The woman behind the counter was the baker and owner. She had a rotund face with a blotchy complexion. Her name was Hannah Lachini. In the Bunker, she had been the energetic sort and had owned a bakery in the business district. Hannah tapped her fingers as I tried to decide what I could afford, which was nothing.
“Do you sell it by the slice?” I inquired.
“Just tell me what loaf you want and it’s yours.”
“But I only have ten meelees on me, a piddle of nothing.”
“Good grief, Michael, everybody knows you’re the one who built Galatia. One of your rings, necklaces, or whatnots put a roof over my head. The least I can do is feed you.”
“Are you sure?”
Rolling her eyes, she ordered me to take a seat. A few minutes later she brought out tall glasses of tea, no ice, with a sprig of mint. A few minutes later dear Hannah was pushing plates topped with fat ham sandwiches in front of me and Bryce.
“Civilization has returned,” I declared, feeling embarrassingly choked up over a ham sandwich. “It’s the most beautiful lunch I have ever seen.”
This prompted a giggle from Hannah.
“It’s on the house, guys,” she said.
“Any plans to add cheeseburgers to the menu?” I inquired.
“No beeves for slaughter yet. The farmers are trying to expand their herds right now, so it won’t be anytime soon, but I will keep it under consideration.”
That made me happy. I took a bite and savored my ham on rye with sauerkraut and a dill pickle on the side. Talking with a full mouth, I joyfully inquired, “Is that real butter I taste?”
“I churned it myself.”
“This beats bunker food hands down.”
Hannah’s rosy cheeks lifted in a grin, her eyes beamed with pride, and then a man’s voice called back from the kitchen area.
“The oven door is jammed, dear. Can you come take a look?”
She excused herself and went through the door behind the counter.
As I was chewing, feeling rather content, Bryce decided to spoil everything.
“Mike, we have to do something about Red.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about it.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know that Red is losing it.”
“Losing what?”
“His mind and the trust of the people.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not true.”
“Do you know he goes to that damn sinkhole every night and talks to it?”
“He’s not talking to the sinkhole per se,” I explained. “He’s praying to God.”
“And he thinks that damn hole is God’s mouth talking back to him.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. My sandwich now felt like a lump of coal in my stomach. “It’s just that he feels close to God there.”
“Some things never change,” Bryce said, leaning back, holding his sweating tea glass. “You’ve been explaining away his odd behavior since we were kids.”
My mouth opened to defend myself, and Red, but the words just hung there. Bryce was right. When Red’s unusual behavior confounded people, I took it upon myself to put him in a good light. It’s what brothers do when they love one another.
“For crying out loud—did you hear him back there? He thinks he’s the messenger of God! We’re talking impeachment here.”
“He has another year left in his term. The people can make their choice known then.”
“That’s the trouble, with Red in charge, Galatia won’t last another year.”
“But he’s gotten us so far...” I hesitated, wondering if I really believed what I was about to say. “Maybe he is the messenger of God. Before everyone dismisses him outright—doesn’t the claim deserve at least a little consideration?”
“Ah-ha!” Bryce shook his finger at me as if he had just uncovered a smoking gun. “You paused because you’re starting to have doubts about him, too!”
“No—” I shook my head. “Am I?”
“If you have to ask yourself the question,” Bryce said, “you’re having doubts.”
“Dangit, Bryce, now look what you did,” I said, pushing my plate away. “You made me lose my appetite.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
(Michael Penn)
On a cool quiet morning in Galatia, a dozen soldiers on horseback entered Zena City. The sound of horse hooves echoed over the cobblestone streets. The soldiers wore uniforms of varying cuts and colors representing the four major races. Construction workers on their way to the job directed the soldiers to the Building of National Affairs where Red was conducting a meeting with the lead Bulwark Contractor.
Father Bob was involved in designing a cathedral that Red wanted to build around the Mouth of God—a place to worship and to pray, a place to celebrate life and to mourn for the dead. Red called it The Heart of Galatia, but the council had shot down his proposal to build it. He was going ahead with the blueprints anyway. I was there with my pen and paper, recording the minutes, when a knock on the door interrupted the Bulwark in mid-sentence.
“Come in,” Red said.
Our brother Bryce poked his head through the door. “Uh, Red, the thing you didn’t want to happen, but you knew would happen, has happened.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Representatives from the Alliance are here.”
Red’s back straightened.
“Should I send them away?” Bryce asked.
“No.” Red sucked in a long breath, held it a moment, and then slowly let it out. “Of course not. Send them in.”
Four soldiers in full armor entered the room. Bryce trailed in behind them and shut the door. One of the soldiers lifted his helmet and its nose guard went up with it. He appeared to be a Commoner. His uniform was unfamiliar to me. I would later learn he was from the southlands, a place called Hunterdon.
“Are you the leader of the Galatians,” the soldier from Hunterdon asked in a loud voice. “The one who goes by the title Mayor Red Wakeland?”
“I am he.”
The soldier clicked his heels together, unrolled a scroll, and read loudly:
A Letter to the Galatians from the Western Alliance:
You, the Galatians, are hereby ordered to remove yourselves from the Northlands before the dawn of the next Summer Solstice. Furthermore, you are banned from settling anywhere in the Midlands, Southlands, and any place in between. If you fail to comply with the Western Alliance’s directive, you will be removed by force without regard for life, limb, or personal property.
Signed—
Red interrupted as the representative read off a long list of names.
“We get the picture, everybody wants us gone.”
“I must read every name,” the man insisted, but Red pounded his fist on the desk, breaking right through the thick top, causing everyone in the room to flinch.
“To hell with the Alliance and every name on that list!”
The scroll the soldier was holding burst into flames—Red had invoked one of his charismas. The soldier dropped the burning scroll in fright. I stomped out the small fire, while the soldiers stepped back a pace, fear etched into their eyes.
Pointing straight to the door, Red said between clenched teeth, “Alliance representatives, remove yourselves from Galatia or I will do it by force without regard for life, limb, or personal property.”
“We have delivered the order,” the first soldier said. “And you have given your response. Our duty is fulfilled. We will leave as you asked.”
Bryce opened the door for them and waved them through like a policeman directing traffic. With a snap of his heels, the soldier marched out, followed by his comrades. Red picked up his chair and flung it at the wall, shattering the chair to pieces. Father Bob and I shielded our faces from all of the airborne debris.
“You shouldn’t have burned the scroll,” Father Bob said meekly. “I would have liked to have read the fine print.”
“I am sorry about the way the Allian
ce is treating you,” said the Bulwark contractor who had been sitting there quietly watching the whole thing. He shifted in his chair to let out a big fart. The room instantly smelled a shade worse than manure. I glanced at Father Bob who looked like he was going to puke. “I won’t be holding you to our contract, but I still expect payment for the time I’ve put into it.”
“As per the agreement, I will not pay you a single gem until after the foundation is laid.”
“Great thunder,” the contractor said, brow furrowed in concern “You’re not going to keep building—are you?”
“We knew the Alliance would do this sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but I want you to start prepping to lay the foundation.”
“You’re a strong people, but your numbers are puny. There’s no hope of victory against the Alliance. Your money would be better spent on horses, wagons, provisions for the road.”
“Do you propose to tell me what’s best for Galatia?”
“But the Western Alliance has ordered you to leave.”
“Screw the Alliance. I take it you and your workers will want to leave before the Summer Solstice?”
“It ain’t nothing personal, but if me and my workers hang about, our chiefs will expected us to fight on the side of the Alliance,” the Bulwark responded, glancing down at the ground. “Not wanting to hurt our generous employer, I think that we have no choice but to leave.”
“I understand, but once the battle is over, you will continue your work here where you left off.”
“I would like that.” The Bulwark nodded, then snorted with regret. “If I were you, I’d get my family out of here.”
“And go where? This is the land God promised the human race. You tell your chief that any army that goes against Galatia, goes against the Creator of heaven and earth. The Alliance will not win.”
“I’ll do that.” The Bulwark gathered up his paperwork. “I’m truly sorry you’re all gonna die.”
“Don’t forget to come back after the Solstice,” Red said, “because we’ll still be here, stronger than ever, waiting for you to finish what you started.”
“If you’re still here,” the Bulwark said. “I’ll bend my knee to that god of yours and build him an altar made of the finest marble in the world with my very own hands.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, because He told me to tell you that he wants it done in marble hewn from the base of Mount Kateroh.” Red handed the Bulwark a piece of paper. “Here are the dimensions.”
The Bulwark took the note as if it were a poisonous snake. His eyebrows raised when he read his own name at the top of the paper, with the drawing of an altar he had just offered to build, and its dimensions drawn out beneath.
I didn’t know how Red had pulled that out of his hat, freaking out the Bulwark that way. Maybe Red was trying to rattle him, because we knew that everything the contractor observed in Galatia went straight back to his war chiefs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
(Josephine Rose Albright)
The brown stone walls of Josie’s prison cell were damp and cold. There were only two other female actors and all three shared a cell. After spending the day at practice beating the crap out of each other, the three of them spent their evenings getting along surprisingly well. She especially liked Willow, the slender leggy Bezon with the long blonde hair. The Bezon’s skin had a slightly golden hue. Her caramel colored lips were full, contrasting beautifully with her striking green eyes like multi-faceted emeralds. However, the most unusual thing about Willow was her gossamer wings and black antennae. Even though Willow was in her forties, Josie thought of her as a new best friend.
Willow came from a race of female warriors who lived in a gleaming city they affectionately called “The Hive”. Isolationists by nature, they went to great lengths to keep their homeland’s location a secret. She had three young daughters at home and missed them terribly. The fact that they had many strong aunts to look after them gave her comfort. Surely, her daughters would learn to fight like proper ladies. Josie was fuzzy on the details of Willow’s capture, but she had survived the theater company for over a year now, which according to Willow, was past the expiration date for most of the actors. Mr. Bayloo liked to keep the show fresh—it traveled the same circuit annually—so she expected him to break the stick on her any time now.
“Now that the theater company has acquired another attractive female,” Willow said. “I am doubly worried, but I know it’s not your fault, sweetie.”
“When Lars and I make our escape, I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Willow smiled as if she liked the idea, but didn’t really believe it.
“Hokey Pokey,” Josie’s other cellmate, Big Clo, said for the tenth time in the last hour.
“Maybe later,” Josie replied, while Willow showed her annoyance with an eye roll.
The gulf between Josie’s cellmates couldn’t be much wider. Whereas Willow was a graceful and sophisticated Bezon, Big Clo was a half-Gargo simpleton with putty-colored skin. She preferred grunting and pointing rather than using actual words. Her shoulders were wide, and her body mostly torso, as if legs were an afterthought.
Big Clo was probably half their size of the full-blooded gargoes she had seen on the slave ship, only a mere eight or nine feet of solid muscle, but she was still a damn imposing fighter. Once she left the arena though, Big Clo became a docile little lamb, childlike in her simplicity, eager to be one of the girls as if prison was one long slumber party. She loved it when Josie combed the tuft of black hair on her head and rewrapped in its decorative bone. It was cute how Big Clo wanted the bone placed just right—a finger-width above her scalp, perfectly horizontal, with a few inches of tuft sticking straight up.
“You look just like Pebbles,” Josie said, examining her handiwork. “Or is it Bam Bam? I can never remember who’s who.”
“Bam,” Big Clo replied, smacking the floor with her hand, sending up clouds of dust. “Bam, bam, bam.”
“How long has Big Clo been here?” Josie asked Willow.
Willow shrugged. “She was already here when I arrived.”
Come to find out, Gargoes and Bezons were natural enemies. At first Willow had hated Big Clo, but her stance had softened over the course of their confinement.
“It’s hard to hate someone who’s too stupid to hate you back,” Willow explained.
That comment made Josie laugh, but there was some truth in it.
The three actors spent most evenings together on the cold stone floor of their cell, nursing scrapes and bruises, playing cards and smoking fat brown stogies. Big Clo couldn’t grasp the rules of any game, so mostly she just watched the other two play and enjoyed a smoke.
Stogies were used as rewards by the trainers as incentives. Josie had finally mastered the back flip, so she received two stogies. Even though Josie knew the health risks, when she was looking down the pointy end of a blade every day, anything that took the edge off her miserable existence won out over the future possibility of emphysema. But nobody in the whole theater company loved stogies the way Big Clo did. Her black thumbtack eyes would close halfway as the pleasure transported her away to some happy place. The Gargo’s thin purple lips would gently maw at the plump stogie until Willow would complain about all the smacking sounds.
“I’d rather listen to Bulwarks having sex than you making out with that thing all damn night. So cut it out, Clo!”
Big Clo’s head tilted in confusion as if she understood Willow was angry, but the reason why eluded her. Tears welled up in her small uncomprehending eyes as the smoke billowed from Big Clo’s mouth, nose and even her ears. Was there any gray matter in between them at all?
“Josie,” Willow’s voice suddenly became somber. “Your first fight is coming up. Have you thought about what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I will not kill someone just because Mr. Bayloo wants me to.”
“Surviving is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Even if the other person doesn’t deserve death?”
“If it’s them or me. I choose me.”
“What if some day Mr. Bayloo pits us against each other or Big Clo?”
“May the best girl win.”
The cell suddenly felt colder. An involuntary shiver wracked her body.
“Hokey Pokey!” Big Clo begged. Oh, how Josie regretted teaching her that song and dance. It’s all she wanted to do now.
“I can’t take another night of Hokey Pokey.” Willow rolled her eyes with disdain, reclining on her side to prop her head up on an elbow. Batting at a yawn, she suggested, “How about singing us another song, Josie? I enjoyed that one about West Virginia—wherever that is.”
“My sisters never cared much for folksy country songs. It’s nice to find another fan.”
“I wish I could understand the words, but it’s enough to know it’s about a person longing to return home.” A faraway look crossed over the Bezon’s features. Both Josie and Willow sighed at the same time, while Big Clo sat there with a blank expression.
Clearing her throat, she began to sing about a country road in a land that didn’t exist anymore. Her voice had a rich and buttery quality as it carried through the bars, echoing down the corridors. The guards often told the prisoners to shut up when they were being loud, but even their chatter went still at the sound of her voice, and they never ordered her to stop singing. Knowing Lars was down there somewhere, she hoped he was listening. The song was her way of saying hello, I’m okay. I hope you are well.
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