by Diane Cook
“Like, maybe too hard,” said Frank.
Carl nodded, looking around the circle. Glen opened his mouth to speak, but Carl cut him off. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Frank. It’s just too hard with such a big group.”
It hadn’t been what Frank said, but Frank nodded anyway.
“Besides, we don’t always make decisions by consensus,” said Carl, reassuringly.
“Yes, we do,” said Debra.
“No,” Carl said, “remember when I suggested we walk a day off route for water?”
“Yeah, and we did it, because we all agreed to,” said Debra.
Val jumped in. “I don’t think you’re remembering that right, Debra.”
“Oh, I’m remembering just fine, dear.” Debra looked at Glen for help.
“Look, Carl,” Glen said, “a bigger group doesn’t mean we have to stop deciding as a group.”
“We had this many before and we did just fine,” muttered Debra. Debra loved consensus.
“Hey,” Carl said, his hands up, “I’m just looking out for the best interests of our Community. Our new Community.” He nodded to the Newcomers. “I think now that we are a new and larger group, we should decide as a group how to make decisions. As this group. Not our old group. Perhaps the Newcomers don’t see the logic in consensus. I know I never did.”
“Neither did I,” said Val.
“You don’t like consensus because you want to be in charge,” snapped Debra.
“Well, I don’t think I like consensus either,” said Frank. “It doesn’t feel very representative.”
The Newcomers nodded.
“It’s completely representative,” cried Debra.
“But what if,” Helen asked, “we are voting and everyone votes one way and I don’t want to vote that way. But I’m looking around the circle and everyone is really mad at me and so I go along with the vote?”
“That doesn’t happen,” said Debra.
“Hold on, Debra,” Val said. She turned to Helen. “It’s happened to me.”
Helen touched her throat and nodded at Val with wet, sympathetic eyes.
“That’s making me realize,” Frank said, “that I’d rather have my own vote, be counted, and accept the outcome, regardless of what it is.”
Carl nodded. “It seems that the Newcomers would like a new way to make decisions.”
Val clapped her hands. “Let’s vote.” The rest of the Community protested briefly. But there was not much to do about it. With Carl and Val and the Newcomers, the rest of them were, Agnes saw, outnumbered.
“That’s a majority,” said Carl.
“But we need consensus to vote out consensus,” said Debra.
“Listen to yourself,” Carl said.
“But—”
“Consensus is no more. That’s a wrap.”
“Can I bring up something I’ve noticed?” Frank said. He looked right at Carl when he asked.
“Go ahead,” Carl said benevolently.
“It’s a lot of effort to keep changing work responsibilities. We’ve only been with you a little while, but I’m already confused about who does what. It seems like your system could use some updating.”
“I’m listening,” said Carl eagerly.
“I think from now on, we”—he motioned to the Newcomers—“should deal with cooking and rationing the food. It’s the easiest thing for us newbies to do. That way we don’t always have to decide every day. It’s a lot of work to shift responsibilities.”
Carl nodded. “It is a lot of work.”
“We don’t shift every day,” Debra said. “We have a system we use to organize work. It’s very easy.” Her face was contorted by her disbelief.
“But the system necessitates a vote. Decisions,” Frank said. “It’s a lot compared to just knowing I make breakfast every morning.”
“It is a lot,” Carl said.
“Yes, I’ve always thought it was just too much,” said Val.
“But we’ve always done it this way and it works,” said Debra.
“Well,” said Carl, “maybe it’s time to try something different. We have to be flexible out here, Debra.”
“Let’s vote,” Val said.
The old members of the Community were outnumbered.
“Looks like we’ll have the Newcomers cook and divvy out food from now on,” said Carl. “This will really help a lot.” He turned to Frank. “I’m so glad you brought that up.”
Frank beamed. “Can I bring up one more thing then?”
“Shoot.”
“Can we stop being called the Newcomers? I mean, aren’t we part of the Community?”
Carl laughed. “Well, one thing at a time.”
“What does that mean?” Frank’s face stormed.
“I think it’s important to remember that we are, in a way, elders. Teachers. And you are still learning. I think there needs to be a distinction until we are all on more equal footing. So you will continue to be the Newcomers. And we’ll be the Originals. No, we’ll be the Originalists! And together we will be one Community.” Carl pressed his hands together and bowed.
“But someday we’ll stop being called the Newcomers?” Frank asked.
“We’ll see.”
“With all due respect, Carl,” Juan said. “The Originalists? Shouldn’t we talk before we decide on something like a name?”
“Nope.” Carl leaned back, smiling, his head resting in his laced fingers. Juan blinked in surprise. “Well, I think this was a very productive meeting, don’t you?”
Frank, his brow furrowed, opened his mouth to say more, but Patty’s mom squeezed his arm and shook her head.
Val snickered.
Agnes looked around the circle. The Originalists stared at Carl and the Newcomers with dropped jaws. Frank looked a bit sour about the name, but overall the Newcomers seemed pleased. At first glance, Glen looked almost amused. But she’d seen this face before, after her mother disappeared. It wasn’t surprise, or even entirely resignation, though that was present too. Agnes hadn’t been able to interpret it then, but now, in context, it was very obvious, even as he tried to paste a smile on his face when he turned to look at her. Glen was scared.
* * *
The Originalists had never traveled swiftly, being a large group with heavy gear and children, but still their pace was greatly hindered by the Newcomers. This new larger Community left a trampled forest in their wake, and the Originalists wondered, would they get penalized as a whole group now? Or would the Rangers penalize the Newcomers for obvious Newcomer issues? When the Originalists were new, they’d been punished harshly. Fined, threatened with expulsion. Would the Newcomers be treated the same?
At their lunch break, the Newcomers flung their bodies upon the moss, groaning as they went down. The Twins and Jake leaned against trees while the Originalists and all the young children squatted, their arms crossed over their knees, ready to bounce up if they needed to.
Agnes appraised them all like they were a new herd of deer. She wanted to know which was the loner buck. Which was the dominant doe? Which would vie for more territory and authority? Which would die first?
Frank was a tall, thick man with soft hands and easily blistered feet. He had either appointed himself the leader of the Newcomers or simply become it accidentally. But Agnes noticed he paused before making decisions. He looked around. He was uncertain and beyond his depth. And he angered easily.
A better leader would have been Linda, who ruled her children, Joven and Dolores, firmly. But her hands were full. She sighed and sat heavily whenever the group stopped. Joven’s buzz cut was going to grow out like a mop on his head, and Agnes could tell that Dolores’s increasingly matted and tangled hair had once been precious. Her mother probably had brushed it every night at home. But no longer. Joven and Dolores would flourish here, but Linda was too tired to be much of a leader. Too bad, Agnes thought.
Agnes watched Joven and Dolores watching Sister and Brother, who watched them back. Sister and Brother w
ere a little older than Joven, but not by much. Maybe they would become friends. She hoped they would like Pinecone because she was tired of him following her around.
Celeste’s mom, Helen, was interested in all the men in camp. She tied her long hair back in a kerchief. She tied off her long skirt to show her brown legs. They were meaty the way legs had been in the City, but here they looked out of place. Helen’s legs made Agnes hungry, and perhaps they made Carl hungry too, because she saw him gaze at them often.
Agnes’s cheeks warmed. She became alert. Across the fire Jake’s eyebrows were raised and wriggling, and he jerked his head slightly to the left. Agnes followed the directive and saw Debra gazing at Helen’s legs too and tracing her collarbone with one searching finger. Agnes looked back at Jake and he shrugged. She subtly tipped her head to her right where Dr. Harold sat, and even though she could not see his face, she knew he would be staring at Debra. Jake followed and his eyes widened, and he broke into an awe-filled grin. Agnes hadn’t seen him really smile yet. Just seen his thin-lipped smirk, frown, or pensive expression. He had a broad gap between his two front teeth, his teeth the color of a buttercup, his tongue pink like a field mouse’s nose. His grin turned down into a small smile that softened his eyes, and he looked at her across the circle and shook his head a bit, and kept smiling like he was really happy about something and couldn’t shake it. It was something Agnes hadn’t seen very often in her life. For all they had here, she realized, they didn’t often have joy. Not this kind. She wanted to burn it into her memory in case she never encountered it again.
She turned her attention back to Helen and her legs. Helen wasn’t helpless. But she was impatient. And that could be dangerous here. What about Patty’s mom? She seemed nervous and short-tempered. Agnes thought she was probably capable of making a stupid mistake. Maybe she would be the first to die. Perhaps it would be one of the children. But this thought struck her as sad, and she vowed to protect Dolores and Joven. If not the children, then who? Agnes wondered if Jake would think her game dreadful. Was this a weird thing to think about? She was sure nothing would happen to Celeste, Patty, or Jake. They were too strong and sharp behind their sneers. In Agnes’s opinion, Linda was untouchable. Perhaps Frank. He had the ability to be cunning. She’d seen it in the meeting, though she imagined that was more Carl’s influence than Frank’s initiative. No, he was an unprepared person, not just here in a new environment but possibly in every situation. But his weakness, Agnes decided, was his ignorance of this fact. Agnes watched him. He reached his hand out to something in front of him. A frog jumped. And Frank jumped too, even though he’d been watching and poking at the frog. Frank threw his head back and laughed, elbowed Patty’s mom, who closed her eyes, waiting for the moment to pass. Forget even that the frog was a poisonous varietal. Frank was startled by things he himself put into motion. Yes, Agnes thought, Frank would be the first to die.
* * *
After several days of sunless walking in the wet forest, they burst out into a thin, open forest dotted with orange-skinned pines. They raised their arms and hands to ward off the pressure of the unveiled sun on their eyes. They peeked out from behind fingers and balled fists trying to acclimate to the newly identifiable day.
Though the forest thickened and thinned, the tree skins turning from orange to white back to orange, it remained cool, airy, and dry, and was, for some reason, empty of useful life. They would need provisions soon. So for several days they walked and camped quickly, lying mostly under open skies, eating jerky, cooking minimally.
Eventually this forest delivered them to the edge of a tall ridge that crumbled at their feet to the valley floor. It was possibly a hundred trees tall or more. The valley was foggy and muted as though the morning sky had fallen to earth. Just below them on an outcrop, Agnes saw a swatch of red. A glint, something shiny, or at least it had been shiny once. Something that caught the light like nothing else in nature. Something plastic. The Newcomers didn’t notice it. They were too recently acquainted with plastic. So it didn’t register to them as anything notable. But all of the Originalists snapped their heads toward it immediately upon stepping to the edge of the ridge.
It took a moment for the Originalists to see the gleam of blond fur. The matte brown of old blood and the dark hollowness of the crevice of a big joint like the hip. A body. A human body with a red plastic poncho and straw-like blond hair, tufted like the worried fur on the hindquarters of a deer. A body almost intact except for the gouges in its pelvis, where something had tried to find nourishment. Had it been an attack, or had something scavenged on this mysterious body? The body lay on a small outcrop just before the ridge gave way to thin air. Carl and Juan carefully picked their way among ridge rocks to retrieve it.
The man had been naturally pale, but patches of his skin had turned maroon and scabby after what must have been a violent and blistering sunburn. Still on his head was a green cap with a wide tail that covered his neck. Under the tail his skin was soft and cool. Agnes pressed her fingers against its rubberiness. He wore cargo shorts and a fanny pack. The shorts were sun-bleached, and the fanny pack had been torn open by something small but vicious. A badger maybe. Whatever had been in it—food, jerky perhaps—was gone now.
They stared at the body, taking in all the details they could make sense of. His hiking shoes, the one white sock and the bloody one. His bushy mustache with a short growth of patchy beard. A handkerchief remained neatly tied around his neck. A spotting scope hung there too. He looked like a man out for some birding, and the Originalists wondered if it might be a Ranger they’d not met before enjoying some off-hours. But that pale neck. No pale Ranger could remain that fair. And the burn. No pale Ranger would let a burn go so wrong. The shorts might be regulation, but the shoes weren’t. No Ranger would wear shoes. They wore boots. And that fanny pack. That fanny pack.
Carl turned to the Newcomers. “I thought you said there weren’t more of you.”
“There aren’t,” Frank said. “He’s not with us.”
“Then who would he be with?” Val said, taking on the accusatory stance that Carl had introduced.
The Newcomers shrugged. They were too new to have a guess.
The Originalists looked at one another, then back at the man. A rube. A know-nothing. Out of his depth but out here nonetheless. Deep out here. How could someone like this get through the entrance? Get this far? Where was his gear? Was there a camp? Were there more like him?
Debra said, “He was probably visiting one of the Rangers and got lost. He’s probably a relative.”
“Or . . .” Linda said. She looked around, cleared her throat. “I mean, I don’t know. I just got here. But are there other groups here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean other groups like you. Like us. Who are out here, living like this.”
“Of course not,” Carl said. But he looked puzzled. He cocked his head at the corpse and bit his lip, which Agnes had never seen him do.
Val snapped her support. “What a stupid question,” she said, an angry speck of spit landing on the dead man’s cheek.
Linda huffed and Agnes saw her look around, perhaps trying to catch a sympathetic eye, but everyone else was mesmerized, nodding at the corpse, a new thought dawning on them.
* * *
They left the body and walked the ridge until they found land that eased down to the lowlands, and camped at the bottom under its looming face. It wasn’t until they were under it that they realized it was Winter Ridge, a ridge they’d named because it always looked snow-dusted, no matter the season. But it didn’t seem possible it could be Winter Ridge. They’d been so far from it. Had they accidentally followed new ruts, some shortcut, and been delivered here? Or was the Wilderness more compact than they had imagined? The Originalists tilted their heads back to see its white stone face evergreened in lush, pleasant patches. It was the closest thing some of them could get to nostalgia, a feeling of home. To see Winter Ridge meant that not too far away w
as their lovely hidden Valley nearest to Middle Post. Where they’d camped for almost a whole season, a few years ago, before the idea of constant moving had settled in. Being run out of that place by Rangers had felt like being cast out of a homeland, that Valley where they had become a family of sorts. With the cool, lazy river, the perfect protective bluffs, the cave that Agnes liked to play in, where her mother had kept her secret prized possessions, the secret grasses where her sister was born.
With heads still craning toward the ridge face, they circled up.
Carl said, “We’re low on provisions. We’re going to have to do a big hunt. We’ll have to stay here for days to process it all, not to mention we’ll need to make more bags to carry it. So take care to set the camp up well.”
Agnes squatted by the fire, moving dead pine needles into shapes, wondering if such a move offended the pine needles, which might prefer their own shape. Carl approached her.
“Don’t you think there will be deer toward the end of the meadow?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Agnes.
“Good. Go scout the dominant.”
“Okay.”
Agnes walked into the meadow. She knew the deer were that way because the wind was blowing that direction and they liked to be downwind from predators, which today was the Community.
“Hey.”
She stopped.
Jake jogged up. “Can I come?”
“Why?”
“So I can see how you do stuff. I need to learn stuff. Like, what are you doing?”
“Scouting the does.”
“Why?”
“To find the dominant one.”
“Why?”
Agnes scoffed. “Why? What do you mean, why?”
“I mean why.” Jake flipped his hair. “I don’t know any of this stuff.”
Agnes sighed. “Come on.”
They walked until Agnes could see a herd. Then they walked a hundred more feet, and Agnes pointed to the ground and got down. Jake got down next to her. They crawled slowly another hundred feet and stopped.
She pulled out the spotting scope and sat very still and watched the herd in the grass. She noted the markings on the biggest females. There were two that she thought could be the dominant. Their width. The shape of the snout. She brushed her hand back and forth across the grass, making an unnatural noise and movement, but not an alarming one. The deer heads popped up. The ears swiveled. All of them had reacted. So Agnes waited awhile, then clapped. The female with the highest white stockings snapped her muzzle toward the sound, paused, then snorted, and all the deer took off across the meadow.