“It’s lonesome.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I am tired of being alone.” He suddenly stopped, turned around; grabbing her by her shoulders, and kissed her. She kissed him back.
“What took you so long?” she said, smiling.
He stepped a couple paces away from her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why? No! It’s ok… Why are you sorry?
“I… I should’ve found more romantic way to approach you.”
“No,” she smiled and embraced him around his waist. “I won’t tell anybody what a lousy romantic you are.”
Chapter VIII
It was late afternoon. They were trudging through the mountains, and decided to make a camp in a small, secluded plateau, hidden by trees, not too far from the road. They were tired and hungry, but luck was on their side, as their scouts spotted a deer and shot it successfully. So, tonight they would enjoy a feast.
Presley was sitting on a dead tree trunk, near the fire, watching the children running around in play, always supervised by an adult and never going beyond the borders of the imaginary circle. He enjoyed the sight of children playing. Hope was helping with meal preparation, and he was all alone, thinking of nothing in particular. He was tired, but happy. A feeling he started to appreciate, as happiness was something he had not experienced, and thought he would ever know. Their band grew to more than two hundred people of various ages, colour, creed and ethnicity. And tonight they all looked happy, for they would eat something more than beans and warmed–up canned stew. For days now, they walked up and down the mountain hills, meeting nobody, and having no troubles, other than the long marches through the countryside. To their satisfaction, days were getting brighter and they were getting used to almost seeing the sun penetrate through the thinning ash clouds. Occasionally it would snow, but the snow was white and almost perfectly clean and sometimes the air would become warmer, at times just below the freezing point. They could hear the murmur of water dripping and running along the ditches, and they started to notice more and more birds flying around, and occasionally, some small game would run by, or some little critter would spy at them from nearby dead, dried–out thickets. It appeared that nature was slowly restoring itself. The world was not entirely dead, Presley thought.
Presley saw Jonah Phyla coming in his direction, looking at him. He carried a large notebook, which looked like a ledger, bound with hard brown leather covers. For a few days now, Presley noticed that every evening after supper, Phyla walked around from person to person, spending some time with each of them in conversation, as if he was doing some kind of questioning, and recording their responses in his book. Now he somewhat hesitantly came towards Presley.
“Hello, Chief Presley.”
“Howdy. What’s cooking?”
“Excuse me… oh, yes… Do you have a few minutes?”
“What for?”
“Professor Tagore asked me to make a list with names of every person in our commune. A census, he called it, with all sorts of information, like name, sex, marital status, any family ties to any other person in the group and so on.”
“Why?”
“Well; our numbers are growing and Professor feels that it could be useful if we know these things, especially blood ties, before they are forgotten. There are many little children among us now, and we should mark down their exact or, at least approximate age, and if some of them are related by blood. That way we can raise them as brothers and sisters and, in the future, when they grow up, we could avoid problems, like incest, for example, or marriage among those who should not marry.”
“I am not married, and I don’t have any siblings or any other relatives in this bunch.”
“I know that sir, but forgive me; Professor insists that I put every person in the ledger, and after I’m done, every time when someone new joins us, I am obliged to do the same.”
“Well then, what do you need to know?”
Phyla opened the book, flipped the inside cover page and positioned his pen behind the number one. Presley smiled, amused by Professor’s, or even Phyla’s subtlety. He smiled even more, when he noticed the name, written in refined, almost calligraphic handwriting, under number two: Professor Sandeep Tagore.
“Your name, sir?”
“Presley.”
“I meant your first name.”
“That is the only name I go with.”
“Well, where do I put it? Do I mark it as first or as the second name?”
“I don’t care.” Said Presley becoming amused, more and more.
“Your age and date of birth, sir?”
“Thirty four; September 2060.”
“Your mother’s tongue?”
“The Truth.”
“The what, sir?”
“My tongue is Truth.”
Although troubled, Phyla wrote it down. Presley knew this little word game of his would be reported to Professor, but he knew that Professor would find it not only curious, but also clever, and he was sure that, at some point, Professor would proclaim it as the official name for their language. Phyla asked questions for about fifteen minutes; profession, level of education, marital status, number and names of immediate relatives, children, and so on… Presley noticed that there were no questions pertaining to the ethnicity and race of a person, and he was glad about that. They were all human, and they were starting anew. Presley believed that no grudge, caused by old animosities and injustices of the past, should exist among the survivors. Much had to be forgotten, buried in the past; all for the sake of those little ones, playing among them, to be able to grow up with the absence of hate, envy, inferiority of any kind; or to be troubled by the past.
“Well sir that would be it. Thank you.”
“Jonah!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t call me ‘sir’.”
“All right, sir, I mean… What should I call you then?”
“Call me Ishmael.” Presley said with a jovial smile. Jonah was even more confused, but then he, hesitantly, smiled back.
“No, really, what should I call you?”
“You can call me ‘Chief’.”
“All right, chief. I should go and do some more.”
“By your account, how many of us are there?”
“My last count was about two hundred and twelve.”
“About?”
“We are always on the move. And I never know who and how many of our men are scouting in front and behind us. And when we stop, everybody is mingling and meandering around. It is very hard to count, but I am pretty sure I’m on the money.”
“How many are in that book?”
“Well… including you, one hundred and twenty seven.”
“Ok.” Presley stood up and whistled loudly through his teeth, to grab everyone’s attention.
“Listen up: our fine friend, mister Phyla, is doing a thing called a ‘census’. Those who did not answer his questionnaire yet, are to approach mister Phyla every day after supper, until all of you are in his book. In ten days from now, or earlier, should he tell us that he is finished, we will call all the names in the book, to see if anyone is missed. Little ones have to be counted and named by those who know and care for them. This is very important and needs to be done, so I shall appreciate your cooperation.” Then he turned to Phyla. “Will this help?”
“Yes, chief. Thanks.”
Later, during supper, Professor Tagore came and sat beside Presley and Hope. They all enjoyed a nice deer stew.
“You’re not mad at me?” asked Professor.
“Why?”
“Because I asked Phyla to conduct a census without telling you.”
“Why, Professor. Anything that is useful for our commune is fine with me. I am not the only one responsible for them. And, since there is less and less need to use the assault rifle; we might start looking for a new leader.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are and will be our leader, until you can’t
take it anymore or drop dead.” They both laughed.
“Call me Ishmael,” Professor quoted, with an amused smile. They laughed some more.
“That Phyla is so polite and well mannered, I had to make that joke, even though he did not deserve it. I actually like him.”
“I like him, too. He’s very reliable, and thorough, too,” said Professor, laughing.
“Don’t make fun of Jonah,” Hope protested. “He’s a fine man.”
“No one said he isn’t. I truly like him. But I wonder how he survived all of this: the Pongos and all the other crooks he stumbled upon in the last several years, and now, the life among us soldiers, all this marching… He is too polite, too refined for this way of living. And now, your assignment.”
“He is nothing but a gentlemen. You should get used to it,” Hope continued, not recognizing Presley’s sympathetic tone. “There is more to him, than you could imagine.”
“Really?” Presley said sounding surprised.
“If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you two,” she went on.
“How so,” asked Professor?
“Well, Jonah is not your model warrior. He can’t fight. But, all those months my late brother and I were in his group, we were newer hungry for long and always safe. And all of that was thanks to Jonah. The fact that we ended up imprisoned by Pongos doesn’t mean much, for even then, thanks to him, at least four of us survived, relatively untouched.”
“Don’t take our little jokes so hard, Hope. We like the guy. And we respect him. Don’t think I didn’t know who I was dealing with the first time I saw him through the window, coming across the street, holding that white rope; how much courage that required. But his act is funny, that’s all.”
“Well, I am not laughing,” Hope persisted.
“Ok, Hope, if this bothers you, we’ll stop,” said Presley.
“From now on, we shall speak only the Truth, about our Jonah,” Professor concluded, making it very hard for Presley to sustain his laughter.
Chapter IX
At the fork of the road, they stumbled upon them. They were marching down the slope, in a long column, on the narrow mountain path, until a place where the road widened, like a river that broadens after meeting its contributory. The other narrow branch was descending from the opposite flank of the hill, and these two paths suddenly met at a flat, wide plateau, high up and on one end cut by a steep ravine that descended sharply down, forming one side of a deep canyon. They could almost touch the adjacent mountain, across the ravine also steep and carved vertically, standing almost a thousand feet high, and who knows how deep. They were startled and amazed by this sudden encounter. They saw horses! Horses pulling buggies and wagons, mounted on sleds instead of on wheels; horses walking along, dismounted, tied up to the buggies and wagons; and people riding on horses’ backs or loaded inside the wagons. Both they and the strangers halted immediately. Nobody said or did anything for a brief moment, before men from both sides drew their guns, yelling and calling the other to drop their weapons. “Drop your guns, drop them!” Presley and his men yelled, as men from the other side shouted the same command. They were all so disconcerted; they had no time, or simply forgot to look for cover. They all just stood as they were, out in the open, ordering nervously at each other to not shoot or to drop their weapons. But, Presley and his companions quickly realized their adversaries were, in fact, very young men, almost boys, with very few, out–dated shotguns, and with no real intention or courage to use them.
“Do not shoot!” Presley shouted. “You stand no chance against us. Lower your guns, I say, if you want to live and mean no harm. We are not going to harm you! But you must lower your weapons now!” His authoritative voice had obvious effect. The youngsters showed their desire to do as they were told.
“Who are you?” someone asked.
“We are who we are, and it wouldn’t mean anything to you, either way. We are travelers; that’s who we are. And who are you?” asked Presley.
“We are also travelers. We mean no harm. Just let us pass or go ahead and no one’s going to get hurt.”
They looked atrocious with their sunken cheeks and big, starved eyes and their unshaven, thin beards of youth, dressed in worn–out, dirty clothes. Their horses looked the same—shallow, with their ribs showing through their gloomy fur, and their big, sad, terrified eyes. The youngsters lowered their shotguns with sighs of resignation. Behind the tarps that covered the buggies and wagons, they could see a few young women, and little boys and girls, peering at them with an anxious glare in their eyes, like startled animals, caught in a trap.
“Who is your leader? I want to talk to him,” Presley called.
“My grandpa… he’s sick. He’s in that wagon.” A young man with long, blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, no older than twenty–two said, pointing to the wagon in the middle.
“Your grandpa?” said Presley curiously. How is that even possible, he thought? He has a grandpa! He must be demented, like a real damned zombie. And he’s their leader. Are these kids crazy? “Would you mind if I talk to him?” he asked, half–heartedly, suspecting the answer to that request would be ‘no’. The boy turned around on his horse back, and talked to someone in a low voice, and then looked back at Presley and said: “You can. He’s awake.”
Presley gave his rifle to Mike and stepped forward, and Professor Tagore quietly followed him in his steps. “I must see that man,” he said to Presley, answering his inquiring look. Curiosity killed the cat, thought Presley with a surreptitious smile.
“Who’s that man?” asked the boy suspiciously, pointing his finger at Professor.
“Don’t worry about him. This is Professor Tagore. He’s our… He’s our advisor. He’s harmless.”
They climbed the wagon. A young boy, who handled the horses that pulled the wagon, made room for them to pass over the front seat, and they went under the tarp.
“Come in. Come,” a weak, small voice invited them under. They saw an old man, half–laying on a thick layer of sheepskins, covered with a few warm blankets, with his head resting on a pair of pillows. They saw no fear in his eyes. He looked at them openly, without any trace of distrust or doubt. A couple of small, frightened girls were sitting in the corner, at the other end of the wagon, hiding behind a big wooden barrel, clenching each other’s hands. Presley smiled at them, trying to loosen their fear.
“Hello, sir. My name is Presley and this is Professor Tagore.”
“Howdy. My name is Welsh, Josiah Welsh. You are heading South, I gather?”
“Yes, we are.”
“So I reckoned. You are coming from the far North. I mean, farther north than Kroywen State.”
“Some of us are; and most of those with us now are from all the States we passed through on our way down.”
“Yes, yes… this is the only way. South! All who survived should go south. That is where our salvation is.”
“How do you know that?” asked Professor.
“Well, I knew it all, for a long time. Everything was written in the Good book, if one knew how to read it, if it opened itself for the one who reads. But, we had to wait until those ungodly creatures died off; until all bad men perished, bringing bereavement to themselves and others; until they killed each other to the last man. And only after that happened, were we able to get on our way. So, a few weeks ago, I said to my son and my oldest grandson: “Now is the time; now you should lead these poor souls to the shores of the sea, where our deliverance awaits us.” I know many things, you see. I know that evil is gone. Therefore, you people must be a good sort of folks, nothing but good. For all the evil perished, you see, once and for all. No more filth among the children of men — only good. My son did not believe me, he did not want to leave our shelter and his sick, dying wife, but I knew: Evil is no more. Earth cleansed itself. Now the only thing left for us to do is reach the shores of the shining sea…”
Presley and Professor exchanged glances, confused and amused by the soft–s
poken old man.
He was very old; older than eighty, it seemed. He appeared week, frail, exhausted, but he had bright eyes and he seemed perfectly lucid, with no trace of senility or dementia.
“What made you think that you should go South, mister Welsh?” asked Professor.
“Well, I do not know exactly, I had a feeling I guess. I knew that we should go somewhere, and South was the most obvious direction. And I often rely on my instincts. I was waiting for all this to happen. I was waiting, but I was never afraid, for I learned about it from the Book. I, mind you, never told any of my forebodings, to anyone. Nonetheless, I was waiting. And I was preparing, all on my own. And when the time came, I led my family and everyone who wanted to believe my teachings to the mountains, to the caves, to the old mines, where no one could find us, or would seek for us. I have been getting ready for all of it for many years, bringing much of preserved food and other things to the mountains… And when those creatures, I heard they called them Pongos, began terrorizing and killing folks, we escaped; we vanished from the face of the Earth. Two years almost, two long years we stood there, in the underground. And just when our supplies were about to run dry, we were ready to move. So, here we are.”
“Your grandson says you’re sick?”
“Oh, I am not sick. I am just old—ready to see my Maker. I can’t walk, and I can’t ride either. That is why they, young as they are, think I’m sick.”
“There is a medical doctor among us. He may be able to ease your ailments. I’ll send for him…”
“I need no doctor, my young friend. A priest would be nice. But I doubt there is anyone like that. God had enough with us. And, anyway, they forbade Him fifty years ago… Nobody remembers God. For a while we must go alone. Someday, He may turn his eyes upon us once again, to see how we did. And maybe, if we earn it, He may look upon us again. But not for a little while longer… For there is no one, not one human soul left on this Earth to truly remember Him or seek His blessing, who keeps His Sabbath. Then again, the good thing about it is that the evil one is also kicked out from our realm…”
“So, mister Welsh, would you like to join us? We are going in the same direction and I think we share the same experiences and values,” Presley said with a grain of anticipation in his voice. He already saw the benefits of this merger. He thought how great it would be if the little ones could travel on wagons, freeing the hands of those who were carrying them on their backs. And horses… my Goodness—horses!
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