by Greg Dragon
I knew the conversation was over and was angry at myself. I had killed the spell by asking something that she didn’t want to remember or talk about. There were so many unknowns to the past and these frequently corresponded with times that gave Mother pain.
The blackened ruins of old houses were now before us. Mother had been fortunate. Her house was just inside the protective circle designated by the Shriekers. Everything outside was blackened and burned heaps and the area was now referred to as the Borderland. When I was younger I used to sneak out late at night and walk among the old ruins. I imagined what these neighborhoods had been like before with families and children living in them. Their ghosts were so clear to me I could almost see them. In a manner I recognized as odd, their haunting filled me more with wonder than fear. These apparitions were more comforting that the real monsters that walked among us.
Seeing our little house, I glanced at Mother with a silent question and she nodded. I ran around the back of the house to the small workshop where I knew I’d find Grandpa. Before he had been something called a mechanic and the Shriekers allowed him to stay and work in his shop. Grandpa had the ability to identify or fix any Artifacts the scavengers brought back from their excursions.
I knocked lightly before pushing the little screen door open. Grandpa sat at the short table in his wheelchair, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He looked up at me from behind an odd tangle of metal and wires. At the sight of me he pushed back from the table. I basked in his obvious warm affection, so out of place in my world.
The stumps of what were left of his legs always make me sad and angry at the same time. Still a powerfully build man, Grandpa could pull himself around without the chair if needed, but recognized its practical benefit.
I briefly thought of what he would have looked like standing on his own legs and pushed the notion aside. With those legs, the Shriekers wouldn’t have let him live. All the men had been killed after the Rebellion. They had only spared the very young, the old, or the crippled. It was grandfather’s luck or curse that Clay had shattered his legs before then as an example to Newton of what happened to those who opposed him. Although Doc Huck had splinted the legs, gangrene had set in and then the legs had to come off.
“Hey, Teal,” he says looking up at me with a sad smile. His arms unconsciously opened wide and then settled back into his lap embarrassed.
The Old Ones had a thing for hugging and touching each other. It was strange and also Forbidden. Many had been beaten for forgetting.
“Hi,” I respond with a grin of my own. “What are you working on?”
“An alternator,” he answered picking up one of the pieces.
I stare at him quizzically.
“Something that powers the lights and the music and movies at the Shrieker House,” he explained. “This is hooked to a crank or a stationary bike and when turned makes electricity.”
My eyes widened as I walked closer to touch the Artifact. We had seen the electric lights and heard the music, but it was still mystical and my grandfather was as close to a magician as the True Old Ones from Before.
Grandpa watched me closely and nodded knowingly. It seemed like he could always read my mind. “There’s nothing mysterious about it, Teal. This is science, nothing more.”
“Science?” I asked. He had talked of this before, but I still didn’t understand.
Grandpa’s brow furrowed. “Electricity is the flow of electrons through a conductor. Those electrons heat up a light filament or power a radio. Very simple, actually.”
He frequently spoke this way. All of the Old Ones did. Many called them the Sad Ones because whenever they talked about Before, it brought longing. I had heard about pitsa and music and a group of musicians called “you too”, and roller coasters, but these things were as mythical and mysterious as electricity.
“Never mind,” he said with a sigh. “How was the gardening?”
The memory of Reaper squeezing my breast leapt to mind unbidden. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest.
“What happened?” he asked repositioning his chair to face me.
I didn’t want to tell him, but knew it would be futile to resist his inquires. He would stalk me like a cat until I told him. Grandpa said secrets between family were dangerous tumors. I wished he could convince Mother of that.
“One of the Protectors offered for me to Take the Chit from him,” I finally said. “I’ll be old enough soon.”
Grandpa’s jaw tightened and then slowly relaxed. “You don’t have to worry about that. We do fine.”
“But a lot of girls do it,” I said.
His eyes closed briefly before opening again, “Yes. They need the extra food or protection or because they’re scared. It’s horrible.”
“Horrible?” I asked in surprise. “Wasn’t the Chit one of the benefits of the Treaty with the Protectors? After the Rebellion? So that what happened to Mother doesn’t happen anymore?”
Grandpa didn’t answer for a long time. “That was a dangerous time, but in some ways these are worse.”
“How can they be worse?” I asked. “Road gangs taking women by force. Isn’t the Chit better? No one goes with a Protector against their will anymore.”
Smiling at me with sad eyes, Grandpa shook his head. “That decision is an illusion. At least when a woman is raped she knows she is a victim. That it was against her will. The Chit takes that away, makes a woman believe it was her choice to become a piece of meat traded and gnawed on by dogs. It rips away their self respect.” He looked down at the stumps of his legs as if to illustrate a point.
I knew we were alone, but I glanced around nervously anyway. Such talk could get us both whipped, or worse. I decided to change the subject. “I better go help Mother. Can I bring you some lunch?”
“No,” he smiled weakly picking up the Artifact and a tool. “Not hungry. You run along, dear.”
I turned away feeling guilty. My questions had saddened him. It was so hard to have any conversation with an Old One that didn’t depress them. I had learned to navigate most any interaction as I did the booby traps around the outskirts of town, but sometimes the Sad Ones rushed into their comforting despair.
***
Mother and I worked the rest of the afternoon in the sewing room on her weekly quota after sharing a potato and a few leeks for lunch. The quota left little room for relaxation, though neither of us complained. We knew we were better off than most. Making and repairing the clothing was always difficult even with adequate materials; however, what the scavengers returned with lately was nothing more than old moldy curtains or rotting automobile seat covers. Even that would run out soon. Mother had told our Block Foreman that we would need to build looms and learn how to produce cloth and thread soon. That particular Old One was a coward though - too afraid to bring this information to the Protectors’ attention.
We didn’t talk much, mother never one for conversation. I could tell the steady familiar tasks comforted her. After a few hours she told me to take a break and then go to my Afternoon Shift.
“I don’t need a break,” I said. “I can keep working a little while longer.”
Her sad eyes regarded me kindly. “Everyone needs breaks and rest. Especially young girls.” She reached out and touched my hand surprising me. Looking at her own offending hand she pulled it back as if embarrassed. “Go on now, Teal. I’ll be able to finish up before dinner.”
Not really needing an afternoon break, I left walking slowly, careful to make sure none of the Protectors saw me. They would resent my casual nature. On the other hand, it is also dangerous to report for duty early. Things like that made them suspicious and drew attention. I had learned from a young age to be as unobserved as possible.
The work schedule had me tending the goats on the south edge of town. This was an easy chore and my favorite duty. Much better than looking after the chickens, sheep, or cows. It also allowed me to pet the herding dogs and steal a few drinks of goat milk. Sometimes I co
uld even fill one of the old plastic bottles with milk to take home if no one was watching too closely. No such luck today, Jonesy protected us. He was only a few years older than me and not one of the original Shriekers, only a Prospect, although he was one of the few who had advanced to the ranks of Protector. It was not that the young Protector was any more diligent in his guarding than others, quite the contrary, but he seemed to have a special interest in me lately. Maybe he wanted me to Take the Chit from him too, I think. I have a wild urge to tell him about Reaper’s offer. Maybe I could get the two fighting over me. With any luck they would kill each other. I pushed the useless thought aside and walked into the field.
“You’re a little early today,” said Jonesy with a smirking grin that only showed a single gap. “You must have missed me.”
Realizing I have arrived early despite my care, I looked away, the best response I knew. Making my way towards the milling herd of goats in the field, several of the dogs barked in greeting. They were a hodgepodge group of canines who took their duties seriously and had shown they were willing to die to protect their charge. Just last year Becky, one of my favorites, had died after fighting off a huge bobcat.
Rodney, the large Doberman, ran up to me and I ruffled his head before grabbing two pails. It is my responsibility, along with several other girls, to milk the goats and then lock them away in their pens for the night. Someone else would let them out to graze the next morning. The dogs would find their own way as they always did.
Three other girls were there too. No one spoke. We simply divided the herd evenly as if by telepathy. That was one of grandfather’s strange words, one I particularly like. Maybe that is how we are learning to communicate, I think. Sending and receiving messages without conscious awareness, like the flocks of birds that all turn in unison.
Simeon, the old dam was giving me trouble. It’s hard to milk the old goat as she was rubbing affectionately against me and trying to lick my face. I often found it odd that it is okay to get physical affection from an animal, but not humans. The Protectors would say that touch makes people love and love is Forbidden. It was love that killed all of Newton’s men they tell us.
“Hurry up girls,” yelled Jonesy.
I peeked in his direction and saw that he was leaning back against a tree. No need to rush. I have time to finish milking and walk the full pails to the hand cart. Finishing the last two goats in my section, I trudged over and loaded the pails in beside the others and we covered them with old pieces of plastic sheeting to keep out the flies.
Jonesy flicked his whip more for emphasis than effect, and I grabbed one of the front handles of the cart. Sarah, a girl who lived in the Dormitory took the handle to my right. The remaining two girls would put the goats in their pen and then fall in behind us. We begin pulling the cart into town and Jonesy stayed with us, probably believing his greater responsibility lay in making sure we didn’t sneak a drink of any of the goat milk.
“May we sing?” asked Sarah. Singing is normally frowned upon unless it is part of working.
Jonesy considered for a long moment and then nodded. “Okay. Just knock it off when I say.”
We began to pull and after a minute Sarah launched into a song we all knew well, with a beautiful voice. I joined her doing my best to provide harmony.
There was a Golden Age,
Many a long year ago,
All our life a stage,
And the nights a ‘lectric glow.
Our hearts were full to burst,
And we knew no loss or fear,
But then the earth was cursed,
And our lot was dirty tears.
The Plague took our life,
And destroyed all we’d built,
Men took up the knife,
And fought ‘til blood was spilt.
Long the dark dark years,
Where hunger stalked its own,
When death was always near,
And we reaped as we’d sown.
But life is sweet and good,
And we are the lucky few,
Those left when all have stood,
And the old has turned to new.
Jonesy noticed other workers coming our way down the road. He turns to tell us to “shut up”, but before he could get the words out Sarah’s voice rose in a loud clear anthem,
For we are alive, alive,
And he is alive, alive,
And she is alive, alive,
I am alive, alive!
“Hush,” hissed Jonesy slapping his whip across the back of the cart. “You damn girls don’t say ‘boo’ until you get the chance to sing and then it’s damn near enough to bring down what roofs are left.”
I glanced over at Sarah and I catch the barest hint of a smile. Impressed at her daring I nodded at her. It was a minor thing to do something we know the Protectors do not want, and gained little if anything, but it was a small victory. My heart felt fuller somehow.
And it proved that we were capable of resisting, should we choose to do so. However pathetically.
And of course that we were indeed alive.
***
The night was our only time of real freedom. The Shriekers used to check on us. Before the Treaty they even broke into homes at night. Now they left us alone. We could hear the loud music and garish laughter in the distance if we listened. We consciously ignored it. None of us would ever laugh that way and wouldn’t even want to. It was too overdone, almost a dare for something terrible to happen. We didn’t need any dares for that.
Dinner was the typical large kudzu salad topped with goat cheese and whatever nuts, berries, and home pressed oils we were able to find or make. It was the one meal where everyone typically got to eat until they were full. The Protectors sneered at kudzu salad, but it was sweet and Grandpa said was filled with nutrients. It also helped the little ones to sleep at night if their bellies were nicely satiated.
Most of the dark room is filled with teenagers, small children and women, more than a hundred in all. The Chit Girls were serving duty at the Shrieker House, so we watched after the children of their unions. It was men that were noticeably absent. Those present were either old or maimed like Grandpa, allowed to live as an example. It made me wonder again about who my father was and if it really was Clay as some had whispered. Either that, or he was killed by the Shriekers like all the other men after the Rebellion. Most of me doubted this. Still, sometimes I couldn’t help it. I dreamt that he was a good man. True and wise and strong. Like Grandpa, but younger and not so sad.
There were some adolescent boys around. When girls came Of Age they could Take the Chit. Boys had no choice, they were taken into the Shriekers as Prospects. Most ended up working for them doing minor tasks. Some even made it to the level of Protectors eventually like Jonsey. A few were never seen again once they entered the Shrieker House.
Broily stood and we all fall quiet. It had been less than a year since the old man’s right hand was chopped off by Clay. Broily had dared to write letters and arrange for them to be smuggled out of town by the few traders traveling through Newton heading east. Grandpa said Broily was a fool to have written the letters at all. Everyone knew the Knights of the Watch were a myth, and even if they weren’t, they would be unlikely to help the people of Newton.
“Tonight I will talk about Before,” Broily said dramatically as if this wasn’t what he talked about every night at Remembering Time.
Unlike the other kids, I didn’t groan. The stories from Before were fascinating to me. Although it was always difficult to believe most of what the Sad Ones said about those times.
Broily glared out over the dim tightly packed room and it became still. The old man commanded respect because he was one of the few left who could read and write, although I’m pretty sure Grandpa can even if he won’t admit it. The Sad Ones would have us believe that there was a time when nearly everyone could read. We know that can’t be true.
“At the End,” said Broily, “we didn’t know it was the E
nd. This was before the plagues and the famine and the chaos. We had food to eat whenever we wanted and walked around without fear of someone whipping or killing us. It was an age of wonder. It was also an illusion.”
Many of the Sad Ones nodded. All of them had withdrawn into themselves I saw.
“Back then it was all about making money. Money is something you accumulate so you can buy other things you want,” Broily explained.
“But you said you had all the food you wanted,” said Ginny, a little girl in pigtails seated near Broily’s feet.
He frowned. “We did at that, but it was the money that allowed us to get the food. The point is we were able to get more than we needed, more food, more of anything. It was unbearable for us to consider we couldn’t instantly have whatever it was we wanted. But it wasn’t just us, it was everything. Money was the ends, not the means. This is what caused the Great Plague.”
Some of the Sad Ones coughed reflexively at the memory.
“We had seasonal sicknesses every year, pandemics. Little plagues if you will. They would sweep the globe and set off a panic for a few months before some big pharmaceutical company miraculously produced the perfect immunization or cure. The cure always worked, and it was always expensive. A little plague would vanish from the earth and we would have a reprieve until the next winter.”
“Because they were making the plagues,” yelled out Little Eaton who had probably heard the story a dozen times already.
Broily shook his head. “We didn’t know that then. It wasn’t until the Great Plague that governments were able to prove this crime. By the time they shut everything down, it was too late.” The old man remained silent for a moment, his jaw tight. “They called it T-path. Some scientists think it was a synthesis of Spanish Influenza and measles. Like Spanish Flu it took the strongest and left the young, old, and weak alone, something about using the body’s immune system against itself. ‘A work of art’ one scientist described it on television before they knew the cure didn’t work. I think they were even proud of T-path. Those brilliant minds in those laboratories were drunk on the power of creating and taking lives. There was no one to stop or even watch them, just as long as the profit margin remained in the black. Competition was growing fierce among the pharmas, sometimes we had two or three little plagues a year. We’d buy the cure they produced in their laboratories and go on back to our oblivious lives.”