by Mark Souza
“Crops that return after planting stops are called volunteers,” Moyer said. “It’s another of those useless bits of information stuck in my head.”
“You are an interesting man, Mr. Winfield.”
“Moyer, my first name is Moyer.”
“Drago,” Nastasi said, offering his hand.
Moyer’s hand was enveloped in the giant’s. It reminded him of when he shook hands with adults as a child.
“Volunteers, it’s a good word,” Nastasi said. “The strong survive to do and be what they were meant to. We who live in this valley are volunteers, too, returning to live as we were meant to. We have taken root, and our numbers grow. One day we will spread beyond our valley to take back the world, and God will reclaim what is His. Corporate oppression, much like genetically altered crops that can’t reproduce, is an abomination to God and can’t last.
“People in the cities live in fear. Beneath that, anger and resentment swell. A spark is all it will take to set the world aflame one day, and it will burn away the tyranny and lies blinding the rest of humankind. I believe that day is close at hand. I can feel it, Moyer”
In the distance, Robyn sat laughing with the Connors girls in a ring on the porch. Moyer couldn’t make out what they were doing, but supposed they were shelling peas. Their joy was a bitter counterpoint to the guilt flattening his soul. The giant sat placidly staring into an azure sky. Perhaps he saw his God there. Moyer dropped his face into his hands. “I have made things worse. I’m sorry. I gave Perko the Worm because I was too weak to stop it. I did everything he wanted because of my desperation to please and my fear of failure.”
Nastasi stared into Moyer’s eyes and smiled, “Man can’t know the designs of Heaven. You may yet have a role to play.”
Moyer had to turn away. He couldn’t accept Nastasi’s kindness or misplaced faith. “Do you know why I did it?”
Nastasi nodded, “For a baby. Viktor Perko lied to you. He lies to everyone.”
Moyer sighed. “You know what’s ironic? I don’t know if I wanted a baby. Robyn does. This was all an effort to keep her from leaving me. I hoped if she was happy, we might… I don’t know.”
Nastasi placed a heavy arm across Moyer’s shoulders. “Whether you did it for a child, or you did it for your wife, what you did was for love. It’s not your fault Viktor Perko used that love against you. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Look, regardless of whether I can develop a virus, you will never get close enough to implant it. Digi-Soft is a fortress, and I no longer have access.”
“When I was a soldier,” Nastasi said, “my squadron was dropped from the air at night behind enemy lines. We accidentally landed in a huge lake many kilometers from shore and it appeared we were doomed. Do you know what you do when faced with the impossible?”
Moyer shook his head.
“Everything you can,” Nastasi said. “We can’t implant a virus unless we have one. So let’s start by doing that. We’ll tackle the next steps as they come. Whether we prevail or we don’t, we will try. No goal can be accomplished without at least trying.”
Nastasi stood. “We should be getting back. I don’t want Brother Duffy to have the council’s ear uncontested.”
Chapter 35
Robyn came to the dinner table pink and happy with her hair still wet from a bath. The long table sat fourteen. The council and men had already eaten on an earlier shift. Hawthorne, Robyn and Moyer sat with the children on the next. Clay and wood bowls held assorted vegetables, and a platter near the head of the table, meat. Moyer reached for the bowl of mashed potatoes in front of him.
“Let us say grace,” said Sister Connors from the head of the table. Moyer set down the bowl and wooden spoon. A boy across from him snickered. Hands were extended, neighbor to neighbor, and heads bowed. Moyer took Robyn’s hand and the girl’s next to him.
“Thank you our Lord for the bounty you have provided and the shelter of your grace. Thank you also for the company of the Winfields, and Justice Hawthorne, and may you look after them as you have us. Also help Evan understand it is not polite to laugh at the mistakes of others lest he also be laughed at. Amen.”
Moyer waited and watched, determined not to breach etiquette again. Food was served and bowls passed to the right. He reached once more for the mashed potatoes. He noted names as requests were made to have things passed down.
“Sister Connors?” he asked. The woman at the head of the table turned. “What is this? It’s delicious.”
“That’s rabbit. We raise them here. The children look after them. And you can call me Betsy.”
“And what is this?” he said, pointing to a pile of stewed leaves on his plate.
“Those are nettles.”
“Nettles? I’ve never heard of them before.”
“They are quite important here. They grow wild near the creek and we use them for food, and to make dye, and as fiber for clothing.”
At the end of the meal, the children cleared the table while the adults continued talking. “I met a pregnant woman when I was here last,” Moyer said when there was a lull. “Her name was Margret, I believe. I haven’t noticed her since we arrived. Do you think my wife could meet her?”
The women exchanged glances. The mood at the table changed.
“Moyer,” Robyn said, “that’s not necessary.”
“No, honey, I want you to see for yourself.”
Betsy spoke; her eyes troubled. “Margret and her baby died during child birth.”
“Died?”
“Yes,” she said.
Moyer remembered Margret’s warm trusting eyes, her hand guiding his to her belly, the heat of her skin, and the surprising thump against his hand. He felt a rush of sadness. He hadn’t considered the possibility that natural childbirth carried any more risk than picking up a baby from Hogan-Perko. “Does that happen often?”
The women turned to one another as if in silent conference. “I wouldn’t say often, but it does happen on occasion. Once a woman delivers her first, things usually go easier for the rest.”
Light from a single candle cast a weak, amber glow in the upstairs room. Robyn lay next to Moyer in a small bed intended for a child. She shifted restlessly, still not ready for sleep. Moyer tried to adapt, searching for a comfortable position in the space remaining each time Robyn squirmed.
They had raised the window hoping to relieve the stifling heat radiated from the roof which had baked all day in the sun. Crickets filled the air with their songs and the scent of Morning Glories drifted in on the breeze.
Robyn whispered, “I think this could be the best day of my life, Moyer. Those little girls were so sweet. And their mothers didn’t seem to care how much time I spent with them.”
“I’m glad you had fun,” Moyer said.
“The little girls, did you notice, they didn’t have holograms?”
“Of course not, honey, they were born here.”
“I thought you were making that up.”
“Nope.”
Robyn closed her eyes and smiled. Moyer supposed this new world had opened possibilities previously denied them. Pain oozed from his bruised legs like a vapor. His muscles relaxed. Sleep welcomed him and he drifted into it without resistance.
“Moyer?”
“Hmm, what?”
“Do you think they’ll let us stay?”
“I don’t know. But we should get some sleep.”
Moyer blew out the candle and rested his head on the pillow. He let his thoughts mingle with cricket songs and let the rhythm lull him to sleep.
“Moyer?”
“What!”
“Don’t be mad, I swear this is the last time. What were you and Brother Nastasi discussing?”
“Nothing. We were only shooting the breeze and trying each other on for size.”
“Do you think he will help us?”
“I think so. He said he would and he strikes me as a man of his word.”
He waited for another questi
on that didn’t come. Her breathing slowed, and he draped his arm over her waist. His breathing soon matched his wife’s.
“Moyer?”
“What now? You said last time was the last time.”
“Sorry, it’s just, I don’t know, do you think once things calm down a little, we can visit my folks so they won’t worry about us?”
“Sure, as soon as it’s safe.”
Robyn sighed and relaxed under his touch. He listened to her breathing wind down. Within minutes she was snoring. Moyer listened to the crickets and Robyn’s light rattle, but his thoughts wouldn’t harmonize to their tempo. Instead, he dwelled on how he would break the news to Robyn that her parents were dead.
Chapter 36
Sunday, 8 July
Four horse drawn carts were already tied up in front of the church when the one carrying the Winfields and the Judge pulled up. Inside, pews had been straightened into rows. Those at the front were full of people Moyer had never seen before.
“There are others?” he asked Nastasi.
“Yes, we are nearly three hundred strong, now.” Nastasi led them to the front. A pair of benches pushed end to end sat before the altar facing the congregation. Moyer, Robyn and Hawthorne sat next to Nastasi.
Adults seated in the pews bowed heads reverently in prayer and discreetly stole glimpses of the newcomers. Their children were not so subtle and openly stared and pointed.
The church gradually filled. The remaining members of the council took places on the benches before the altar. Brother Duffy shot Moyer an annoyed glance. Nastasi led the congregation through the ceremony. Moyer watched carefully and parroted the actions of the others and tried not to seem too out of place.
Much of the service was similar to those back in the city. Nastasi stood, enormous arms outstretched, watery blue eyes gazing at the ceiling until the church was absolutely still. Then he lowered his gaze and spoke.
“There are three newcomers among us.” He motioned for them to stand. “They come to us from the capital, persecuted, seeking our shelter. The council has taken the matter under consideration, and recommends we make room for them with us.”
Brother Duffy glowered at Nastasi and lifted himself off the bench. “Not all of the council agrees,” he said, his shrill voice booming. It was an obvious act of defiance, though none of the other council members interrupted.
“You should know something before you decide. These three are being hunted in the city, and their presence may draw Security Services to us. Their presence poses a considerable threat to every man, woman, and child in this community. Know this before you vote,” Brother Duffy said, a single finger raised in the air. He slowly settled back onto the bench, eyes scanning the crowd, a smug look on his face. Moyer was sure they would never be friends.
Nastasi spoke, a beneficent smile on his face. “The way is never easy, friends. Part of the measure of you, is how much you will sacrifice for others. By a show of hands, how many believe the newcomers should be permitted to stay?” Hands shot up throughout the congregation.
“And how many opposed?” Two parishioners raised their hands, and another two on the council, Brothers Duffy and Wallace. “Let us welcome Brother John Hawthorne, Brother Moyer Winfield, and Sister Robyn Winfield,” Nastasi said.
Introductions went on for more than an hour after service. The handshakes were vigorous and warm, as were the smiles. Moyer saw Hawthorne drift toward the edge of the crowd and head into town toward the library at his first chance. A few minutes later Moyer followed.
Hawthorne sat near the rear windows with the sun on his shoulders, his feet up on a table, and an open book in his hand. His eyes shifted up from the page when Moyer entered, then shifted back to his book. The building was empty except for the two of them. Hawthorne’s turn of a page punctuated the silence.
“Reading?”
Hawthorne looked up and raised his brows. “Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay, Judge? You seemed to leave pretty fast.”
Hawthorne lowered his book, “I’m fine. I just wanted to spend the time I have left doing the things I want to do, all the little things I never got to do because I was so busy.”
Moyer smiled, “That sounds rather morose, and not like the person I’ve come to know. From what I’ve seen, the end is still a long way off for you.”
When Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change, Moyer grew suspicious. “Is there something you are not telling me?”
“Has Brother Nastasi talked to you?” Hawthorne asked.
“About what?”
Hawthorne tipped his head back and as if searching for something on the ceiling. He puffed out his cheeks and let loose a loud sigh. He placed the open book face down on the table to mark his place.
“Brother Nastasi asked me to go back into the capital.”
Moyer’s mouth hung open. “Why? Does he want you to retake your seat on the Supreme Court?”
“No, he wants me to make a grand appearance so I make a splash on the net, to show I’m still alive, and to show that the corporations are manipulative liars. I think he’s hoping for an uprising. I’m supposed to be the spark.”
“But they’ll kill you.”
“He knows. He pointed out that if I’d remained on the bench, my death would have meant victory for the corporations, victory for Perko. They could have waited me out. It was simply a matter of time. Whereas, if I return now, my death at their hands makes me a martyr. It would be a major defeat for them. By dying, I could do more good than my entire career heading the Supreme Court.” Hawthorne offered a weak smile. “And the pitiful truth is he’s right.”
“Are you going to do it?”
Hawthorne nodded.
“When?”
“He was vague. He told me we would go when I was ready. But I know it won’t be long. They’ll want to strike while the iron is hot and people still remember who I am. I figured in the meantime I would do some of the things I always wanted; read good fiction, walk in the woods next to the creek, feel the sun on my shoulders, eat a few home cooked meals.”
Moyer didn’t know what to say. He looked at Hawthorne whose face was sad yet calm. “I’m sorry,” Moyer said. “I won’t interrupt again.”
Moyer turned to leave. Hawthorne called to him as he neared the door. “Be wary of the religious zealots here. They have an agenda. I’ve heard them talking and they have designs for you, too.” Hawthorne lifted a book and tossed it to Moyer. Moyer turned it over in his hands so the title faced him. It was a Bible. “Have you read this book of theirs?”
Moyer shook his head.
“You should. Pay particular attention to what happens to their messiahs and deliverers. Be careful not to let it happen to you.”
Chapter 37
Wednesday, 5 September
Corn grew tall in the Connors’ field as summer eased into fall. Hawthorne spent his days at the library, or down by the creek with his treasured books. Frequently he read stories to the Connors children after chores.
Moyer spent his time with the men trying to help out and feeling awkward as he learned the skills required for survival in Mannington. He helped clear land, cut down trees and split the logs that would be milled into lumber for the construction of his house the following year. His muscles grew sore, and then grew strong. His soft hands toughened. Throughout the summer as time allowed, Moyer led a crew of men from homestead to homestead digging wells and installing windmills to draw fresh water into the homes. He had other ideas for utilizing his skills as an engineer to improve life in the valley. However, as the harvest commenced and with winter on its heels, those ideas would have to wait.
One Sunday after weekly services, Nastasi handed Moyer batteries for the computer and a copy of the Worm source code. Though curious, Moyer didn’t ask Nastasi how he’d managed it. He knew it was something Nastasi wouldn’t divulge.
After working sunup to sundown in the fields, Moyer worked nights developing a virus to disable the Worm, stopping only when exh
austion rendered his work gibberish. It wasn’t uncommon to spend his first hour of programming undoing his mistakes from the night before.
After dinner, Moyer and Robyn frequently walked the trails along the creek or to the top of the hill behind the Connors’ farm. The trails offered privacy that was impossible in the crowded house. They brought together their experiences from the day and talked, and often bent tall grasses down into a bed and made love under an open sky.
Robyn had been learning, as well. Under the guidance of Betsy Connors she learned to can peas and make raspberry jam. She butchered rabbits, milked the goats, cooked meals from scratch, learned to make soap, and washed clothes by hand. The workdays were sometimes long as the approach of winter lent a sense of urgency, but Robyn didn’t mind. It was somehow different working for her own benefit and survival, and for the benefit of friends.
On a cool late summer morning, Robyn went to the creek with Betsy Connors and her eldest daughter Frieda to collect nettles. The sky was clear and pale blue and shadows stretched long across fields blanketed in dew. Frieda was a youthful copy of her mother, more slender at the waist, hair a couple shades lighter, but there was no mistaking where she came from. They walked down the carriage track to the foot trail paralleling the stream bank carrying broad, willow baskets with large, hoop handles.
Betsy stopped at a stand of tall weeds growing in the shade. The weeds stretched to the water’s edge in a large thicket tens of meters long. Straight stalks covered in fuzz sported broad, heart-shaped leaves with jagged edge as if they’d been cut out with pinking shears.
Betsy selected a stalk, sliced it with a paring knife near the ground, and laid it in her basket. Frieda did the same. Robyn emulated what she’d seen. When she put the stalk in the basket it brushed her arm. Stinging pain seared her skin. She dropped the stalk and screeched. Her skin turned pink. White welts dotted her arm.
Robyn scratched her skin. Frieda reacted first, rushing to Robyn’s side, and seeing what she had done, clutched Robyn’s hand. “Don’t! If you rub or scratch it gets worse. Let’s go down to the water and soak it.”