The Heirs of Tomorrow

by Billy Roper

  “No, mam, I ain’t lost none, mattah fack I done FOUN somefin’”, he replied, pulling a long bundle wrapped in an empty meal sack from behind the wooden seat.

  “Oh you is always funnin’ wid jokes, Joker!” NightMary laughed, running up behind his mom and dad as they came to see what he had. “Dat why we cah you dat.”

  “Weah dis heah ain’t nutin’ foah to laff abou,” Joker assured her, laughing about it anyway.

  And, that is the story of how Joker Wildag of the MacDonal’ clan of the Eestensee tribe got the steel to have a fine sword made for himself, pay off the mill for their grinding, buy another horse for his family, one for himself, and have the rest twisted into armrings to carry his wealth around with him, on display. By the time it was over, he had turned the whole concree slab into dust. He had the fever. It turned out that the wheel breaking its spokes was the best thing to ever happen to him. The tires always went first.

  Chapter Nine

  The steadily rhythmic clopping of the hooves on weathered asphalt caused the shifting saddle leather to creak in time with the buzzing of the cicadas, lulling the three travelers into a moving doze. The noise reminded him of a marching cadence from long ago. It was just cool enough to not bring a sweat from the horseflesh, and breezy enough to stir the white mane. She snorted and flicked her ears back in irritation as a newly eroded pothole sprang up to surprise them. The third member of the party, bringing up the rear, bumped into her hindquarters and received a sharp kick in the shoulder in irritation. It took the suddenly alert rider a minute or two to calm them both down by talking low and calm and petting the dark blonde neck.

  Looking around, he took stock of how far they’d come. The shotgun blasted and rust-specked yellow ‘steep grade’ sign canted down at a forty-five degree angle into the other lane told him they were halfway there already. This was one of the prettiest parts of the ride, especially with the valley of contrasting fall colors spreading out below. It was near the peak of the leaf change.

  Silhouetted on the hillside above them sat the humped back of a falling- in cabin that hadn’t been rented by any honeymooning tourists since The Balk. A string of similarly neglected identical units trailed off along the crest of the ridge. All of them had been thoroughly looted long ago. He’d checked to make sure himself. Every other house and shop along the road had been stripped bare, too. All of them within sight of the highway, at least. Nobody went down a side road they didn’t have business being on.

  Again underway, they trudged forward up and over the rise, which abruptly fell again into a series of sharp switchback curves downhill. Up ahead at the bottom a creek had flooded over and undermined the shoulder, narrowing the trail to half a lane. It was the kind of place, with a cliff on one side and a steep dropoff on the other, where he knew to be on the lookout for robbers. It was the kind of place where he would pull an ambush, at any rate. And he should know; he had pulled a few prior to his current vocation. Back in the hungry days of that first scary year.

  Sitting up straighter in the saddle, he tightened his grip on the reins and reached back to loosen the single point sling on his shoulder with his other hand, before letting it rest casually on his pistol. Scanning both sides of the road ahead, he saw his mare’s ears prick up just as two deer slowly ambled across the road fifty yards away. That made him relax. They wouldn’t have been so calm if there was anyone up there they could smell or hear. He thought about shooting one, but it would take him too long to dress and butcher it. He wanted to make it back up the other side of this hollow in time for dinner. Plus, it would be more physical work than he had gotten used to doing, since he had become a circuit riding preacher.

  Some communities had survived The Balk and the war which followed only through such ruthlessness and brutality that they hungered for the word of the Lord more than for food, leastways as long as their bellies were full. They needed the validation and forgiveness of grace. Survivor’s guilt was good for business. Others were still mighty suspicious of any stranger from off, no matter how often they saw him. During the last few winters strangers had meant at best another mouth to feed or grave to dig, and sometimes, much worse. He had learned to sing gospel hymns when he saw woodsmoke. That helped. So did keeping a round in the chamber.

  Of course there were a dozen or so actual little towns on his circuit, pulled back out of sight from the major highways that still saw traffic by horse or foot or bicycle or even wagon, from time to time. It had been since before last winter that they had heard the last engine running on this stretch of road, and that had been a caution to be talked about. Word had it that some nigger-rigged trucks were coming back, but they were few and far between. In some places stores with armed guards bartered and traded local produce and second hand merchandise for canned goods and ammunition and more second hand stuff. Most towns he visited had restaurants. Several had regional postal service by courier between them. Two had hotels for guests. Three claimed to be independent, and one even boasted electricity, on account of their own hydro dam on the Buffalo. It had once been called Ponca before, and barely a wide spot in the road. With the power on, it seemed like there was a new house being built or family moving in every time he came through. The former Sheriff’s deputy who ran the place called it Bartertown, but few people got the joke. The preacher did, but they let him use the new school lunchroom to hold services in town, so he scrupulously avoided saying “Embargo On!” whenever the lights flickered. He also pretended not to see the brisk business traders brought to the fanciest restaurant in town with the hostesses upstairs. He wasn’t about to queer a good thing. The hospitality they offered him was better than nothing. In the town, that is-not with the girls. That would have been wrong.

  Nothing was all that most of the communities on his circuit had, so he held his meetings in the homes of the most powerful local landowner, or in their barns. He got a hot meal and a place to sleep while all the neighbors gathered, and the next evening or the evening after when their day to day drudgery allowed them to put their chores aside for an afternoon, he’d earn his keep with blessings and brimstone, as each case warranted. One community had lost their church because the aging pastor had tried to pass the pulpit on to his niece, and the local farmers had ran the whole family out. He would have liked to have used that church building for his own services, but they’d burned it. Most folks didn’t cotton to ladies at the pulpit. It was a damn shame. It had been a nice building. But the old church office made a fine stable for his palomino mare, “Goldilocks”, and his paint pack horse that he was afraid to name because they all kept dying on him. Maybe it was the amount of clothes and books and ammunition he made them carry. Or maybe he just had bad luck with horses he didn’t name. He thought of a song about a desert, as he rode along.

  That tended to happen a lot, the burning out business, which was the main reason why he kept making his circuit. It gave folks less time to get tired of hearing the same sermons and promises, and bored with clunking bullets and old pre-1965 silver dimes into the offering plate as tithes. If he stayed in one place too long, he figured it would dwindle to cans of beans, then baked goods, then eventually nothing but a fast ride out of town in front of a mob. Or, like the church leader over west towards where Fayetteville had been that wanted to let them brown folks stay so long as they contributed to the community and took an oath in English had gotten; a rope, courtesy of the local constable. It didn’t matter that the preacher had tried to crawfish at the last minute and say that maybe they could stay as non-citizens but not be allowed to vote; he still got strung up. The constable hadn’t been planning on holding any elections about anything, anyway.

  Every stop he made, that story was repeated to him as a cautionary tale by the local boss, whether he called himself Mayor, Sheriff, or in one case, Governor. He hated towns that had city councils, because then he had to hear it more than once, when he asked for permission to hold his revival, each visit. Then they would ask to see copies of his sermon material like always, t
o review and make sure there wasn’t any seditious anti-government material in them. A time or two he had to change a phrase to suit them, just to show he would. It was easier than dancing at the end of a noose, or working for a living.

  He was well off enough from contributions and love offerings to afford to eat at the best restaurants and stay in hotel rooms in the two towns that had them, and his horses never went hungry, either. The circuit he had drawn up made sure that his stops were mostly all less than ten miles apart. That was further than most folks ever travelled regularly any more, but close enough that he never had to sleep outside. The figure he cut, in black jeans, black dress shirt, black suit jacket, and black cowboy hat, was designed to inspire respect. It was punctuated only by one of a fistful of white ties he kept already knotted in his saddle bags and the fancy stitching on his boots. Even the twin cross-draw holsters he wore and the Glock .45s in them were black. At some point, he planned on getting himself a black horse to complete the effect, but he was just too attached to Goldilocks. She was the only family he had left who was still with him, and the only real friend who hadn’t up and died on him, or betrayed him, yet.

  The two boys, one nearly grown and the other still a sprout, ran to meet him at the gate blocking the road. They called back to the house and the man came down to open it. That was smart of them, even though he wasn’t a stranger.

  He was a welcome guest at this farmstead. He’d stayed over before, sharing news and a blessing in exchange for bed and breakfast. The man of the house worked long hours in the field this time of year, and his sons took part in the chores as well. There was also the small dairy to run. The Preacher had timed it just right. Hospitality obligated refuge, the fields provided relative solitude for him through the absence of most of the household. Still, he had to make awkward pleasantries before the evening meal and say grace over it with a flourish. The farmer’s wife was younger than she had any cause to be, and must have been an add-on after a widowing. There was no way she was old enough to be the oldest boy’s mother. She kept filling his glass with herb tea and his plate with fresh cheese, which they had plenty of. It was good and soft.

  Sleeping inside meant he was able to stay cleaner than most people managed to these days, and the preacher prided himself on cleanliness. It was next to Godliness, after all. Sometimes staring into a dim mirror by candlelight as he washed his beard, the lines around his green eyes crinkled in amusement at what he saw. A tired face on the Heaven side of fifty, with more gray than blonde, and less of either than there used to be, except for the chin whiskers that just kept going like the bunny. But the bunny didn’t go, any more, did it? It was already gone, long gone. He shook his head clear of the stray thought , flinging water droplets onto the open pages of the old Bible beside the water bowl. That wouldn’t do. The preacher blotted it dry with his cleanest shirt, then shut the book gently and blew out the candle.

  Laying in the darkness he heard the younger boy come back in from shutting up the chickens in the coop, something he should have done before supper if the unexpected guest hadn’t gotten him off the farm routine. Then he and his brother talked quietly about going fishing the next day, and maybe trading their catch in town. The younger son was excited that his brother was sharing the living room with him to accommodate the guest, but the older one wasn’t as happy about it. Apparently the house must have been built before the farmer realized how many kids he was going to have. The Preacher tried to listen hopefully through the wall for any noises from the other bedroom, but it was no use. Eventually, he fell asleep and dreamed of fire and smoke and sobbing.

  The next morning he got dressed and presented the lady of the house with last week’s double-sided Ponca Press newspaper, which made her squeal with delight and serve his breakfast that much quicker. Her husband and sons had already headed out to bring in the cows for milking before dawn. She told him that “if a preacher couldn’t be trusted to be left alone in the house with his wife, then who could?”, he had said as he kissed her good morning and left. “Who, indeed?” the preacher answered, as he watched her bend over the oven to bring forth the biscuits. They were warm and light and golden brown, perfect. And the butter was fresh, too. So was the breakfast steak. It sure beat the squirrel stew he got elsewhere. On the outside he thanked the Lord, but on the inside he thanked the cows for their tithe. From each according to their abilities, after all.

  As they ate they talked about how nice it was that the Governor of Bartertown let the newspaper keep using the old name, and as she read the brief articles out loud, how sad it was that the Razorback Militia had lost so many good men trying to take back Little Rock, then how nice that the Mayor of Harrison had lowered road taxes for folks travelling through. Her eyes turned hard at the always vague and never fulfilling national news column. The Chinese Peacekeeping Forces had executed two hundred and fifty captured ‘rebels’ in Fresno. A United Nations mobile field hospital in New Jersey had been overrun by looters. Heavy fighting continued in Northern Texas. And Florida. And... Deseret announced the annexation of another county in Arizona, and the Mexican government was protesting that. Most of it was rumors or hearsay passed by courier from placed hundreds of miles and weeks away. The back side was for obituaries and new birth announcements, like always, in two equal sized columns. Even after the world ended, life and death went on relentlessly. Downright symbiotic, they were. The birth announcements filled him with wonder. How could people dare do such a thing?

  He rolled up his sleeves and helped her wash the dishes, right beside her, nearly touching her arm with his, watching the blush creep up her neck from the collar of her light green dress to her golden hair. She got real quiet, and so did he. Finally, she turned away to dry them, and he stacked the clean pans back under the sink. When you didn’t have running water inside, you didn’t waste a drop.

  The Preacher thanked the farm wife for a delicious meal. She thanked him for the compliment, wiping her hands nervously on her apron. Then he put on his coat and trudged out to the barn to help with the milking. He was a man of the people, after all. Tonight he would bring them God’s word. Until then, he had to bring them some more buckets for the moo juice. It never hurt to help out, and especially being seen doing so. Besides, they weren’t heavy. He thought about the blonde back in the house, and her dress. It had been a long time since a woman had blushed for him.

  The buckets delivered, he fed and watered Goldilocks and the paint, brushing her down and talking to her softly about where they were going next, as if she didn’t already know the route by heart. Fourteen stops. Two days each place, more or less. A couple of days off at home. One visit each month. It was an Euler Circuit of righteousness.

  His horses taken care of, he returned to the room the oldest son had been kicked out of for the couch for the duration of his visit, to pray and study God’s word in preparation for the revival, he announced. He spent the time cleaning his Glocks, the custom accessorized AR-15 he habitually kept slung behind his back while riding, and the sawed off twelve gauge pump strapped across his saddle bags. A plate was respectfully left outside the door for lunch. He loved these people. They thought of everything. That would bear watching. Especially the woman. How long had she been trapped here?

  Even for a cool fall evening, he was able to work up a sweat, pacing back and forth in front of the three dozen filled folding chairs, booming at them.

  “Now I know that you good folks around here in Mt. Judea don’t abide any Sodomites in your God-fearing community, am I right, brothers and sisters?” (Amen!) “And I know that you all love the Lord and keep his commandments!” (Hallelujah, Praise Him!) “I don’t need to be told that you have good Christian leaders who keep things on the straight and narrow here.” (Yes!) “If you know that Jesus loves you and you’ve been blessed tonight, let me hear an amen!” (Amen!) “But did you know, brothers and sisters, that not a week’s walk away from here there are places that allow their daughters to lie down with strangers?” (Oh, No!) “There a
re people who don’t follow God’s word! (Oh!) They’ve lost their faith in Jesus, they’ve lost their faith in God’s plan! (No-no-no-no!) “They even want to allow in foreigners, to welcome outsiders and their unChristian ways!” (Not here, Uh-uh!) “But we know that the Lord will look after His own flock!” (Amen!) “He said, in His Word, that He will neither forget us nor forsake us!” (Come on!) “So long as we what? So long as we follow His Word, and keep His commandments, and continue to pray for salvation, because brothers and sisters, I’ve snuck a peek at the back of the Book! I’ve seen how the story ends, and let me tell you, by the grace of God, that we’re gonna win! We’re gonna win! We’re gonna win! And the time of His judgement is at hand!” (Amen! Praise Jesus! Hallelujah!) “Now before the City Council treasurer passes around the offering plate tonight, I’d like to ask if anyone here with us has a special unspoken prayer request they’d like me to add, if so please raise your hands. Yes, ma’am. Yessir. And you. Yes, ma’am. Thank you. God bless you. God bless you. With every head bowed and every eye closed, then…”Dear Lord, we ask your continued blessings on this community of believers and their faithful leaders, Father. Continue to lead, guide, and direct them along the path of righteousness, and help them to resist the contamination, the filth, and the evil, the sickness of outsiders, dear Lord. Please watch over each member of your flock here, and especially those with special prayer requests, Lord, you know every heart and hear every need, please heal their hurts and answer their prayers, Father. Thank you for the wonderful bounty of your blessings, which we share with you now as the offering plate passes, and bless us all until we meet again, all these things we ask in your blessed son Jesus’ precious name, Amen.” (Amen!) “As the plate passes, let us close with a final hymn, brothers and sisters. ‘Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide, myself in thee’…”