The Renewal

by Steven Smith

  "So, you're going to form commercial alliances with them instead of military alliances," said Bill with an understanding smile.

  Jim nodded. "Yep. Commercial relationships benefit all parties. They are initiated and continued by mutual agreement and can be discontinued by any party any time they feel the relationship no longer benefits them. It keeps everybody involved and tuned in."

  He took a sip of tea. "Commerce benefits everyone. It also gives each party a stake in the continued security and well-being of the others, and it does so on a purely voluntary basis beginning with a self-interest which develops into mutual interest."

  Bill nodded. "Acta non verba."

  Tom looked at him. "And what would that be in American?"

  "Deeds, not words," Bill smiled. "It allows us to judge them by what they do, not what they say."

  "Exactly," said Jim. "All good relationships are based on actions, whether business or personal. Talk is cheap, as they say.

  "Another benefit of the posts is two-fold and concerns the scouts."

  He turned to Mike. "You want to explain?"

  "We're building the scouts up quickly," Mike answered, looking around the group. "A lot of young guys are wanting to join. Girls too. One of our concerns has been that we wouldn't have enough for them to do outside of patrols and that this would create a feeling of separation between them and the rest of the population. The staffing of the posts solves both of those problems. They develop other skills at the posts and operate as part of the Stonemont system as a whole. This keeps them socially and operationally integrated while maintaining their unit identity. Also, it keeps some of our fighting force on our borders."

  "So, that's all those scouts will be doing?" asked Bill. "Working at the trading posts?"

  Mike shook his head. "Male scouts will work a post for one month, then rotate back to the main body. That will keep them from losing their edge, even though they will be running patrols while on post duty. Female scouts will remain for longer periods and be rotated on an individual basis."

  "Why is that?" asked Bill.

  "Women are more relational than men," said Christian. "They develop relationships more quickly than men with both men and women. Their unique strength at the posts will be their ability to establish relationships, and thereby communications, with the surrounding communities. Continuity will be important with that."

  He looked at Mike. "Why don't you go ahead and tell Bill and Tom about the recon teams and the eastern posts."

  Mike nodded. "As you know, we have three teams and their support group in the city. They're on their second day, so we don't expect to hear anything for a few more days." He looked at Bill. "This is the hardest part - the waiting."

  He took a sip of tea. "About the eastern posts, we are currently scouting toward, and in some areas into, Missouri. With the exception of a few contacts with farms and a Bates County Sheriff's posse, we've done very little scouting in that direction, so we don't know much about what lies to our east."

  "Just to let everybody know," said Jim, "Harrisonville, Missouri is to our northeast, Butler to our southeast, and Clinton almost directly east but farther."

  "That's where Jim's favorite pizza place is," interjected Christian.

  Jim chuckled. "Yep. Pizza Glen. Best pizza in the world. And beyond Clinton is the lake region; Truman Lake and Lake of the Ozarks."

  "Do we have any idea what to expect in that area?" asked Tom.

  Jim thought for a moment. "It's funny. People from Missouri are a little different than people from Kansas."

  "How so?" asked Bill.

  Jim thought for a moment. "They're quicker to smile, but quicker to fight, too. They're friendlier sooner but have a line you can't cross. They're more open and not as serious, but I'd say they're deadlier when you cross their line. If you offend a Kansan, he'll probably warn you or just won't have anything more to do with you. Offend someone from Missouri, and he might just kill you."

  "It's the difference between a rattlesnake and a cottonmouth," observed Christian, then chuckled. “Or John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.”

  "Why the difference?" asked Tom.

  "I think it goes back to the civil war and the kind of people who settled in different areas," said Jim. "Missouri was a slave state and had a lot of people who just wanted to be left alone. A lot of the people were of English, Irish or Scots-Irish heritage - fiercely independent and quick to fight. They were hard-working but identified more individually than communally and didn't like anyone telling them what to do.

  "Kansas, on the other hand, had been settled with a higher percentage of Germans, Scandinavians and Dutch - solid, hardworking people who often thought of themselves communally as much as individually. It entered the Union as a free state, full of people who felt themselves more aligned with the national government and who wanted that government to be involved more in their lives.

  "There was a lot of bloodshed up and down this border; a lot of battles, a lot of raiding and a lot of killing. Some of that animosity carries on till today." He looked at Bill. "Did you ever hear of Order Number 11?"

  Bill shook his head.

  Jim looked around the group. "During the height of the war, a Union general put out an order that everyone living in several Missouri counties that bordered Kansas had to leave their homes and their land. Those who refused to leave were either driven off or killed.

  “All livestock was seized by the Union army, and houses, barns and outbuildings were burned by the Union and Kansas Jayhawkers so the people would have nothing to come back to.

  “Bates County was completely depopulated by Order Number 11. It is the only county in the United States that has ever been forcibly depopulated by the government."

  He paused, allowing the enormity of the atrocity to be absorbed by the group.

  "I had never heard of that," said Bill, a look of shock on his face

  "I had," said Mike, solemnly. "It was a lot like Sherman's march through Georgia."

  Jim nodded his head slowly. "That's what Americans did to other Americans. Those memories die hard and are carried on for generations. Those things are still remembered by many in Missouri. I guess we'll find out soon enough if those things still matter."

  He got up from the couch and drained his glass of tea. "We’ll go over all of this a lot more when we make final decisions on the locations for the posts. Right now, Christian and I have to go meet with Pasqual."

  15

  "Hey boss, we hear engines."

  Alex looked up at the scout who had come into the church library where he had been studying a Kansas City street map. "What kind of engines?"

  "Big ones."

  "How close?"

  "Pretty close and getting closer. They seem to be coming down the parkway."

  "Okay," he said, picking up his rifle, "let's go have a look."

  They walked down the red-carpeted hallway past a life-size sculpture of The Last Supper to the main doors, then moved to a set of windows in the transept from where they could see the broad expanse of the parkway. A scout stationed at an exterior door at the far end of the transept gave them a thumbs up and turned back to look out the door.

  Hearing the engines, they stayed to the sides of the windows, watching in opposite directions as the sound got louder, trying to determine the direction from which the sound was coming.

  Within a minute, the other scout let out a soft whistle. "Man, will you look at that."

  Backing away from the window before coming to the other side, Alex looked in the direction the other scout was watching. "Wow."

  A royal blue '69 Chevelle SS with white racing stripes was coming south on the far roadway, its rumble obviously coming from the chrome side-pipes. Behind it cruised a darker blue Camaro Z28, then a red Plymouth Roadrunner, a yellow Corvette and an orange Plymouth Superbird, its rear wing painted with a fringe of flames. Other vintage cars followed, the deep rumble of each engine adding to the cacophonous sound that produced vibrations the s
couts could feel.

  "You ever seen anything like that?" whispered the scout.

  Alex shook his head. "Not since I used to go to car shows with my dad and grandpa."

  "Who do you think they are?"

  Alex shook his head. "I don't know. They're car guys, that's for sure."

  The parade of cars continued, the caravan of bright muscle cars and hot rods cruising slowly down the parkway sparkling in the sun until they had counted thirty-eight cars. As the last one passed, the sound seemed to be returning from the south and the blue Chevelle again drove past, this time on the nearer roadway from the south, followed by the Z28, Roadrunner, Corvette and Superbird.

  "They must be circling that big fountain down the block," said Alex.

  "You think they're just out for a Sunday drive?" asked the scout.

  Alex shrugged. "Beats me. Is today Sunday?"

  The scout thought for a moment. "Beats me."

  They continued to watch as the rest of the cars passed them heading back north, the rumble now earth-shaking, until the last car disappeared from sight.

  Alex watched for another minute before speaking. "Have everybody relax. We'll hold up here till dark, then we’ll go see what we can see."

  16

  "So, why are we driving?" asked Christian as he wiped the dirt off his hat brim. Not being used to wearing a hat in a vehicle, he hadn't allowed for the extra height and had knocked his hat off onto the ground when he stepped up into the Excursion, bringing a chuckle from Jim.

  "We need to go see Sean Brennan in town after we talk to Pasqual, so this will be faster. Besides, I miss driving big red."

  Christian pulled a CD out of the player and looked at it. "Want to listen to some Charlie Daniels?"

  "If it'll keep you from singing."

  They drove through the entry gate, down the approach road and finally through the contact gate where they returned the waves of the guards. The sun had hit its midday zenith, making everything bright without shadows, and the green of the fields was almost startling. Hills rose around them and within fifteen minutes the white steeple of Redemption appeared over the next rise.

  Jim always felt good coming to Redemption. The picturesque brick building with its tall windows and towering steeple looked like a picture postcard of what American life should be, and the surrounding fields only added to the picture - the people working in them giving witness to the communal industry of the place.

  They came to the intersecting road and turned left up the hill before making another left into the parking lot where they saw the familiar blue-shirted figure of Pasqual Paoli coming toward them.

  "Welcome, my friends!" called Paoli with a big smile and a wave. "I was just thinking about you!"

  "That must be why my ears were burning," said Jim. "I thought it was just because Christian had the music cranked up too loud."

  He extended his hand. "Every time I see you, you look more like Sylvester Stallone."

  Paoli took the offered hand and laughed. "Maybe after one of his famous fights. What brings you out to see us?"

  "We wanted to check in on Hillmont, and there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

  Paoli's smile transformed into a questioning look. "Is it something I should change my shirt for?"

  Jim chuckled. "No, nothing like that. I want to build a church in Jamestown."

  Paoli's eyebrows rose and his smile returned. "Oh, I see. Well, I think that's a wonderful idea. A church can be an important cornerstone for a community."

  Jim nodded. "I agree. But you know how I feel about most preachers. I came to ask if you would consider coming out and conducting weekly services."

  Paoli's smile faded and his face grew serious. "That is quite an honor, my friend. My first impulse is of course to say yes, but your request has provided the answer to a question I have been wrestling with for some time."

  He looked around at the church and the surrounding fields, a look of understanding and certainty appearing on his face. "As he so often does, God has provided for the needs of many by answering the needs each thought was their own."

  He looked back at Jim and Christian. "I would like you to meet someone. Would you follow me?"

  They walked through the large garden at the side of the church, nodding to and answering those working in it who greeted them, then around the church to a spot overlooking the large east field.

  Paoli scanned the field until he saw a head of greying hair rise up from between the rows of corn. "Ah, there he his."

  He turned back to them. "This man came to us several months ago asking if he could help. He would come in the morning, work all day, then leave at suppertime. He was quiet, though friendly, ate lunch with us and worked hard. He did this every day except Sundays.

  "I noticed that people seemed to be drawn to him, though he never seemed to initiate anything with others, and that they always seemed to be uplifted and at peace after talking to him. I must admit that I also felt the attraction.

  "One day, I decided to stop and talk with him after our usual passing hello. He was pleasant and inviting, though humbly so, allowing me to set the pace and depth of our exchange, and we soon found ourselves involved in a long conversation. I went away feeling as if I had somehow been filled with strength and with peace."

  He turned back to look at the field in which the man was working.

  "He was a Methodist minister who was at a convention in Florida when everything collapsed. He had gone there to resign from his denomination because it had taken a theological direction with which he fundamentally disagreed. He walked back from Florida, alone, to find his wife and children gone.

  “He told me that he did everything he knew how to do to find them, and, when he couldn't, he sat down and waited for the Lord to take him. After a couple of days, he recognized the sin in his inaction and started to survive one day at a time.

  “In the spring, he showed up here and started helping. As I got to know him, I asked him to help me in my duties as an assistant pastor, but he told me this wasn't his place or his time."

  He turned back to them. "I know how you feel about most preachers. I agree with you, though I probably shouldn't say that. This man, however, is not a preacher. He is a minister of the gospel in the truest sense. He is the minister I wish I were."

  He looked at Jim. "Your invitation is more of an honor than I can tell you, but I am not the man for it. He is."

  Jim looked at Pasqual for a moment and nodded. "I'd like to meet him."

  Paoli smiled. “Follow me.”

  He led them past rows of beans, carrots, turnips and onions, finally coming to the beginning of the corn. "Cassius! Cassius!"

  A head rose above the corn, the face sun-tanned and smiling. "Here."

  "I have some friends I want you to meet."

  "Okay," the man answered and began making his way toward them.

  A moment later the man emerged from the corn wiping his hands on a red bandana that he stuck in his back pocket.

  "Cassius, this is Jim Wyatt and Christian Bell from Stonemont," said Paoli, then, turning to Jim and Christian; "This is Cassius Street."

  Street stuck his hand out to Jim. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wyatt."

  "Good to meet you, Reverend," answered Jim, taking the strong, calloused hand in his own.

  Street shook his head. "I don't go by that anymore."

  He withdrew his hand from Jim's and extended it to Christian, nodding. "Mr. Bell."

  Christian took the hand and nodded back. "Mr. Street."

  "Jim is starting a church in Jamestown and came out to ask me if I would conduct weekly services for it," said Pasqual. "I told him that I didn't feel I was the right man for the job. I told him I thought you were."

  Street lowered his eyes and dropped his chin almost imperceptibly, then looked back up at Jim. "I'm not in that field anymore, Mr. Wyatt. My last assignment did not end well."

  Jim nodded. "Pasqual told me a bit about that. I, myself, have left severa
l denominations - every church I ever attended, actually - because I saw man's opinion and pride interjecting itself between God and those the church was supposed to be serving."

  He looked closely at Street. "I don't believe that we need an intercessory or interpreter between us and God, but I believe that having a faith foundation is vital to any community and leadership in that faith is an important part of it. I need someone to be that leader. The people need someone to be that leader."

  Street looked into Jim's eyes as if searching for something beneath the surface. "May I ask what your beliefs are, Mr. Wyatt?"

  Jim held Street's gaze. "I believe in one God as revealed in the Bible as three persons, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I believe that God speaks to us through his word and his spirit, blesses and guides us as we seek his will, uses us in the furtherance of his divine plan and saves us through the sacrificial blood of Christ."

  Street continued to look at Jim's eyes. "Pasqual tells me that your only rules are the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule."

  Jim nodded.

  "What do you think about the sixth commandment; the one that says thou shalt not kill?"

  Jim shook his head. "That’s not what it says. It says thou shalt not murder."

  Street nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

  Again, he lowered his eyes and head for a moment before looking back up at Jim. "I have discovered the error in making such decisions according to what I think is right or wrong. Too often, we convince ourselves that our desire for what we want to do out of pride or self-interest is the small voice of God directing us in the way that we, ourselves wish to go."

  He looked out over the field. “I must admit, Mr. Wyatt, that I am not at all sure what God wants me to do right now. It is an unsettling feeling, but I have learned that, often, the most difficult time is waiting for his will to be made clear.”

  He looked back at Jim. “Would to allow me time to pray about this?”

  "What do you think?" asked Christian.

  "I think this truck gets lousy gas mileage."