by Don Hayward
threatening me with spears and arrows. They bound my arms tightly behind my back and pushed me roughly to their village. This place occupied a point of land where two streams joined, perhaps a lake or two off the smooth trail. On the old map of the First Maurice, these streams were named the Vermillion, flowing from McNeil, and the larger one, the Spanish that meandered from the north. Contaminated floodwater would have passed here several days after the pond had overflowed.
There was no trial. Perhaps I did not deserve one even though it was my honest desire to warn people that led to my capture. The details are really unimportant. The rush of death had killed quicker upstream. Here the first sign of trouble was with dead fish floating by. At first they took this as a gift and gathered the decaying creatures to bury as fertilizer in their gardens. However, a few refugees from up the river soon arrived and told their tales of horror. My accounts of what I had seen only hardened their hearts. They were unmoved by my own story of death and sickness at McNeil, and they cared not that my family was dying. I could not blame them. The diluted poison had not caused immediate illness at their village. From the writings of The Maurice, I knew if they were lucky untimely death would visit some of the residents slowly over many years. Another flood might change that. I told all that I knew and suggested they move away, at least up the greater river that did not flow from McNeil. I was met with the same hostility my clansmen and friends had shown.
The Council of Mothers, the name of their supreme body, called me into their presence and pronounced my sentence.
“You will die.” The elder Mother stood and pointed in accusation. “We cannot punish all Neilers,” she used the old pejorative for our village. “You will stand for their guilt. Death by stoning is better than the deaths you caused. Tomorrow at dawn you will be killed and your body dumped in with the dead fish.” She sat amidst murmurs of agreement.
“I accept your ruling, but I ask for a night of meditation, unbound in your secure house. I truly am sorry for all of this. We did not know ourselves.”
I was granted this last wish and now sit here in this gloomy log jail, recording my last message. Perhaps someone may read and understand my story, written with carbon ink and quill. I have asked the Great Mother to keep this. I told her it is instructions on how to survive the nuclear poison. In reality, it is simply my story as a warning to stay away.
Stay away forever.
It will be an impossibly long time before this will all become safe. I have no way of knowing if anyone will read this account. I have swallowed the contents of the amulet and feel the growing comfort of belladonna, an easier path to death than the harsh river stones. Elsbeth, my love for you does not end. Please forgiv...
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