by Jason Letts
“I’m Randall Bracken, former Councilor of the ClawLands. Join me, and together we can remind the chancellor that the power in this nation always depends on popular support. The Cumeria of yesterday may be gone forever, but guaranteeing basic freedoms and protections for everyone will make the Cumeria of tomorrow stronger, better, and longer-lasting.”
“And we’re clear,” Dodson said. Randall closed his eyes to collect himself.
“How was that?” he asked Floret, Dodson’s younger assistant whose mouth seemed to take up most of her face.
“Pretty good,” she said, “except at the end when it started to sound like you were talking about chewing gum.”
Sighing, Randall put his head in his hand to seek some respite from the bright light and the pressure of what he was doing. As a politician, it always amazed him how much people were willing to buy into what he said as long as he had on a winning smile and never showed a hint of doubt, but the words were never his, and for the most part they were half-truths that couldn’t withstand much scrutiny. Now he had to pack all of the injustice done to him, his family, his Grand Council, and his country into just a few sentences. How could so few words bear that much weight?
“Hey, we’ll do it a few more times and polish it up in editing,” Dodson said. Randall hadn’t even noticed that the man had come over until he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s keep in mind that this is just the beginning. You’ve got a complicated message, and what we need to do is keep distilling it down until the point is unmistakable and irrefutable. Once you become the symbol of a cause that unites people, speaks to them, and assuages their fears, then you’ll get the response you’re looking for. Until you face them yourself, the camera is always a disappointing observer.”
Randall looked up, his hand covering his mouth. Dodson had a keenness in his close-set eyes that seemed to be just as objective as the camera.
“You’re smart, you know that? I bet your boss thanks his lucky stars for you every day,” Randall said.
“He will if we can turn your little plot into a focal point for some real action. Let’s keep going with this. We’ve got work to do,” Dodson said, adjusting his bandana and returning to the camera.
If getting the video just the way they wanted it was tough, gauging the reaction to it was even tougher. The network didn’t have any feedback mechanisms in place, and the inside of a rusty van didn’t allow much exposure to popular opinion. Randall and the two journalists drove around in the area between the ClawLands and the OrePlains looking for an opportunity to find out what angle would actually get through to people.
The van jumped and rocked while traveling alongside the tracks the Wozniak armored vehicles made when they invaded the ClawLands. It was late in the season, long after the harvest, but that didn’t seem to be why the fields were fallow. Peering through the grimy window, Randall saw debris scattered about on the ground, collapsed buildings, tools and weapons that had no one to carry them.
The area used to have a healthy population but had been vacated once the open fields became a crossroads for forces from the mountains, the coast, and the north. Floret had to get out and take a gander over the top of each hill before they crossed it in the van in order to make sure they weren’t about to bump into anyone unpleasant.
“Look over there,” Randall said, spotting another structure in the distance. The shack was so short that the tall grass around it nearly made it invisible, but more tracks gave them a good angle to see that someone was inside.
“A brave soul,” Dodson said, turning the wheel and starting across the uneven field. The man inside took a seat on a wooden chair and set an old hatchet on his lap while watching their approach intently. He was little more than skin, bones, and beard. Randall thought it was unlikely the man had seen a TV in his life, much less caught his video or the recent news.
He didn’t appear afraid of anything, especially a guy in a suit climbing out of a bucket of rust.
“Hold it right there. What you want?” the man said in a deep voice after Randall and Dodson had stepped a few feet beyond the van. Floret leaned out of an open window and had the camera running.
“We’re trying to find out what’s happening around here. Is there anything you can tell us?” Dodson asked. Randall suffered some tension in his chest for taking the backseat in another conversation. If he was going to lead these people, he had to have the guts to speak to them.
“It is what it looks like. I used to sell wheat and flour to a man who came down from the city o’ Ristle. Well he stopped coming, and most of what I got been stolen instead,” he explained, rubbing his thumb across the sharp edge of the hatchet.
“Why do you stay here then?” Dodson asked. He had one of his notebooks in hand and was taking notes.
“I ain’t going nowhere. Been here a long spell, and anyone who trifles with me’s got it coming sooner or later.”
“But there’s no one else around for miles,” Dodson pressed. The man chuckled, rocking back in his seat.
“There’re more folks ’round here than meet the eye. But ’less you know the terrain, you never gonna find ’em,” he said.
Randall took another step forward, and the man’s hand instinctively clutched the hatchet’s handle.
“Whoa! I’ve just got to ask. Do you know who I am?” Randall inquired. He’d spent a good amount of time north of the ClawLands as a grand councilor, where the Brackens were still household names. The man leaned forward and squinted.
“I know who ya is.”
“Obviously you know about the fighting going on. Can you tell me how it started?” Randall asked. The man rolled his head around his neck as if searching the sky for an answer.
“Oh, hell. One of them big shots from the quarries removed the silver spoon from his asshole, took a lick, and decided to trample right through my fields. I heard some people think there be gods tossing people ’round like marbles. What do we need gods for when we got rich folk like you shitting all over everything?”
Randall nodded. It made sense that people didn’t know the actual reason the Wozniaks had invaded the ClawLands. Certainly they never made it public that Sierra had killed Raidan, even if it meant that it appeared to be an unprovoked attack.
“The Brackens aren’t rich anymore, and at the moment we’ve got less land than you. What do you think about that?”
The man shrugged and leaned back.
“It all comes ’round. I’d never much loved the Bragnens, but they ain’t never tread on me, neither. Can’t say the same for the Wogniags,” he said, his words slurring.
Randall kneeled down and touched the loose soil and the uprooted plants under his feet. This man was misinformed and slightly delusional, but he might just be more representative of what people in Cumeria thought than anyone else they’d met. Randall needed answers, and there was a chance this man might be able to give them one.
“What if I told you that all of this fighting between regions and families was just a diversion so that Chancellor Aggart could disband the Grand Council and consolidate power? What do you think we should do?” Randall asked.
“Do?” the man huffed, looking around. “Far as I can see, there ain’t nothing to do, ’cept keep on sitting right here and wait for the class of fools to sort it all out. You’re not gonna listen to anything I says anyways. I’m nobody. You didn’t even wanna hear my name.”
Randall swallowed. He hadn’t gotten what he was hoping for.
“I’m sorry about that. What is your name?” Randall asked.
“I told ya all I know.”
The man looked off at the field, which was enough of a signal to suggest he was finished with the conversation. Dodson and Randall climbed back into the van and put it in reverse.
“He got grumpy there when he was telling you he couldn’t do anything,” Dodson observed.
“Yes, he did. But what he didn’t say was that he cared about someone restoring the founding values of Cumeria or getting justice for the
damage inflicted on the ClawLands,” Randall said. He put his hand against the side of the van as it rocked back and forth.
“That’s true,” Dodson agreed, glancing at Floret to make a note.
The group continued on, camping beside streams and keeping an eye out for the hidden people the man in the shack had mentioned. They decided to head farther south to the ClawLands to see if they could find anybody there. As much damage that had been done, it’d be impossible to wipe out the town completely, right?
At the same time, Randall worried about what kind of reception he’d get when he arrived. His father had been stricken with worry over the perception that the Brackens had abandoned their people after the fighting and fled the country rather than stand beside them. Randall didn’t think his father, Taylor, or Sierra could’ve done anything more than they had, but there was no telling how public perception congealed, especially when the Wozniaks and the Illiams were the only ones around to shape it.
Driving south over rolling hills, Randall almost didn’t notice how the Brackens’ twin towers no longer occupied space along the skyline. When they reached a hilltop where they could look over the entire township, Dodson brought the van to a stop so they could survey the area. The devastation was jaw dropping. Streets once lined with houses had been reduced to rubble and ash, parts of the disabled power plant appeared like the jagged maw of a saurus, and an unmarked mass grave now existed at the bottom of the hill in front of them.
Randall needed a moment before being able to move forward. The Crossing ceremonies for the sixteen year olds would no longer take place. People he’d known all of his life were gone for good. It used to be a point of pride for people to have lived their entire lives in the region, but now there was nothing to support a life here.
At least the occupiers left and signs of life existed near the city center, where a few buildings remained unscathed and a few more were under construction. Randall noticed a fire boiling a big pot of water. The air was cleaner without the plant and nearby factories. Altogether, it was like the people remaining here had been blown several hundred years into the past.
The van wound down the hill and slowly crept along the edges of the streets, allowing Floret to film the bodies jutting out of the debris and broken shop signs next to fallen buildings. While the town used to maintain a healthy bustle, the only sounds now were that of the wind and the chugging van engine that announced their arrival.
They pulled up to a non-descript section of street where most of the people had congregated. A few people sitting on the front steps of what used to be a bakery turned their heads and watched, while others stepped out from a home repurposed as a woodworker’s shop. The people squinted and shifted their heads to get a better look at them. Recognition struck one of the residents, who unleashed a wide smile and called out at the top of her lungs.
“Hey, everybody! Come on out and see who it is!” she hollered.
When Randall got out of the vehicle, he found the enthusiasm of the people infectious. They spontaneously chanted, “Brackens are back,” and clapped their hands in rhythm. Randall grinned and waved, relieved that this wasn’t going to be a difficult meeting. One of the city councilors, a man whose name Randall had never bothered to learn, came up and shook his hand while others gathered around and nearly pinned him to the front of the van.
“Darkness lifted and daylight come!” the man cheered. “What a glorious sight it is to have you here.”
“Thank you so much. Even with all that’s gone wrong, it’s so good to be back home with you,” he replied, trying to stay positive and sound encouraging. More than anything, these people needed his support and a chance at healing. “I’m sorry for the big disturbance. You all looked so busy.”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” the councilman insisted. “We’ve gotten together some of the essentials, a stockpile of the ClawLands’ famous squash, some temporary residences for the few hundred that are still with us, and a system for transporting some tepid bog water that needs to be boiled, but I’m sure all of us are ready to take a new course of action when you tell us your plan.”
“My plan?” Randall said, instantly reminded of the black contract and his task to take on Chancellor Aggart and clear the way for the real return of the Brackens.
“Yes, your plan to restore the town and lead us back to greatness. With your guidance and our work ethic, we’ll be able to tackle the problems and get on the road to recovery in no time,” the councilman said to nods of approval from the growing crowd.
Randall hesitated. Coming here had been something of a convenient stop on his tour of the area before moving on in a few hours, but now that seemed awfully naïve when the people here clearly not only expected him to stay but to have a presentation ready to restore the town. Randall hadn’t given one thought to what any of the remaining people should do.
“I…” He squirmed, trying to find a way out. “I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to do that yet.”
The councilman’s smile faded, his enthusiasm draining faster than water through a sieve. He then shook his head and presented a more reflective visage.
“How foolish of me. Of course you aren’t ready yet, not when the memory of your lost father, brother, and sister clouds your mind. We searched everywhere for their bodies but were forced to conclude that they had been among the burned or that damnable Arnold Keize had done something unspeakable to them before flying off.”
“Yes, finding the bodies would’ve been difficult,” Randall conceded while sorting out what the councilman revealed. Although it was easy to ascertain his assumption that the rest of the Brackens were dead, it was harder to gather how the townsfolk all felt about it or how they would react to news all of them were alive and gone. What if they all decided the Brackens had fled and he was right there to face their wrath over it?
“And why would you say that?” the councilman asked.
Randall was feeling the pressure. He didn’t want to lie, but he preferred not to be the bearer of the unpleasant news that his family had left them all to their own devices. At least Randall had an excuse for showing up alive, because he had been representing them in Toine during the fighting.
“Because in a battle like this anything could’ve happened. They could’ve been taken hostage and flown away. They might’ve chased some members of the enemy away from town only to discover we’d been overwhelmed, and returning would’ve been suicide. The three of them could be waiting for the chance to come back right now,” he said.
The councilor furrowed his brow and rubbed his upper lip.
“Do you have knowledge that any of those things actually happened? If they’re out there, what could they possibly be waiting for? Where could they be?” he asked. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. There was so much to explain, and the councilor seemed impatient for an answer.
“Well, they went to Lyria and then Madora—”
“They’ve been out traveling?” the councilor blurted.
“That’s not how it was, and just because the Wozniaks and the Illiams aren’t right here anymore doesn’t mean it’s safe for them to come back,” Randall argued.
“But you’re here,” he pointed out.
“It’s not as simple as that,” Randall insisted, looking over all of the increasingly skeptical faces. He was on the verge of losing them. “If the Wozniaks or the Illiams had a hint that my father or my sister were here, they’d be all over this place in a hurry. Chancellor Aggart is using the Cumerian Guard to beat back any resistance, essentially giving those two families free run of the country. I’m here risking my life in secret in the hopes of finding some way to challenge the chancellor over misusing the Vendetta Clause, disbanding the Grand Council, canceling the election, or something.”
“Oh,” the councilman said in a ringing endorsement sure to echo throughout the ages. The crowd was equally unmoved by his plan of action and how little it offered them, and many drifted back to what they’d been doing before he arrived.
“Well, I wish somebody would stand up to Aggart!” a woman in the thinning crowd said. There were murmurs of agreement, more than Randall had gotten, but people continued to drift away. Many of them were clearly downtrodden and filled with grief, forced to suffer through the mundane tasks necessary for survival.
A combination of crushing guilt and the need for food and sleep compelled Randall to stay for a while. Along with the reporters, he rolled up his sleeves and pitched in at breaking up and clearing away a house that had fallen in the street. He was unused to wielding an axe or a shovel, accomplishing a quarter as much as even some of the children. Grappling with his ineptitude proved a humbling experience.
When Randall’s uncle had passed away and his father told him he would run for and win the ClawLands’ Grand Council seat, he had immediately sensed the strangeness of having a job that required little more than talking and smiling. The policy wonks in his office handled all of the difficult stuff, and most of the time the issues he dealt with on the Resource Distribution Committee amounted to deciding if a particular group got a big pile of money or a really big pile of money.
Dodson and Floret gratefully accepted some squash stew at mealtime, but Randall couldn’t bring himself to accept anything after fumbling at his tasks so badly, skipping a meal for probably the first time in his life. He looked over the people camped out around the new center of town. Their dirty clothes and forlorn appearances ate away at him. The two reporters were able to chat freely with anyone, unlike Randall, who hardly made eye contact or exchanged niceties.
He joined his two traveling companions back in the van, where they’d taken seats to eat. After climbing into the backseat, Randall crossed his arms over the seat in front of him. At least the cameras had long since been put away.
“I’m dead weight here,” he admitted.
“Don’t say that,” Dodson countered from the driver’s seat. “It’d be impossible for anyone to cheer these people up after what they’ve been through, but they still admire you.”
