Enclave

by Thomas Locke

  “Safe.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the farmer. “The professor told you to seek me out?”

  “Kevin said to contact you if I needed help. Which I do. He also said I’d need to pay for your services. Which I can.” Caleb hopped down and pulled away the canvas cover. Almost half of their jugs were crammed into the straw. “I want to store this with you.”

  Enoch walked around to the side and used his teeth to uncork a jug. He sniffed, then smiled. “Plum brandy. That takes me back.”

  “There are also jugs of applejack and corn whiskey.” Caleb gestured to the horses strung out behind the wagon. “We want you to sell the four. Quietly.”

  The farmer replaced the jug and gave each mount a careful inspection. “These are prime steeds.”

  Caleb gestured to the pile of weapons. “Sell these too. And the saddles.”

  The farmer hefted the shotgun and traced a grimy thumb along the name carved into the stock. “This is Old Man Greer’s gun.”

  One of the guards called over, “You took out the bounty hunters?”

  The woman turned and hissed. Once. The guard wilted back beneath the trees and vanished.

  Enoch asked, “How long do you aim on leaving your stock with me?”

  “Few days. Not long.”

  The farmer rubbed his chin. “Two jugs of the brandy for storing your gear. That’ll include feed and stabling for your horses. For the rest, I’ll take one horse, one saddle, one rifle, one pistol. My choice.”

  Caleb resisted the urge to accuse the man of robbery. “Done—if you’ll throw in a sack of fresh victuals and another three of oats. We got held up on the road.”

  “So I see.” The farmer set the gun back among the others. “The Greers don’t have any friends in these parts. Abigail and her son have friends everywhere. You need help with anything else, you’ll be made welcome.”

  13

  Sunset streaked the western horizon as Caleb and Zeke rode back into the valley. While Zeke watered the horses, Caleb walked the creek bed and gathered edible roots. They climbed the slope to discover the stand of cottonwoods was jammed with people. Even so, the clearing held an air of eerie silence.

  Kevin had shifted the wagons over to one side. He waved his rifle in greeting. “How did it go?”

  “Fine. Who are these people?”

  “I was waiting for you to get back to check them out.” He hopped down from the wagon but kept his rifle at the ready. “They’ve got the look of refugees, but I could be wrong.”

  Caleb kept his voice low but still feared he was being overheard. “Why are they so quiet?”

  “Refugees get so used to hiding, it’s hard to lose the habit. Especially the kids.” Kevin watched Caleb and Zeke untie the burlap sacks lashed to their saddles. “What have you got there?”

  “Food for us, including fresh-baked bread. Oats for the horses.”

  “Sweet. Mind if I share our venison? It could help get our neighbors to talk.”

  “Fine.”

  Kevin cut off a chunk large enough to feed the three of them. He lifted the remaining haunches and started toward the other camp. The kids fled at his approach, clearly spooked by his size. Kevin stopped well clear of the fire and waited as two of the men walked over. There were about a dozen adults, perhaps a few more women than men, all of them dark-skinned. In the waning light he could not tell more than that. The Catawba enclave had a number of African American families, a few native Indians, some Hispanics, about two dozen Koreans.

  Caleb watched as Kevin handed over the meat and accepted a mug in return. Kevin settled cross-legged onto the earth, but even then he remained outside the group. As he sipped from the mug, he lowered his head slightly and pulled his shoulders inward. The former deputy could not make himself small, but he had experience at adopting as unthreatening a pose as possible.

  Zeke rode his horse bareback down to the creek and returned with two buckets of water. Caleb used the last fragments of daylight to gather wood. He started a fire, washed the roots, sliced the meat, and prepared their meal.

  Kevin rejoined them and confirmed, “Refugees. They’re from the eastern lowlands, a village called Elizabeth. Portsmouth Township took it over. They had to leave.”

  “Why?” Caleb asked.

  “Politics. Two of the women were on the town council. The fat guy there was mayor. The tallest woman is a dentist, the older one there is a nurse’s aide. They’ve applied twice for township passes, Raleigh and Charlotte. But they’re twenty-six in all, and they won’t split up.”

  They ate in silence. When the skillet was empty and the coffeepot set on the coals, Kevin said, “They say the militia have set up a roadblock about six miles farther east.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s not good. Township militia don’t normally operate this far out. This is sheriff’s territory.”

  Zeke said, “They’re looking for you.”

  Kevin carried the look of a warrior. Hard as the gun holstered to his belt. Hard as the night. “Soon as it’s dark, I’ll slip out and head overland. I’ll hold up somewhere to the south. If they set the roadblock where I think it is, the highway jinks hard right about a mile farther on.”

  “What if it’s not you they’re after?”

  Kevin shrugged. “All I lose is a decent night’s sleep. Now listen. A mile or so past that turning, there’s a crossroads where three old roads meet. A farmers’ market operates there. I’ll meet you at the Highwayman’s Tavern.”

  Caleb didn’t like them splitting up, but he could think of no argument to stop Kevin. Zeke seemed almost disinterested. He kept searching the night, turning one way and then the other.

  Kevin asked, “Anything?”

  “There might be patrols. But they’re too far away for me to be certain.”

  Kevin drained his cup. “I better head out.” He made a pack that included his bedroll, their last sack of dried fruit and peanuts, a water skin, an extra knife.

  As he strapped on his sidearm, Caleb handed him the second loaf of bread. “Take this.”

  “I won’t say no.” He stuffed the loaf on top, shouldered his pack, and said, “See you on the other side.”

  Caleb watched him stride away. He had no reason to feel as bad about this as he did.

  When Kevin had been swallowed by the night, Caleb walked over to the larger camp and introduced himself. “I understand one of you is a dentist.”

  The woman was taller than him and big-boned, with large, intelligent eyes. “I am, and I’m training another. And a third is a skilled nurse.”

  “We come from Catawba enclave. We’ve got two dentists. One is over seventy. The other is despised by just about everybody.”

  The portly man, the former mayor, said, “We hear most of the farming enclaves don’t make outsiders welcome.”

  Caleb understood what he meant. “If the elders say they are welcome, the enclave obeys. Some folks are better at obeying than others.”

  The woman declared, “We won’t be broken up.”

  Caleb nodded. It was a familiar refrain. Such times forged strong bonds. “Your profession could make all the difference. Some of our folk have terrible problems with their teeth.”

  The woman took her time examining him. “Won’t you join us?”

  14

  It was well past moonrise when Caleb returned to the wagons. Zeke lifted his rifle in a silent greeting. Caleb was exhausted. The day lay on him like a weight. “Can you stay on guard a while longer? I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”

  “No problem.”

  He pulled his bedroll from the back, settled it on the earth by the rear wheel, and flung himself down. “Give me an hour.”

  But the moon had set when he rolled over and sneezed. Zeke was still seated on the front wagon’s seat. Only now there was a little girl asleep on the bench beside him. “Her name’s Alisha,” Zeke said quietly.

  Caleb washed his face and poured a mug of treacly thick coffee. “Why di
dn’t you wake me?”

  “I’m good.” He climbed down, careful not to disturb the little girl. “She had a brother, small like me. The militia took him.”

  “Which one?”

  “She doesn’t know. But it wasn’t long back, so it was probably Charlotte.” He glanced back. “They’ve been on the road so long she doesn’t remember her home anymore. It really bothers her.”

  Zeke took two long breaths and was asleep. Soon after, the little girl unraveled herself from the blanket, looked sleepily at Caleb, then climbed down and walked back to her family. Caleb watched the slumbering camp, took a walk around the cottonwoods, exchanged a quiet hello with the camp’s other guards, then returned to the wagons. And reached out.

  The act was so natural now, it was hard for him to recall how shocking it had been in the beginning. The first time Maddie had connected with him, he had felt both frightened and extremely vulnerable. The joining had disconnected him from the reality he had always known, and for a brief instant he saw the world differently—not through Maddie’s eyes but rather through her heart. Every time he connected, there was the overlay of her immediate emotions. He knew her fears, her worries, her loneliness, her joy. But beneath this, like a strong current that flowed unseen and yet dominated her life, was her love. For him.

  He had grown so accustomed to this, he had forgotten what it meant to be lonely. Now he was cut off from everything he held dear. His family, his home, the enclave. And most of all, from her.

  The next morning, Caleb and Zeke hitched their remaining wagon and were off before the other encampments began stirring. This time Zeke rode in the seat alongside Caleb, his horse tied to the rear gate. As the sun rose above the eastern hills, their wagon crested the rise and passed over an emerald meadow filled with the scent of wildflowers. The road then ran through a break of pines bent and stunted by storms. It seemed to Caleb as though the trees spoke to him. Telling him that the beautiful morning was a myth, that storms were brewing, strong enough to blast him into a new and unwelcome shape.

  They left the trees behind, and still the brooding alarm did not retreat. He felt increasingly consumed by a fear he could not even name. Finally he reined in the wagon, stood on the seat, and searched in every direction.

  Zeke asked, “What is it?”

  “I have no idea.” A faint breeze riffled the meadow, streaking the tall grass with silver ripples. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated. A pair of crows rose into the sunlight, scripting dark lines in the sky. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Is it Maddie?”

  “I don’t . . . No. I’m pretty sure it’s not her.”

  “What do we do?”

  Caleb reached out, only this time he searched in every direction. It was an unfamiliar gesture. His only connection to what was not immediately in front of him was with Maddie. And she remained silent.

  “Caleb?”

  He dropped to his seat. “I guess we better go on. Kevin is waiting for us.”

  Zeke’s only response was to ratchet a bullet into the rifle barrel and lay the weapon across his lap.

  Four miles later the meadow dropped away, revealing a shallow valley that grew steep farther south. The road swept through a tight double bend, once to descend and once to climb back up, with a ford over a small creek at the base. To the south the creek broadened into a muddy expanse that became a lake during floods. The northern reach was rimmed by barbed-wire fence.

  The roadblock was a simple affair, a long wooden arm painted in red and white stripes, with a balancing weight so it could be pushed open and a rope to pull it back down. Two bored militia stood to either side, holding rifles with the muzzles pointed at the earth. Parked just beyond the checkpoint stood an open-sided truck rimmed by padded benches. On the truck’s other side was a car. Both the vehicles were painted a glossy black and emblazoned with a shield and two words scripted in gold: Charlotte Militia.

  Zeke quietly asked, “Is this it?”

  “What?”

  “The thing that’s worried you. Is it the checkpoint?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Kind of.”

  “That’s not good enough, Caleb.”

  “My ability is to find truth in what people say. Sometimes I can move farther out, but always it’s based on words somebody has spoken. That’s it, Zeke. That’s all I know how to do.”

  Zeke’s lean features were furrowed with bone-deep concern. “So what’s happening now?”

  “I have no idea. This is a totally new thing. All I can tell you is, something is really wrong—”

  “Johnny Hayseed!” a man’s voice called.

  Caleb straightened as a sentry with sergeant’s stripes on his black sleeves sauntered over. The sergeant wore a bullwhip coiled to his belt. He was grinning, but there was no humor in his expression or his voice. “Where you boys from?”

  “Catawba enclave,” Caleb replied as his father had instructed. “Bound for Charlotte Township. My family has been trading with the mayor’s combine for years.”

  “You don’t say.” He untied the rope holding down one corner of the burlap. He tossed back the coverlet, surveyed the clay jugs, and turned back to the checkpoint. “You want to check this out!”

  A tall black woman pushed herself off the truck and started over. Her lean alertness accented the sergeant’s corpulent bulk. “What’ve we got here?”

  The sergeant unstoppered a jug and sniffed. “This applejack, boy?”

  “Some of it,” Caleb said. “The rest is corn whiskey and plum brandy.”

  The sergeant set the jug back in place. “I believe we’ll be satisfied with half your load.”

  “The proper tariff,” Caleb replied, “is ten percent.”

  “The tariff is what I say it is.”

  Caleb was not budging. “And if you take it now, I won’t be paying another tariff when we pass the township’s real boundary. So I need a receipt.”

  The officer’s voice filed down to a steel rasp. “You will address me as Sergeant. Or sir.”

  Caleb felt the day’s anxiety coalesce into a burning wrath that seared his throat. “That depends on whether I’m addressing an officer of the militia or a common thief.”

  The officer’s eyes glinted with a piggish rage. “Pull this boy down and lash him to the wheel.”

  The woman took a step back, disengaging herself. “There are people watching.”

  Three wagons were pulled up to the checkpoint’s other side. A dozen or so travelers milled about as their belongings were dumped out and inspected. All activity had halted now, as everyone watched the unfolding scene.

  “Who is gonna bother with what a bunch of refugees say? It’s my word against theirs.” The fist kneading the whip’s handle was scarred and warped. “This boy is going to learn manners.”

  “I know etiquette,” Caleb replied. “And I know a thief when I see one.”

  “We’ll just have to teach you a new tune.” He turned slightly and bellowed, “Get over here and lash this boy up!”

  The realization of what he’d let himself in for did not fully register until two officers hauled him down.

  “The boy who was riding shotgun has gone missing.” The woman held to her bored tone. “He took his rifle.”

  The sergeant whirled about, searched the empty surroundings, then snarled at the watching guardsmen, “You and you. Go find him and bring him back, else I’ll lash you up in his place.”

  The ropes bound Caleb’s arms and legs so tight, the wheel hub ground into his chest. He scraped skin off his chin by turning his head. “I’m a lawful trader and I’m filing a protest!”

  “You’ll soon be protesting a lot louder, believe you me.” The sergeant gripped the collar to Caleb’s shirt, and in one practiced jerk tore the shirt away. Caleb’s back sweated and ached from what he did not yet feel.

  The sergeant stepped in close enough for Caleb to see his grin. He unclipped the whip and flipped it out. He twitched
the handle, causing it to writhe black and hungry in the dust. “You ready to sing for me?”

  A voice hallooed from the opposite rise. “Hey now! What have we got here?”

  15

  Well now, will you just get a load of this.” Sheriff Gus Ferguson rode a fresh horse and wore a clean uniform only moderately stained by the road. He crossed the creek and eased his way through the cluster of refugees on the checkpoint’s other side, all without taking his eyes off the sergeant. “Looks like a lynching to me.”

  “Go on about your business,” the sergeant snarled.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The sheriff was a broad man, in sound shape for his years. He reined up and eased himself out of the saddle. “This isn’t Charlotte Township. And that’s the only place your kind are allowed to indiscriminately use the whip.”

  The sergeant’s whip flickered angrily as the sheriff slipped past him. “You touch that boy and I’ll bury you.”

  “No you won’t.” Ferguson unsheathed his knife and asked, “What’s your name again, son?”

  “Caleb, sir.”

  “Hold still.” He cut the ropes binding his arms, then his legs. Caleb was instantly attacked by a weakness so severe he toppled to the earth. “You all right, Caleb?”

  “Yes sir.” His teeth chattered so hard he bit off fragments of each word. “Just a little weak is all.”

  “Climb on up into your rig, now.”

  The bullwhip coiled and writhed. “Step away from that boy.”

  A rifle shot echoed down from the eastern slope, and dust exploded by the sergeant’s leg. He jerked back so fast he tripped and fell down. Which was good, because the first shot was followed by a second, this one from farther along the hillside. It struck the wagon right beside where the sergeant’s head had been.

  The sheriff was clearly taken aback by the second shot. He searched the high ground, then turned and surveyed the surroundings. “Where’s your other driver, Caleb?”

  “H-he took off, sir.”

  The sergeant scrambled to his feet. “Call off your men!”

  “Absolutely, Sergeant. I’ll most certainly do that.” Ferguson climbed into the saddle and pulled his horse around to where it led the wagon forward. “It’ll be my distinct pleasure. Soon as you lot pack up your gear and head on back to where you belong. Let’s go, Caleb.”