“The fermented ciders.” I open my eyes and look at her beautiful face. I turn to the others, but there is no one close to us and only a few people scattered about, walking towards the box cars. “How long was I in a trance?”
“A long time. Five, maybe ten minutes.”
“Where’d everybody go?”
“They picked up their meat packages and went to make camp in the metal homes in the woods. The Gray women said those would be more comfortable than the ones still on the flatbeds.”
“We need to warn them. Where’s Malcolm? I’ll use the box so everyone hears. They better not drink the cider.”
Chapter 12 The Truth
From the tenth page of the third Ledger:
There appeared a desert. And next to the desert the hills had grown to mountains. The highest mount hid the truth. He climbed alone until the thunder rumbled beneath him and he saw the eagle’s breadth of wing.
A QUIET CONFUSION embraces the camp. They ignored my warning last night. This morning’s clouded sunrise shows me dull faces and stumbling wanderers. Even children have drunk the ciders; their eyes are coated with a gray film, their stares vacant. At least three quarters of the Reds have indulged, but none of the Grays. Perhaps fear or grief has broken their addiction. Two of the judges have succumbed, but not Harmon or Blake or Barrett’s father. And Mira is as sober as Korzon or Teague.
The morning is warm, muggy, the sky hints of rain. Our guiding cloud blends with the rainclouds. The loaves of bread begin to fall as if they’re the first drops. Those who stumble about don’t even reach for the food. Instead they kick coldly at the lumps or press a foot down to flatten them to the earth, pressing them into saucers.
The majority of families have stayed in the iron lodges. A few tents are interspersed among the trees—those of the healers—but most of the others who set up tents did so on the road. I see the judges moving among their guardianships, reprimanding fathers, mothers, and shaking the shoulders of the incoherent.
Barrett’s father is the only judge to ignore those under his jurisdiction and to speak to me instead. His eyes are red, but sincere. He holds to his chest the same two worn belt sacks I’d seen him clutch at Barrett’s funeral. Suddenly I realize what must be in the sacks. Since Barrett’s death I’d blocked the thought of the ledgers from my mind.
“Bram, all this time …” he pauses, blinks twice, stretches open the mouth of one of the sacks and fans out the ledgers, “my son … he had these journals with him. Accounting ledgers, really, they’d use anything they could find after the Suppression … but, these ledgers were important to him.” I nod, willing him to finish. His pain is substantial. “You should read them. This, this road incident is predicted here.” He has all the ledgers out, holding them in his hands like precious treasure. “I don’t know where he stole them from. He was a little thief, you know.” His voice breaks.
I take the ledgers, thanking him, but I don’t tell him I’ve read them many times. He rolls up the empty sacks and stuffs them in his own belt bag. He wants to say something else, but he turns instead and pretends to search out a loaf of bread for himself.
I press my thumbs against the covers. I wonder if the words on these pages will rearrange themselves to help us get to Ronel’s camp. I studied them hard with Barrett and Harmon, yet I don’t remember anything that could be interpreted as a prediction about these Grays, the battle, their addiction.
I look briefly at the opening pages. Then my heart gives a staccato burst as I reach pages eight, nine, ten. It’s all right here. I wonder at the amazing intricacies of these words, that they can be read and deciphered one way years ago and differently today.
The water, the wells, the battles, the cave-dwellers, the addiction. All here.
I close my eyes and think again of Sana’s long ago predictions: addiction near, raid contained, iron candidate, a road incident. All so clear now. Another one forms: dread inaction. I can barely breathe through my rushing heartbeats. So much from one lamb’s death—carnation died.
I make a jarring connection and nearly scream the words, “Carnation died. Car. Nation.” These people—these iron lodgers—are their own small nation, still driving cars while the rest of our country struggles with primitive transportation.
* * *
Bram’s sudden eruption of fractured thought, shouting about cars and nations, brought Harmon to his side.
“Brother?”
“Car nation died.”
“What?” Harmon gripped his brother’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? I mean, aside from half the camp wandering stoned.”
“We have to leave. Immediately.”
“They’re in no condition to travel. Let’s give them a day. Besides, the cloud has disappeared. Which way would we go?”
Bram suddenly looked up. Whatever spell he’d been under broke with Harmon’s question.
“Where’s Malcolm? We have to leave now. No … I have to leave. Staying is not an option.” He murmured two more words. Harmon barely made out the phrase: dread inaction.
* * *
I’m about to set off alone leaving Lydia huddled with her mother who drank the cider. Harmon holds the rod, paces back and forth, and keeps his eyes down. He’s in charge while I’m gone. He doesn’t understand why I have to act. I’m not sure I do either except that something pulls me toward the hills. I tell them I might be gone for several days. Harmon nods and pats me on the back; Lydia smiles, presses her cheek against mine; her mother drools.
I cross the fields, noting the crops had been corn and wheat and beans. Like the vision I’d had. Some of the uneven rows are ready for harvesting; the edges of the fields are rimmed with black ash and decay.
Black ash. That’s how I feel. Burned out. Too many problems. Why do I have this burden of all these people on me? Why do I have to practically carry them like infants? Did I take an oath? Did I ask for this job?
As I get through the last field I look back. I can no longer see the Reds. As if a burden has been lifted I feel lighter. I step a little more quickly and where the train tracks turn east I continue north. The land looks wasted here, desert-like. The hard sand is dimpled with bits of asphalt, broken pieces of blacktop from a long ago life. I leave no tracks, but I’m not afraid of losing my way. That feeling of trust has reawakened.
I begin to run across this wasteland, heading for the low hills a day’s race away.
By mid-afternoon my feet are sore and I’m wet with a clinging sweat. There’s no desert heat to dry me. I reach the first hill and climb easily. The second hill is steeper. I use the gnarly roots and slender trunks to pull myself up, reach the top, and pick my way through thorns until I find a path that leads down. When I reach the bottom the area yawns into a pleasant valley where there’s a pond. A green scum of algae coats the top, but I don’t care. I shed my clothes and slip into the cool bath, squat down to sink up to my chin, and submerge my head beneath the surface for a moment. I’m tempted to try to swim. With no one around to tease me I think I might be able to teach myself this elusive skill. I step out into deeper water and splash about awkwardly. The mucky ooze sucks my right foot down. I panic. I push against the sloppy bottom only to succeed in getting my other foot captured as well. With both feet snared I try to hold my balance by using my arms, like wings, and flap beneath the surface. If my head goes under I’m lost. That panicky fear sends alarms along every nerve. I feel myself slipping backward. I gulp some air just in time. My head goes under. I know I need to straighten upright to bring my face to the surface, but the task is impossible.
For one inexplicably peaceful moment my panic turns to calm. I do not fear my own death. I know I will not drown. There is great power in the thought. But how I know this eludes me.
The moments float by as my lungs seem to dread my inaction. My hands find the bottom of the pond at the same moment the suction around my feet relaxes. I push, twist my body over, and crawl up and out of the green water. The algae closes over the spot that would have b
een my grave.
I sit naked on the bank and pray.
I spend a fair amount of time like that and then I get dressed and walk around the pond. There’s another hill to climb. I see what’s pulled me here: a hill so high, so steep, it’s really more of a mountain. Trees and grass abandon the slopes half way up, but I can see that the rocky side will be manageable to climb.
Abruptly the urge that’s brought me this far dissolves and suddenly I’m exhausted. I find a soft moss-covered spot to lie down, ignore the hunger pains, and try to sleep.
* * *
“What do ya mean he’s gone?” Eugene shouted in Harmon’s face. “I got a judgment question. I hardly ever ask for arbitration.”
“What’s the problem? Maybe I can help.” Harmon leaned the rod against the metal door of the cabin they stood in front of and folded his arms across his chest.
Eugene cast his eyes about, lowered his voice, and spit out one word. It wasn’t the word Harmon expected. Eugene continued with a chuckle laced with disgust, “Seems it’s on everybody’s mind. Henry’s cheating with one of Teague’s granddaughters. His wife is after Cleavon’s brother. Now those two Sindel sisters, Leah and Linette, are trying to seduce me.” He shook his head. “I ain’t drunk any of that poison ale. I still see straight.”
Harmon put his hand back on the rod and lifted it. “I want to talk to all the judges. Round them up. Meet me at Josh’s tent.”
Bram hadn’t been gone half a day before trouble started mounting up. There were arguments over the rights to the fermented drinks, fistfights over women, women fighting over men, children copying the behaviors they saw, and a growing number of people getting sick. Like Lydia’s mother.
* * *
Jenny tried the drink because she was tired of listening to Bram, her daughter’s boyfriend, telling people two and three times his age what they should and shouldn’t do. She didn’t remember how much she had, only that once she started she was helpless to stop until she passed out. When Bram left, Lydia had been holding Jenny’s hair away from her face as she vomited. It was hours before she could think straight, but then as soon as Lydia left her alone she went looking in iron lodges for a stash of the sweet liquid.
* * *
I wake to the rumble of thunder. The sky is still light. For an instant I think that what I hear is a spotter plane, then I remember that the Blues lie rotting in a canyon. Still, Truslow has other troops. He could recall the border patrols and conscript the coastal people. He could have sent another army after us while we lingered in the underground city.
Or maybe what I hear is one of Ronel’s planes on its way to drop our evening meal. I search the skies and see only the wide-spread wings of an eagle, its eyes focused on some distant prey.
There’s maybe three hours of daylight left. I feel refreshed and ready to climb. Compelled to climb. I take one step and stop. I remove my faded blue boots and set them to the side. They’re nearly worn out anyway and I expect to have to grip the mountainside with toes and fingers to reach the summit, but also I remember how Lydia went barefoot at the altar. Holy ground. I hear the thunder again, though there’s nothing in the sky that even hints that the elements are about to change. There’s a tingly electricity in the air and I feel weakened by it. I lift my eyes to the mountain. My strength returns.
I begin my climb.
* * *
Harmon sensed the change around him. Because he was in charge in his younger brother’s absence, he reveled in the treatment he received from the few who were sober, but more than that, he felt the delicious thrill of power. While others lived the stagnant day in drunken numbness, he drank in the exhilarating intoxication of control.
By noon he’d settled seven quarrels and physically intervened in three fights. An hour later he discovered several young boys learning from the Gray children how to make new juice and how to accelerate the fermentation. The kids were grateful to Harmon when, instead of handing out punishments, he sent them off to help with the horses.
He spent the afternoon refereeing the Sindel sisters and several young men who’d thought nothing of parading around the lodges in fewer clothes than were appropriate.
But he was most stunned to find a growing number of men and women throwing every ring and bracelet and necklace they had into a black pot that Eugene held. At first he thought it was extortion, but as more and more people brought not only jewelry, but also the figurines and metal idols they’d hoarded, Harmon began to suspect some unholy purpose.
“What’s this about, Eugene?”
“I was bringing this all to you, Harmon.”
“What for? What do I need with a thousand rings?”
“We’re going to melt it down. Make something big.”
Harmon glared at the useless treasure, afraid to estimate its value. It held no appeal to him, but he was well aware that most of the Reds believed their jewels were better than money and more important than food. They were often the source of arguments and thievery. The fact that so many people were willingly dropping their precious wealth into a communal pot was, he thought, due to the effects of the addictive ciders.
“What for?” Harmon crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Eugene. Something wasn’t right.
Eugene took the golden armbands that someone held out and dropped them in before answering. “The box quit humming. The cloud’s gone. Now Bram’s left us. We’re making something so beautiful that it’ll outshine the sun. We’ll put it on the tallest cart and hitch the best horses to it. They’ll pull it up the road and we’ll follow it. Like we did the cloud.” He shoved a sweaty strand of gray hair from his eyes and rested both hands on his hips. Puffing his chest out only made his pot belly more obvious. His belt sacks poked straight out, filled, no doubt, with trinkets and charms.
Harmon frowned and looked around at the Reds who were watching the skies for their evening rations.
* * *
I’m almost to the top of the mountain. I hear the thunderous rumbling again and duck my head, crouch as much as I can, and expect a rock slide to hurl me back down the mountain. Instead the awesome sound gels to something else, a higher pitch but lower volume. Without realizing exactly the point that the thunder becomes a voice, I begin to comprehend the words.
“This is what you are to say to the Reds: You saw what happened to the Blue army that followed you. It was God who helped you at the bridge. You saw what happened to the idolaters of Proserpina. It was God who helped you at the airport and above the underground city. You saw what happened to the Grays. Again, it was God whose power was released to you through the rod.”
I shudder at the truth of the message, but I don’t dare to look up.
“Listen, Bram. Tell them this: if you obey me fully and hold to the old ways then out of all the states you will be the favored ones and I will put you in control. And you must acknowledge me. You must learn again to worship the one true God.”
I feel a heat like a furnace blasting at me from all sides and even from my insides. Just as suddenly the astounding reaction stops, the thunderous voice cuts off, and the silence and cold of the mountain top dare me to raise my head. The cloudless sky is colored gold. The one true God. The detour gone.
I dwell on that thought. Wonder.
Worship the one true God. That’s a little harder. The sky’s golden haze deepens. I stare until I see it: oh, whip restored tongue. I hadn’t realized until this moment that my troubled stuttering had ceased along this journey. I silently curse my stupidity and stare harder at the gilded heavens until I see another truth: tongue worshiped other. My guilt rises, my pride falls. I know the very words I must speak to all the Reds. I rise and turn to find a glowing tablet at my feet. Its shape and color are like a ledger’s, but it’s hard and doesn’t open. I lift the warm object and peer at my reflection on its smooth black surface. Letters begin to float to the surface and swim into ten neat lines. Nine of them are crazy puzzles, but the first one hardly hides the truth:
I,
your dogma
I easily rearrange the letters and see the truth of that first line before the screen goes black. I slip and slide my way down the slope.
Chapter 13 The Guardian’s Diary
From the tenth page of the third Ledger:
Then he pitched himself down the mountain. In the blackest night with his sins beside him he sought out the right path. By dawn he found his people.
I REACH THE bottom of the mountain and catch my breath. The strange black tablet, granite hard but light as air, bounces in my belt sack, reminding me of a certain bumpy ride in a canvas-covered truck long ago. A different life, it was, back when Barrett was alive and Kassandra and I were being driven into Exodia, Gresham only a few weeks old. I remember the moment so clearly because that was the instant I realized that I was a gemfry. An anagram revealed itself to me at that moment, confirming that truth. But there was another anagram then, too; one I didn’t understand: ten should plead. It came from Dalton helped us. Now it makes more sense. Ten lines of commands appeared on this magical board. Ten pleas for obedience.
Ten should plead. Yes, it makes sense. And now, in my mind’s eye, another message forms changing those three words into four: lad held up stone.
I slip the tablet out of my bag and hold the rectangular stone up. I bring it back closer to my face and stroke the letters that rise to the surface. Only the first command appears. I, your dogma quickly spins into I am your God then fades. The second command replaces the first, but it doesn’t reshape itself and its meaning eludes me. Noble friend soothes mood, gore. The stars above reflect in the shiny surface before the screen goes dark once more.
I imagine chaos back at the iron lodges. Perhaps things have really gotten out of hand and Harmon needs me. What is the mood there? What could be the gore? Who is the noble friend? An image of Barrett flits into my mind.
Out of Exodia Page 11
