thudding, I look down the porch steps, searching for Nehemiah, who was going to try entering the house through the basement door. I walk—gun in hand—through the foyer, living room, and dining room. A showy parade of ants marches across the carpet in the living space to the tile in the kitchen. What they’re finding to eat is a mystery. A spray of bullet holes runs from the ceiling down to the baseboard, the aftermath covering the tile with silt.

  I walk around the stainless steel–topped island and view a bony middle-aged man wearing camo shorts and a T-shirt, slumped against the cupboard doors with a tire iron by his open hand. Blood covers the floor around him in a near-perfect circle. I sense he’s dead, but I lean down to check for a pulse anyway, resting my hand on the island. The movable island shifts with my weight, and I have to brace the man to keep him from falling.

  Alarmed, I notice his body is warm.

  A floorboard creaks upstairs. Nehemiah couldn’t have finished exploring the basement already. I lower the man to the tile and stand.

  Making my way to the bottom of the steps, I listen. The center of the carpet is patterned with dirt. I don’t hear anything else, so I slowly begin to move up the staircase. Suddenly, a bullet whizzes past my head, punching a hole in the drywall beside me. The guy didn’t really aim, but more or less stuck the gun around the corner and took a shot. I quickly place three shots in the wall where I think he must be, hoping to hit him on the other side. I hear him run across the floor, and I am confident enough he is trying to flee that I quickly leap up the stairs. I reach the top just in time to see him exit out the window in the bedroom farthest down the hall.

  “Stop!” I yell, as if he will listen.

  I descend the stairs in a few large bounds and nearly wipe out at the base, trying to get to the door in time to see where he runs. But I am halfway across the kitchen when I hear shots ring from outside. I run into the backyard and see the man who shot at me and fled sprawled next to the trampoline. Nehemiah steps out from the basement. His wide face is colorless.

  “I heard the shots,” he says. “I was getting ready to come in when he ran out.”

  “You made the right choice,” I say. “Looks like he killed a man inside.”

  I walk into the yard and look at the soldier lying facedown in the grass. Crouching, I search through the pockets of his uniform. Sure enough, he’s carrying a wallet with a handwritten ID for the Agricultural Resurgence Commission, just like Seth Eb
ersole said. I wonder how many of these ARC soldiers are out there, killing and spreading fear in an effort to make the few remaining refugees obey them without a fight, like the man inside attempted. The fact that I entered the house when I did is chilling. A few minutes earlier, and the outcome would’ve probably been different. Most of all, though, I wonder where the organization camps.

  After a while, I walk back over to Nehemiah and offer him the soldier’s gun and military-style boots. But Nehemiah shakes his head. “Does it ever get easier?” he asks.

  I look at him, this twenty-year-old who would much prefer to be cutting a field on his dad’s farm: the back of his neck scalded with sunshine, the callouses of his hands filled with dirt.

  “No.” I glance down at my feet, knowing I’ll heartlessly wear the soldier’s shoes if Nehemiah won’t accept them. “It never does.”

  Leora

  I never thought I would long for the cold after such a harsh winter, but as I pick my way across the compound, I find myself yearning for the once-frozen pathways the warmth of spring has thawed to mud. The mire sucks at my shoes, making each step as exaggerated as Christian’s in Pilgrim’s Progress when he was trying to manually extract himself from the Slough of Despond. Jabil intercepts me when I’ve almost reached my cabin. I stop so abruptly to avoid falling into him that the water splashes over the rim of the bucket and dapples the dirty fabric of my dress.

  “Morning.” He nods. “You’d better get over there. Your vadder wants to talk to you.”

  In shock, I look toward the gate and see my vadder: the man representing one half of the broken partnership that—despite its failings—gave me life. I almost do not recognize him. He is clean-shaven, his thin hair cropped short. Though not new, his T-shirt and jeans appear fresh, making me self-conscious of the two cape dresses I’ve been alternating since August.

  Taking a breath, I ask, “When did he come back?”

  Jabil shrugs. “Just now, I guess. Charlie came to tell me he was here.”

  I stare down at the bucket gripped in my hands. The water’s trembling surface reflects my pale face. “I—I need to clean up first.”