Transients

by Brayan Branko Bubalo

  “Are you a religious man, Mister Presley?” the old man asked.

  “I do not dare say I am. If anything, I do believe that Good must prevail.”

  “I just hoped that you might be one, but believing in Goodness might be good enough. One who is on the side of Goodness is actually a believer. We will gladly join you.”

  “We should make a camp here, stay for a day or two, said Presley. We need rest anyway. There are many little children with us and it would be great if they could continue traveling onboard your wagons.”

  “Of course they can. That’s what wagons are for,” the old man said, chuckling.

  “And we still have enough food, even for you folks. It looks like your boys didn’t eat much for many days. Let’s make a camp and see about dinner, then we’ll talk some more. Tomorrow or day later we shall carry on. Well then, we’ll see you later, Mr. Walsh. Let’s go, Professor.”

  “I’d like to stay a little while longer, if you don’t mind, mister Welsh?” Professor said.

  “Not at all! I’d like the company of someone older than twenty,” the old man said, chuckling.

  “Suit yourself, Professor.” Presley left.

  They made a camp by aligning buggies and wagons under the bottom of the steep hill, and corralled the horses under a thick of trees, letting them feed on dead leafs, shrubs and dry grass, protruding through snow. Later in the evening, some youngsters gave each horse a pouch filled with a handful of grains. When Presley asked them about it, they told him the horses would not survive on just dry grass and shrubs, but luckily, even though they didn’t have much food to feed themselves, they had enough rations to keep their horses alive.

  Then they all had dinner together, mingling with new arrivals and making new acquaintances. There were several fires burning and by nightfall, they all looked like they had been together for years.

  Professor finally showed up.

  “What do you make of the old fellow?” Presley asked. Hope was sitting next to him, holding his hand in hers.

  “He is simply amazing. He’s not much literate, but he’s sharp as a fiddle. He is one very, very wise old chap.”

  “All of them look like they belong to some Christian sect.”

  “They do. Actually, they used to. Since the Government banned religion, they stopped practicing their fate. And most of the youngsters and children among them, don’t know much about it, but are only familiar with the general concept of God.”

  “Where are their parents? There is no one older than twenty in that flock; except the old–timer.”

  “Most of them perished a long time ago; some of them fell sick and died, some got killed fighting Pongos and villains. Those who survived did not want to partake in this last endeavour, sacrificing themselves by staying behind, you see—they gave most of the food that was left to these kids, for they didn’t have enough for everybody. And the old man went along because he thinks he will die soon anyway. His last wish is to live long enough to see his young folks through to some kind of salvation. They wanted him along, he said—they wouldn’t leave their mountain hideout without him.”

  A young man approached them. They recognized old Josiah’s grandson.

  “My grandpa would like to have a word with the two of you,” he said.

  “What is your name, son?” Presley asked courtly.

  “Eleazar, Ely.”

  “Well, nice to meet you Ely. My name is Presley. This is Hope and this is Professor Tagore. Everything is ok with your folks?”

  “Yes sir; everything is just fine.”

  “Tell your grandfather we are coming.” The young man left.

  “We should send Jonah to write them up, don’t you think, Professor?

  “Yes, we should, later.”

  The old man was waiting for them alone, sitting against the campfire in a wide chair, made of willow twigs. His back and legs were covered with sheepskins.

  “Ah, there you are!”

  “You called for us Mr. Welsh.”

  “Yes. I would like to have a word with you about something.”

  “Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?” Presley asked, half–jokingly.

  “At my age; waiting for tomorrow would be a foolish mistake,” the old man sad solemnly.

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. What is on your mind, Mr. Welsh?”

  “Neither one of you were old enough to remember, or care about it, when our government proclaimed it was forbidden to use domestic seeds, deeming them unhealthy and unfit for consumption. They gave us small farmers five years to convert to those nasty, artificial, so–called GM crops you could use only once, and had to pay to renew the licence every year. I wondered why they then collected all the plant species and stocked them in tunnels under the ice cap close to the North Pole. If they were not good, why did they preserve them or for whom? So I rebelled in my small way! I decided to do the same as they did. A good part of my life I spent collecting all sorts of seeds, grains, kernels, nuts… from plants and trees, different strains of wheat and corn, vegetables and fruits, wild and domesticated trees and flowers, even mushrooms and grasses; in a word, whatever grew in dirt and under the Sun, from low altitude fields to high mountain tops. I wanted to preserve as many of God’s gifts as I possibly could. In a shallow tin pan I baked fine, crisp sand collected from the river stream, to run all moisture out of it, you see, and then I cooled and mixed it with the seeds. I filled many glass bottles with each of them and labelled each bottle with the name of what I put inside, and I sealed them with wax. I then placed the bottles inside a large beer barrel, filled with dry hay and moss and more dried sand, and sealed it again. Altogether, I may have stored more than five hundred kinds of various plants. It is a kind of bank of life, don’t you think. That barrel is on my wagon. I wanted you to know about it, in case I don’t live through the end of this endeavour. For it may be of good use.”

  “Fascinating! Ingenious!” acclaimed Professor, incredulously. “What a grandiose mission. Some species may survive, but many more might perish. You, sir, are a genius. I have no words! I…” Professor stopped, choked, almost to tears.

  “Well, it will be worthwhile only if it came to be planted somewhere. And before that, it has to be kept safe, until it gets to where it can be planted,” the old man concluded solemnly.

  “It will! It must! As much as we deserve to survive, our survival would be futile without it. Who knows if any plants will survive this darkness and cold? This way, we can be sure that, once again, the Earth would be seeded. Your effort is worth more than many dry and useless dissertations I heard throughout my entire life as a scientist. You, sir, are greater than most of my former colleagues.”

  The old man did not give much to Professor’s congratulatory tirade, and maybe, Presley thought, did not quite understand all of it. It struck him that Mr. Welsh may take Tagore as some kind of infantile, crazy, peculiar middle–aged chap, who likes to use big words that hold no substance. But, to Presley’s surprise, Mr. Welsh said: “I always believed that one has to walk the walk rather than talk the talk.” The old man smiled pleasantly and nodded slowly, showing that he said what he had on his mind and that the conversation was now over.

  “Just one more thing, Mr. Welsh,” Professor Tagore interjected, “We are keeping a ledger with a list of names and some personal information about all persons that join our commune. We find it useful for many reasons. Would you mind if we have our man, Mr. Phyla, write your people in?”

  “Well, in fact, I have a similar little booklet in my wagon. Send him over and I’ll give it to him. He may transcribe it and, should he have more questions, my grandson will be happy to help him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  So, they parted with him and soon, they saw two young men help him walk and climb to his wagon, to rest. His steps were short and slow, and although he was small and frail, to Professor Tagore, he was a giant.

  Chapter X

  As they advanced further South a change in weather c
onditions came, at first, slowly. The transformation was hardly noticeable at first, after many months of a long and consistently cold, dark and dry winter, which, at times, was only made worse with the occurrence of an abrupt super storm. The only obvious change were the days getting longer and brighter.

  But then, suddenly, the weather started to change rapidly: clouds started to move and grow heavier, closer to the ground; winds started to blow from all directions; and the temperature, occasionally, climbed almost above freezing point. In some places, the snow began to melt. It looked like spring was finally going to come. Weather patterns became more unpredictable, and precipitation varied anywhere from snow and drizzle to freezing rain.

  And so, they found themselves caught by a whiteout, high up in the Wavy Mountains. They were pressing westward for days, but it was getting harder and harder to move. They had no choice though, but to press on, and after several days, when they reached lower altitudes, the snow turned into freezing rain. Their clothes and footwear were soaked wet and there was nowhere to hide. All small towns on their way were devastated to the point that there was not even a single building standing upright, suitable for a shelter. Their numbers were simply too great to fit everyone in some remote farm house, so they kept going further down, hoping for a break in weather or to find a big enough shelter. The roads were covered in slush and mud, making it difficult to tread along; they even had to replace sleds on the wagons with wheels. Periodically, streams and creeks swollen with flood waters obstructed their advancement and made them change their course ever so often, since they were not familiar with the land, and many times they had to go back and forth, to find another, more suitable path to pass through. The horses were exhausted to their limit, soaked to the bone. But they endured. Even the children, to the very smallest of them, loaded like pylons on the wagons, and likewise toddlers and babies, tucked together three and four like logs and folded in sleeping bags to keep warm, somehow showed no protest, asked for no extra care, but were instead joyful and amused.

  At the end, they reached the outskirts of a large city. Everything was quiet and deserted. They saw no signs of other people. In fact, since they united with old Welsh’s band, they met almost no one else.

  This city was totally deserted, or so it seemed. Presley and a couple of his lieutenants climbed up a high building, trying to get a grasp of the city’s size and detect any potential danger. Aside from the devastation caused by the war and, in all probability, a very violent earthquake, it looked totally deserted, and they could not foresee any danger. Although the heavy rain obstructed visibility, they saw no smoke rising to the sky from burning fires, or any other sign of life, and decided that it was safe to pass through. They eventually came across a large, low building, which probably used to be some kind of a distribution facility, and selected it as a campground for the night. They positioned a lookout station on top of a nearby, lonely skyscraper, with somebody continuously at the top, surveying the adjacent area. They were even able to shelter the horses in a large abandoned loading dock, attached to the building.

  Presley and his closest subordinates, along with Professor Tagore, Jonah Phyla, Mrs. Catchinsky, old man Welsh and his grandson, and several other prominent members of the commune, conference and decided to stay in the city, at least until the weather improved. The rain continued to fall, and it seemed, it would carry on like that for the next several days. No one showed interest in getting on with the journey, until the rain stopped.

  They agreed to use that time to get well rested and search for things they might find useful—more food, tools and clothes. They called it ‘shopping’, for it could not be defined as looting; not any more, anyway, given that the city was deserted.

  Presley sat near the fire in one corner of the large, open, empty storage building, drying his boots and pieces of clothes. The smoke from the fire climbed up, and escaped through the holes of the damaged ceiling. There were many holes in the roof. The water dripped through them, falling down in small waterfalls and then, finding its way outside along narrow gaps in the concrete flooring. People occupied all the dry spots, drying their clothes, building fires and lairs, preparing food. Everyone was minding their own business, and he was glad to be left alone.

  For a moment his attention went to young Leo, standing amongst a group of his peers. He was showing them his bird. Amazingly, one of his hatchlings survived and was almost a grown raven by now. It could fly for almost a month. It would hover away, but it would never forget to return, and would sit on the boy’s shoulder, or walk and hop along, making all kinds of noises. Kids and, for that matter many adults, were amazed and amused by it, many wanted to feed or touch it, but the raven allowed only Leo to come close. Leo started to teach the bird tricks, even to talk. Now he was showing–off.

  What a remarkable bunch we are, Presley mused. Of all the children they gathered, he liked Leo the most. He saw a lot of himself in the orphan.

  Deep in thought, he started to drift back into his past; to that last summer he spent with his mentor, old Malevich, and the time he made up his mind to join the military. The decision came purely out of admiration for all the stories Malevich told him about his time spent in service. But Malevich was not so approving, saying that, after a lifetime in the army he learned there were better ways to make a living than killing people. Nevertheless Presley insisted and, finally, the old chap gave in. He pulled some strings and called a few old friends, still on active duty. That fall, he brought Presley to the military base in east Kroynorth.

  Just a few minutes before saying their farewell, old Malevich took him by his arm and led him to the small, nicely executed park, behind the visitor parking lot.

  “Once you pass that gate, nothing will be the same, anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I know, you told me it’s not an easy life.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They will do everything to break your spirit, to suffocate your will, to make you follow their orders with no questions asked and no conscience of your own, until you learn to do whatever they ask of you without questioning is it right or wrong, just following the orders.”

  “But isn’t that what a soldier is supposed to do? Obey orders and do whatever his superiors tell him to do?”

  “Yes, but there is no honour left here—not anymore. Over the years, this army, as all other armies in the World, changed to something I do not recognize as the once proud and just Acandian army of my youth. Its purpose changed. It is not Acandian, any more. Everything now belongs to that faceless Government. So, you have to be smart. You have to make them think that they succeeded in their attempt to mould you in one brainless, thoughtless brute. Yet, underneath, in your core, you have to keep your set of values and beliefs. The ones I taught you about. You must never forget what is right and what is wrong, you hear me… what is just and what is not. Tell me you can do that, or we are going back.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “They will try to break you. But it’ll last only until you pass the training. After that you’ll be let alone.”

  “Then I guess I can make it.”

  “I think you can, my boy, for you are one tough street bastard. Go in, watch your back and keep your mouth shut, until you learn about the others. Make no friends, until you find out who’s who, and what they’re made of. Only then begin to make alliances.

  Everything was as Malevich told him. The Drill Sergeant was as narrow–minded and evil as they get, and he was not able to find a real friend for a long time. Almost every recruit in his unit was either frightened, indoctrinated, or a snitch. It was really hard to recognize a true man. Everyone was afraid of everyone else. The long months of training were pure hell. Even after it was all over, it was nearly impossible to find a real comrade, someone who understood the system, and did not succumb to it. It was not until one drunken night that he was finally reminded
there were still some real patriots left. It was like an army inside the army, small in numbers, but strong in convictions. He became a part of it, and much later, it led to his desertion.

  He never saw old Malevich again. By the end of his training, the old man—closest he ever had to a father—died from a stroke in his sleep.

  As he snapped out from his recollections, he looked around the vast storeroom, at all his friends, and he felt content. They turned out to be a tightly knit bunch. Even now, with their numbers growing rapidly, they all shared love and compassion for each other. He watched them talking, touching each other’s hands, hugging, always with a smile on their faces when they talked to one another, doing their chores without any question or hesitation, helping one another readily, never waiting to be asked or ordered, and, most importantly, loving each other. He wondered why people had to experience nearly being annihilated from the face of the Earth in order to learn to love their neighbour? Was all of it necessary? Or was this present solidarity only a reaction, a quite pro quo? He wondered if they would continue to be like this even when all danger and their ordeal became facts of the past, or if they would became less dependent on one another?

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Professor proclaimed, as he lowered a wooden box and sat on it, positioning himself next to Presley.

  “Is it possible to create Utopia?” asked Presley, still deep in his thoughts.

  “Well,” started Tagore, taken by surprise that such a question came from Presley’s mouth, “If all people in a particular society followed the same rules, if there was a common goal, a common purpose, a universal view on life, if they all shared the same set of values, the same customs—well then, you would have utopia.”