by Hannah Ross
"Why not? Wouldn't you like someone to help you get the place in order?" She gestured around, at the messy piles of fertilizer bags, the disarrayed seed display, the tumble-down pyramid of rolled-up chicken wire.
"Oh, sure. I am looking for a worker. But I won't take the risk. You're obviously underage, and I assume you're not one of the orphans."
Priscilla shook her head. She knew he meant the declassed, illegally born children without citizenship who caused such a public uproar two years back and nearly cost her father his career. I wish Uncle Andrew hadn't saved the day for Father back then. If he hadn't, I might not be on the run right now.
"No. I'm not one of the orphans."
"Thought so. The ones that don't live on their own in camps are all under the care of Mrs. Stocking now. Which means you've a Class A citizenship, so you need a work permit, which you can't have. And that's quite right. You're supposed to be in school getting your education."
Priscilla stood firm. "I need a job, I'm a good worker, and I'm not asking for much. I mostly need food and a bed, maybe a little cash."
The corner of Fred's mouth twitched. "Looking at you, I'm not sure you're much of a worker, but since you hold yourself so cheap, perhaps there'll be a place for you on one of the nearby farms. I know Emmerson is always on the lookout for extra hands that don't cost much."
"Um… thanks. So how do I ask him? Do you have a phone number?"
Fred shook his head, smiling. "Never been outside the Boundary before, have you? The wireless doesn't work as far as the farms and homesteads. We barely have a tolerable signal here in Resurrection."
"So how do I..?"
"Hang around here for a while, if you don't mind. Folks pass through, you know. Someone's bound to be going in the direction of Emmerson's and I can ask them to take you along."
* * *
People came and went, sometimes buying something, sometimes just stopping by for a word with Fred, who seemed to be a sort of general friend and adviser. He was good-natured and took up her case, asking every customer who passed through about Emmerson's and other farms in the vicinity, but it was late afternoon before he found Priscilla a ride.
She got into the very old, very battered pickup truck of Tim Dustin, a broad-shouldered, extremely freckled young man of about twenty, who lived and worked with his parents on a homestead west of Resurrection, and who kindly agreed to drop her by Emmerson's on his way home.
"What do you think, Tim?" asked Fred as he stood by the driver's door. "Will Emmerson find a place for her?"
"Maybe. I'll let you know tomorrow."
As Fred walked away, Tim turned his head and squinted at Priscilla, his face filled with the same doubt as everyone else, but with a hint of humor in his blue eyes. "Sorry. I just can't help saying this, but you really don't look like much of a worker."
Why do they all keep saying that? "I'm stronger than I look," she said with a mixture of defiance and annoyance.
Tim grinned. "No offence meant. Even so, I think Emmerson will find something for you to do. He always has more work than he can handle, and he's so stingy no one wants to stay with him long. I bet you won't, either."
"I'll give him a try if he gives me a try."
"If you're looking for a job out here…well, I suppose you can't help giving Emmerson a chance. The farms don't hire many hands, as a rule. It's mostly families working together."
It took a few tries to start the engine of the old pickup, but once it woke to life, they set off at a pretty good speed. Tim whistled a tune as he drove along.
Once they were out of Resurrection Town, Priscilla's breath caught in her throat as she looked at the rolling green hills and the clumps of wood here and there, the rounded bend of the river, its waters a ripple of silver under the afternoon sun, the hazy peaks of mountains in the distance, and the gentle way the grasses swayed in the breeze. She saw a herd of wild mustangs galloping off to the west. She was used to beauty – the ladies of the Dahl and the Van Wullen families were fairly sheltered from anything else – but it was always the well-tended, expensive beauty of an artificial pond and a manicured lawn. This was wilderness – free, magnificent, endless wilderness all around.
After about twenty minutes, she noticed signs of what was undoubtedly a farm, and though she knew next to nothing about farming, the neatness and order, the straight fences and new paint and herd of fat cattle made her realize the farm must be thriving.
"Emmerson's is a fairly new holding," Tim said. "When he moved out here a few years ago, he sunk a lot of money into getting it established. He runs a milk ranch, raises crops, breeds turkeys, and keeps a chicken coop with maybe eighty or a hundred hens for small-scale egg and meat production."
The two-story farmhouse was not fixed up like many of the houses in Resurrection Town and nearby holdings, but quite new. It was painted white, with squeaky-clean windows framed by white curtains, and a wide, white-and-blue front porch. A thick-bellied man in faded overalls stood there, watching the slow progress of Tim's truck up the narrow gravel path. The suspicious expression on his face was visible even at a distance.
"Hello, Gary," Tim said, stopping in front of the house and rolling down the window. Emmerson nodded, but was clearly a man who valued his time and didn't think much of pleasantries.
"What brings you here, Tim?"
"You'd better ask who brings me here," Tim countered with a grin, gesturing at Priscilla, whom he urged to get out of the truck. "A new addition to your farm. A worker."
Emmerson scanned Priscilla up and down in such an unimpressed, indifferent way that she felt a prickle of indignation. "See here, girl, what's your name?"
"Nell."
He spoke over her head, as though she was not something worth looking at. "See here, Nell. We run a smooth operation here. I have five workers, and each one of them is a machine. I don't pay much, but I pay regular and fair, and I promised each man a raise once things pick up. Mean it, too. I don't need frustrated men who don't pull their weight."
"I don't care about money much," Priscilla said, hating herself for trying to get on the right side of this man she instantly disliked. Emmerson's mouth twitched in amusement.
"If you say so. But you see, I don't have no place to give anyone here out of charity, not even for just room and board. And you're nothing but a slip of a girl. What can you do?"
"Anything you ask me to."
Emmerson snorted. "Well, we'll see about that. Maybe you're tougher than you look."
Priscilla brightened. "Does this mean you'll give me a chance?"
"Yes. That's the kind of man I am. I give people chances. I think we can find you a spare corner in the barn."
Tim spluttered in indignation. "The barn? Now, Emmerson, that ain't fair."
Emmerson shrugged, unmoved. "I got but one spare bedroom in the house, and two of my men board there. The others come over the hills every morning."
"Tim," Priscilla said, "the barn's alright by me." She meant it, too. No police officer or government official in their right mind would think of looking for Alexander Dahl's daughter in a barn in a godforsaken spot somewhere across the Boundary.
"Oh, come on," Tim said, "You can throw a camp bed in the living room for Nell, can't you? Besides—"
"My wife won't take kindly to turnin' the house into a gypsy camp."
"Tim," Priscilla said louder. "It's OK."
He stared at her, his concern clear. "You sure?"
She nodded.
"Well, I'll be popping in to see how you're doing, anyway. Good luck."
He turned the truck around and left her standing with Emmerson, who looked at her with increasing skepticism.
"C'mon, girl. We'll have supper, and then I'll show you where you can drop off your stuff."
* * *
After supper, Emmerson accompanied her to the barn.
One of several on the property, it was a vast, solidly built structure, almost as tall as the house. One side was occupied by neat rectangular bal
es of hay which towered almost to the loft that circled the inside. More hay appeared to fill most of the loft. A work area full of tools and shelves for all kinds of farm equipment filled most of the other side. In the leftover bit of available space, a camp bed was set up for Priscilla, with a thick, battered-looking sleeping bag spread out on it. Given how mild the day had been, she doubted she'd need it, but her new employer assured her nights were still cool enough to make the sleeping bag desirable.
"Here's a gas burner," he said, pointing at a small, rusty contraption. "It'll keep you warmer, but not by much. The space is too big, and we didn't build it with any sleeping arrangements in mind."
"That's fine."
Emmerson humphed. "We'll see what you say in the morning. Anyway, it's not like we have anywhere else to put you." He thrust his hands into the pockets of his overalls. "You sure you've eaten your fill of supper? I don't want anyone to see how thin you are and say Gary Emmerson is starving his workers."
"No, I'm full."
It was true. Emmerson knew that to get his money's worth out of his workers, he must feed them well. Priscilla was astounded by the quantities of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans served at the long scrubbed kitchen table. There were the Emmersons and their three children, and the two workers who lived on the farm, and all eight plates were filled and refilled and refilled again, until nobody could eat another bite. Mrs. Emmerson, a plump, energetic woman, moved between the stovetop and the table with surprising alacrity. Like her husband, she had a brisk, efficient manner, but Priscilla thought she saw a hint of pity and concern in Mrs. Emmerson's eyes as she offered her a fourth helping of chicken.
"Well, then, night, Nell. You can bar the door if you want to, but there ain't no intruders here."
Priscilla barred it anyway after he walked out. With the door secure and the oil lamp casting a circle of cozy yellow glow around it, she felt safe. For the first time since crossing the threshold of Silver Oaks, she could relax. The air was just cool enough to make her appreciate the thick insulating layer of the sleeping bag. She crawled into it and stretched out on the bed, inhaling the sweet smell of hay and feeling worlds away from anything she knew before.
An owl hooted in the distance. A gust of cool air slipped in through a crack in the wall and blew across her cheek. Somewhere, Priscilla knew, people were looking for her, but no one would imagine she could be here, on a camp bed in the barn of a far-flung farm. She planned to slip out entirely unnoticed, but in retrospect, was glad of the chance to let Tilly know. Tilly deserved a goodbye. So did Stephanie, but that was impossible. As for mother… No, I won't think about it. She knew her mother would be worried, but whether for her well-being or for the election campaign she couldn't guess.
All the while, her father's figure loomed in the background, dark and menacing at the top of the White Tower. Priscilla dreaded the thought of him, so she pushed it away. I'm his daughter. Even if he finds me, there's nothing to be afraid of. But I don't intend to be found. At least not until the election is over.
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The three horses seemed to be as happy to be out on the trail as their riders. By late afternoon, they reached the natural shelter often used by travelers on this path – a shallow cave with an outer rough stone wall gradually constructed by people who put up a stone here, a boulder there over time.
The snug, windowless abode provided protection from the elements and, as always, was a welcome sight. They dismounted and tethered the horses in a little nook outside the cave. After they spread their sleeping bags on the ground inside, Tom pulled out the thin bundle of supplies.
When they left camp, Gabby was profuse in her apologies for sending them off so ill-provisioned, but they assured her that with supplies so short, what she packed – a bit of hard sausage, some cheese near the point of going moldy, a small stack of corn crackers, and some dried apple slices – would be more than enough. They gathered wood and started a fire, next to which they sat and ate their scant supper, making sure to leave enough food for tomorrow. It was getting dark fast, and Jimmy's scheme of fishing would have to wait until morning.
3
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Monday, March 17
They rose at dawn and, after some time at the nearby stream, managed to catch two trout for breakfast. Roasted above a fire with a pinch of salt, the fish made the most satisfying meal they had in a while. Then it was time to get back in the saddle for another long day of riding.
"I wish Elisa hadn't left," Jimmy grumbled around midday, when pangs of hunger prompted them to stop, unsaddle the animals, and settle down for a cold lunch of leftovers. "Somehow, there always used to be more food with her around."
Tom raised his eyebrows. "You can't be selfish. Elisa and Sidney had a right to go and live where they want. They didn't want to keep squeezing in on benches in the longhall."
"This isn't about being selfish! We're a camp. A team. For years, we counted on each other in order to survive. You can't make people depend on you, and then just...just leave."
"Elisa left everything in very good order," Ben pointed out, knowing Jimmy's secret partiality for the girl was what made him so resentful of her leaving with Sidney. "We just have to adjust."
Jimmy gave him an accusing look. "You're just saying that because you plan to move and live at Raven's camp!"
"What?" Ben gave a short, strained laugh, and nearly dropped the bit of sausage he was holding. "I'm not doing anything of the sort!"
Tom shrugged. "As you say, mate. Though it would sure make things easier for you two, not having to cover all this distance every time. You've been seeing each other for what, almost two years?"
Ben cleared his throat. He had no desire to discuss his love life. "I am not leaving the camp. Not in the near future, anyway."
His friends let the matter drop, but Ben could not stop himself from thinking. Tom's right. It would be so much easier if we lived in the same camp. But how could it possibly work out? I'm the leader of my camp and she of hers. We both have responsibilities. Neither of us can just up and leave. And besides, we've never even discussed the future. The present's always kept us much too busy.
He continued thinking about their situation as they finished eating, saddled up and pressed on.
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Long golden beams of sunlight forced themselves through cracks in the walls. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees during the night. The tip of her nose felt uncomfortably cold, though the rest of her was snug and warm inside the sleeping bag. Only the desperate need of a bathroom made her climb out of its confines and put her feet down on the straw-littered floor.
As she was debating whether to run a comb through her hair, or concentrate on finding a bathroom and a shower with hot water, she heard banging on the barn door, followed by Emmerson's annoyed voice from outside.
"You dead in there, girl?"
Priscilla stole a quick glance at her watch. Only six-thirty! She was about to yell out the time when she remembered her new position, modified her voice into proper acquiescence, and called, "I'll be right there!"
"Well, well," Emmerson said with his hands on his hips as she stood there, blinking in the wide rectangle of bright light let in by the open door. "You sure had yourself a nice sleep, huh, Nell?"
"I slept alright. Um… could you tell me where I can find a bathroom and maybe some breakfast?"
"In the house. Door on the left in the hall is the bathroom used by the workers. Breakfast's in the kitchen, long gone cold, of course. The boys got up at five, were out by five-thirty. We don't have us any lie-ins around here, Nell."
"Yes, sir. Is there an alarm clock I can use so I can get up on time tomorrow?"
Emmerson grunted. "Ask the missus."
"Right. And what do I do after breakfast?"
"Start with the chicken coop. See
that building with the green tin roof over there? It's all pretty simple. They just need feeding and watering and some mucking out, too. Feed is in those barrels next to the wall. All you need is right there. I'm off, now. Can't afford to lose no time."
Gary Emmerson stomped off to prepare for driving his children to school in Resurrection Town.
Priscilla, a little ashamed of her lateness and eager to start proving useful, allowed herself no more than a quick bathroom visit and a brief splash of cold water on her face before stepping into the kitchen. It was empty. The dishes were already washed, but a plate had been saved for her with scrambled eggs and sausages and toast. It was all cold and not very appetizing, but she figured they would probably get nothing else until lunch. With little enthusiasm, she quickly picked through the plate, leaving only some half-eaten toast which she tossed into the trash can.
Outside, the day was glorious. Tiny puffs of white clouds floated high in the periwinkle-blue sky. Grasses swayed in the light breeze, making the gentle rounded slopes of the hills look as if they were breathing. The river sparkled in the sun like a slithering silver serpent. Priscilla looked at it all, and for a moment, her heart soared. I'm a nobody here. I could walk into the hills, to this river, into the woods. I could walk and walk for days and not see another person. This is freedom. Freedom like I never imagined.
Then she came back to reality. I'm not just some teenage girl on the run. I'm the President's daughter. Silver Oaks must be in an uproar by now. Without much money, or another place to live besides Emmerson's barn, I'm at his mercy. She sighed. And I have a chicken coop to clean.
When she walked into the building, she thought she might pass out from the stench. Smells like there's a thousand chickens in here. Why are half the windows closed? The birds were walking and pecking at feeding trays and vying for one of the rectangular laying boxes that were affixed to the wall. The clucking was deafening.
Stephanie and Priscilla owned a pet canary once, and their mother declared that cleaning the cage would teach them responsibility, so they took turns at it. Tilly's job was to remind them of this chore, with which Stephanie soon lost patience. She always tried to slack off, but Priscilla didn't mind taking up her sister's share. She figured cleaning out a chicken coop would be no different, only on a larger scale. A laugh burst from her lips, but in a moment turned into a gag.