by Brett Riley
Jack Hobbes leaned against the statue, holding her horse’s reins.
She tried to look serious. What did you do to get busted all the way down to groom?
Hobbes handed her the reins. Reckon Gabe told you what he’s got in mind.
Stransky climbed into her saddle. Topple the Cult in its greatest fortress, with nothin but a half dozen guns to back his play? Yeah, he told me.
What do you think?
She laughed. I think he’s crazier than anybody I’ve ever known. I also think he’s right. Ain’t nobody safe while Rook and his kind run the world.
Figured out we’re likely to die?
She turned to the sky. Look at them stars. So far away, and they look so small, but every one bright enough to reach us.
Don’t know what that means.
It means I’d rather get my ass shot off out yonder than sit here scared half to death every time somethin outside that wall steps on a twig.
Hobbes glanced toward the Temple. Stransky imagined he felt relieved that Troy was back in the office. But everything had changed. The city’s geography, its population, the foundations of Hobbes’s faith. Shit, she thought. That ain’t the half of it. Jacky’s always been an officer and a killer. Now he’s gotta figure out how to be a man. Her horse shifted, stamped, trembled. It wanted to gallop, the wind in its mane. She knew how it felt.
Finally Hobbes cleared his throat. He seemed downright nervous. Comin with us?
She tossed hair out of her eyes. Yep.
He exhaled, but in relief, or dread? Once we go over the wall, you can’t back out. Try it and I’ll shoot you myself.
Stransky slapped her knee. Jacky, you gotta learn how to talk to a lady, or you ain’t never gonna get past first base. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna get some of that food I smell.
She turned the horse and walked it toward the gate. He would have no idea what the metaphor meant. Neither did she. The reference had been lost to history, as dead as the old times and the old people. But it would make him blush. That pleased her, even if she could not see it in the dark.
Then, his voice. Stay with me. Gonna have plenty of food at the meetin tonight.
She reined up and turned back. His shape blended with the statue’s, as if the stone itself were speaking to her. Why, Jacky. If you ain’t a sweetheart.
Shut up and wait while I get my horse.
57
Long stood in her back yard, washing off the day’s grit, when a man on horseback rounded the corner. She was naked, her skin glistening in the moonlight. When she saw him, she uttered a little cry and grabbed her filthy smock off the ground and held it over her body. But when she recognized Santonio Ford, she laughed and let it drop. They had washed together after many battles. As he got closer, his sweet scent, like lavender, told her he had already made his ablutions.
She picked up an old piece of sacking and toweled off. On your way to the Temple?
He dismounted and leaned against her poplar tree. His horse rolled in the grass. Yeah. Gotta say, after the last couple months, I wish Gabriel had let us be for one night.
She splashed a handful of water on her face and scrubbed with her bare hands. I reckon he don’t intend to wait long. You still goin?
Course I am. And so are you. It ain’t even a question.
So what’s wrong?
Ford cleared his throat. Long picked up her grimy clothes. Inside, she had left a few lamps burning—one by the door, one in the den, one in her bedroom. She led him into the den. Ford sat in a chair and waited while she walked to the bedroom and put on a fresh shirt, pants, socks, boots. When she returned, he was kneeling in prayer. She hung back in the doorway and let him finish.
When he rose, he smiled, though his eyes looked sad. I’ve spent half my time in prayer lately, he said. I can’t get past what I did, no matter how I spin it in my mind.
She sat on the couch and patted the seat next to her. He took it, and she grasped his hand in both of hers. His slumped shoulders, his tone of voice, his eyes—they told a story of guilt and sleeplessness.
You’re thinkin about what all we did to save our lives, she said.
Ford nodded. Not so much what happened after the shootin started. Everybody knew what they were gettin into. But the deceit. Charters and Lange—innocents goin out like garbage. I don’t care what the reasons were. We did wrong. I did wrong.
From outside, the shouts of children running through the streets. I feel it too, she said. I reckon we all do. We’ll lose some of our treasures in heaven.
If we get there at all. I feel like Judas, with my own life the thirty pieces of silver. My future the potter’s field.
Long knew what he meant. Her inner aches made the celebrations outside seem farcical. I reckon that’s why Gordy wanted to die, she said. He walked through more muck than we did. I wish we could stay with him. Or take him.
Me too. But we gotta march, and he ain’t ready. Gabe’s right about that.
That would be their reward for deeds both good and ill. To leave the city they had saved. To sleep on the ground and eat what they could kill and fight for their lives every step of the way.
It’s a quest, she said. Our purification.
Yeah.
She got up, crossed to her window, and pulled the curtains. It all made sense. They would march on Washington to balance the scales with the Lord, whose will they had done through devilish misdeeds. They would march for atonement with no more mendacity about where they stood.
She stayed at the window a while longer. Then she walked back to the couch and sat beside Ford, whose head was bowed in prayer again. They sweltered in the heat and drank water and spoke to God. Soon enough they would mount their horses and ride through the streets, pretending to be as happy as most everyone else.
58
The Temple personnel had pushed Troy’s desk against the wall and stacked his straight-backed chairs on top of it. They had brought in dining chairs and tables, most of which were covered in platters of roast beef and chicken, fried pork, corn and beans and rice and peas, crawfish etouffee, smoked sausage and duck jambalaya. A cook hauled in pitchers of water and cups. Someone had set the dinner table. Tonight they would feast. Tomorrow they would start preparations for the journey. Troy intended to go over the wall in one week. They would enter unknown country and ride through it, walk it, sleep in it. Probably die in it, like Moses. A bitter cup that would not pass from them.
They sat together as staff scurried about, filling cups, taking away dirty dishes and replacing them with clean plates and utensils. Everyone ate as if they had starved for years, and though Troy had enjoyed the gumbos and such the Troublers had fed him, he had missed the city’s food.
As he helped himself to fire-grilled steak and oven-baked potatoes, he pondered those around him.
Lynn Stransky, her hair washed and combed back from her forehead, talked through mouthfuls of food and elbowed Jack Hobbes every time she told an off-color joke. Hobbes, clean and groomed, sat at his ease beside her. Something about them, the way they leaned in to share a word, the glances when one passed a dish. Good for y’all. What would Sarah’s hair look like, falling loose past her shoulders or wafting in a breeze? Jack Hobbes or Lynn Stransky or both might die out there. What would happen if one survived the other?
Ernie Tetweiller wore his usual three days’ growth of white beard, now clotted with the fatty drippings of roast duck. He still serves four or five days out of seven. The old man could have spent all his time drinking his precious whiskey and eating fatty meats and cursing, but he had stood with Troy, and now he planned to ride with the rest of them. At his age, and given the nature of their enterprise, he would likely never see his city again, even if the rest of them somehow made it back. And so, whenever Troy could catch the old man’s eye, he raised his glass and smiled. And Tetweiller smiled back, meat caught in his teeth.
Santonio Ford had been quiet much of the night. The recent campaign had required much of him, as devout a servant of God as ever there was. In his future lay even more weight for his conscience. I hope you can find your peace again, my friend.
LaShanda Long sat opposite Ford and joined in the revelry as much as anyone, but it was clear she struggled with her own heavy heart. Much of the populace might never trust her. Perhaps they would remember her years of loyal service and the strength and plentitude of the weapons she had provided. Or perhaps they would not.
Willa McClure had chosen a seat between Ford and Tetweiller, Bandit lounging under the table and snapping up the scraps people dropped for him. The girl had brushed off Troy’s suggestions that she and Bandit stay and help the proxies run the city, saying, You ain’t got nobody else that can do what I do. Santonio’s quiet, but he’s bigger. Troy could not argue with that, but he kept picturing McClure lying dead in a ditch.
She deserves better. Lord, please watch over this child. Bring her home, even if the rest of us die hard. Your will be done.
Was it even right to call her girl? She had been through as much as most people Tetweiller’s age. What was the precise measure of a woman?
Jerold Babb sat apart from the others, silent and meek and blushing. His place at the table stemmed from respect for his office, not because the man belonged in their company. He had sided with Royster and, in the city’s eyes, was party to all those deaths, to all that would have come with the flood. He moved like an even older man. Had he scourged himself? Or did guilt have weight?
You followed your heart and the teachins of your church. I just hope you’ll help Mordecai and them keep the peace.
And their absent friends—Gordy Boudreaux and his injured mind, his sickened spirit. Sister Sarah, wrapped in the arms of the Lord as surely as her body was wrapped in the habit. What would happen to them?
Troy blinked away the tears that wanted to come. As always, he had to be strong, the rock all the world’s waters could not wear away, the oak no lightning could split or burn. He was the lord of order. No matter how tired, he would lead them forward until they won or died. There was no third choice. Not in this world.
When Norville Unger slipped into the room, Troy stood. All right, y’all, he said. It’s time. Norville?
Unger held up a sheaf of paper and a quill pen. He sat and smoothed the paper on a corner of Troy’s desk and dipped the pen into an inkwell. One by one the rest of them stood.
Troy went first, saluting his fellows. I, Gabriel Troy, Lord of Order of the New Orleans Principality, name Mordecai Jones my proxy. May he serve long and well.
So say we all, said everyone, even Stransky.
And so it went around the table. Lynn Stransky named Bushrod, ignoring Troy’s dark looks. Ernie Tetweiller named Ruth Longfellow, a woman steadfast and true, a butcher by trade who had ridden in many posses. Even Stransky recognized the name. She had probably seen Longfellow through a rifle scope.
Jack Hobbes named Loudon Grimm, a steelsmith who had likewise fought Troublers in streets and swamps. Grimm stood nearly six and a half feet tall and could heft an anvil on his shoulders. Troy wished he had sent Grimm after Jevan Dwyer. His own face would have fared the better for it.
In Boudreaux’s stead, Hobbes and Tetweiller named Cecily Fitzhugh, a fisherwoman with a head for figures and a draw as quick as anyone’s. She also helped in the markets, making sure everyone’s belly was full, their shelters sound. It was understood among those at the table that Fitzhugh would serve while Boudreaux remained with the sisters. If he ever chose, he could take his rightful place.
Santonio Ford named Liv Tetweiller, a cousin of Ernie’s who had distinguished herself as a hunter.
LaShanda Long named Benson Ruddiger, her best metallurgist. The man had no leadership experience, but she believed he could learn on the job.
Willa McClure controlled neither territory nor trade, so she named no proxy. And in any event, who could replace her? She sat and listened, feeding Bandit under the table, keeping her own counsel.
Jerold Babb would hold no council seat. If he retained a fifth of his former congregation and his title, even for a few months, it would seem a minor miracle.
Derosier and Baptiste had removed their names from consideration but had agreed to serve as special liaisons to the population, solving disputes between former enemies, enacting the council’s decisions, and the like.
Stransky announced the names of the former Troublers who would co-chair the trades and serve on the council. Their own lieutenants’ incorporation would be another task for the council and the city. Troy knew none of them, but he had agreed to trust Stransky and could not gainsay her first decision. No one else objected.
The proxies and new members so named, everyone sat, awaiting dessert. Norville Unger slipped out, his sheaf of paper in hand. He would return to his desk, where he would craft and copy the official proclamation. And in one week, most everyone at the table would quit the city. Outlawed and hunted and persecuted like the Christians of old. Some had never traveled farther than the nearby bayous. As old as he was, even Ernie Tetweiller had never seen the Gulf, had never ridden as far as Jackson. Who knew for certain they could even find Washington?
The staff brought in half a dozen pies, apple and blueberry and pecan, cherry and peach and huckleberry. The desserts were sliced and passed around. Everyone ate and laughed. Though weary and wounded, they had made their stand. And, for this night at least, they could celebrate, toasting each other with their bellies full.
For just a moment, everyone fell quiet. All eyes turned to Troy, who sat at their head, his plate cleared, his bruised and battered face solemn. Saluting their bravery and their sacrifice, Troy raised his water glass one last time. They drank, and then Troy led them in prayer. When he was done, they sat for a long time, letting the night stretch out and out, reluctant to break the circle and move into the rest of their lives.
Epilogue: The Cemetery
The day workers had long since left. The man’s voice had degraded into a hoarse croak. Half a dozen times during the telling, he had snapped his fingers at one child or the other, their glazed look suggesting minds that had drifted. Each time he had backtracked five minutes, reminding them of their obligations to the generations yet unborn. Nearby, the great monument stood sentinel. Their jerky was nearly gone, their water low.
When the man fell silent, the boy cleared his throat. What happened next? he asked.
Next? the man rasped. Why, they went over the wall and sought their destinies.
Yes, but what happened? the girl asked. Did Gordy get better? Did they make it to Washington? What about Willa and Bandit?
The children had never seemed so young.
They found what they were seeking, the man said. Their place in God’s plan.
Yes, but what happened? the boy demanded. You can’t just tell part of a story.
The man stared at his son until the demanding, insolent look left the boy’s face and he turned away.
That isn’t how this works, the man said. Those men and women—and, yes, the girl and her dog—took their journey in stages. It wasn’t always clear when one stage ended and another began. And that is how we tell their story. One piece at a time.
But that’s not fair, the girl insisted.
Fair? Those people had to learn patience and humility and honor and sacrifice so we might live in a world free of terror. A world free of any one person who stands above us all, wielding authority like a hammer that knocks us all to pieces. You must learn those same qualities so you may be worthy.
Of what? the boy said.
Of what has been given to you. Of leading the world farther up the path. Of God’s love.
The last light bled from the day. From everywhere, crickets and cicadas and birdsong.
So how do we learn those things? the boy asked.<
br />
The man stood, wincing as his joints popped. You gather our things and follow me home. Speak no more of these matters. Not to me, not to each other. If you can manage that, then in one year’s time, we will return to this place and continue the story.
But what if we can’t wait?
Then your weakness will fulfill its own prophecy, and you shall never find your answers. The choice is yours. No one can make it for you.
His throat felt as if he had swallowed fire. He limped, the blood needling through his legs and feet. The children’s frustration washed against him like gentle waves. He had reacted much the same when their grandfather left him alone in the cemetery to gather the blanket and the empty canteens. But he had spoken true. They had to decide for themselves, as everyone must, and each choice would alter the course of the world, even if no one noticed but God. Such was the way of things.
Soon enough, he heard them moving, the rustling of the blanket as they folded it, the clank of the canteens as someone shouldered them. He thanked God for laying His hand on the children, troubling the waters of their souls, teaching them the value of the tale and of their own wills. And then the man, the father, the tale-teller walked through the gloaming toward the wagon and mules waiting for him to take up the reins and set everything in motion once more.
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as always, to Kalene Westmoreland—my first reader, my partner, my love.
Thanks to Shauna, John, Brendan, Maya, Nova, Luna, Cookie, Nilla, and Tora for bringing me so much joy. When the night is darkest, I think of you.
Thanks to Vicki Adang, editor extraordinaire, for making the book better and for indulging so many of my stylistic eccentricities.
Thanks to Mark Sedenquist, Megan Edwards, and everyone at Imbrifex Books for all the stellar work.
Thanks to God, for everything. Forgive us for the wrongs we so often do in Your name.
And thanks to you, reader, whoever you are. I hope we cross paths again before our lights leave the world.