by Eisele, Kimi
The weather turned cold again overnight, and in the morning the wispy-haired woman pulled out a bag of winter clothes for the Pilgrims. Rosie picked out a rusty-orange down jacket, and mittens knit with colored yarn, which reminded her of God’s eyes. They drove for a while on the interstate, where Rosie and Jesús counted six other cars, then zigzagged along smaller roads for a few hours. Eventually, they turned onto a dirt road that reached all the way to the horizon. Dry brown fields spotted with round bales of hay extended in all directions. They passed groups of Pilgrims who gave the Ascension wave, their faces full of joy. “Not far at all now!” the driver called out.
After several bumpy hours, they arrived at the top of a ridge. “Here we are, heaven on Earth,” the driver said. Below, a thin blue river bisected a wide valley. On one side stood a cluster of buildings. Fanning out like sunbeams, all around them, were rows of white tents. On the other side of the river were dry fields, stippled with horses and sheep. Five white sculptures—a cross, an arrow, the “and” sign, and two shapes Rosie couldn’t quite make out—rose up from the center of the valley.
“Dios mío,” Abuela said under her breath looking over the scene. Rosie had never seen her so relaxed, as if the bones in her body had softened and she herself had become a river. The Center was her sea, and she was finally joining it.
Jesús, on the other hand, was scanning the landscape nervously, as if he’d heard a noise and was searching for its source. He pointed to a lone tree on the ridge. “Bet you could climb that if a mountain lion was tailing you. We should put it in the song.”
“Not now, Jesús,” Rosie said. “We’re here.”
They descended the hill, where two women wearing long skirts greeted them. One of them looked as if she’d been hit in the face: her slightly sunken nose pointed off to the left, and her mouth held a sideways smirk. The other had eyebrows that joined together over her nose.
The air was cold, and Rosie shivered in her jacket as the women led them along the rows of tents. Each tent had a different purpose, the woman with the unibrow explained: eating; food preparation and preservation; sewing and repair; prayer; and reconnaissance.
“Reconnaissance?” Rosie said. She coughed and held her hand over her throat. Even with her mittens on, her hands were freezing.
“Rosie, hush!” her abuela said sharply.
“Is she ill?” asked one of the skirted women.
“No,” Abuela said.
The woman with the crooked face took the women to their quarters. Jesús and the men were taken elsewhere. “We separate genders here,” the woman said. “Part of the return.”
“The return?” Rosie asked.
“Back to the original self,” she explained. “Free from the illusions of dark technology, here we finally get to return to our original selves.”
What was she talking about?
“Settle in,” the woman said. When she smiled, her nose shifted toward the center of her face. “We’ll come back in a little while to take you to your God duties. We all do God duties. It’s part of serving one another and the greater union.” She walked away, her skirt swinging stiffly from side to side.
Inside the tent were four double bunk beds and a woodstove, which made it surprisingly warm. But Rosie wished she were home on Halcyon Street. She could do God duties there: She’d rake the chicken coop every morning. She’d fetch all the water. She’d oil bike chains. She’d weed the garden. She’d even turn the toilet compost. Anything.
“Rosie,” her abuela said, patting one of the bunks. “You sleep here, above me.”
Rosie climbed up to the bed and rummaged around in her pack. She hung the God’s eye from a strip of canvas above her. She put on the sunglasses she’d found in the overturned truck and lay back and watched the God’s eye dangle, wondering if with practice she could hypnotize herself. She closed her eyes and imagined a bee hovering above her nose. When she opened them, there was only the God’s eye, dim through the sunglasses.
A woman with long, straight black hair came to the tent and placed a stack of clothing on the edge of one of the bunk beds. “These are for you. Warm shirts, wool stockings, and skirts. If you only put one of these items on, make it the skirt.”
The woman looked up at Rosie and smiled. She pointed to the God’s eye. “I think you’ll have to take that down.”
“Why?”
“No witchcraft here,” she said. “Only the pure light of God.”
“This isn’t witchcraft,” Rosie said, irritated. “It’s a God’s eye.”
The woman stood there for a moment, pressing her lips together, then disappeared out of the tent.
Rosie gave the finger to the woman’s back, then pulled out her sketchbook and started drawing a tree filled with roosting hens.
Confident in flight, the Red Raven flew beyond the Settlement to the community that had raised him. He found the gap in the trees carved by the river and followed it past the old landfill, over the next mountain range. He scanned the landscape for the granddaughter of the bear that had helped him survive when he was young and alone, and spotted her loping across a scree slope. He continued on, dipping down toward the river to see otters and beavers playing and working. He saw fish in the river, a good sign. He found the ravens—the Conspiracy, they called themselves—and flew with them for some time, catching thermals and showing off.
But when he reached the plateau to look for Coyote, the first friend he’d ever made, he found only his remains. A mountain lion, no doubt. The Red Raven landed, assessed the bones briefly, then stood at his friend’s side for a long time and mourned.
When the episode was over, the radio cast made its way into the crisp October night. Beatrix huddled into the hood of her sweatshirt as they came to the park, where people were gathered around a campfire, their bodies dark silhouettes against the light.
“His old friend, dead. That really got me,” someone said.
“It’s the nature of things. But it still hurts.”
It was true, Beatrix thought, listening. That scene had left a few of the cast members in tears as well.
“What I love most is the sound Reilly makes as he’s transforming into the Red Raven!” someone else said. “How does he make that sound?”
“Should I just put them out of their misery?” Flash whispered, nearing the fire.
“Please,” Beatrix said.
Flash called out the sound perfectly.
“That’s it! That’s the sound.” A tall man in a Greek sailor’s cap stood and turned toward them.
“He’s so skilled, that Red Raven,” said a man Beatrix recognized—the Irishman she’d met at the park months ago. His wife was nearby, the baby now standing at her feet in a tiny winter coat. “We all listen together, here in the park,” he said.
A man with thick eyeglasses held up a radio. “Not hi-fi, but it does the trick.”
Beatrix smiled and looped her arm around Flash’s as they headed home.
When Rosie first saw Jonathan Blue, she was surprised at how normal he looked. Just a tall man with a mustache. He was on the far side of a giant blue tarp, giving instructions to some men about how best to fold it. He wore leather work boots, white pants, and what looked to Rosie like a big white pillowcase as a shirt. But when he held his arms out to the sides, they seemed to reach out forever, the longest arms she’d ever seen! When the clouds shifted, sunlight poured through the tarp, and Jonathan Blue looked like an enormous bird, blue from head to toe.
In the prayer tent, Mr. Blue never really said anything new. It was always all about leaving the old myths behind and moving into the darkness to be reborn. It was like watching a rerun over and over, only in a room full of people whose breath and body odor you could smell. They were allowed to bathe in the river only twice a week, and the soap they were given was chalky with no suds and no scent. Rosie longed for Anita’s pouch of lavender.
In the kitchen tent, where she’d been assigned God duties most afternoons, Rosie met a girl named Mar
y, about her same age, with freckles and gapped teeth. Mary had been there longer and knew a few more things—like about RiverNorth.
That’s where Jesús was working. The last time she’d seen him in the dining tent, a good week ago, he’d held out his hands and shown her the blisters that had formed on his fingers. Then he’d leaned in toward her and sang in Spanish: “They handed me a shovel, and sent me up the stream, where I dig and dig and dig, and look for gold that gleams.”
“Most of the men go to RiverNorth to dig,” Mary explained when Rosie asked about it. “On the north side of the river. Obviously.”
“What are they digging?”
“Garden beds, I guess.”
“But the ground is hard, almost frozen.”
“Yeah. I dunno,” Mary said. “Maybe they dig for artifacts. Supposedly, there’s old pottery made by Indians in the ground, or something like that.”
“How many people are here?” Rosie asked.
“Thousands,” Mary said. “I don’t know the exact number, but my dad told me, like, ten thousand.”
Rosie couldn’t tell if Mary was full of shit or not. Her stomach growled. “Is there anything to eat?” she asked.
Mary reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a hard brown cookie, about the size of a matchbox.
“Anything other than a flattened turd, that is,” Rosie said.
“Come on. They’re not that bad, and they’re full of nutritional things. I mean, look at me. I eat a lot of them, and I’m healthy.”
Rosie took the dense and grainy biscuit and sniffed it. She took a bite. Chalky and dry, it tasted like earth, corn, fish, and sugar. She stuck out her tongue. “Not just any turd,” she said. “An old, dried turd.”
Mary rolled her eyes and held out her hand until Rosie gave the biscuit back.
“What about the ice cream?” Rosie asked.
“It’s too cold for that now, though, don’t you think?” Mary said.
But it wasn’t very cold at all inside the dining tent when all the woodstoves were going. In fact, Mary had just taken off her gray pea coat, complaining that it was too warm. White blotches covered her skirt, stained there since the day she’d been selected to help paint the sculptures.
“Someday you’ll get picked, if you’re good,” Mary said. But Rosie didn’t think painting seemed like any big prize.
Mary handed Rosie a stack of cups. They were prepping the tent for dinner, setting places along the long rows of tables. Rosie had tried to count them several times, and once got up to 424, which wasn’t even close to halfway. And Mary said there were multiple dinner shifts. All these people wanted to rise into the clouds and be saved? How was that even possible?
Rosie set out the cups, then started with the forks, making her way down the tables. Partway down one row, she looked outside and saw birds tumbling through the air. Thousands of them. She could hear the whirring sound of the bodies as they fell. But when she blinked hard and looked down, there was nothing but scattered forks. Then the first dinner bell rang out, and people began crowding into the tent.
Later, Rosie pulled her abuela close to tell her about the birds.
“It’s too cold for birds, Rosie,” her abuela said.
The next day, Rosie took a side path past the prayer tent and saw a trail leading into a wooded area. She wondered if maybe this led to the place Jesús had been sent to do his God-duty digging. A cloud passed in front of the sun. Rosie coughed, her throat tickling. She hurried to the kitchen tent.
“I’ve never seen that trail,” Mary said later. She popped a turd biscuit into her mouth. “But my dad said it’s best not to poke around. He said Mr. Blue is busy preparing us for when it’s time, and we don’t want to be interfering with the beautiful plan.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to rise. Duh,” Mary said. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Rosie tilted her head sideways but didn’t nod.
“We’re lucky,” Mary said. “He’s saving us. Things are only going to get worse out there.” She pointed with a stiff finger, as if “out there” were a very specific place. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Rosie felt another feather reach into her throat, and she tried to cough it up.
Mary widened her eyes. “We’re here to join together,” she said. And here she made a circle with her arms and held them out in front of her body. Then she lifted them into the air and opened them to the sky.
When Rosie returned to her tent, the feather was still in her throat. “Abuela,” she said, her voice like a little girl. “I want to go home.”
Abuela rummaged around under the bed, then stood and held out a bottle of tincture. Did she have an endless supply of the stuff? Rosie didn’t know if the drops did any good, but in this moment she found them comforting.
“Take some, mi’ja,” Abuela said, motioning for Rosie to open her mouth.
“Beatrix, you’ve got mail,” Dragon said.
Beatrix laughed out loud. “Good one,” she said.
“I’m serious,” he said, handing her an envelope.
Beatrix recognized the handwriting immediately. She nearly fell to her knees.
“Turn it over,” Dragon said. The back of the envelope was covered with thumbprints.
“Each rider leaves their mark,” Dragon said. “I counted on your envelope. Thirty-two thumbprints.”
Beatrix feverishly inspected the writing again. Uppercase Xs at the end of her name, the way Carson always wrote them—BeatriX BanX.
“Oh, and you’ll also be pleased to know that The Red Raven is reaching beyond the Sierras,” Dragon said. “The rider who delivered your letter told me. It’s working, Beatrix. Other stations are rebroadcasting the show.”
But Beatrix could barely hear what he was saying. The envelope in her hand weighed more than anything else.
“Who is it from?” Flash asked.
“Hang on,” Beatrix said. She went inside, her heart in her throat.
March 25
B.,
I’ll keep this one short. Though I have words and words for you, written on pages I haven’t known how to send. Now there may be a way. So here’s a quick one to shrink our distance. For weeks I’ve longed for the amenities of the past: little black letters on a white screen, your voice through the phone. Any proof of your presence. The lack of that has been like an amputation.
The power is gone. The trash has piled up. I won’t even write about the sewage.
Here is all you need to know now: I am leaving the city. The raiders, whoever they are, are on their way. I hope to be gone before they arrive.
I have a map of sorts and a recommended route. The railroad, if you can believe that, those steel lines of progress. Ayo, my freedom broker, said it’s the safest way. Besides, I like the outdoors, and I like walking. There will be history to record. There will be birds to look at.
I don’t know when I will arrive. I trust you are still in a safe place.
“Go west, young man,” they say. Now I have a reason. Raiders be damned. I simply want to be with you, B.
Love, Carson
Beatrix’s whole body grew warm, and inside her chest, her heart took flight. She looked again at the date. March 25. Seven months ago. Where would he be now? Walking. She read the letter a second time and then a third. Her hands trembling, she read the last line again and again and again.
CHAPTER 15
On his way to Beatrix, Carson had walked along the tracks, over wooden ties, around cities that no longer sang, past parking lots of dusty cars, past tractors and earthmovers that had been cursed and calcified. Past windmills, crows, and skinny dogs. Past fences, and doors that opened to nowhere. Past piles of leaves, clothes hangers, and sneakers. Past a burned bed and a blue velvet sofa.
He walked through pine forests and dried-out cornfields. He walked through small towns where people bartered for their survival on the sidewalks or barricaded themselves inside or called out to him or let him quiz them, o
r kept quiet or coughed, forcing him to hurry along. He walked under sagging power lines, over cracks in the asphalt, around cars siphoned of fuel. He walked past oil rigs that no longer sipped and bobbed, streetlights that lit no street, bus depots where no buses came or went. Past gated communities where the houses loomed like lapsed castles, their long driveways deep, empty moats. Past apartment complexes with mucky swimming pools and shriveled lawns.
He walked by a well and looked in, at his reflection in the dark water below. If he’d had a bucket, he would have lowered it. Instead, he picked up a rock and threw it down. The sound satisfied him. So he did it again. And again.
He walked past homes where people flagged him down, asked him about what he’d seen. Moved by his perseverance, they cooked him eggs or spooned out soup.
He passed Pilgrims, travelers, and escapees. Those who had been traveling for a long time knew things. He watched the way they used their eyes, and something other than their eyes. He noticed their hands. He learned.
Others stepped tentatively, glanced over their shoulders, hoarded their food and water. He recognized the fear in their eyes, empathized with their uncertainty. What could he tell them to reassure them? Nothing, really. You learned as you went. There were no magic tricks, no lifesaving secrets. They’d figure it out. Or they wouldn’t.
He walked past a saddled horse tied to a tree in the middle of an empty field. He called out for someone, but only the horse answered, with a loud snort. He sat in the field for a long while waiting for someone to claim the horse. Only a crow came. He untied the horse and led it out of the field and down the tracks. He grabbed the saddle and hoisted himself up and over its back. The horse began to walk, then trot. When it got dark, Carson set up his bed on the ground near the horse. I’ll travel far with that horse, he told himself. But when he woke, the horse was gone, along with the rope that had tied it.