The meal over, the prisoners were assigned a watcher and chores. George, led to a nearby orchard, picked scrabby red apples from stunted, yet hardy looking trees. He asked plenty of questions of his watcher, who eagerly provided answers. When he asked about the temporary nature of the huts, he learned that the hill people moved farther south when cooler weather approached mid-year. Upon receiving word of the capture of the strangers, Hanover had decided they would move to the village’s southern ‘winter’ camp three weeks early.
With the half-hearted help of two young men, Baider was ordered to fill in the old latrine and dig another, while Wendell went with his young admirer to catch water lizards and catfish at a nearby stream. Heather began cleaning up and tended the fire without being told to do so. Her guardian, taken back, let Heather go about her business unimpeded.
*****
When the pale glow beyond the low cloud cover reached the apex of the day, six men arrived with a string of scruffy birds tied by their legs to a rope strung between two boys. The dirty black and white birds with broken tail feathers resembled wild turkeys, but were thinner and had chicken heads with small, red crowns.
George, delivering a basket of shriveled apples to the camp’s larder, stopped to observe. Hoots and loud calls greeted the hunters as they unceremoniously cut the lashings and tossed the birds through the open hatch of a hut-sized pen of pine saplings. The birds made plenty of noise, squawking and fighting. Even from a distance of forty feet, George could see that several had drawn blood staking out minuscule territories within the cage.
There was no mistaking Hanover. Large and barrel-chested with piercing black eyes, he had a coarsely healed two-inch scar where his left ear should be. Otherwise ordinary looking in a rugged sort of way, he was lightly tanned and not at all wind-burnished like the villagers. He had a sawed-off double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun strapped to his back and a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun slung across his chest. Except for an olive-drab combat helmet held securely in place by a chinstrap of coarse gray wool, he was attired much as the others.
None greeted him directly, though a few bowed from a respectful distance and hurried past to meet with others in his party. This appeared to suit him. He ignored the caging, stopped briefly to ladle water into his mouth from a crudely made barrel, and ducked through the entrance of the largest hut in the camp. Lonesome and another man followed.
Nudged by his watcher, George dumped the apples into a barrel and turned back to the orchard. Lonesome reappeared and waved him over.
“George! Han says ta come set wid him.”
“Sure.” George handed the basket to his watcher and strolled over, watching the faces of the villagers he passed. He saw only casual curiosity, and relaxed slightly.
Lonesome stood aside as George entered the hut, then followed him in. What he found surprised him. A slim white pole at its center lighted the hut. The furnishings were sparse, but comfortable. A blanket and fur draped cot to his left, and a finely polished pine desk, books and tablets scattered across its surface, stood before the back wall. Well crafted, light-oak folding chairs were stacked neatly against the right wall and two similar chairs were arranged on an oval rug with a Victorian pattern. The floor, rough-hewn planks, were stained dark. The hut was quite warm, though there appeared to be no heat source.
“Join me, George.” Seated behind the desk, Hanover rose and motioned towards the chairs beside the pole. George nodded and took a seat. Hanover came around the desk and eased into the other chair. He crossed his legs and pressed his hands together such that his fingertips touched his bottom lip. With a sigh, he rested his hands on the chair arms and looked up at Lonesome, standing rigidly by the door.
“Do you think our guest is a threat to me, Lonesome?” He spoke softly, like a father to a child.
As if slapped, Lonesome jerked. His face colored. “No sir, Han.”
“Would you mind leaving us then?”
“No, sir.” Lonesome eyed George. Expressionless, he departed.
Hanover held George’s stare for an uncomfortable length of time before speaking. “Since you’re new to our ways, my men felt it necessary to keep you under armed observation until I returned. I apologize if it made you feel like prisoners. Nothing could be further from the truth. However, you are strangers...thus we ask that you refrain from wandering off alone until we’ve developed...well, a level of trust necessary to establish cordial relations. Do you have a problem with that?”
Unwavering, his face frozen in an emotionless stare, George applied the same psychological ploy Hanover used. The silence grew until Hanover looked away. George followed his gaze and noted their backpacks lined up beside the door. He relaxed and mimicked Hanover’s self-assured air.
“No...I have no problem with that.”
“Good!” Hanover slapped his thigh and stood. “Will you share a glass of wine with me?” Without waiting for an answer, he retrieved a dark blue, long-necked bottle and two crackled-glass tumblers from a desk drawer.
“Yes...if I may ask a few questions.”
“Hanover waved expansivly. “But of course, George. Ask anything you like.” He uncorked the bottle with a crooked tipped metal prong, then sat down and filled their tumblers with a purplish liquid. The bottle set aside, he motioned for George to drink up before he slugged back a mouthful.
Half expecting the wine to be crudely distilled, George took a small sip and rolled the wine over his tongue before swallowing. It was mildly sweet, and though he was no connoisseur, preferring beer, he thought it was quite good. He took a longer draught, feeling the liquid warm his throat.
“Your people talk like backwoodsmen while you speak with a cultured, Northwestern accent. Why is that?”
Hanover laughed, yet kept his eyes locked on George. “Good. Good. I like someone who refuses to be sidelined by small talk.” He shifted and placed both feet squarely on the floor, his glass held out as if he were contemplating its rich color. “They speak as their fathers did and their fathers before them. I was raised in an enclave in the mountains, but left, my choice, when I was barely sixteen.”
“Are they illiterate?”
“No! By no means, no. I’ve seen to it the younger ones attend regular classes. The adults are welcome to sit in...some do...providing their chores are completed. We live a simple life, allowing nature to provide for us, but we are far from ignorant savages.”
“How is it that you make use of technology, while your people don't...besides the guns, which you seem to have a plentiful supply of?”
“To the contrary, the huts have lite-sticks and thermopads...except yours...and despite outward appearances, my people are familiar with such things as energy weapons, though we haven’t had a working one in some time. We choose to avoid using anything that might draw the attention of the Cargans. Besides, there are no manufacturing facilities, so we can't reproduce sophisticated technology. What we find is all there is.”
“I would think such items would be worth their price in gold. Why do you accept them as such a routine item?
“There was a factory hereabouts. A patrol stumbled over it, found millions of lite-sticks in an underground warehouse. There were too many to carry off, word got around, now everybody has one, except you.” Hanover's smile lacked warmth.
“The guns?”
“Hand-me-downs. You won’t find anything manufactured after 2057. We can make replacement parts, but the process is difficult and the finished product rarely works. Still, we do get by. We have tools to make bullets for every gun we possess. Some molds are successful copies, but most are worn from centuries of use, like our weapons. Brass for the shell casings is easy to produce. The raw materials are plentiful hereabouts.” Hanover hesitated, studying George. “We have a sizeable arsenal and plenty of ammunition, if that’s where you’re going with this.”
“This wine is very good.” George held the glass up to let the light glimmer through it, playing down the value of the information. “How do you
come by it?”
Hanover chuckled. “Piker found a wine cellar in the foundation of a ruin a few weeks ago. Most of it has turned, but a precious few have survived the years. The corks disintegrate upon removal. Other than that...I assure you, we have no vineyards. The weather...”
“Why did your people fire on us and take us captive?”
Hanover studied his glass, then balanced it on the arm of his chair, keeping his fingers in gentle contact. After a brief pause, he stared at George as if attempting to read his mind. “I believe your man fired first. Besides, since you are new to this part of the country, your motives were in question. My people simply took necessary precautions.” Hanover sipped from his glass and leaned forward. His voice dropped an octave. “So, where are you from and what brings you here?”
Though George had expected the question, he was unprepared. Heather had created a plausible cover story, but they hadn't time enough to perfect it. Their best course of action was to stay as close to the truth as possible, without revealing the true nature of their presence.
“We’re explorers from a commune farther north. Our boat sank off the coast and we made shore in our dinghy. We have no intention of causing you, or anyone, harm. We wish to return home as quickly as possible as our rations are limited and there seems to be little in the way of game around here.”
“Ah, an excellent account.” Hanover nodded slowly, and appeared to accept George's response. “Your people will verify the truth of what you say?”
“Of course.”
“Well then. Since that’s been established, I assume you’ll spend a few days with us, as explorers would, then depart our company in a northerly direction.”
‘We’d rather be on our way today.”
“What was your destination before your boat sank?” There was no hint that Hanover doubted him.
“That hadn’t been decided. We were interested in seeing if there were permanent coastal villages in what we hoped was a warmer clime.”
“I can assure you, George, that there is nothing for at least two hundred miles. All the farther south we’ve gone. There are scattered tribes along the coast, some friendly, but many are generally hostile nomads and a few are violently aggressive. I suggest you stay with us a few days...weeks...learn what you can from us...before heading home.”
“Are you refusing to allow us to leave?”
“For now. Since you come from an obviously technologically advanced community...we can learn much from you. Such as, how you’ve been able to conceal your technology...your power generators...from the Cargans.”
“Who are they to you?”
“Haven’t your historians recorded the Visitation?”
“We know nothing of this region. Perhaps you can...”
Hanover guffawed, as if unable to contain himself, and ended it with a disgusting snort. “Surely you jest?” He looked askance and drummed his fingers on the chair arm, then leaned back and sipped from his glass, balanced oh so precisely between his finger tips. He gave George another sidelong glance, as if he wished to question George’s integrity, but decided against it. “They are the aliens, the beings from space that bombed Earth into rubble in 2057. Perhaps you know them by another name?” It was a transparent attempt to let George salvage his story.
“Yes, well...we call them the Slayers. To answer your other question, we’ve built micro generators. I don't know any more about them then how to turn them on.” As much as George wanted to question him about the black ship, he thought it would expose his ignorance of the beings Hanover called Cargans.
“Don't you see?” Setting his glass on the floor, Hanover expressed himself with his hands. “There is so much we can learn from you...make my people’s life a little easier. Surely, surely you can't begrudge us that?” Retrieving his glass, Hanover emptied it in one swallow.
“We didn’t bring anything along...schematics, materials lists, that sort of thing. We couldn’t build one if we wanted to.” It was a partial lie, but George banked Hanover hadn’t enough time to investigate their equipment. He tried to act as if he wanted to be helpful, hoping he could pull it off. The last thing he needed was for Hanover to order the Slinker crew confined. “We’ll remain under armed guard?”
“Alas, you are strangers after all. We have yet to establish that you are not a threat to us. Be assured, the guards are quite benign. Unless you chose to disobey my wishes.”
“Our equipment. Must you keep that from us? There are hygiene products we’ve become accustomed to using...”
“Your packs will remain with me...untouched...until your departure. Your energy weapons, of course, have been confiscated. I expect you to abide by the rules I’ve set forth to maintain a level of civility, and I expect you to earn your keep...while you study us. Other than that, you are free to mingle with my people as you choose...so long as you do nothing to interfere with our way of life. Is that agreeable?”
“It would seem we have no choice. We’ve no argument with your people, but I must again insist we be allowed to leave.”
“Don't be so impatient...George the explorer.” Hanover laughed again. His chest shook as the somewhat pretentious guffaws rolled off the walls. “Finish your drink and we’ll join the others. The women folk wish to reward my hunters with a sumptuous meal for the bounty we’ve collected.”
George gulped down the last swallow of wine and handed Hanover his glass before standing. Quite the gracious host, Hanover set the glasses on the desk and produced a wooden plug. He corked the half-empty bottle, then set it beside the glasses before offering his hand. George shook it without hesitation, not wanting to give Hanover the impression that doing so was disagreeable. They stood and faced each other, George nearly as tall, but far less beefier than Hanover, who appeared to be about his age. With a smile, phony in its deliberate benevolence, Hanover motioned towards the door. George bowed slightly and led them from the hut.
Outside, the women had skinned and gutted most of the turkeys for roasting. Baider and Wendell were not in sight, but Heather gossiped amiably with Tasha and helped with the preparations. George nodded to Lonesome, who stood guard just outside the hut, as Hanover strolled past to join a knot of men chatting near the pens.
“Yews come ta a unnerstannin’ wid Han?’
“Yes. We’ll be staying with you for a little while.”
“Welcome yews be. Me be ordered ta keep a eye on yews, but I not be hurtin’ yews. Mind yews, faller the rules. Hanover kin be nasty ifin crossed.”
“I’ll play by the rules, Lonesome. And cause you no trouble.”
Lonesome slung his rifle over his shoulder and offered his hand. “Weuns be frens. I be techin’ yews da rules. Unnerstan?”
“Gotcha covered. I’d like to speak with my friends, if I may.”
“Dey be doin’ chores. Be back fer da cel’bration. Time ‘nough later.”
“As you say. What are we going to do now?”
“Chores.” Lonesome led him to where Baider had begun digging the new latrine while the young men who were helping him took a break nearby. One of them stood and handed George a shovel made of coarse steel and a stubby chunk of hardwood, the grip worn smooth. At the least, doing chores would give George time to think.
The next four days passed consumed in hard work, meals and long hours of informative talks. There was no mention of the sighting of the alien ship. Bathing, much to Heather’s disappointment, was limited to buckets and rags in the warmth of the huts. Guards were ever present, though the newcomers were allowed to move freely within the camp and speak with whomever they chose. The hill people proved to be as curious as their 'guests'.
Once George got their cover story down and set limits on what they could impart, his crew learned a great deal about Hanover’s iron-fisted, yet outwardly paternalistic control. Sheriff, judge and jury, no one openly criticized his authority, or his sentences. Hanover defended his actions by citing the village's low incidence of crime. He always spoke with a smile and a ready la
ugh, though it seemed contrived.
Long after dark, in the limited privacy of their hut, now warmed and lit, Heather stormed in a harsh whisper about the switch lashing of two young men that morning for tormenting a younger boy. Her tirade continued until George put a finger to her lips.
"Yes, their punishment was unduly harsh," George said with a dismissive tone.
"Can we talk about something else now?" Wendell interjected.
Her legs tucked beneath her, Heather wrapped herself tighter in the gray wool blanket. “A couple times today Tasha said something about the wrenel coming. Any idea what she’s talking about?”
“I know.”
She looked over her shoulder at Wendell and cocked a brow. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Sitting Lotus fashion, Wendell grinned and nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Took me a bit, but I figured it out. Its hill-speak for renewal. Seems they think the Earth is going to get a major overhaul pretty soon.”
“And?”
“Religious belief?” George asked.
“Naw. Well, sort of. All up and down the coast, the tribes either believe that the renewal means the end of the world, or believe the world will be restored. Hanover’s been trying to convince them that if they move south, they won’t get caught in the middle, but the hill people hold that they will be needed to insure the renewal goes their way...so they don't want to leave.”
His legs splayed before him and resting on his hands, George nudged Wendell with the toe of his boot. “What makes them think this renewal is about to happen?”
“For the past couple hundred years, this guy called Kaydur has been visiting them. No one sees him coming, or leaving. He just shows up. Sometimes he’s as real as you or me, other times he’s almost a ghost. Freaked out their ancestors, for sure. Anyway, he’s been telling them to expect a fight to save the world, but he hasn’t been seen since Hanover arrived.” He shrugged. “That’s all I could get from Angel.”
Mankind's Worst Fear Page 15