by Pete Hautman
As the dog accepted the last bit of crust, Tom asked, “So what day is it, boy?”
Chachi wagged his tail in reply. Tom went back inside and checked the calendar hanging by the back door. The year on the calendar was the same as it had been. That was a relief, even though it made the mystery of the missing rope swing even more puzzling. He looked closer. His mom always crossed out the days as they passed. It was Saturday, October 26. He had been gone almost a month!
He saw a notation in the Saturday square of the calendar, in his mother’s neat hand. Good Shepherd 2 p.m.
Good Shepherd was his parents’ church. It had been his church, too, before Father September came to town. Why would they go to church on a Saturday? He looked at the clock. Two thirty. He got on his bike and headed down the road.
Tom had never seen so many cars at church. There had to be fifty of them, so many that they lined the road all the way past the adjoining cemetery. Tom leaned his bike on the stone wall surrounding the churchyard and went to one of the stained-glass windows. He looked through one of the light-yellow panes. His view was distorted, but he could see that the pews were full. Several baskets and vases of flowers lined the communion rail.
Tom walked around to the back of the church. The door leading to the rooms behind the altar was open. He went inside. The room was separated from the altar area by a curtain. He stood behind the curtain and listened. Pastor Jacobs was talking in his usual drone, something about the permanence of love and our time on Earth and the passing of time. Peeking past the edge of the curtain, Tom saw his parents sitting in the front row. Will was sitting next to his father. His mother was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His aunt and uncle were there, too, along with his cousin Tony. Why were they there? They lived way over in Frontenac.
He listened to what Pastor Jacobs was saying: “We all remember him as a good boy — curious, rambunctious, and good-hearted — and if in his last days, he fell under the influence of those who would do him harm, I know that God in His wisdom understands that the boy was only seeking the truth, as the young are wont to do. And in his goodness, the Lord”— it’s a funeral, Tom realized, but where was the coffin? —“God will accept Thomas Jefferson Krause into His arms with understanding and forgiveness.”
Tom felt the blood drain from his face. His hands began to shake. He threw the curtain aside and rushed out in front of the congregation.
“I’m not dead!” he shouted.
His mother clutched her chest and pitched forward onto the floor.
KEEP THE MORNING SUN ON YOUR FACE, AND THE afternoon sun at your back, the old woman had told her.
All the trees looked the same. Lia had never spent much time in the woods — her childhood had been confined to the marble walls of the palace. Even in Hopewell, she had always had a road to follow, or a path of some sort. Now she was making her way through a trackless wilderness, climbing over fallen trees, wading across creeks, getting mired in bogs and tangled in thickets, occasionally stumbling over fragments of ancient, crumbling concrete, all that remained of the old roads.
Dusk had arrived by the time she reached the river. She found the trail along the bank and followed it north. The old woman had told her she would find a bridge. She soon came upon a trio of rotting ropes stretched across the river. The ends of the ropes were tied to trees growing from the banks. The center rope hung low, a few of its broken strands trailing in the current. She climbed the tree and stepped out onto the bottom rope, grabbing on to the other ropes with her hands, hoping they were strong enough to hold her. Swimming was not among the skills taught to her as a Pure Girl. If the ropes broke, she might drown. She edged out a few feet and bounced up and down. The ropes rippled like wounded snakes. Hanging on tight, she slid her boots along the bottom rope until she was over the water.
Slowly, inch by inch, she moved toward the opposite bank. By the time she reached the center of the span, her weight had pressed the rope down so far that it was underwater. She continued moving. The water was up to her shins, but she could feel the reassuring presence of the rope beneath her feet — until it went suddenly slack.
Lia gasped as her legs sank into the river. Her sudden weight on the hand ropes caused one of them to break as well. She grabbed the last remaining rope with both hands as the current tried to drag her downstream. Hand over hand, the bottom half of her body immersed, she worked her way toward the far bank. Just when she thought she would make it, the last rope snapped behind her and she plunged completely beneath the surface, still clutching the rope.
The rope, anchored to the far side of the river, went taut. She pulled her head above water, kicking frantically, letting the current sweep her toward the bank. The wet rope was slipping through her hands. She twisted her body to wrap the rope around her wrists. Her head went under again. Her foot hit a sunken log. She pushed off, breaking through the surface, gasping for air. The bank was close, only a few feet. She let go of the rope and clawed at the water. For a moment, she thought the current would drag her back into the river, but she caught hold of a root and pulled herself, coughing and spitting river water, onto the muddy shore.
She scrambled up the bank, sodden and shaking, feet squelching in her boots. She stopped at the top and sat on a moss-covered boulder.
“Some bridge,” she muttered as she poured water from her boots. She was wringing out her socks and thinking that she had never in her life been so wet when it started to rain.
She spent a miserable wet night by the river, huddled under an overhanging rock. She had started her journey with bread and an apple in her tunic pockets, but the bread had not survived being dunked in the river. Lia ate the apple, taking small bites to make it last, staring glumly out into the falling rain.
In the morning, slightly drier, Lia found the road. It was more like a path, really, but it was the closest thing to a road anywhere near the defunct footbridge. As she followed the narrow, overgrown path up a gentle slope, the trees gave way to fields of wildflowers and tall grasses. The trees and plants looked different, but the shape of the land had a familiar feel to it. If she was where she thought she was, Harmony would not be far.
She was proved correct. Soon, the ruins of some farm buildings came into view. She heard the coarse, rattling cries of crows. Where there were crows, there would be people.
The path widened and became a muddy road, complete with wheel tracks. A field on her left, once cultivated, was ragged with weeds. Another group of buildings came into view — a house and several outbuildings, including a large barn set well apart from the other structures. Ahead of her, by the side of the road, a pair of identical little girls in bright-blue dresses were picking wildflowers. The girls looked up and saw her. Their eyes widened, and they froze.
Lia stopped, not wanting to frighten them. They stared at one another for a few heartbeats, then the twins turned and ran, dropping their basket of flowers and splashing heedlessly through a puddle. Lia waited a few seconds so they wouldn’t think they were being chased, then followed them toward the buildings. She stopped and picked up the flower basket on the way.
The girls ran to a house and disappeared inside. Seconds later, a woman opened the door, looked out, saw Lia, and closed the door.
Lia stepped onto the porch and knocked. Muffled voices came from inside, but the door remained closed. Lia placed the basket of flowers on the front steps and backed away. Maybe they were afraid.
She heard a rasping sound coming from one of the outbuildings. She followed the sound to the barn. A man was seated at a foot-powered grinding wheel, sharpening the blade of an ax. The man was large, bearded, and heavyset. On his head was a wide-brimmed black hat. For a moment, she thought it might be Artur, but this man was not so fat. As she stood there undecided, he looked up and saw her.
“Gutmorgn!” He stood up and leaned the ax against the side of the barn. He was taller than Artur had been.
Lia relaxed slightly. “Good morning,” she said.
The man
was wearing bib overalls and a white long-sleeved shirt. His beard, black going to gray, reached all the way to his waist and was tied under his chin with a piece of yarn, like a ponytail.
He tipped his head. “Englisch?”
“My name is Lia.”
“You are from where?”
She pointed to the west.
“Ach, yes. The klon.” His eyes glittered. Lia could not tell whether he was angry, amused, or something else entirely. “I am Herr Boggs. You come here for why?”
“I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Awn said you might be able to help me.”
Herr Boggs raised his eyebrows. “She could not?”
“Could not or would not.”
“She is a prickly one, that klon.”
“What is a klon?”
“A made creature. Where is this friend?”
“In the past.”
Herr Boggs chuckled. “Everything is in the past.”
“A place called Hopewell.”
“Ach. Hopewell. So long ago. Come, and I will show you.” He walked toward the open door of the barn.
Lia hesitated. This felt uncomfortably like the last time she had been in Harmony, when the Boggsian Artur had attempted to make her into a Klaatu.
He turned back to her. “Are you coming?”
“I do not wish to be made a Klaatu.”
“Bah. Klaatu.” He swatted at the air. “I shoo them like flies.”
“What are you going to show me?”
“A door.” He turned his back and entered the barn. Lia followed.
Inside the barn were empty livestock stalls, a straw-littered stone floor, and various ropes, tools, and implements hanging from the walls and posts.
“Where are the animals?” Lia asked.
“Eaten,” said Herr Boggs. It was not the most reassuring thing he could have said.
Lia followed him through the barn, keeping several paces between them, until they reached the far end, where a metal armature, like a giant, heavy-duty bed frame, was mounted to the wall. Beside it was a long workbench. Herr Boggs went to the workbench and picked up a notebook-size device. He frowned at it, then stabbed his finger against the surface. Lia heard the familiar buzzing of a Gate.
THE DAMAGED TIMESWEEP REMAINED AT THE EDGE OF the sinkhole, its orifice half open, its only sign of life an occasional shiver or pulsation. The night came and went, and came again. Tamarack needles and birch leaves sifted down from the trees and slid off its smooth back. In time, the leaves formed a nest around it, and only a few dull-pink segments remained visible.
Time passed. A fox kit, too young to have learned fear, came upon the maggot, pawed at it, and gave it an experimental lick. The taste was not to its liking. The kit backed away and yipped. The maggot took no notice. The kit ran off.
Sometime later, the maggot shuddered violently, sending leaves and needles flying. A red squirrel in a nearby tree chattered angrily. The maggot raised its front end. Its orifice began to expand. The crackle of a forming disko drowned out the chatter of the squirrel. The maggot hunched and, with a violent convulsion, vomited out Tucker Feye.
Tucker flew from the maggot’s disko with tremendous velocity. He slammed into a birch tree hard enough to shake hundreds of leaves from the branches. For a few seconds, he had no idea where he was, bewildered by the rain of golden leaves filling the air. His head cleared as the leaves settled. I’m back, he thought. He looked around for the maggot that had expelled him.
A curl of smoke was coming up from a depression a few yards away. Tucker stood up. He could see the pink back of the maggot. A second later, the acrid smell of burning plastic reached him, even stronger than before. He moved closer. The maggot’s orifice was half open, but there was no disko inside — just an angry, red, smoking gullet. Its back end had disappeared into the sinkhole. The maggot was slowly sinking. Tucker watched until only a tiny nub of pink was showing above the mire. He turned to the east and continued toward Harmony.
There was no footbridge at the river, only a few slack ropes trailing in the water. Tucker walked upstream until he found a relatively calm section. He waded into the river and swam. The current carried him a quarter mile downstream before he reached the opposite side. He clambered up the bank. Several minutes of searching brought him to an overgrown path. He followed the path to the east. As he walked, Tucker felt himself growing strangely confident. He replayed all that had happened to him, from his recent time on the submarine to being attacked by the Boggsians to the revival meeting where his father had wanted to kill him . . . Golgotha, the Medicant hospital, the pyramid, the Twin Towers . . . Every time, he had survived. He thought about Lahlia showing up at the revival, the cool-headed courage she had shown. Maybe this was how she had felt. Not invulnerable, but confident, and willing to accept whatever happened to her. When she had stepped into that maggot to give him and Kosh a chance to disarm Master Gheen, there had been no hesitation.
He did not doubt that he would find her. His father had spoken of destiny.
Maybe this was what destiny felt like.
The first building came into view an hour later — a dilapidated barn. As he drew closer, Tucker saw several other structures: a house, a silo, and several outbuildings. Even from a distance, he could tell they were abandoned. Could this be Harmony?
He spent a few minutes looking around for signs that Lahlia had been there, but found nothing. At the other side of the abandoned farmstead, he came upon remains of a road winding through a field. The field was spiked with twenty-foot-tall saplings, bending in the wind — it had not been cultivated for years. The road led into the woods and through another forsaken field. A second cluster of buildings came into view. Their straight walls and glassed windows showed that they were not derelict. Tucker approached cautiously. As he got closer, he wondered if this farm was abandoned, too, but more recently. There were no fresh tracks on the road, and the weeds around the house needed cutting. He wished he knew whether hours, days, or weeks had passed here while he was on the submarine. He stopped a few dozen yards from the house and shouted.
“Hello?” He listened but heard only the wind in the trees. He raised his voice: “Anybody here?” Seconds later, he heard banging coming from the barn.
“IS PROGRAMMABLE DOOR,” HERR BOGGS SAID.
“What does that mean?” Lia asked, staring at the Gate that had appeared within the metal armature.
“You tell it where to go.”
“You mean I can tell it to take me to Hopewell and it will?”
“Yea.”
“How do I do that?”
Herr Boggs shrugged sadly. “This I have forgotten, if I ever knew.”
“Then what good is it?”
“No good.” Herr Boggs waved his hand before his face. Lia saw something wispy and white rising toward the rafters.
“Is that a Klaatu?”
“They come to witness the end,” he said.
“The end of what?”
“My people. We are the last.” Herr Boggs gestured toward the Gate. “We will be going soon.”
“You’re just going to walk into the Gate? With your children?”
“There is nothing here for us. We are alone.”
“Where did everybody go?”
“Many are Klaatu now.” He stared into the buzzing Gate. “Some use the diskos. No one stays.”
“Why?”
“Because there is nothing we want that we do not have.”
The Gate changed from pale gray to green, and several Klaatu emerged. One of them drifted between Lia and Herr Boggs. He swatted it away. The others gathered above their heads.
“Can you talk to them?” Lia asked.
“I have tried. They are all vanity and conceits.”
“How do you communicate with them?”
Herr Boggs set his device on the workbench and touched his finger to its edge. It projected a cone of light toward the ceiling. The Klaatu swooped down toward it. As they entered the cone, they came in
to sharp focus. A girl dressed like a Pure Girl, a man in Boggsian garb, and a boy wearing Medicant coveralls.
“Hello hello!” said the girl Klaatu.
The device worked exactly like Artur’s table — a means for communicating with the Klaatu.
“Are you coming?”
“Coming where?” Lia asked her.
“Everywhere! Gubble-gubble!” The girl launched herself from the cone and once again became a misty blob. One of the male Klaatu began speaking rapidly in an unfamiliar language. Herr Boggs replied sharply. The older-looking Klaatu turned to the boy and said something. They both started laughing hysterically.
“You see?” said Herr Boggs. “They are all mad.” He reached toward the device.
Lia touched his arm. “Wait.”
Another Klaatu was drifting down into the glow. It swam into focus, but not as sharply as had the others. It was a woman.
“Yar Lia,” she said.
Lia peered closely at her. The woman’s features were foggy and indistinct. Her hair was a cloud, her fingers curls of vapor.
“Who are you?” Lia asked
“I am Iyl Rayn,” said the Klaatu.
“Why are you so blurry?”
“I am old.”
“I thought Klaatu never got old.”
“We live long, but dissipation is inevitable. Already I find it difficult to care.”
“Why are you here?”
“You seek Tucker Feye.”
“Yes.” Her heart began to pound. “I need to get to Hopewell.”
“To change what was?”
“I don’t know,” Lia said.
“Nor do I,” said Iyl Rayn. Her ghostly form turned toward the Gate. “This disko has been altered. The Boggsians are clever with their technology.”