Out of Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  Yesterday she stood front and center at her brother’s wedding. The ceremony tugged at her emotions, but when she read the expression on her older brother’s face, she reordered her thoughts. She’d always had a deeper connection to Harmon; Bram was the long lost baby brother. She didn’t have that sisterly connection with him. He didn’t speak to her much. She could never persuade him to dance, something so important to her. She’d camouflaged her feelings when he let Kassandra and Gresham go. Now he was this all-important, chosen-by-God, better-than-everyone leader, and married to Lydia, whose black hair matched Bram’s, but whose sable skin was far, far too dark.

  * * *

  Bram only had to reach a hand just outside the door to snatch two loaves. Perhaps the morning’s bread was sweeter because they shared it in their marriage bed, or perhaps the flavor’s brightness merely reflected the happy hearts of two young people who had waited too long for life to surprise them with some overdue joy.

  They weren’t deaf to the particular sounds of hundreds of Reds settling in to a lazy day. Bram could hear children playing, adults gossiping, horses nickering, but what he couldn’t hear was that special hum that always accompanied Malcolm’s box when the cloud was on the move. He was sure the Reds were right in not breaking camp. They wouldn’t need him to wave the rod or rally the stragglers today. They’d likely rest here a day or two. He’d taken to imagining Ronel sending spotter planes to scout their path, keeping them out of the Blue army’s way, if the Blue army had been revived. He’d seen children playing war games in the dirt, dragging sticks to make roadways, and moving stones to make ambushes just like Ronel would, if he could see from on high what lay in their path. Bram wondered about the reasons for letting them encounter hostile groups and keeping them from friendly towns.

  His jarring encounter with God Himself was pushed down to some dark molasses hole, like a dream that couldn’t have been real, half-forgotten before dawn. Two souvenirs from the event, the black tablet, now tucked securely in the secret compartment of Malcolm’s box, and the copied list written on the back of the map weren’t much more than quick topics around the campfire. The map should have hung like a banner but was instead folded and packed. Bram thought briefly of that fact as he finished his bread, then dismissed it as he leaned in for his new wife’s offered kiss.

  * * *

  Bram and Lydia emerged from the cabin when the sun was too high to leave much more than curt shadows, the day half over. A few children skipped around them, repeating practiced chants the older kids had rehearsed with them. Bram whispered to the girls, sending them off to collect bouquets of wild flowers for Lydia, instructing them to find purple ones for her hair.

  They walked hand in hand around the campground, speaking with Onita, Jenny, Marilyn, and Cleavon’s brother, then Korzon’s son and Malcolm. They circled on, walking happily down the lanes. Bram loved how Lydia walked with her head high, always aware of her surroundings. He loved how she’d play guessing games with the little kids as they followed the cloud. He loved how her hand would slip into his when he least expected it. He loved the way a lightning bold would charge through his skin at her touch. He loved her eyes, her nose, her lips, her soft skin that hid the hard strength beneath. She had a sense of humor and a quick wit and he knew her heart like no other.

  “Do you notice something strange?” Lydia broke into his concentration.

  Bram unconsciously shook his head, squeezed Lydia’s hand and pulled it to his lips.

  “We haven’t seen a single judge anywhere around camp.” Lydia ticked through the names.

  “You’re right,” Bram said, finally refracting his focus. “Something must be wrong.”

  * * *

  Mira faced the judges and began to speak against Bram. Her argument to elect a new leader met with dumb stares and a few confused questions. She danced around her prepared answers.

  “No, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not just questioning his ability to lead, I think he’s lost the competence to make appropriate decisions.” She thumbed her chin as if choosing her phrasing on the spot. “There are proper, uh, accepted ways to live. He’s got us traipsing in circles.”

  Barrett’s father swung his head to the side and spoke barely above a whisper, “Mira, what exactly has put you over the edge? It can’t be that he just married Lydia, can it? Is there something about their marriage that you don’t approve of?”

  “No, no, no. Of course not—”

  “Because that girl is truly special.”

  “She is, she is.” Mira pivoted from one foot to the other.

  “My son—” his voice broke and he dropped his eyes “my son, if he were here, would tell you how special Lydia is.”

  “Oh no, we shouldn’t even bring her name into this,” Mira lied. She twitched her head toward Harmon who stood.

  “I think my sister is just concerned that maybe we need someone a little wiser. And, you know, Bram isn’t the only one who can use the rod or hear the voice of God or, or— Do you remember the plagues in Exodia? Of course you do. I was equally honored to implement those, shall we say, ‘encouragements’ to pressure the Executive President to allow us to leave.”

  Harmon drew in an expansive breath, put his hands on his hips, and continued, “And when we battled at the air field it was I who kept the winning in our favor. Bram couldn’t hold the rod high enough. I had to support his weakening arms myself. Without me all would have been lost.”

  Mira nodded fervently.

  * * *

  Lydia’s eyes widen and she throws me a look as we approach the meeting tent, the largest, highest tent we have. She hears Harmon’s impassioned words too. The lump in my throat plugs my voice. I mouth a plea for her to find Malcolm and I duck into the tent.

  There’s a lamp glowing in the center so I can see their faces clearly. Each judge sits on a blanket, crowded in a semi-circle, facing Mira and Harmon who stand before them. All eyes turn my way.

  I swallow hard and force out a breathy whisper. “Go on, go on.” I squat down.

  Mira’s cheeks glow red and she makes a most unexpected accusation. “He sacrifices nothing, nothing at all to lead us. He has married a black woman when he vowed his life to another. And he has abandoned his children.”

  I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and drop my head. A hot shiver rides my spine.

  “Well,” her voice lifts, “you can see how devoid of pride he is. No arrogance there, at least. What could he boast of?”

  I wonder what brings on this sudden gush of spiteful venom. There must be something else I’ve done. Is this truly how my sister feels?

  Now my brother lifts his arms. “Listen to me. Only me. I’m the one whose words ring with truth. Bram is simple in his speech. Sincere, yes, but simple.”

  I’d never expect my brother’s words to sting, but they do. He continues, “I have to poke him with that rod to get him to raise his voice.” He spits a laugh and half the judges erupt in similar snickers.

  I feel the hint of humor; there’s truth in what he says. I react to the laughter and a tickle itches at the corners of my mouth. Still, I can’t believe Harmon is daring me in this way. I hold back my instinctive response, refuse to let them anger me, and listen.

  “Furthermore,” Harmon affects a humble tone yet puffs his chest out, “did you know that he has never atoned for the murder he committed in Exodia?”

  My eyes well up. He’s right. I shouldn’t be the one to lead. I’ve always thought so. I’m not worthy.

  The buzzing in my ears rings loud with humiliation. Then louder still as I realize what I hear is Malcolm’s box. A smoky cloud of vapors spreads into the tent and rises.

  * * *

  The judges looked from Harmon to Bram and back. As they listened to Harmon’s boasts and harsh claims they focused their attention on his body language and also on Bram’s. Whereas Harmon’s face grew red and wrinkled with indignation, Bram’s stayed smooth, untroubled. They watched Mira, too, as she shuddered with sour resentment
, her face growing paler.

  They all tensed as the smoke snaked into the tent. It held no scent of burning, but spread an aroma unlike anything they knew and quickly became more of a skin-coating than a smell. Pleasant. Mollifying. Harmon waved the vapors away and when a booming voice called him and Mira out of the tent he dropped to his knees. They both crawled out, leaving the judges and Bram to listen through the canvas.

  Harmon caught a glimpse of Malcolm before the cloud enveloped him and Mira. The voice encompassed them, loud but embracing. The slow sounds constricted around them: “Listen to my words. Bram is like no other prophet. I don’t reveal myself to him in visions. Nor do I speak to him in dreams. He doesn’t see the future in the stars. No, none of that.

  “He finds my messages scrambled in letters or hears my words in the music wafting through the atmosphere. On the mountain I spoke to him face to face, clearly and not in riddles. You should be afraid, very afraid, to speak against my servant.”

  Harmon kept his face on the ground, shamed, but Mira spun her head to look around as the divine anger burned against them.

  The humming from the box softened; the cloud lifted. The Reds outside who had witnessed the whole thing held their tongues until Harmon rose up. Then several of them pointed at Mira and screamed. Harmon turned to his sister, saw her whitened face, the flesh half eaten away, and took a horrified step back.

  He called out to Bram, “Bram, my brother! Please don’t hold this against us. We were foolish. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

  Bram emerged from the tent, humbled even more by the heavenly vindication and ready to mend the break with his siblings. He reached for Mira’s hand then saw her face. Shocked by the snow white leprous skin he paused then took her hand anyway. Instant tears sprang to his eyes and he cried out to the sky. “O God, please heal her!”

  Mira fell into his arms and Lydia ran away.

  * * *

  My sister’s skin hangs in strips, bleached and bloodless. The twelve judges come out of the tent. Their expressions vary from disgust to alarm. I push Mira off my shoulder and look at her again. I feel my lips quivering downward, repulsed. She presses her hands to her cheeks, feels the decay, and slowly pulls her hands away. The sores have oozing pus and her hands are slick with it. She steps aside, retches, soils her clothes with puke; dribbles of vomit seep through her fingers, stain the earth. Mira stares at her own filth then at me, a question and a hope in her eyes.

  No one says a word. There’s no answer to my prayer. No phrase that I can unscramble to know what to do to make things right again.

  Mira looks at the mess and a strange gurgle escapes her throat. I concentrate harder, afraid to move, but afraid not to move. And then I see this scene as if a heavenly hand painted this gruesome tableau and labeled it just as crudely: Mira sees vomit, pus, and decay.

  I have the answer. “Mira, seven days outside camp,” I say. “Harmon, set up her tent and you can stay with her just beyond the entrance to Hazel Roth campground. Seven days and she’ll be healed. We won’t move on until then.”

  Lydia returns with towels and a bucket of water; Onita has a robe for Mira. They hustle her off toward the road. I look to the judges who pull their beards, nod, stroke a red elbow, or make some other sign that they understand.

  Chapter 16 Twelve Spies

  From the twelfth page of the fourth Ledger:

  Then he heard the voice again: Send twelve warriors to explore the ancestral land.

  He chose wisely from each tribe.

  AFTER A WEEK of women doing laundry, men fixing or building carts, honeymooners caring for the horses, and children sitting on logs listening to their elders try to teach them unnecessary lessons, the Reds were excited to see Harmon and Mira walk back up the lane. Harmon kept his face slack, emotionless, but Mira was less opaque. Her sores had healed, the color had returned to her cheeks, her skin was smooth and attractive, and her relief was evident.

  Word spread through the camp that two contrite souls had rejoined their society. Everyone expected that to mean they would be nomads again and leave Hazel Roth campground immediately. Two children were sent to the meadow to fetch Bram and Lydia. Korzon, anxious himself to move on, went looking for Malcolm.

  * * *

  I tie the tether around the last horse, hobbling the mare with the others in the grassy meadow that borders the far side of the lake. The park grounds cover at least a couple of square miles, plenty of room for all of us, and though there’s a hint of crispness in the air I know we could winter here and enjoy it more than the dark year we spent underground. I first ran from Exodia almost four years ago. It feels like forty. I’m beyond anxious to see that land where we can settle, build homes, put our skills to use. I never knew how good I had it living in the capitol, even if I was only the pretend grandson of the ruler. Bliss, that’s what it was. Good food, a comfortable bed, servants. But it was ignorant bliss. What I have now with Lydia is harmony and pleasure and when we reach the new land everything will fall into place.

  Last night I heard the voice. Miles and miles away it must have been, but gemfry ears like mine, well-attuned, discerned the mountain top echo.

  “You’re deep in thought,” Lydia says. She pats the neck of the horse I just tethered.

  “Not so deep that I didn’t hear you.”

  “That hasn’t always been the case.” She smiles. I will always sigh inside when she smiles like that at me. “But it’s been a while since you’ve had one of those episodes when you freeze up for several minutes.”

  “I still get messages. We’re getting close, Lydia. It won’t be long before we reach our destination.”

  “What do you mean? We aren’t even moving. We’ve been here a week and this is south of where we need to go.”

  “Sometimes you have to turn left to go right.”

  “Now that’s cryptic. Sounds like the sort of thing Barrett would’ve said.” She says this with a healing heart; she’ll always miss him.

  The mare nuzzles her arm and she returns to stroking the horse’s neck. I hear distant children’s voices.

  “I have to choose twelve scouts to go north.”

  “Why can’t we just keep following the cloud?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s an ambush set up. Maybe the way is too narrow for all of us to fit. I was awake half the night wondering the same thing.” I pull her into my arms. “But Lydia, we’re close. We’re almost home.”

  She smiles at that and rubs her fingers along my week old beard, then kisses my nose, my cheeks, my lips. Between kisses she tells me I better not be one of the scouts, that she couldn’t bear to have me gone, and after a few more kisses she gives me a really good idea. She says I should send one man from each of the twelve groups, to keep things fair. I had already thought of sending Josh and Blake and Asher. Her suggestion is good. A mix of judges and men from each tribe would make a strong team to explore, travel fast, and report back quickly.

  The children’s voices perk Lydia’s ears now. “Are they yelling for us?” she says.

  “Yup. They want us to come. They’re saying that Harmon and Mira are back.”

  * * *

  The twelve stand before me. Blake, Josh, and Paul, Teague’s son, are the most psyched up to make this journey. Their excitement is transferred to the horses they’re leading, prancing in place, men and animals. Seth is next; I chose him instead of Asher when a problem came up in Asher’s tribe. Calmer men, Shane, Chris, Emil, Felix, and Billy, hold their mounts’ reins in steady hands. The last three, Jules, Joe Jr., and Sam finish tying packs behind their saddles and look cautiously eager to be on their way.

  “Listen,” I say, “You’ll have to go north, back the way we came and then on into the hill country. See what the land is like, take note of any people who live there. Don’t engage them, but watch to see if they’re strong or weak, few or many. Try to find out what weapons they have, if they’re fortified, if they have gemfry traits.”

  I see the frowns on Sam’s an
d Felix’s faces so I uncover the cart at my side and pass out supplies: extra weapons, two nano-guns, a fair amount of ammo, and one section from the rod. I’ve already had Harmon instruct Blake in its many uses. I hand it to him. “Try to bring this back in one piece.

  “As I was saying, find out what kind of land it is, where the towns are. Woods? Farms? Lakes? Orchards?”

  Josh groans. “Fruit? That would be unbelievable.”

  “Well, try to bring some back, would you?”

  I wish them luck and Godspeed. A big part of me wants to go with them, but I can’t leave Harmon in charge again.

  The men scatter their farewells behind them as they trot their horses up the roadway, toward the ghost town and north.

  * * *

  A week’s ride brought the twelve men into the hill country and to an overlook where all of them, from Blake to Joe Jr., struggled to stifle cries of astonishment and joy.

  “You can see for miles.”

  “Hundreds, probably.”

  “There’s a city.”

  “Look at those farms!”

  They pointed and laughed and took turns looking through an old pair of binoculars that Joe Jr. had taken from his room in the underground city.

  “I can’t believe we’ve been this close all these months!” Josh shook his head with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

  “Let’s go back and get the others right away.” Joe Jr. reined his horse around.

  “Not so fast,” Josh said. “We’ve got a mission. First we find a place to leave the horses and then ten of us will split up and sneak in on foot. Tonight. Find out what we can and come back. Two, three days tops.”

  “Ten? Who’s not going?”

  “You, Joey. You and Seth can stay with the horses. No argument.”

  * * *

  Josh and Blake watched from their hiding spot. From late afternoon until dark they had seen at least fifty vehicles motor by. They had taken the center route and sent the other men, in two groups of four, to the right toward the farms and to the left toward a flat-topped settlement. The largest city lay straight ahead, their goal.