That didn’t bother Jesse Mitchell too much; over the long years, denominations had ceased to be of much importance to him one way or the other. After all, no denomination could give a man new birth and the Holy Spirit and eternal kinship with the Lord Jesus Christ.
But what did bother him was these commissars.
On the first Sunday they had attended, Jesse had been greeted heartily by a couple, Merrill and Genevieve Stanton. In the way of brothers in Christ, each recognized kindred spirits in the Lord, so Jesse had spoken openly to Merrill Stanton. “Why are these commissars here? It’s kind of plain they’re not what you’d call dedicated churchgoers.”
Merrill Stanton’s kind face grew grave, and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “Times are hard for the church, Brother Mitchell. That woman and her group of tree-and rock-worshipers . . . it seems like they’ve not only taken over people’s souls, but they’ve taken over the government, too. There’s been lots of ugly talk lately, talk about how the right-wing Christians are all troublemakers, dissidents, and fanatics—dangerous to the culture, dangerous to Earth’s Light, dangerous to everyone.”
Unexpectedly, Jesse grinned. “Well, I would say that might be true in a manner of speaking. The love and the power of the Lord God Almighty can be a dangerous thing.”
“Well . . .” Stanton dropped his eyes to study his worn brown loafers. “Anyway, the commissars started attending all the United America churches last year. They’re just watching, and listening, I guess—to make sure that no one preaches about overthrowing the government or assassinating the president.”
“How about preaching about that woman and her wouldbe church being a bunch of adulterers and idolaters and devil-worshipers?” Jesse asked cheerfully.
Merrill Stanton looked pained, and even a little afraid, though they were standing alone out on the walk in front of the church. “Brother Mitchell, I don’t know what would happen if someone were to try to preach that out loud in public these days. I just really don’t.”
Now Jesse, his mouth unconsciously set with distaste, studied the commissars. They wore their black uniforms, a kind of paramilitary garb with combat boots and berets that they didn’t bother to remove in church. At least they weren’t wearing their pistols. Some of them sat right on the front row, slouching and openly bored. Some of them stood against the wall, a cold, calculating glare in their eyes.
But at least one of them was different. She was a young woman who sat directly across from Jesse and Noe, and she had taken off her beret. As Jesse was considering her, she abruptly turned her head to look at him. He almost looked away, but something in her eyes drew him and he sat there exchanging a long glance with her. Almost imperceptibly she nodded, then turned her attention back to Reverend Colfax.
With amusement Jesse thought, At least she doesn’t look mad at the world and determined to make everyone pay for it. Suddenly slightly ashamed by his wandering attentions, he made himself concentrate on the sermon again, dismissing the woman commissar from his mind.
As soon as the service ended, Jesse was ready to go, as Merrill and Genevieve Stanton hadn’t attended the service, and they hadn’t really met anyone else they felt comfortable talking to.
“Let’s go, Noe,” Jesse muttered, and the two started down the aisle. The crowd shuffled along in front of him and Reverend Colfax had taken his position at the front door. When he shook Jesse’s hand, his grip was firm and he had a warm smile. “I’m so glad to see you again, Brother Mitchell. I hope you’ll consider becoming a member of our group. Have you relocated here?”
Conscious of the commissars loitering around, Jesse stammered, “I—we’re here, we’re sure here, yes, sir, Pastor Colfax.” He felt that was close enough to the truth to get him by without lying outright, but he felt strange as they moved away. It didn’t really matter, anyway, for Ty Colfax had already shifted his attention to a woman behind Jesse and had dismissed him. No one else was paying the least attention to the little old couple.
Jesse and Noe, hand in hand, walked outside and down the walk. They had only taken a few steps, however, when Jesse stopped dead still, and pulled Noe to an abrupt halt.
The woman commissar, the one whose gaze Jesse had touched on in the service, was standing farther down the sidewalk, alone. She’d put her beret back on, and she stood, tight-lipped, arms crossed, watching the people leaving the church. As soon as she saw Jesse and Noe, her eyes widened slightly, and she didn’t take her gaze away from Jesse.
Jesse, under the heat of a commissar’s direct gaze, felt a small shudder of dread. He had so hoped that he wouldn’t have to have any dealings at all with those people.
Suddenly, as he and his patient wife stood in the middle of the walk, stock-still, staring at the young commissar, Jesse clearly heard in his spirit: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
When Jesse Mitchell heard the Lord’s voice, it was almost an audible sound, and through his long journey with God he had come to enjoy an art of personal conversation with Him. Now, after hearing the Word, Jesse said in his soul, Yes, I know that, and sure I’m not afraid of that poor little lost girl, no matter what she’s wearing or who she serves, Lord. I’ll just go say hello to her.
Noe Mitchell, with a long-suffering sigh, saw the intent look on her husband’s face, and his peculiar stillness, and knew exactly what was going on. With resignation she went to sit on one of the stone benches that lined the walk. Jess didn’t notice. But Noe was accustomed to that.
In fact, Jesse had almost taken a step toward the commissar, but it seemed that the conversation was not over yet. As pure as sound, as clear as water, he heard, No, Jess. Ask her.
Jesse’s eyebrows shot up, and he was motionless once again. Now the commissar was watching him with curiosity. Jess really wasn’t seeing anything, he was so absorbed in his conversation with God. But—but ask her what?
Ask her for help.
Now Jesse Mitchell balked, just a little. It had been many, many years since he had hesitated to obey what he knew in his soul was God’s command . . . but this was different. With a taint of mulishness he thought, Ask her for help? But she’s one of them, Lord.You know, one of those secret police people!
The silence was deafening.
To his credit, Jesse’s small rebellion lasted only a few short moments. With one last dry observation—No, I suppose You didn’t make a mistake—he swallowed hard and marched.
Still she watched him, a woman in her early twenties, Jess thought, with plainly modeled features and level gray eyes. She had dark brown hair, shaved in the man-cut of the commissars. Though she was not a muscular or chubby woman, she was sturdily built. As he neared her, he was aware that he was crushing his old gray Stetson in his hands, because he was nervous. That was of no importance, though, because God didn’t care about the deceits of emotion; He cared about obedience, and Jesse Mitchell was an obedient servant.
Finally he stood in front of her. She did not speak, nor did Jesse for long moments. Jesse was aware of the hum of voices, but it came as from a far distance. It was as though he and the woman were surrounded by a bubble and everything else faded away. He swallowed again, then said, “Hello there, ma’am. My name is Jesse Mitchell.”
“I’m Xanthe St. Dymion.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Well, ma’am, you may think I’m crazy but I was wondering—” He broke off, not because he was losing his determination but because he simply couldn’t think of what to say.
St. Dymion studied him. “Wondering—?” she prodded.
“Wondering if you might help me.” Now that it was out Jesse felt ridiculous. He hoped that this commissar wouldn’t arrest him outright for talking like a crazy man. “Help me and my wife. She’s over there. Her name’s Noemi.”
The gray eyes were shadowed, unclear. Suddenly Jesse Mitchell grew impatient with himself. Hadn’t the God of all creation Himself given him the wo
rds to say? What difference did it make what this woman thought or did? “Ma’am, I’m a Christian, and I was just now praying. The Lord told me, I’m certain of it, to come over here and ask you if you would help us.”
Instead of the shock or puzzlement or anger that he half expected, he saw that her eyes lightened and once again her clear gaze focused on him. She even nodded, ever so slightly.
Encouraged, Jesse asked directly, “So will you help us?”
For a long time the woman did not move. She had clear, unmarred features and there was an air of strength about her; yet at the same time, at the present, she seemed vulnerable, unsure. “I—I—it’s a strange thing, you asking me for help.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m more aware of that than you realize,” Jesse said, with the barest hint of exasperation.
Suddenly Xanthe St. Dymion seemed amused. “Maybe I do realize, Mr. Mitchell.” She took a deep breath, then continued soberly, “What could I do to help you?”
Once again Jesse was disconcerted. Now that he had asked the question and—miraculously—the woman had agreed, what help did he need? Instantly the answer came. She’ll show you the place, Jesse. Ramming his hand in his inside coat pocket, he took a deep breath and pulled out a piece of plain white paper folded into quarters. Carefully he unfolded it. “My wife and I, we want to go into the mountains. We don’t have a photograph of the place or anything, but I drew this picture of it.” It was amateurish, endearing in its childlike simplicity. But it clearly showed the house, the distinctive rooster weather vane, the pine woods to the north and west, the mountains behind and to the east.
She took the picture and stared at it for a long time. Glancing up at him, she asked, “This place, is it yours? I mean, was it yours before the relocations to co-ops?”
Jesse shook his head. “No, ma’am, I grew up in the Ozarks, but I don’t know exactly where this place is.”
“But you want me to help you find it.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d certainly appreciate it. And I’m in the way of knowing that God would have a special blessing for you, too, if you’ll help us.”
Suddenly Jesse thought he saw a glint of tears in the steady gray eyes. Xanthe’s smooth features crumpled a bit, as if she felt pain. Her lips trembled slightly as she whispered, “Yes, Mr. Mitchell, I can help you. Not only will I find this place for you, I’ll take you there.”
“You will, ma’am?”
“Yes. Meet me early in the morning. Do you know where the big fountain is in the park?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. Go there nearly every day.”
“Be there at dawn.”
Jesse swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be there.”
Jesse and Noe stood in the semidarkness beside the fountain. The water gurgled and made a pleasant sound, and true to the name, it was a hot spring, so a thick mist rose from it. In the east, a faint gray had begun to light the tops of the near hills.
“Stop fidgeting, Jesse. She’ll be here,” Noe said calmly.
Jesse nervously shifted his feet. All night he had slept only in fits but had awakened to wonder at the encounter with Xanthe St. Dymion. Now he shrugged his thin shoulders. “She said to be here at dawn.”
Noe responded, “Well, that wasn’t a very precise time to set for this big secret meeting. After all, that sun takes a few minutes to rise over those mountains. So maybe she meant the end-dawn instead of the beginning-dawn.”
Jesse smiled broadly. “How come you know so much, Noe?”
He had no sooner finished this sentence than the sound of a diesel engine chugging near caught his ears. He watched as a low, wide vehicle came to a stop directly in front of them. Xanthe leaned over and called out the window, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you to get in the back.”
Jesse helped Noe in and then climbed in beside her. “This is my wife, Noe. This is Miss—um—I’m afraid I can’t say your name right.”
“Just call me Xanthe.” As she pulled the Humvee around she said, “I think it’ll be best if you get down and pull that blanket over you.”
Jesse obediently pulled the gray blanket over his wife and then himself. Calmly Xanthe instructed them, “Don’t talk and don’t move, please, until I tell you.”
Jesse felt the powerful engine of the Humvee rumble and he held Noemi’s hand tightly. Both of them felt out of sync, somehow, and oddly surreal. They found it hard to believe that this was the United States of America, and here they were, two harmless old people, having to be smuggled into the mountains as if they were some kind of dangerous criminals. Which we are, I guess, Jesse thought with a sudden relieved amusement. Fancy that, at our age. He squeezed Noe’s hand gently, and in the way of people who have loved each other for decades, he knew that she, too, had become slightly amused at the absurd melodrama.
The Humvee made its way through the deserted streets of Hot Springs until they came to a highway just west of the city that was still open for the techies to go study the Ozark Plateau Biome. It did have a checkpoint, however. She slowed down and a tall, gangling guard with a mop of red hair ambled over, giving her a sloppy little patting salute to his chest. “Hello there, Commissar,” he said. “Making a little trip?”
“Short-range photos of a condemned highway about twenty miles up here, Commissar,” she answered, waving a complex-looking camera. Bored, he waved her through.
She drove hard until they were clear of the city. After about ten minutes of silence, Jesse and Noe heard, “You can come out now.” Xanthe waited until they threw aside the smothering blanket and got settled comfortably. Then she handed a color 8 x 10 photograph back to them.
“It’s on Blue Mountain, in the range called the Ouachitas. Years and years ago, it was called Blue Sky Farm.”
It was an aerial photograph, showing a dusting of pine woods crowning the high slopes. Almost to the top was a generous shelf, and on that shelf sat a cabin, the white paint still gleaming, the weather vane clearly outlined against dark pines and firs. The photo was so good, so clear, that Noe Mitchell could pick out the vivid blob of lantana blooms—golden yellow and glowing orange, growing on the same bush—in the tangle of weeds and shrubs surrounding the cabin.
“Where’d you get this picture?” Noe breathed with delight.
“It’s an aerial surveillance photo from the CID, Fourth Directorate module on Cyclops II.” This was like speaking Swahili to the older couple, she saw, so she simply shrugged, saying, “I found it with the computer. As you can see, Mrs. Mitchell, the cabin is still standing and looks good. But the Ouachita Mountains have been deserted for thirty years so there’s no telling what kind of condition it’s in.”
Jesse said dreamily, “It’s a good little cabin, solid and sturdily built. The floors are made out of hard pine, last forever. It’s tight to keep out the winter wind, and there’s a well, laid solid and fine in the mountain stone, just outside the window.”
Xanthe glanced in her rearview mirror and met Jesse Mitchell’s far-seeing hazel eyes. Still, however, she didn’t speak, and the couple were content to just look out the window, hungrily searching the thick green woods after years of harsh desert glare and unforgiving seas of sand.
They drove steadily for more than two hours, saying little. The road grew steadily worse, as most of the roads in the biome had either been destroyed or simply allowed to deteriorate to a “re-wilded” state. Finally it turned into more of a wooded trail than a road. Calmly and efficiently Xanthe forced the powerful Humvee through the underbrush, pushing down saplings and considering her map and compass from time to time. She had taken exact markings on an enlargement of the map and had two good checkpoints because two sharp, naked ridges pointed up toward the sky exactly on the east and west of the old cabin.
Finally with a lunge the Humvee broke through and came into what was now thick meadow; once it had probably been a plowed field. The grass had grown waist high, and there were shrubs but no saplings in the cleared square. Just on the other side of it was the cabin.
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“It’s just like I dreamed,” Noe breathed. “Oh, thank You, Lord.”
Jesse felt as if he had come home, which, in a way, he had. “There’s the well,” he said with satisfaction. “Just like I said. I’ll bet you that water’s the sweetest and coolest in the world.”
Xanthe watched as the old couple got out and made their way toward the cabin. It was obviously a private moment, and she gave them a few minutes alone. Then she got out and picked up their pitifully few belongings, which seemed to be in one threadbare suitcase and an old crate that said in faded stencil, “TYVEK-POLY SHEETS—DO NOT OPEN WITH SHARPS.”
Jesse and Noe were inside, standing in the center of the room, turning slow circles and looking around. “It’s still in good shape,” Jesse said. “It needs a little work but it’ll do fine.”
“I think it’s lovely, Jess,” Noe said quietly. “It’s just perfect.”
The cabin was a simple two-room box with a tiny front room. The kitchen consisted of a sink, a wood-burning stove, and a rough wooden counter with two homemade cabinets above it along one wall. Through a door at the back of the small room was the bedroom. The door was open, and Xanthe could see white humps in the shadows. While Jesse and Noe were still admiring the windows and the old stove and the native-stone fireplace, Xanthe slipped into the back. In one corner of the tiny single bedroom was the smallest water closet she had ever seen. The white humps were, as she suspected, pieces of furniture. There was an old iron bed, dismantled, the ornate head-and footboards leaning against the wall. She saw the iron bedsprings covered by canvas sheets, horribly rusted. At Xanthe’s merest touch, they squeaked in protest. There was also a rough-hewn square table for two, four plain wooden chairs, a scarred and slightly uneven washstand. There were also three rocking chairs, lovingly and securely covered by canvas, the ends neatly tucked under the curved bows of the rockers.
“That’s real nice,” she heard Noe say behind her. “That one looks kind of like my mama’s rocker. Teach me to worry about leaving behind stuff that’s just—things. The Lord is good. Two nice rockers for us, Jess, and one for a friend.”
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 18
