Robyn's Egg

by Mark Souza

  Nastasi climbed the church steps and raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Friends, we live in trying times. We live in a time of blindness. We see only illusions prepared for our consumption. We have allowed those in power to blind us. We don’t understand how bad things are because we have no point of reference. We don’t know how things were because the past is hidden from us. This land has changed in drastic ways. It happened slowly over time, almost too slowly to see. Like the disintegration of a mountain into sand, we can never comprehend how grand the grain of sand was before we found it because sand is all we’ll ever know.

  “When this land was settled, the founders put forth a charter, a proclamation to all.” Nastasi held a sheet of paper over his head.

  “It says — We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. Let me repeat that – that all men are created equal. That they are endowed by their Creator certain unalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  “This was once the Declaration of Independence, the document this country was founded on. Slowly, it has been eroded over generations, until these words no longer exist.

  “You are not free. This is not the land those men envisioned centuries ago. You are servants to corporations – slaves to the wealthy few. You were born slaves, and your children will be slaves. Is that what you want?”

  The crowd shouted, “No.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No!”

  “Your children should have the opportunity to seek an education. They should have the right to learn to read. They should be free to pursue any career they desire. We need change. We need a government that serves all people, not just the wealthy few. We need a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, representing everyone. But change does not come easily. Before this type of government can come to be, the current government must be swept aside.” An uneasy quiet fell over the crowd.

  “I know, I know. How can ordinary people take on the government? What can one person do? They have the soldiers. They have the weapons. You do it by not playing their game. You stop working in their factories. You stop cleaning their homes. You stop repairing their machines. You stop transporting their goods. Without you, they have nothing.”

  Moyer felt awestruck. His hands stopped quaking, and he was no longer concerned about security agents.

  “But how is that possible?” the giant asked. “We need to eat. We need places to live. I know this. I invite you all to come to live in equality. We will return in the spring for those who wish to join us. Until then, think over what I’ve said. We have copies of the true Declaration of Independence. Please take one, and study it with your teachers.”

  Nastasi left a box of documents on the steps and walked away in the direction they had come. On a side street, the Brothers removed their robes and continued on their way toward a safe house to wait until nightfall when it was cool enough to safely ride the train through the collector fields again.

  As they walked, Moyer asked, “Where did you find that document?”

  “It was in the library.” Nastasi smiled.

  “But they can’t read. What are they supposed to do with it?”

  “Many of them can,” Nastasi said. “We have been teaching them. It’s a duty you will soon be called upon to do.”

  It was dark when the train pulled to a stop in Mannington. Men loaded out with their signs and scrambled into a waiting wagon. Brother Duffy’s boy, Sean, sat in the seat and tended the reins. A full moon lit the landscape in spooky shades of gray and silver. The men quietly climbed aboard, weary and ready for sleep.

  The horses started down the road toward the church and then swung onto the trail into the woods alongside the creek. The Connors’ farm was first. Sean Duffy pulled to a stop at the bottom of the hill so he wouldn’t have to turn the wagon around. Moyer hopped out and watched the cart continue down the trail until it disappeared into the trees before he headed up to the house. It was late and the windows were dark.

  Moonlight glinted off quartz flakes in the dusty road. He felt like an interloper as he started toward the slumbering house. Crickets and tree frogs that had gone silent at the approach of the wagon filled the air again with sound. As he neared the barn, the night went quiet again. Something was wrong.

  Moyer stopped and gazed down the slope toward the main road. He saw nothing out of the ordinary but couldn’t shake his feeling of apprehension. Leaves rustled in the corn. Moyer looked into the field. No breeze stirred. It had to be something else. Perhaps a raccoon. He started toward the house again and heard rustling behind him. It was moving with him, not away as a small animal would. Whatever followed Moyer did not fear him and was closing.

  Moyer veered left to increase the distance between him and the corn. The road swung away from the field as it neared the house. A pair of black dogs quietly emerged from cover, and then a light colored one, and another, until six huddled in a pack. Moyer scooped up a handful of rocks. They hesitated for a moment and then split into two columns to surround him as they had in the church. Moyer chucked the rocks at the black dog leading the charge. It yelped and backed off. The other dogs froze. Moyer scooped up more rocks, and charged again at the group closest to the house. They backed away. Moyer made a break for the porch. When he reached the door he turned. The pack stood facing him for a moment before skulking back into the corn.

  Inside, Moyer removed his boots and crept up the stairs. Moonlight shone through the window onto the bed. Robyn lay on her side, nude, facing the wall. Moyer stripped off his clothes and slipped into bed next to her. She moaned. She took his wrist, and pulled his arm over her, resting his hand on her stomach.

  “Are you awake?” he whispered.

  “My husband’s off somewhere trying to get himself killed. Of course I’m awake. I take it things went well?”

  “Yes. You could say that. I heard Brother Nastasi speak. It was very inspiring. Until today I had no inkling what they were attempting here. Now I think I understand, and I want to help.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

  Monday, 16 October

  The harvest continued unabated, women and men putting in long days. Men and boys picked corn till the Connors’ carts creaked under the weight. After each stalk was stripped of ears, it was stomped down to make it easy to identify what sections remained to be picked. A small patch of corn near the hill was left intact to draw deer into the field. Some would be killed and the venison salted and smoked for the winter.

  When the carts were full, they all hopped aboard and rode the two-track trails to other farms, offloading corn and loading aboard potatoes, beans, squash, onions, carrots or whatever that farm offered in exchange. It was the busiest of times; a time that would determine who survived the winter. Crops brought back to the Connors’ farm were loaded into the root cellar or taken directly to the kitchen for canning.

  Moyer ended each day weary, muscles aching, yet it was the most joy he’d ever experienced working. Nights grew cold and in the morning before the sun climbed over the trees, he wore the jacket Mrs. Connors and Robyn had fashioned for him from nettle fiber.

  After church one Sunday morning, during the time of the apple and pear harvest, Hawthorne pulled Moyer aside. Turmeric colored maple leaves blanketed the streets and walks scenting the air with a syrupy odor that reminded Moyer of his mother’s Saturday breakfasts when he was a child. Hawthorne lugged an armful of books. Moyer took them and as they walked to the library, Hawthorne told Moyer tomorrow would be his last day in Mannington. He would return to the city with Brother Nastasi in defiance of Viktor Perko.

  “But why?”

  “Brother Nastasi and I talk a great deal. The world is at war, Moyer. I’m talking about an economic war that’s been waged quietly for decades and is at the heart of everything.”

  Hawthorne shook his head, resigned and bitter. The Judge seemed weary. He trained his eyes on Moyer. �
�It’s amazing how simple it is to manipulate the masses. It’s like training a mule. All you need is a carrot, a stick, and blinders. The carrot is the promise that by following the rules and working hard, anyone can get to the top and join the elite. In the old days they called it the American Dream. It’s not really true, you know. Only so many people are allowed to get a taste of the carrot. Those at the top have no interest in sharing. It’s done to bolster the illusion that it’s possible, to spur productivity. And it works amazingly well.”

  A gust hissed through the trees and sent leaves gliding in circles toward the ground like golden birds. “The stick is Security Services,” Hawthorne said. “Break the rules and punishment is swift and harsh. Everyone knows you don’t look security agents in the eye. And we’ve all been told it’s for our own good and the good of society.

  “And for blinders, we have the net; a place where people see only what they are allowed to see. Sex, sports, riots, and Anything For Baby. We are so easily distracted, so easily manipulated. We are encouraged to consume, to want, to feel our lives aren’t good enough and we should have more. And the way to get more is to work longer and harder.

  “Almost everything we see is manufactured and edited for consumption. How can anyone draw the right conclusions if they’ve been fed a steady diet of lies and misdirection?” Hawthorne had his fists balled up. His arms shook with anger.

  Inside the library, the Moyer and the Judge wandered bookcase to bookcase re-shelving books. “We are a society of slaves indentured by illusion and propaganda,” Hawthorne said. “The illusion is that we control our lives and can make them better. And if anyone says anything different, they get shouted down and branded as unpatriotic. We live in the greatest nation on Earth is what they say. Everyone knows that, right?

  “Bit by bit, corporation has engulfed corporation, the survivors strengthening their hold over the population until now only a handful of mega-corporations remain. All the others are wholly owned subsidiaries; part of a facade to create the appearance competition still exists and there is still choice.”

  The Judge carefully found each open slot in the shelves and slid the missing book home. Moyer understood it was his way of putting things in order before he left. “Soon there will be only one corporation, and it will control everything,” Hawthorne said. “The ultimate winner of this war was decided over a century ago. In the old days there was a gambling term called the fix. It meant the game was rigged so the house would win.

  “And this game was fixed from the outset. When you control procreation, how can you lose? No matter how powerful the competition, they need heirs to keep the succession going, and that means having to deal with Viktor Perko. And if you don’t, your family line ends, and your estate goes into probate. And Perko wins either way.”

  Hawthorne placed the last book and sat at a table near the windows. He stretched out his arms and yawned. “What’s happening in this valley is what real life is about; families working the land, helping each other, their destinies in their own hands. Not what’s back in the city. I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier. I could spend the rest of my life here.”

  “Then why don’t you? You’ve earned it.”

  “Guilt,” Hawthorne said. “I knew what was happening in the rest of the world and didn’t stop it. Brother Nastasi and I stand no hope of defeating Perko tomorrow. But unless people stand up now, no one will have a chance in the future. Maybe our example will inspire people, and then again maybe not. But at least they will see what real protest looks like. And they’ll see what the net shows them is a lie.”

  When Moyer tried to object, Hawthorne held up a hand. “No, I won’t hear of it. I merely wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For pulling me out of my apartment and allowing me to live a little. If you hadn’t, my death would have been a tragedy, whether from Perko’s bomb or the joyless years that would have followed. I have a favor to ask, though.”

  Moyer nodded. How can you refuse the last request of a friend? “Whatever you like.”

  “I’ve read through some of the newspapers stored here, and it dawned on me that no one has recorded a stitch of history in several generations. If it’s not written down, then there’s no proof it happened. Would you start recording history, and maybe, if you have time, transcribe some of the more important books here that are starting to crumble?”

  Moyer nodded. “Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

  Moyer left Hawthorne to his books and staggered out of the library. The sun stung his eyes, but lacked enough warmth to push away the chill Moyer felt inside. He’d had few true friends in his life. And now he would lose two in a single day. He once thought of Petro as a friend, but to Petro, Moyer was a pawn, expendable, a means to an end. And that was as deep as their friendship ran.

  The old man had grown on him, as had the giant, Nastasi. Neither had befriended him to further their ends, and now both would be gone far too soon. His heart ached. Was any cause worth this?

  Chapter 39

  Tuesday, 17 October

  A piercing scream awoke Moyer from his sleep. It was a terrified child. Robyn slept peacefully leaving Moyer to wonder if he’d actually heard anything or just dreamt it. Snarls and the sound of a scuffle filtered through the open window. Then another desperate scream raised the hairs along Moyer’s arms.

  Moyer grabbed his pants and hopped toward the bedroom door as he hurried to put them on. Robyn barely stirred. His footfalls pattered softly down the stairs as he rushed for the back yard. Another cry hit his ears as he opened the door.

  The sun hid below the horizon drenching the yard in a weak colorless light. Guttural growls drew Moyer along the side of the house like a beacon. Five goats huddled frozen in a corner of the pen blocking Moyer’s view. Beyond them, dogs tugged at a small female goat, one gripping the animal’s nose, two others clamped onto its hindquarters ripping hamstrings, stretching the animal off the ground. A fourth dog jerked at the goat’s belly spilling the animal’s guts on the ground while the goat screamed.

  The dogs rolled their eyes toward Moyer exposing their whites. Though they had detected him, Moyer was merely a side note. They still had work to do. A black dog drove its fangs into the goat’s throat and the screaming ceased.

  Two dogs bared their teeth and stepped toward Moyer. He went rigid, unsure whether he should hold his ground or run, and too scared to manage either. It was the pack from the church. He was too late to save the goat, and now the dogs looked as if they wanted more. He eased back slowly along the wall. A hand grasped his shoulder. Moyer nearly jumped out of his skin. Armal Connors raised a rake and spread his arms.

  “Ha!” he screamed.

  The dogs flinched and then frantically ripped at the carcass, nervous and ready to run. Armal advanced and Moyer joined him. The two men screamed in unison as they moved toward the pen. The dogs waited as long as they dared, not wanting to give up their kill. They bounded over the enclosure with what they could carry and sprinted in a line for the hill behind the house and into the shelter of its woods.

  Armal scanned the pen rubbing his forehead as if he could smooth out the worry lines.

  “This is not good,” he said. He let himself in through the gate and crouched in the dirt next to the carcass. “We are down to only two milkers.”

  The five remaining goats trained golden eyes on Armal, still distrustful. He lifted the dead animal. It draped limply over his arms like a stole. Outside the pen, Armal removed a knife from his pocket and deftly skinned out the carcass on the ground. He lifted the pelt and examined the holes in it. He shook his head in disgust. “We need to put a stop to this wickedness lest it swallow us up. Hard times are ahead, brother.”

  He laid the skin over his shoulder and handed the carcass to Moyer. “Take it to the creek and wash it good. We’ll eat some tonight and smoke the rest.”

  Moyer hoisted the dead goat across his shoulders the way he did sacks of seed when stacking them in the barn.
As he rounded the house and started down the slope, he spotted Brother Nastasi standing at the intersection with the main road, staring up the hill at him. It halted Moyer for a moment. What was he doing up at this hour, and why was he here?

  As he approached Nastasi the sun crested the horizon and the first rays struck Moyer’s back and shot his silhouette far out in front of him toward the giant. It occurred to Moyer as his shadow closed the distance to Nastasi, that he was the giant this time.

  Nastasi greeted him with a distressed look. “It appears there has been trouble.”

  “Wild dogs broke into the goat pen.”

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  “I welcome your company.”

  They headed along the path in silence. Moyer knew Nastasi had something to say, there was no other reason to be up so early. The giant slowed as the creek came into view and the rush of water filled their ears. He sighed heavily and his hot breath jetted out in white plumes into the frosty morning air.

  “The Good Book says, for I know this, that after my departing shall grievous wolves enter in among you, not sparing the flock. As I am departing today, never to return, I could think of no more appropriate passage.”

  Moyer stopped. He was struck again with despair and the feeling that this wasn’t fair. He’d only been in Mannington a few weeks and despite that, the giant and the Judge were the best friends he’d ever known. And now he was about to lose them. And for what? A symbolic stand to show Perko and his regime were liars?

  Everyone experiences tragedy; however it seemed to Moyer that he’d been burdened with more than his fair share. It pressed down on him like a weight, throwing him off balance, threatening to crush him. And just when he found his equilibrium again, fate rose up to knock him down once more.

  Nastasi gazed at Moyer, his expression solemn. The despair and frustration must have been plain on Moyer’s face. “I was bred to die in conflict,” Nastasi said. The big man took the goat from Moyer’s shoulders and knelt in the long, wet grass of the stream bank. He cast his eyes down and wagged his head. “For a while, I thought I might have escaped my destiny here in this place, that I might live a quiet and simple life.”