by Mark Souza
Hawthorne stopped on the walk in front of the squat library building. Moyer supposed it bore little resemblance to the Supreme Court Legal Library he was accustomed to. It might be another source of disappointment. This was, after all, likely the last library Hawthorne would ever see.
“You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Hawthorne said. He shuffled up the cracked sidewalk and pushed open the door. He stopped at the threshold and scanned the shelves, nodding his head as he looked around. The shelves were neat and cared for, book spines aligned in tight rows with few gaps. He pulled a book off the nearest shelf, and broke into a grin. “Look at all the fiction!” He clapped his hands together and walked from shelf to shelf reading titles and pulling down selected volumes, stacking them up in his arms.
He turned to Moyer, eyes glossy with delight. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve read something other than a book of law?” He stacked his bounty on a table and searched for more.
“While I was blindly focused on the law, books disappeared, libraries were demolished, and the written word vanished. I never thought I would see them again. I figured I was too late.” He held a pair of books up like prizes and set them down on the table with the rest. He spread them out, picked one, and opened it to page one. “I think I’m going to enjoy being dead,” he said.
Moyer spotted Robyn wagging her head. She clearly didn’t share in the Judge’s enthusiasm. A title caught Moyer’s eye and he pulled it down.
“He’s right you know,” Robyn said, “We are already dead.”
“Only back there. Here we’re alive. Here our lives are brand new and belong to us.” He handed her a book on child care. Robyn tossed it to the floor, jaw clenched, eyes defiant.
“This is the only entertainment we have,” Moyer said. “There is no net. There is no mall. You need to come to grips with —” Moyer caught a flash of color from the corner of his eye.
A woman wearing a long yellow dress stood at the entrance, her eyes wide with surprise. She was young, in her late teens or early twenties, freckle faced, with long auburn braids hanging over her shoulders. Her hands flailed in the air. A muffled scream escaped her mouth. She turned and ran, bouncing off the door on her way out.
Moyer tried chasing after her. His legs, battered and beaten from the night before, barely managed a few choppy strides. Ice pick tines of pain shot through his shins.
“We won’t hurt you,” he called after her. His words did nothing to slow the woman. She rounded the corner without looking back, pigtails bobbing, yellow dress billowing behind her. Moyer sighed and limped back inside.
Hawthorne still had his nose in a book when Moyer returned, seemingly unconcerned about the intruder. Robyn sat near a bank of windows on the far side of the room, her back toward him, head on table covered by her arms, hunkered down in a well of pity.
“At least they know we are here,” Moyer said.
Chapter 34
An hour later, the library door swung open again. A huge man dressed in a hooded, brown robe filled the door frame. He ducked his head as he entered. Hawthorne fumbled a hand into his pocket. Moyer stopped him. The giant pulled back his hood revealing a shock of closely cropped white hair, talc-like skin, and pale blue eyes.
“We heard you were being hunted,” he said.
The news traveled fast. To Moyer, this was further proof Begat had spies in the city.
“The council elders and deacons wish to meet with you,” the giant said. “Please follow me.”
Outside, a crowd circled the library entrance, men in front, women and children behind. Moyer spotted the woman in the yellow dress straining for a view. In the street, a pair of flatbed wagons waited, fashioned from wood and steel, each attached to a pair of beasts. Moyer had never seen anything like them before, but recognized the animals from old picture books. They were horses. In his books, they were pictured running in fields. The photos offered no sense of scale. He had no idea they were so large. In illustrations their faces appeared to be so intelligent and kind, but now that he saw them up close, their size was frightening.
The men helped Moyer, Robyn, and Hawthorne onto one of the wagons and then hopped aboard. The women and children loaded aboard the other. The giant took a seat on a bench at the front with his back to Moyer. He picked up a set of leather straps, waggled his hands, and barked the command, ‘Ha!’ and the cart lurched forward.
The horses trotted easily over the pavement, retracing the route to the church. Hooves beat out a relaxing rhythm. The cart bounced along and the wheels rattled stiffly over broken asphalt. Near where the graveyard bordered the church, the wagon turned sharply onto a path leading through a meadow. Dirt muffled the sound of the wheels and smoothed the ride.
The horses picked up the pace to a canter. Though only a tiny fraction the speed of the tube, Moyer found the experience infinitely more alarming. A breeze pushed Moyer’s hair into his eyes. Robyn sat close to the edge ahead of the wheels — too close for Moyer’s liking. In his mind, he could foresee a rock in the path or a sudden turn spilling her under the cart. Moyer reached across her hips and pulled her next to him. She gave him a sideward glance as if she knew what he was thinking and erupted into a warm smile.
The trail banked south toward the creek and into the bordering thicket of maples. Shade cooled air, laden with the scent of decaying leaves and mint, chilled Moyer’s skin. Goose bumps covered Robyn’s arms. He pulled her against him as much for his comfort as hers and she didn’t resist.
The men in the cart watched them. Hawthorne read his book, blithely ignorant of anything going on around him, a smile on his face, his fingers braced against the pages to keep the breeze from turning them before he was ready.
A turn in the path led away from the creek and up a knoll. At the top, the path broke from the trees and into bright sunlight, through a field of corn, toward a white house at the base of a hill. An old, weathered barn next to the dwelling sat with its wide doors open. The giant drove the cart inside. The cart hauling the women and children turned toward the two-story clapboard home. The men piled off the wagon and headed for the doors. Moyer helped Robyn and Hawthorne down while the giant freed the horses and led them to stalls. The barn doors were swung shut. Bright rectangles of light cascaded on the floor through windows in the roof of the barn.
A side door opened and three more men and a woman wearing brown robes strode inside in single file and joined the giant. The giant was the youngest of them. They moved primitive wood benches stored along the wall, arranging them in the light, one bench for the council, and one for Hawthorne, Robyn and Moyer. After they sat, each of the council members introduced themselves.
“I am Sister Connors.”
“I am Brother Duffy.”
“I am Brother Bonderenko.”
“I am Brother Wallace.”
“I am Brother Nastasi.”
The members of the council lowered their hoods and sat. Moyer fixed his gaze on Brother Bonderenko. The man’s features hinted at a perpetual sadness, yet something in his eyes seemed familiar. And the name. Was there a chance he was related to his test subject, Anna?
The Judge stood and spoke. “John Hawthorne, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the Americas, deceased,” he said. A few members of the council broke into restrained smiles.
Robyn stood. “Robyn Winfield, sirs and ma’am.”
“Moyer Winfield.”
Brother Bonderenko spoke. “We have been monitoring events in the city and are well aware of your situation. Your presence here poses a threat to our community and our survival. We are divided over what to do. The teachings of our God say we should welcome strangers and those in need.”
Brother Duffy turned toward Brother Bonderenko and interrupted. “Not all of them. Other passages advise to consider family first and to keep them safe.” Brother Duffy was a squat, portly man with a jutting lower lip, bushy orange sideburns, and ruddy skin.
“This is not the place,” Brother Bonderenko warned. He
faced Moyer, his eyes stern. “There is an additional consideration. The timing of your arrival doesn’t allow for the construction of proper shelter. Lumber for a new dwelling would have to be milled and dried, and the harvest is fast approaching. We simply can’t spare the manpower. Whatever family takes you in will be under a terrible hardship. It is difficult enough surviving a winter without guests. Yet, if we put you out, you will not survive. Now you understand our dilemma.”
The giant, Brother Nastasi, had fixed his gaze on Moyer, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. When Brother Bonderenko finished, Brother Nastasi spoke. “Were you able to destroy the Worm?”
Moyer cast his eyes down and focused on the straw covering the floor between them. “I was taken off the project before I could do anything. I think my supervisor suspected. I’m sorry,” he said softly.
The news barely registered on Brother Nastasi’s face. “Do you have the knowledge to develop a virus capable of destroying the program?”
Moyer sighed. What was the best way to break bad news? “Yes, I think I could, but I don’t have a computer, and I don’t have access to the source code.”
Moyer remembered something, and reached into his pocket. He still had Hawthorne’s computer from the day before and it appeared undamaged despite all that had happened. “All we have is this, but it doesn’t have a battery.”
Brother Nastasi took the computer and turned it in his hands. “If you did have batteries, could you do what is needed on this?”
Moyer looked at Hawthorne. “I don’t know. It depends what’s on it. Do you have an Ultima compiler loaded on that thing?”
The Judge shrugged. “I don’t know much about computers. I use it for word processing and net access and that’s all. But my assistant said it’s top of the line and fully loaded.”
Nastasi turned to his fellow council members smiling.
“Don’t get excited,” Moyer cautioned, “Even if you manage to get batteries, I still have no access to the source code.”
Nastasi’s smile didn’t wane. “One obstacle at a time,” he said, “Patience is a virtue.”
“We will notify you of our decision,” Brother Bonderenko said.
The council got up to leave. Brother Duffy was still clearly agitated. The council filed out through the side door with the exception of Brother Nastasi who remained behind.
“You will stay here on the Connors’ farm until your status is determined.” Nastasi turned to Robyn and Hawthorne. “Why don’t you two carry the bags into the house?”
Robyn and Hawthorne glanced at one another. They both understood they were being dismissed so the giant could speak with Moyer alone. Robyn unloaded the cart and followed Hawthorne out the side door. A group of children dodged out of Robyn’s way and giggled. A young girl with long blond hair and serious eyes took one of the bags from Robyn and walked with her. “What is it like where you are from?” the girl asked.
Robyn knelt down next to the girl and smiled. “Imagine all these trees are shiny buildings many times taller than the tallest tree, so tall they block out the sun except at mid-day. Now imagine the corn field where cornstalks are people, thousands upon thousands of them, busy people in clothes that light up with pictures.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“It is.”
More beautiful than here?” the girl asked.
Robyn took in the view, the trees and corn swaying in the breeze, the wildflowers in bloom along the road. “No, not more beautiful than here.”
The girl smiled and took Robyn’s hand.
Nastasi went to the front of the barn and swung the large doors open. “Let me give you the tour,” he said. Moyer and Nastasi walked down the horse path leading through the cornfield toward the creek. The corn stood waist high in long, neat rows like wet hair that had been swept back with a coarse comb. Nastasi tugged at a long stalk of grass from one of the tall tufts growing next to the road. He placed it between his lips at the side of his mouth. Its seed head bounced and bobbed as Nastasi walked. Moyer watched him quizzically.
“Give it a try,” Nastasi said. “It won’t hurt you.”
Moyer plucked a stalk and inspected the end.
“The white part is soft and sweet,” Nastasi said, “Some people eat only that, but I prefer to keep going. I chew the green portion and suck out the juice. It’s a different flavor.”
Moyer put the stalk in his mouth, unsure of what to expect. He was surprised by the texture, and then by the taste. It was mildly sweet and musty, different from anything he had ever tasted before.
Nastasi grinned as he noted Moyer’s expression. “It’s either a flavor you like or you don’t.”
Moyer let the taste fill his mouth. He glanced behind him at the people gathered on the Connors’ porch. “Is Brother Bonderenko…?”
Nastasi raised his snowy brows. “Anna’s father? Yes, he is.”
Moyer looked at the giant and then at his feet. “Did Anna ever come here?”
Nastasi’s mouth tightened into a frown. “No. I wanted her to, and so did her father, but she couldn’t turn her back on what was happening in the capital. She thought she could do more good by remaining in the city and teaching the next generation. I think she would have loved it here.”
Moyer’s eyes settled on the cornfield. A breeze pushed the stalks in a long, rolling wave from the creek toward the hill. “Why would this area be considered commercially unviable?”
“The creek,” Nastasi said. “After the genetic plague, the population dropped. The demand for food dropped in kind, so the corporations determined which areas required the least amount of money to farm. Because of the creek's winding path, the tillable areas are oddly shaped and take more time to plant and harvest. It’s much more efficient to plant in open areas where fields are square, so they closed this area down. Simple economics, really. But for us it was a miracle.
“Everything had to be as it was for us to have survived and God made it so. When the corporations withdrew, they left the old railroad running and the library intact. We wouldn’t have made it without that. The library held all the ancient knowledge we required to survive; farming methods, weaving, sewing, wood construction, metal working, food preservation – things none of us knew.
“We thought we knew everything we needed, but some things can not be learned from books. The first winter was brutal. Nearly half of us died.”
Moyer stopped and pulled the grass stalk from his lips. “What’s going to happen to us?”
Nastasi turned toward Moyer, his face creased with concern. “I won’t sugar coat this. There’s a chance the council will ask you to leave. Some of them are scared. We are off the grid here and invisible. It’s what allows us to exist. If Security Services tracks you here, they will find us.
“The council may feel they have to sacrifice you to save the community. If that happens, you have your choice of going back to the city or trying your luck on your own further down the train line. You probably won’t survive either way.”
“Can you influence them?”
The corners of the giant’s mouth raised a little. “They are good people. They may struggle for a while, but I’m confident they will come to the right decision.” He gazed up at the sun and raised his hood to protect his unpigmented skin. “I do enjoy the warmth on my face, but I can only tolerate so much.”
They reached the edge of the trees where the path swung down to the creek. The giant took a seat on a fallen log beside the road in the shade. Moyer sat next to him. Across the field, children chased one another playing tag in front of the Connors’ house. Robyn and Hawthorne sat on the front porch talking with the women.
“Who are these people?” Moyer asked.
“We have a mix. Some are retirees escaping the prospect of living out their final days on the Ring of Fire. Some heard the word of God, felt the truth of it, and gave up everything to follow. Some are young couples who thought they would never be able to afford a baby.”
“And the chi
ldren?”
“The children were all born here.”
Moyer thought of the faces in the crowd outside the library. Some were teenagers. “That would mean you have been here for…”
“Sixteen years for some of us,” Nastasi said.
“How do you do it? Obviously you can’t make everything yourselves.”
“You would be surprised how little we get from the outside. We trade goods in the city on the black market, usually fresh produce from our farms in return for medicine, lye for making soap, glass containers for storing food, and a few tools and building supplies. The rest we do ourselves.”
Another gust pulsed through the corn marking its path with bent stalks and a ripple of silver through a field of green. “Where do you get your seed? You can’t get that on the black market.”
“We have never needed seed.”
“What?” Moyer said. “All seed is controlled by Global Brands and good for only one growing season.”
“You seem to know a lot about farming.”
“Not really, I just know strange bits of trivia on a lot of odd topics.”
Nastasi snorted out a laugh and glanced sidelong at Moyer. “The corn was growing in patches in this field when we first arrived here. There are two theories on where it came from. One is that it was a gift from God, that He knew we were coming and that in His infinite wisdom and love for us, prepared the way.
“The other is that when a crop is harvested, a small amount spills on the ground and some of the plants near the edges are missed completely by harvesting machines. So even in the days when genetically altered, high-yield seed was planted in this field, there was always a small amount of the ancient fertile crop present. When Global Brands abandoned the area, the old fertile strain flourished again. It was here, waiting.”
“Volunteers,” Moyer muttered.
“I beg your pardon.”