* * *
In the dark of night Connor hurried out of the gray leaf forest and to the side of the Colburns’ barn. He took shelter beneath its overhanging roof. The light rain hadn’t hindered his covert exploration of the land around Good Springs, but it was coming down hard now and he was officially soaked. If the rain let up soon, he could keep exploring; if not he’d give up and sneak back through the window of the Colburns’ guest room.
Even the rain was challenging him and—even though he shivered in the cold wind—surrender was not an option.
He leaned against the side of the barn and pulled a sprig of leaves out of his jacket pocket while he waited on the rain. He rubbed the leaves between his fingers and smelled the oil the leaves left behind. The mysterious gray leaf tree—it provided potent medicine, incomparably efficient fuel, and lumber stronger than metal. He couldn’t compare its smell to anything else on earth. Strong—like the tea Lydia made from it—but pleasant.
As he wondered what other capabilities the tree might possess, Connor was struck by his captivation by this place they called the Land. Every night under the cover of darkness, he had climbed out the guest room window and explored down the coast and into the forest, hoping to find answers to his questions. He needed to know the Land’s geographic location, how he could alert the Unified States military, and how he could leave.
John had been forthcoming with what he knew: over the past seven generations the people of the Land had spread out in villages along the four hundred miles of coastline and some sixty miles inland, where a mountain range stood impassable. John had said there was no sign of human life ever having lived in the Land before the founders arrived, and to his knowledge no one there had ever encountered a person from another land—at least until Connor’s arrival.
After two weeks of spending his days questioning John and his nights exploring, only two of Connor’s original questions had been answered. With no communications equipment available, the only possible way for Connor to contact the military was with the locator beacon—if it made it to shore with him and if the thief who had stolen his boots also had the beacon. The ocean current around the Land churned with such fierce riptides the people dared not go near the breakers. Boats were only used on the streams and rivers inland. The only way to leave the Land would be by aircraft.
His last remaining question involved the location of the Land, and to answer that he needed the clouds to dissipate. Though he left the guest room each night with the intention of charting the stars, he usually got sidetracked exploring the forest, the bluffs, and the shore. The more he explored the Land, the less motivated he was to return to battle. His fascination with the Land soon quelled his feelings of disloyalty.
As he breathed in the scent of the wet gray leaf trees, he acknowledged there was simply no way for him to leave the Land. He glanced down at the soft wings woven into the material of his jacket. That symbol once meant everything to him—and it still should—but without a way to return to duty, he had to distance his mind from his first love: flying.
He heard someone inside the barn, so he walked beneath the eave and around to the door. He stepped inside and saw lantern light illuminating one of the horse stalls. “Hello?”
“In here.” John’s voice called from the back of the barn.
Connor walked through the outbuilding, which was ripe with the mixture of hay and manure. He found John in an empty stall seated on an overturned bucket, prying rivets off a saddle strap. He propped an elbow on the open stall’s gate.
John glanced up briefly then continued working. “Did the rain hinder your efforts this evening?”
“For now.” He mindlessly swirled the gray leaf twig between his fingers.
John pointed to a tool on a shelf beside Connor.
Connor handed the tool to him and wondered why he was in the barn in the middle of a rainy night mending a saddle. The next stall over was empty also. “Where are the horses?”
“Lydia’s horse threw a shoe yesterday and she left him with the farrier. She took my horse tonight.”
“Lydia is riding a horse in the rain in the middle of the night—right now?”
“Someone needed medical attention.”
“It seems dangerous for her.” He was surprised by John’s lack of concern. “Does it bother you?”
“She is one of the strongest riders I know.” John held the tool closer to the light and scratched something off its surface. “When she is called upon to treat the injured or ill, she can ride her horse through a foot of mud on the forest path at night so fast she always beats the messenger back. She is careful and independent and dedicated to her work. She left to apprentice with Doctor Ashton when she was sixteen, and I learned then the surest way to rile Lydia is to stand in the way of her work.” John blew out a breath and looked at Connor. “And yes, it bothers me. But every village needs a good physician. It just happens that in our village the person called to that position is my daughter.”
Connor shifted his weight and leaned his shoulder against the rough stable wall. Though he had quickly sized up everyone in the family when he first entered the Colburn household, he assumed he would not be around long enough to get involved personally. But like the Land, he found the Colburn family too fascinating to disregard. The multi-generational mix of personalities fit together in a way that felt both seamless and polarized. There was the blind great-aunt who remained disconnected, yet forcibly involved; the adult son desperate to protect the home he was trying to leave; the baby of the family, awkward in her newly adult body but too energized to sit still long enough to know it; and the smart, independent physician who had been emancipated only to her father’s back yard. They all had a place in the family, but their collective significance was empowered by John’s leadership.
John was also the village’s overseer—not simply by right of birth but by natural inclination. He exuded a fatherly presence that Connor—having never known his father—craved. Connor found himself absorbing John’s wisdom and strength, and he also desired the overseer’s approval.
“The rain will not end tonight.” John stood from the overturned bucket and snapped the mended saddle strap a few times between his hands, testing the strength of his work. “It will continue at least another day.”
Water rhythmically pelted the roof of the barn. Though Connor thrived with a challenge, even he knew when to resign. “Yeah, I guess I’ll go back to the house.” He stepped away from the stall and tapped his knuckles on the splintered gate. “Good night, John.”
* * *
Lieutenant Justin Mercer leaned his back against a frigid, steel wall. He had already waited an hour in the dark corridor below the flight deck of the aircraft carrier. His legs begged him to sit on the cold floor, but he was determined to show his superiors he was physically recovered from the crash and fit for duty.
He stood at attention when the conference room door opened. The rear admiral and other officers walked out. They passed without acknowledging him.
“Lieutenant Mercer,” a man called from inside the room as an ensign held the door open.
Mercer gave a nod of recognition to the ensign and walked to a laminate conference table. Commander Jenkins and a civilian psychiatrist were sitting at the table.
Mercer’s commanding officer looked at him. “Lieutenant, this is Deborah Davis. She is a civilian psychiatrist from Washington who is aboard for research purposes, but she has offered to help you through this situation.”
The woman motioned to the chair across from her. “Have a seat, Justin.” She wore wire-rimmed glasses and had her hair pulled tightly in a low bun. “I have gone over your medical files and I’m familiar with the crash.” She peered over her glasses at him and then swiped her finger across a tablet’s touchscreen. “This says you were stranded at sea for thirty-six hours before the rescue. Those are the hours we are going to focus on together.”
Mercer wasn’t going to let them do this to him again. He ignored the psychiatr
ist and glared at his superior officer. “Commander, we’ve been over this several times. I know what I saw. There was land. I was completely alert during the descent. Lieutenant Bradshaw is there on that land. I saw him drift toward it.”
“Lieutenant Mercer, we have searched extensively for Lieutenant Bradshaw and for the land you reported seeing. There is nothing out there but ocean for hundreds of miles.”
“But Commander, we know the South Atlantic Anomaly disrupted the aircraft’s readings and might have caused the malfunction that engaged the ejection system. Maybe the radiation could be interfering with the readings from the platform. There is land out there. I just know it.”
Jenkins sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Lieutenant, I understand the trauma you suffered from the crash. I expected you to be confused and frustrated after such an experience, but we are too strapped for resources to placate one grieving officer any further. We have recovered most of the aircraft and even parts of the ejection equipment. There is no way Lieutenant Bradshaw survived. He has been declared dead.” Jenkins paused when Mercer dropped his head into his hands. “We left a monitoring unit at the rescue site. We have four stations globally that will continue surveillance in the area via satellite for any atmospheric irregularities. Believe me, the Unified States government wants to find the land you reported. But unless Lieutenant Bradshaw’s personal locator beacon is activated in the next few hours, we have to move on. You have to move on.”
Jenkins stood and motioned to the psychiatrist. “Ms. Davis is here to help you. We need you back in the cockpit, Lieutenant.”
Mercer didn’t stand when his commanding officer left the room. The psychiatrist began asking questions about his feelings and his memories after the crash. His thoughts drowned out her voice in his head. All he could think of was the green of the trees and the clear, blue waterways of the land he saw from above. During the two-mile descent under the parachute, he had focused on that land. What he saw was real. Bradshaw was there. He had to do something to get back to that land. He would go to the admiral himself if he had to. He would make sure they found Bradshaw and that beautiful land.
* * *
Lydia inhaled the cool air and delighted in the dry atmosphere cleansed by two days of rain. The street’s cobblestones gleamed as she walked from her family’s home at the edge of the village to the library. The chromatic drama of the changing landscape caught her eye as she shifted a stack of books held in the crook of her arm.
The oranges and reds of the changing leaves seemed to wave to the unflinching evergreens. The gray leaf trees stood thick and silvery, fully equipped to keep their foliage through the coming winter.
The old door to the library was narrow and made of heavy planks salvaged from the ship that brought the founders to the Land. Lydia turned the doorknob and pushed it open. The musty room was dark, save for the light of an oil lamp. Connor was sitting on a wooden stool in front of the tall study table, reading a journal written by one of the founders.
He glanced up at her. “Hi, Doc.” He looked back at his book.
“Um, hi,” Lydia replied using his vernacular. She walked to the table and placed her books opposite Connor, then she moved around the room, opening the shutters on each window. Sunlight poured into the one-room library. “I did not expect to see you here,” she said.
“Your dad suggested it. He said the pressman is away traveling.”
“Yes, I know.” She wasn’t there for the printing press, but she was pleased to hear Connor had gained some knowledge of village life. “Why did my father suggest you come to our library?”
“He told me all the knowledge of the Land is here in these journals.” He motioned to the shelves. “This collection of information is absolutely remarkable. To think, only eight families founded this entire society. The founders really seemed to have the perfect blend of profession, artistry, and genius. It blows my mind how each person wrote all the knowledge of each profession or craft or life wisdom for future generations. And each generation has done the same ever since. This is really an extraordinary culture you have here, Doc.”
“You have the knowledge to fly machines in the sky and yet you find us fascinating?”
He grinned. “Mind blowing.”
“So you said.” She chuckled at the image given by his figure of speech. “I’m pleased you are so captivated by our society.” She walked back to the table and sat on a stool across from him. “I love the Land, but I have nothing modern to compare it to. What are you reading now?”
He lifted the journal to show her the cover. “I’m currently reading your ancestor’s theology notes.” It was one of her great-great-grandfather’s journals. He had been the overseer of Good Springs over one hundred years ago and had written prolifically on his study of the Bible.
“Once again, you have surprised me, Connor.” She opened her journal and flipped through her medical notes, but was thinking about his situation. “What are you hoping to find in all of these volumes?”
He glanced up from his reading and squinted as if his eyes had not yet adjusted to the crisp light that flooded through the clear glass windows behind her. “I’m just looking for some answers.”
She walked to the shelf where she would find the medical volumes she intended to study. One was missing. She looked back at Connor, and he was holding it up. “Henry Ashton, Senior, Medical Notations, Nineteen Fifty-four,” he read the title aloud.
“Yes, thank you.” She took the journal and scanned the other books stacked on the table beside him. He had selected journals covering sundry topics. “You have a wide variety of interests. Do you plan to give a lecture on one of these subjects at the party tonight?”
“What party?”
“The Fosters’ barn party. I was only joking about the lecture, of course.”
He lifted a palm. “A barn party?”
“Yes, the Foster family owns a large sheep farm, and they have a celebration for the village every autumn. There will be music and dancing and food. Many of the village families have parties in the autumn. It’s how we celebrate abundant harvests and productive herds. The Fosters’ party is by far the grandest. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh, I’m not going.”
“You must.”
He looked amused. “I appreciate the invitation, but I’m not going.”
She tried to reconcile his breach of custom. “Do they not have parties in your land?”
“Yes, we have parties.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand our ways. Since you are a guest in my father’s home, you must attend the events my father attends. So unless you wish to dishonor my father, you will go to the party.” She sat again at the study table and tucked her skirt around her legs. It was chilly in the library, which was intentionally without a fireplace.
“I’ve worked with your dad every day for nearly three weeks. I’m beginning to consider the overseer not just a leader to be respected but also a friend. The last thing I want to do is dishonor your dad.” He looked straight at Lydia, and though neither of them had moved an inch, she felt the space between them decrease.
“Then you will go with us,” Lydia confirmed.
“Sure.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I would like to be briefed before the mission.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me what to expect. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself or to the fact I am your society’s first foreigner. What do I wear? When do we leave? Should I bow to the host?”
“Oh, please don’t bow to anyone! You are right: you’d draw attention to yourself if you did such a thing!” Lydia chuckled. “We will leave before sunset. The Fosters’ farm is not too far to walk, but Aunt Isabella will be with us, so Father will drive the wagon. Our household is to arrive together. I’m sure Father will lend you clothes, though nothing fancy is required. I suggest you speak as little as possible, since you use some words that are strange to us. However, you should be friendly when you are spo
ken to.” She imagined the many people who would want to meet the overseer’s guest. “I’ll do my best to deflect any questions regarding your origin so you aren’t tempted to lie.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “You mentioned music and dancing. Is that for our entertainment or our participation?”
“Both. There will be excellent musicians and they will likely play a range of tunes—some are for listening and some are for dancing. No one is expected to dance every dance, but everyone must dance at least once to show a good spirit.”
“I’m sure I can handle that.” Connor flashed a confident grin. It was the same grin her brother had referred to as infuriating. She was beginning to find his confidence charming.
She returned her eyes to her book even though he was still looking at her. She told herself the cultural curiosity was mutual, but she found it difficult to focus on the words she read until she felt him look away.
Chapter Six
Music drifted on the wind as Connor rode with the Colburns along the road to the Fosters’ sheep farm. The moment the horses pulled the wagon onto the Foster property, Bethany leapt from the back, landed on her feet, and raced through the yard. Lydia looked like she was going to scold Bethany, but she didn’t have a chance. Bethany ran past picnic tables and into a massive barn.
Levi jumped from the side of the wagon and walked to the front, where he helped Isabella down from the bench seat. He guided the elderly blind woman through the grass and to the tables.
Connor offered his hand to help Lydia down from the wagon. He walked beside her toward the crowd. “What do we do first?” he asked Lydia as he took in the scene. Rows of picnic tables lined the yard between a farmhouse and a barn big enough to park a jumbo jet in.
Levi was helping Isabella to a table where a group of older women sat. He moved gently with his aunt, and she laughed at whatever he said to her. After he made Isabella comfortable, he walked to Lydia and Connor.
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