by Eisele, Kimi
They were hopeful and righteous. They quoted Mr. Blue: “You are hungry, we will feed you. You are thirsty, we will quench your thirst. We will restore your connection. We will connect to new technologies, spiritual technologies. We will unite. We will rise, one by one, purified, cleansed, and whole.”
Each day, Rosie and Jesús added to their corrido, recording the landmarks, amused by their own rhymes.
Denny’s and McDonald’s,
all closed up, for business slow.
I sure could use a Big Mac now,
But adelante we must go.
Graveyards of automobiles,
Down every street we see,
We can hold our thumbs out all we want,
But none will start for you or me.
“Once we’re there, everything will change,” said Louise. “There will be fresh food from the gardens, fruits and vegetables, plenty of fresh water. Blue skies.” She turned her head upward. Rosie looked at the sky, too, and wished for some kind of interruption—a bird, a rainbow, a bug—but there was only thick gray.
Rosie pulled the lip balm from her pocket and put some on, momentarily cheered by its scent and color. She considered the possibility that Louise was right. That Jonathan Blue had found the Promised Land, and that once they were there, they would eat and eat and feel good. She looked back up at the sky. A raindrop landed in her eye.
Beatrix walked to the end of Halcyon and waited for Penny, the Velocipede cyclist. She held half a dozen letters in her hand, all of them for Carson, except one for her mother and one for Hank and Dolores, letting them know she was okay and staying put for now. She wasn’t convinced any of the letters would get there, especially the one for Hank and Dolores, given all she had was the name of the farm and a best guess at the nearest town. And Carson’s? It was hard to believe a bike messenger service really could go that far. But whatever—might as well try. Otherwise, they’d keep piling up, useless words that no one would read.
She wished for some conviction, but all she felt was anxiety. Rosie and Maria del Carmen were gone. Miss Demeanor was sick. Mr. Greeb was dead. The T-Rize was multiplying like a cancer.
She remembered Carson’s hands, how he’d touched her face, held her hair. How the morning after being with him she had woken and, for the first time in many years, had not wanted to be anywhere else.
She looked at the letters in her hand. This is why it is called faith, Maria del Carmen had said.
A bell dinged, and there was Penny, squeaking her brakes as she coasted up to the curb.
“You look happy,” Beatrix said.
“I’m on my bike!” Penny said. “And I have a purpose.”
“I hope I look like that when I walk out of the radio station.”
“Oh my God, yes. Beatrix. The Red Raven. It’s awesome. That episode when he helps those two neighbors in the field stop arguing? That was funny!”
She and Thelma had landed on the idea during a late-evening writing session: Two neighbors in Reilly’s Settlement were clearing a field for a new planting, but their arguing kept holding up their work. In swooped the Red Raven, doing tricks in the sky, then tilling the soil with his feet. In their surprise, the two neighbors stopped fighting and got to work.
“Who’d have thought a big red bird could have such finesse? It’s kind of absurd, but it works,” Penny said. “And Reilly, that soft-spoken man—he inspires me even when he’s not the Red Raven. He doesn’t even realize his gifts.”
Beatrix smiled. “Most of us don’t,” she said.
Penny grinned and nodded. “Uh-huh. Totally. That show is gonna do great things for people.”
“I hope so,” Beatrix said. She spotted a small knife in a sheath on Penny’s belt. “So is that how you stay safe?”
Penny patted the sheath. “Well, I guess. I’m fast, too. So I’m lucky that way. This neighborhood is one of the good ones, though. You’ve got the Perimeter. It really does help.”
“Supposedly,” Beatrix said. “But . . .” She lifted her pant leg and showed Penny the scab on her leg.
“I heard about that,” Penny said. “Glad you’re okay. Last week another PBB-er had a confrontation with three kids. One of them had a machete. Pretty bad wound. They’re burning houses now, too.”
“They’re kids,” Beatrix said.
“Everyone always says that,” Penny said. “But, shit, they’re messed-up.”
Beatrix nodded. “Yeah.” She handed Penny the letters, then unloaded from her backpack a dozen eggs, a jar of marmalade, a stack of tortillas, and a handful of cash—their pre-agreed barter. “Here goes nothing,” she said.
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. No guarantees. Since it’s regional, we can’t really know if all the Cyclicals are functional.”
“Cyclicals?”
“That’s what the regional operations are called. Think of it like orbiting planets in the solar system, except every now and again the planets touch and, presto, your letters get passed from one rider to the next.”
Penny slid the letters into her bag. “I’ll do my orbit,” she said. She held up a closed fist, which Beatrix matched with her own.
CHAPTER 14
September 8
B.,
Would you believe me if I told you that somewhere in southern Wyoming, I stood near I-80 and saw not one, not two, not three, not four, but five—FIVE!—bald eagles overhead? Although endangered, they do live in this region, so I suppose it wasn’t THAT unusual. But I still delighted as if watching the fictional become real.
Many of my tales to you might read like fiction. How is it possible that so many people believe the gospel of a man who once did stupid tricks on the internet? There’s much more to him than meets the eye. I’m puzzled. I have no idea how he’ll sustain everyone.
But sitting with him, I admit I felt something, too. A sense of promise? A renewed hope? But in what?
Perhaps my own faith falters. I’m not sure what I was thinking in setting out on this trip. I’m not giving up, but it seems unlikely that you’ll even be around if and when I get to you. And if you are, well . . . I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ve gone and invented all sorts of things in my head about us.
Have I?
C.
The Magnon Multiplex Cinema was an anachronistic mix of sleek 1960s concrete brutalism and Las Vegas–style bling. A bulky rectangular building fronted by ten arches across the facade, it seemed out of place against the giant blue sky and smooth hills of rural Wyoming. The marquee in the parking lot claimed the place had been retrofitted to show twenty-two high-definition films with surround sound, all at once.
Carson remembered a night, decades ago, when he had trespassed on the ruins of ancient Rome, as a college student in Italy. Drunk on wine, one of his fellow exchange students had proposed a late-night tour, and they ran through the city to the Roman Forum, where they climbed the fence and dropped down into the old, vacant world.
Carson had imagined himself a king or a senator wandering by buildings with melodic names: Comitium, Regia, Basilica Sempronia, Basilica Julia. Julius Caesar walked here, he had thought. Then he wondered: What kind of emperor would I be? What sort of cloak would I wear?
The jasmine was in bloom. The smell caught him in between the structures, an ethereal reminder of what still lived. He heard his name, and there was one of the lovely art students, standing on a bench with her nose up to the flowers.
“Smell,” she whispered, pulling the branch down. He breathed in the sweetness of the flower, a trace of the linseed oil from the young woman’s clothing, and the wine on her breath. They held hands and ambled down the Via Sacra, the road where chariots had traveled until the Romans had outlawed them—too many, the horse hooves too loud. Centuries later, all was silent.
Now, amidst the silence of the American West, Carson pushed on the front doors of the cinema and was surprised to find them unlocked. The smell of rancid vegetable oil filled the space, and popcorn crumbs littered the dingy red carpet, along with a
mosaic of glass from the smashed candy cases. He flicked the dispenser levers on the fountain soda machines, but nothing came. He’d eaten all the food from the Center days ago and now had only a small stash of jerky that a kindhearted ranching family had given him. When he found a lone unopened box of Junior Mints on the floor behind the counter, he held it up like the Holy Grail.
In the quiet wreckage, the idea of twenty-two simultaneous movies seemed preposterous, though Carson could recall a time when it hadn’t. Sometimes, he and June would treat themselves to a senseless blockbuster—a dark tale of espionage or an alien robot thriller—just for a Sunday escape. He’d hold June’s hand in his the whole time.
Through the glass doors now, he saw the sky darken outside. Fatigued, Carson wandered down the corridor of theaters and entered one, ripe with the smell of mildew. He pulled a tea-light candle from his backpack, lit it, and called out, “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Anyone in here?”
He set the candle on the floor and sat back in one of seats. He pulled the Junior Mints from his pocket and ate them one at a time, savoring.
He thought about Jonathan Blue, how their conversation had unexpectedly lifted him, at least for a few moments. He wondered again about this notion of “calling.” Here he was, a man in a theater, his presence unknown to anyone, his purpose self-proclaimed, no one to back him up. An island.
But so many had backed him up to get here—Ayo, Jairo, Fernando the taxi driver. Franklin and Nora in the Jungle camp. The energies of love. Even Daniel and Naomi, despite their oddness, had kept him alive. He felt a rush of gratitude. The archipelago of his recent past. Were they all still alive? Or now only memory?
Marcy’s face then appeared in his mind. Those pleading eyes. He felt a cramp in his gut.
He summoned Beatrix’s image, her open mouth, her laughter. He rested his head back on the seat. How lucky I am, he thought. Even if I never see her again, how lucky I was to have met her.
When he woke, the candle was out and his body stiff. He dug for the windup flashlight in his pack and lit his way out of the cinema. He made camp on a strip of dried grass at the edge of the parking lot. Stretching out, he felt his body sinking toward the center of the Earth, which in that moment he understood also as the expanse of the whole universe. He was in both places at once, and then there was Blue in between, his arms outstretched like the Jesus statue in Rio. Then Pilgrims came with backpacks and shopping carts, and cats on leashes, and crutches, and when they got to Blue they vanished.
Carson woke and lay still. Above, the darkness was lit with stars, tiny perforations in the void. He delighted in the sight, smiling at the cliché of it—how the night sky could reflect his own smallness and his own immensity in one quick second. How a view of the stars was all he needed to unite history, the present, and the future.
Beatrix stood at the fence watching Miss Demeanor take slow steps, the hen’s chest dragging across the dirt. They’d closed off a section of the coop for the new rooster and other hens, so Miss Demeanor wouldn’t be bothered.
It was a good thing Rosie had spotted her. Maybe there was still hope.
Rosie. Bless her.
The God’s eyes she’d made for them were still hanging in the plum tree, little ornaments too early for Christmas. Beatrix spotted hers—red, orange, and yellow, a tiny fire that produced no heat.
“They just up and left,” Beatrix said to Dragon. “You think they’ll be okay?”
“I have to hope,” he said. “I was always thinking you’d be the one to go—your old MO.”
“Not to Jonathan Blue,” Beatrix said.
“No, not there,” Dragon said. “But this is the longest you’ve stayed here in years, right? Under normal circumstances, you’d have blitzed back to the equator or to some protest action, to fix up some other neighborhood somewhere else.”
Beatrix let his words register. “I felt like I could make a difference.”
“Everywhere but here?”
“Yes.”
“But now?”
Beatrix sighed. This felt like a therapy session. “I’m practicing what you always tell me: ‘Stay with it.’ Right?”
“Stay with it,” Dragon repeated.
“I’m so glad you’re better, Dragon,” she said, tossing him a God’s eye. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“What would the Red Raven do?” he said, smiling.
She looked at the hen, its bald chest still dangling on the ground. “He’d figure out how to save this hen.”
“Yes, he would,” Dragon said. “And so will we. Here.” He read from one of the poultry manuals they’d found in the library collection. “Impacted crop, it looks like. Listen: ‘The crop is part of the esophagus, where digestion begins. This muscular pouch is located just below the neck.’” He read in silence, then looked up. “It gets clogged with food and grit. They recommend veterinary assistance.”
“Great,” Beatrix said, hopelessness settling in.
“But wait,” Dragon said. “Check this out: ‘With a calm and steady hand, the courageous chicken keeper can do it himself,’” he read.
“Or herself,” Beatrix said.
Dragon looked up from the page. “Once the crop is open, you just squeeze and empty it.”
Beatrix looked at Miss Demeanor, who stood, teetering and isolated from the other hens. “Well, then.”
They set a pot of water on the fire and gathered the necessary supplies—rubbing alcohol, a bowl, and a damp cloth. When the water was boiling, they put a razor blade, a needle, and some thread into the pot to sterilize.
Beatrix fetched Miss Demeanor and propped the hen between her knees, gently stroking her feathers to calm her. Dragon handed Beatrix the razor blade and read the instructions aloud. Beatrix touched the hen’s pink flesh at her breast, where the feathers had already worn away. She cleaned the area, then pushed the blade into the flesh. A line of dark blood seeped out, and the bird squirmed. “Easy, missy. Easy,” Beatrix said. As she squeezed the crop, the grit came out: nearly a cupful of straw, grass, and rocks.
“Look at all that!” Dragon said.
Beatrix focused on her hands. The bird struggled, gurgling. “Dragon, hold her head up. Make sure she’s getting air. Now hand me the needle over there.”
Beatrix steadied the bird on her lap and pinched the skin together as she sewed it up. She stroked the hen for a little while before setting her gently to the ground. The bird stood still for a few moments, then slowly moved her head around, looking. After a minute or two, she took a few steps.
“I think you just ‘Red Ravened’ her,” Dragon said.
Beatrix held up a palm, and Dragon high-fived it.
“Here’s to library books and courage,” Beatrix said.
But the next morning when they went out to the yard, they found Miss Demeanor down, her lifeless body like a crumpled washrag on the dirt.
Rosie and the Pilgrims came to a lake shadowed by pine trees. Someone said they were still in Nevada, but it didn’t look anything like the desert they’d just crossed. Ducks scooted across the water and lifted off as the travelers approached. The air was frigid, but they were long overdue to bathe. The women went first, yelping as they touched the cold water.
Rosie held her breath and submerged herself for as long as she could. When she came up, gasping, her skin was numb and it felt like the blood inside her had congealed. She bent her elbows and cocked her head stiffly, like a robot, as she made her way back to the shore. Abuela laughed, and soon all the women were giggling and clapping, exhilarated.
Once dressed, Rosie heard the faint sound of a motor in the distance. The sound grew louder, and soon a dusty white van appeared on the dirt road below.
“They’re going to take us to the Center,” Abuela said. “It’s a miracle!”
They wouldn’t have to walk anymore—that was the miracle. On the side of the van, drawn in black, was the outline of a wing and the word ascend.
The dri
ver was a bald man with pockmarked skin. Next to him was a woman, possibly his wife, whose wispy hair was combed into a hopeful ponytail. She wore a puffy down jacket over a long denim skirt. She held up her hands, linked her thumbs together, and wiggled her fingers. “Try it,” she said. “It’s the Ascension wave.”
Jesús put his hands together and made the silly bird. Rosie did not.
“We’ll get you there in no time,” the driver’s wife said. A feather slithered down Rosie’s throat and tickled it.
The driver and the wispy-haired woman patted everyone down and searched all their belongings.
“Protocol,” the driver said. “No weapons allowed.”
Rosie thought this was strange, but her abuela was unfazed. “It’s fine, Rosie,” she said. Abuela, more alive than she’d seemed in days, was the first in the van, nearly hopping up, while Rosie climbed into the back seat with Jesús and slept.
When she woke, they were passing a billboard showing an old couple standing in front of a pool. Their smiles seemed a little too big, almost fake. “That’s you,” Jesús said, nudging her.
“What—an old white person?” Rosie said.
“No. Desert Rose. That’s what it said. The name of the community. Looked like a nice place,” he said. “I could have handled retiring there.”
“Maybe Jonathan Blue has a pool,” Rosie said, poking Jesús with her elbow. “And some old ladies for you.”
Jesús laughed out loud, and Rosie leaned her head on his shoulder and went back to sleep.
They drove until dusk, then turned off the highway onto a narrow road that led through a small town where people were huddled around garbage can fires. Rosie pressed her face into the glass and watched a woman transfer potatoes from a sack to a basket. A pack of dogs trotted down the street after the van. The van pulled up to a gate, and the driver spoke to a guard, who let them in.
The houses in the development were large but dark, and they seemed mostly empty. They parked in the driveway of one that looked to Rosie like a wedding cake. A woman in an oversized flannel shirt and a long skirt greeted them at the door with hot tea. The house smelled like baby powder and had six bedrooms. There was a compost toilet outside and a large water tank and a radio, set to Jonathan Blue, whose voice came and circled around the outdoor fire pit. Rosie warmed her hands over the fire and watched her fellow Pilgrims and her abuela nod their heads at his promises. She wished Charlie were there and they could play Crazy Eights.