He snorts happily over this thought. Ah, Bree!
“They are getting alloyed!” she says urgently.
He folds his hands around her head like holding a squash or some enormous fruit, her hair alive and too red underneath and through his fingers. And her brain, too busy there, under his palms. Her entire universe in his hands.
His breath is coffee, hers cigarettes.
Her eyes focus closer together. “I love your nice big Frenchie nose,” she says.
“I’m glad,” he says.
From the editorial section of the Record Sun’s fat Sunday paper.
A lengthy article that arrived only four days ago on the editor’s desk in stunning calligraphy, signed by several persons, many with the last name of St. Onge. The article starts off with:
Some of you may have the idea you are in danger. Let us be more specific. Some of you can clearly imagine that, in the not-too-far-off future, “they” will come and put you and your family out of your home. All you have grown up and worked for is threatened by some large conspiring force.
The article goes on with many skin-chilling details; then, in bold print:
YES, OH, YES. SOMEBODY IS GETTING READY TO TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY FROM YOU. EVERYTHING!
We are members of the True Maine Militia, not to be confused with the plain Maine Militia, or the Border Mountain Militia, or the Southern Maine Militia, or the White Mountain Militia. But with those militias, we do have a bit in common.
Like them, we are not ostriches.
We are angry.
And we know the government sucks.
It is not a government of We, the People, but one of Organized Money, of Big Faceless Financiers ruling through their shrewd tool, the corporation. And money laundering and fraud and other creepy stuff. And the Fed! It is instrumental in making the dollar worthless. It is a centralized debt-based banking system.
Welcome! We welcome EVERYBODY! We are not a right-wing militia. We are not left-wing either. We are NO WING. We are everybody’s militia!
Now there is a cartoon of The Abominable Hairy Patriot, lovable but stern-looking Bigfoot with hands on hips standing on a mountaintop. He wears a tricorne hat, camo spot vest, and army boots. (Usually he is barefoot, to show his big hairy feet. And usually he does not wear clothes.) Behind him waves the American flag. (Remember, this is BEFORE September 11, 2001, so the flag isn’t tacky yet.)
The article finishes with:
The True Maine Militia already has a lot of members, but not enough. Our goal is a million for starters. Because we are planning the Million-Man-Woman-Kid-Dog March on Augusta, for starters, and we will all be armed. With brooms. We will arrive at the doors, all the State House doors, and begin to very very gently sweep the great floors of this, which is our house . . . yes, the People’s House. We will sweep out every corporate lobbyist. Corporations out! We, the People, in!
And if this doesn’t work, we’ll be back next time with plungers.
If you are interested in joining up, it is totally free. No dues. Just promise you will be angry and you will be nice. Get in touch with us today at militia headquarters, RR2, Heart’s Content Road, Egypt, Maine 04047, or call 625-8693, or find us the old-fashioned way. Sundays are best. We’ll open the gate for you! We love you! We are your neighbors. Keep your powder dry and your ear to the ground. Let’s save the Republic together!
The article is signed.
Militia Secretary: Bree St. Onge
Recruiting Officers: Samantha Butler and Margo St. Onge
Other Officers: Whitney St. Onge, Michelle St. Onge, Dee Dee
St. Onge, Carmel St. Onge, Kirk Martin, Tabitha St. Onge, Liddy Soucier, Desiree Haskell, Scotty St. Onge, Heather Monroe, Erin Pinette, Rusty Soucier, Chris Butler, Lorrie Pytko, Jaime Crosman, Shanna St. Onge, Alyson Lessard, Rachel Soucier, Christian Crocker, Buzzy Shaw, Theoden Tarr, Josh Fogg.
And just in case readers need help making the connections, the Record Sun editors have helpfully added a sidebar with a summarized rehash of the publicized Homeschool–Settlement–Border Mountain Militia relationship, as well as a mention of the “thirty-six” terrorized-looking governors’ wives to whom Gordon St. Onge once gave a talk. And there are two photos. One the rememberable merry-go-round shot, the scary weirdly-lighted face and upper body of Gordon St. Onge that sensationalized all the earlier St. Onge-as-madman articles, and one of the gate and KEEP OUT signs. This boxed piece reads: GATES OF ST. ONGE SETTLEMENT WILL COME DOWN.
Claire St. Onge in a future time tells us of the days following the article.
You could almost feel the ground tremble after that op-ed. The phone rang. It was answered. It rang again as soon as it was back on the hook. Working people wanted to do something. They weren’t apt to use the word revolution or call themselves radicals, but they were “coming out.” No, these were not just college lefties. These were also regular Main-ers. The silent presence, until now. It was sweet. Surprising to me, actually. I never realized how many people were ready, once you put it to them in a way that touched them personally—which our fifteen-year-old Bree and the other young people, mostly Bree, had done. So young! Our darling insurgents.
So it was people of all kinds calling, writing, leaving messages down by the gate. My gosh, some of us even joked that messages might come in bottles, down the Little Boundary Stream or out of the sky under wee parachutes. People, people, people. It was a chillingly beautiful thing.
That very first day or two, the call-in talk shows were about nothing else, just the True Maine Militia. Radio listeners wanted in. Though some didn’t want in as much as a chance to talk on the radio about their fears, and there were plenty who wanted to show off what they thought they knew about democracy and government and corporatism.
Meanwhile, yeah, there were calls to the shows by those warning of the mad prophet and references to his blatant polygamy and child abuse. And some called the True Maine Militia “crazies running through the woods with hand grenades.”
But here it was. People were stirring. Democracy was in the air. Corporatism and globalism were in their sights.
But Gordon, when he found out, hit the roof. He hunted Bree down with the newspaper. When he found her, he was thin-lipped and too quiet. She told us later he was shaking. We all agreed we like it better when he’s noisy.
As recalled by many.
But he got over it. Sort of. After all, whose fault was it that our kids knew the world honestly enough to want to “save” it?
The Bible.
Time, 4 P.M. He has nowhere else to be but right here. And nobody knows he is here. His tree house. Home sweet home: 1 Wilderness Highway, ha-ha-ha. It’s sort of a log house, maybe more of a stick house, one a wolf could blow away, ha-ha-ha, though the wolf would have to climb up this tree first.
There’s one little window with a flap. And a big hatch in the floor. Two ways out. Like a rat.
He is squinting in the growing woodsy dark at a Bible. Gift from the captain of his militia, Rex. It has a few glossy color pictures of Bible days. Some people have bare feet, some have sandals. A lot of sun there. Not much for trees. None of them look Jewish. He knows Jewish from school in Massachusetts. These pictures just don’t look Jewish. In fact, they don’t look human. The kids, that is. They are too chubby, like babies on steroids. Their eyes have expressions like . . . well, not stoned, exactly, more like people do when they are reading dull poetry or Shakespeare aloud in school and they’re acting it out in an overdoing way. Bible artists absolutely can’t do little kids right. Or Jewish. But especially kids. He thinks about Jesse, not quite two years old. His nephew. Dead. He can hear the wet sticky sound of real live Jesse’s mouth slurping down milk or red punch from a cup and the wet sticky sound of his words and phrases and funny ideas.
Most of the Bible kids have wings, or else they are hanging around grown-up Jesus, looking up in his face. Here’s one with Jesus patting a little kid on the head. One kid is blond like Jesse was. Mickey thinks, if it were Jess
e, he would be holding up a toy helicopter full of brown leaves (helicopter found under the porch) or an old toaster (not plugged in). Jesus would be stuck holding the helicopter while Jesse went off to collect some little army guys or animals to stuff inside. When Jesse got back with his animals and guys, Jesus would hold the helicopter steady while Jesse stuffed.
Before Mickey’s eyes, the picture of Jesus and Jesse explodes into the greasy grinding and ernk!ing of the schoolbus stopping in front of the Locke place. His chest squeezes as if from an attacker’s arms meaning to hurt. Yeah, today is the day. SCHOOL IS OPEN. DRIVE SAFELY.
He breathes with relief as the imaginary schoolbus door slams and the creepy ark drags itself off in the direction of the fenced-in SAD 51. Yeah, perfect name, huh?
He looks back at one of the dreamy-faced Bible babies, its small feathery wings. Imagine. Wings.
Power.
Hello, crow. You see the sky brightening in eager increments. Some of the stars are losing their grip. This is the mountain, mostly on St. Onge land. One of two, but this one is closer to the heavens. Some humans call them foothills because they are so old and slouched by time, not the childly rugged Rockies.
All around you is naked ledge and blueberry and juniper and blisters of lichen, the hard faces of rock with small cupboard-sized cave openings, which from a distance are the sockets of empty eyes.
Speaking of no eyes, wasn’t it just yesterday that one of the damaged elder humans (whom Gordon St. Onge has welcomed into his world) visited this summit? The old eyeless man is one whom you, crow, are especially keen about. How does he get around? A youngster always steers the way, one of those little tractors they call buggies, which strain and jerk over trails and the rocky summit road. Makes no roar. It hums.
The old blinded man, blinded by some scarring violence such as working a dragger, or maybe it was war, sits behind and locks his arms around the driver, the sweet hot evening or fresh morning is forced across his cheeks and bald skull. He smiles steadily, serenely, though the rough ride abuses him. This type of love draws your eye, because endurance of the human flock is more than a spectacle.
But today, as the sky is glowing pearlesque, the only human in sight is the lonely boy, Mickey Gammon.
For this morning’s observatory, you use the structure that looks and sometimes turns like a big eggbeater.
Down the mountain in the valley of the Settlement, a rooster crows, setting off four more. You cock your head.
The boy is smoking as always, but this is the first time you’ve seen him here at the crown of St. Onge creation, the Wind Project. The bull mastiff of the wind structures, tallest, heaviest, is designed in the way of the old countries, you have heard them say. Wooden door to the room where the windmill crews go in and out, straining with recharged batteries for their buggies and the few cottages that aren’t in the open.
The rest of the working wind plants are on modern steel derricks and wooden poles: two-blade windmills and eggbeater ones and a couple made with old barrels painted a sharp yellow.
As you study the boy, he is studying the mighty force of forty-seven chest-high, nonutility, no-purpose-whatsoever, purely artistic windmills, child-made—charming pink, purple, and grasshopper-green monuments to that struggle of human children of all recorded time to learn the tricks of their elders’ huge and bubbling civilizations.
Mickey Gammon, whom you think of as the Tree Boy, tosses his cigarette butt and gets to his feet from where he has been sitting on the frosty step of the Old World windmill. He circles around on the edge of the steep drop-off of ledges that overlook the east. He sees way down there the narrow end of the pond that the humans have renamed Promise Lake, the names lining up down through the ages. And there, the village of East Egypt, where obscene spots of orangey commercial electric light hither and yon pose as security.
You, crow, watch him very carefully as he steps to the edge.
Answers.
A couple months ago, he was a fifteen-year-old living with his older brother’s family, and he was as free as the breeze. Now he is a different kind of free, though still fifteen.
He stares down into the tops of trees below this ledgy drop-off. He’s out of cigarettes now but smoke still comes out of him, the smoke of frozen breath. The way it does outdoors when you work or have fun. And now, when you live outdoors. His gray wild eyes zero in on the hard-looking utility sun picking its way up through the cold and distant red-orange September trees. How prehistoric this silence is, the way nothing makes a sound. Except his lips and the inside walls of his mouth and the frosty smoke ghost-breathing in and out, sailing away in a solid steady clump. He hears his brother’s voice in his echoing memory: Go away go away go away . . . you can’t live here . . . GO!
That night he was kicked out, Mickey was barefoot and shirtless. Yeah, it was night. Like outer space.
No fucking shoes.
Donnie’s command just a whisper, like the very last bit of air leaving a flat tire, so slow, not much whoooosh: Go away. And yet Mickey remembers it in billboard-sized letters: GO AWAY! The words look down at him now from the schoolbus-yellow dawn sky, the big but soundless command.
Mickey hardly ever asks questions. He just waits for answers to bonk down on him like ready coconuts. And that’s how he finally heard the full scoop on the Prophet. Real name is Ghee Yome or something. He grew up in that gray farmhouse and still officially lives there. But his wives live up in the valley in the Snow White cottages, which are all colors, and some have little porches. Some are in the fields, some in the woods. Nobody actually lives in the brown-with-green-trim horseshoe building. In the morning, the smell of breakfast in that building reaches his tree house so huge it’s like getting a whiff of the Fryeburg Fair.
Yes, wives. Like Waco. Like Arabs. Like weird. Like, imagine it.
Mickey imagines being completely lost inside a solid pile of warm women.
But uphill here, where Mickey is, is where you go when you are in a solid pile of cold shit.
Something moves, catches his eye: a crow on one of the windmills. Willie Lancaster says he knew a crow once that talked, one or two words at a time.
Like Mickey.
And also like Mickey, the crow—this crow here on the mountain—seems to have no jobs lined up today, nobody to meet.
He sees a finger of fire coming up through the trees beyond East Egypt. Wriggling. Now it leaps, pulls free, ball of fire. The giant old-timey windmill is instantly covered in gold. Except its six walls are painted black. Then there’s faces and bodies of spirits and mermaids and woman devils with flying hair. The hair on the mermaids is green. Woman devils have red skin or pink with veins. Eyes dripping. Around to the other side are a couple of guy devils, totally purple, naked, with long peckers shaped like Christmas stockings filled with candy and oranges. One sheep eating grass. Or is it a turtle? Man, oh, man, these are obviously painted by kids on ladders. Some dripping. Some blobs. But some are very artistic. And stirring. Many realistic breasts. Big ones. He nods. He sees the orange wicked eyes of the largest woman devil, eyes of power.
These Settlement people are nothing like he’s ever known before. Could you call them students? Mr. Carney would have you in three months of detention if he caught you painting shit like this, for instance on the brick walls of the gym. Mickey chuckles. He kinda likes these St. Onge types. Except mostly he feels like just your regular sick peeping Tom, outside, not inside.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Crow takes off, flapping toward the stone wall that zigzags down through the woods to Mickey’s tree home. Mickey rubs his cold hands together, shoves them deep in the BDU shirt’s pockets. Rex said the next meeting might be here at the Settlement, so the men who live here can give Rex’s men a tour. A radio studio and tower, not finished but ambitious. An experimental wheat field and alternative energy projects. Nothing wrong with a sneak preview, Mickey whispers to himself, and marches sort-of-proudly onward.
For the next few hours, he’ll just lie on his back at home
and aim the service pistol at the tree-house ceiling, the walls, the window.
Uh-oh!
The temperatures around the world are bouncing: rising, falling, boing! boing! boing! The earth is now so sporty. A bowling ball. Maybe a game of pool. Something is melting or leaking. Or spreading. Receding. Autumn leaves forget to fall. Lightning strikes twice. Sheep are going blind. Politicians talk in oily ways, like butter or broken thermometers . . . mercury pooling on the porch . . . a silvery eye. Dither is everywhere.
Hey!
Pay no attention whatsoever to the sky. What you need to think about is the way thirty-eight-year-old Mindy Curtis of Gitchy, Nevada, left her four kids in her old junky car and pushed it over a cliff. Think about that! And think about the death penalty for the deserving!
Meanwhile, somewhere in a major city in America.
Several thousand mostly collegey professional-type people and a few labor unions march. Raised banners and placards represent numerous discontents and objections, mostly relating to corporate power, government corruption, sicko foreign policy, and questionable law enforcement practices. Huge puppets bow and prance. Buttons, leaflets, flyers, songs: a festive spirit. Dull speeches. City heat. Skin dripping electrolytes. Telephone numbers of legal counsel scribbled on forearms. Civil disobedience, peaceful blockades, singing and drums. Police gas and bash. Many arrests. Charges inflated to felonies for just blocking streets. Young college kids’ faces smashed into sidewalks while handcuffed. A few broken teeth. Many broken hearts. “Is this how the system reacts to the sound of the people’s voice?” one young man asks.
The screen sneers.
A tiny but irritating incident today. See the rioters! See the bad bad bad people bothering the city, which is trying to conduct itself, and the nice government and cops, who sometimes look like Boy Scouts except when they have to wear their riot gear and padded stuff to protect themselves from these extremist people who just like to start trouble for some reason.
Back in the city.
Another day of noisy but hopefully peaceful protests heats up, but the police are one step ahead, using battering rams on a warehouse door to get at the collegey kids in there who are making giant puppets. The giant puppets are bad. They will tell of police corruption and government policy that is against people. The police say Death to puppets and stuff them into Dumpsters. Puppets away! Seal those big puppet mouths! Young puppet makers are dragged out and stuffed into buses. What are the charges on these terrible puppet makers who make puppets that telllll? Nine felonies for this young girl. Ten for this one. Seven for that one. Puppets could be used in a crime, police say. It’s the intent, say the police.
The School on Heart's Content Road Page 23
