by Pete Hautman
“It’s good,” I say with a gasp.
“You never had pop?”
“Not since I was little.” I bite into a piece of chicken. It’s crusty and flavorful. The beans are as sweet as the soda, and the potato chips are astonishingly salty, but seductive. I eat quickly, in part because the food is delicious and partly so that I do not have to talk.
“You must be hungry!” she says as I finish what is on my plate. “Do you want more?”
“Please,” I say. She gives me more chicken and beans and chips.
“What kind of food do you usually eat?” she asks.
“Just . . . regular food.” I think again of the drab food in my pack. “I can show you.” I open my pack and unwrap what was to be my lunch. “The seedcake is good.” I offer her a piece; she tastes it.
“It’s like a granola bar,” she says, chewing carefully. “What kind of cheese is that?”
“Cheese. We make it from the milk of our ewes.”
She breaks off a small piece, sniffs it, puts it in her mouth. “Kind of gamy,” she says. I don’t know what she means. “So you guys make all your own food?”
“Mostly.”
“Does it get boring?”
“It is what we eat.”
“Do you have to work all the time?”
“We work as it is needed. We study. We worship. We hunt. We play.”
“What kind of play?”
“A game called chess. Have you heard of it?”
“Chess? Sure, lots of people play chess.”
I look at the checkered tablecloth. “We could play chess here. We could use candies for pieces.”
Lynna thinks that’s funny. I am embarrassed again.
“I’m afraid you’d beat me,” she says. “I don’t even know the moves.”
“I could teach you.”
“I’d rather eat the candy than play with it.” She tosses me a small brown bag. M&M’s, it says. I open it and pour several candies into my palm and stare at them, so smooth and bright. I pick out a blue tablet and bite into it. Sweetness floods my mouth. Lynna is eating a strand of red licorice. I remember red licorice.
She says, “Is it true that you guys are polygamists? Like, the men have a bunch of wives?”
“Father Grace has four wives. Brother Enos has two.” I have the feeling this is a dangerous subject. “Most men take one wife only.”
“Do you have more than one mom?”
“No.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Are there other teenagers besides you?”
I think of Ruth, and Tobias.
“There are Grace of all ages,” I say.
Lynna has many more questions, and soon I find myself talking easily. We sit in the autumn sun and I find myself telling her of Father Grace, and of the Ark that will come.
“You mean you think that some kind of spaceship is going to carry you all away just before the end of the world?” she asks.
“Not a spaceship. The Ark. Father Grace has seen it. It will come from the west.”
“Like from Idaho?”
I sense she is making fun of me. I stop talking.
“Sorry,” she says, looking serious. “I guess it just seems weird to me.”
“It is the Truth.”
“When is it supposed to happen? The end of the world.”
“Not until the Tree bears sweet fruit and dies.”
“Tree?”
“The Tree is why we are here.”
“What sort of tree? Ponderosa? Oak?”
“It is just the Tree.”
“Every tree is some kind of tree.”
“I do not think it is a kind of tree. It is the Tree.”
“What kind of fruit does it make?”
“Small round red fruits.” I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger.
“Do you eat them?”
“No!” The thought horrifies me.
“I was just asking. So what makes this tree so special?”
I hesitate, as I remember Brother Peter saying that our missionaries do not speak of the Tree to Worldly folk. It induces them to ridicule, he said. They laugh at that which they do not understand.
I do not want to be laughed at by Lynna, but the Tree is a part of me, and I feel I must tell her something of it.
“Have you read the Bible?” I ask her.
“Some,” she says. “I’m not all that churchy.”
“But you know the story of Genesis, don’t you?”
“That’s the part with Adam and Eve, right?”
“Yes! You know that in the Garden of Eden, the Lord placed the Tree of Knowledge, and he commanded Adam and Eve never to eat of it, but they did, and they were banished.”
I pause to gauge her reaction. She is not laughing. She nods and says, “Yeah, I know about that.”
Encouraged, I continue. “Adam and Eve were sent away, and the Lord placed Cherubim and the whirling sword at the east of Eden to prevent them from ever returning. And that’s where we all came from.”
Lynna is looking at me intently.
I lick my lips and say, “The Lord has given us a second chance. Years ago, when Father Grace discovered the Tree, he bought this land. The Tree now grows at the Sacred Heart of Nodd.” I am speaking more quickly now, I want to get it out, to share the Good News with her. “It lives that we might create a new Eden around it, a Garden as beautiful as Eden, and only then will the fruit of the Tree grow large and sweet, but still we must not eat of it, and the Tree will die, and the Ark will come with the Archangel Zerachiel at its helm to carry the Grace to the arms of the Lord while all else withers and dies.”
“All else? You mean like me?”
“Unless you join us,” I say.
Lynna’s eyes are enormous; she is staring at me as if I am the only thing in all of creation.
Then she laughs.
“It is not funny,” I say, embarrassed and uncomfortable, as if I have shown her my naked self and been found wanting.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just sort of . . . um . . . biblical, I guess. The whole ark thing, and the magic tree.”
“It is the Truth.”
“When’s all this stuff supposed to happen?” she asks.
“Brother Andrew believes it will be soon. The Garden grows more beautiful each spring.”
She is shaking her head. I feel her withdrawing. She does not believe. I wonder what she does believe, and I realize that I have asked her nothing of herself. I search my mind for a question. All I can think to say is, “What about you?”
The question seems to startle her.
“What about me?” she says.
“I mean, what’s it like being . . . you?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “Kind of boring sometimes. I mean, we’re just a little operation, thirty-three sections, half of it rock or arroyo. Max says it’s too big anyways. Too much work for me and Max and Cal and Chico.”
“Who are they?”
“Max is my dad. Chico’s a hand. Cal is my asshole uncle.” She takes a folding knife from her pocket and opens it. The blade is four inches long, with a wicked hook at the end. She takes an apple from the basket, uses the odd blade to slice it, and offers me half. I take the half apple and set it on the cloth before me.
“Brother Peter has a knife like that,” I say. “He uses it to neuter the rams.”
“I call it my Cal-strating knife,” she says, then laughs. “I told Cal I’d use it on him if he ever tried anything.”
I don’t understand, and then I think I do. A cold, unspeakable lump manifests in my gut.
“He . . . touched you?”
“Nope. He wouldn’t dare.” She wipes the apple juice from the blade on her jeans and snaps the knife closed with one hand. “He knows I can take care of myself. Cal’s actually not such a bad guy when he’s sober. Except for being a total lech sometimes. Anyway, it’s mostly just the three of us. Max hires in other guys when
we need them, but it’s seasonal.”
“What about your mother?” I ask, although I am afraid I know the answer.
“She died.”
That is the answer I was afraid of.
“She got breast cancer when I was eleven. I was twelve when she went.” She says it matter-of-factly, but I sense she does not want to talk about it.
“Do you go to school?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I did until last year when I kind of got in trouble. This year I’m homeschooling. Mostly just my dad making me read boring stuff. I’ll take some tests in the spring and get my diploma. It’s no big deal.”
“You got in trouble?”
“I got caught smoking weed.”
“Some of the Archcherubim smoke,” I say, thinking of Enos and his pipe.
She laughs. “I bet they don’t smoke what I was smoking.”
I don’t know what she is talking about, but I sense that she has sinned mightily. I notice then that the shadow cast by the fence is long, and the sun is low in the sky. I jump to my feet. “I must go.”
“So soon?” She looks disappointed.
“I must repair the fence hole. And I have much walking to do.” Judging by the sun, I will not get home until after dark. Enos will make inquiries. I am already forming excuses and lies in my mind.
Lynna is gathering up the remains of our meal.
“Give me a minute to pack this up,” she says, fitting the empty containers into her pack. “I’ll help you fill in the hole.”
“Thank you.” I pick up a rock and move it over to the fence. It will take many such stones to fill the gap beneath the chain-link.
She says, “Hey, don’t block me in!” She zips her pack shut and starts to wriggle back under the fence. I pull up on the chain-link, and she is through. “Throw me my pack?”
I loft her pack up over the razor wire. She stows it in her ATV, then starts gathering stones. With both of us working from different sides, it takes only a few minutes to fill the gap.
“I think that’s enough,” I say.
We look at each other through the fence. Her blue-nailed fingers grasp the chain-link.
“It was fun hanging with you,” she says.
I am not sure why she says “hanging,” but I take her meaning.
“Me too,” I say, moving closer. Though we spent much of the afternoon together, we have not touched. Now, with the fence between us, I reach out and twine my fingers in hers.
“I like you,” she says, then grins. “Even if you are a super-serious cult boy who never smiles.”
I laugh. How long has it been?
“He laughs!” She squeezes my fingers. “He smiles!”
We stand there grinning at each other for a few seconds.
“Let’s do this again,” she says. “Next, um, Landay?”
“Landay after next,” I say. “I walk the fence on the second and fourth Landays.”
“In two weeks then. About the same time?”
I nod. Our fingers slip apart and the moment is ended. I mount my pack on my shoulders, pick up my shovel and carbine, and set off along the fence. I will miss supper and Babel Hour, but I do not care. My fingertips are buzzing; I can still feel her touch. I hear the burble of the ATV engine. A few seconds later, Lynna is riding parallel to me on the other side. She waves. I wave back. We continue along the fence, keeping each other company for nearly a mile, until the fence line dips down to enter the northeast bowl, a wooded area where her machine cannot go. With a final wave, she veers off and accelerates. I stop and watch her until the ATV is out of sight.
I am bubbling inside. I have touched a girl. My fingers tingle with memory, and I feel something else deep inside. I have stepped outside the Grace. Father Grace has taken Ruth from me, but I have touched a girl. I feel triumph, a sense of power, as I enter the woods. The hill behind me eclipses the sun, but a lightness sustains me as I move down the shadowed path into the quiet murk of the forest.
I quicken my pace. The sun will set within the hour. I still have five miles of fence to patrol, but the walking will be easy. Each impact of my feet hitting the trail joggles the images in my mind.
Lynna. Ruth. Father Grace.
The trees seem to lean in on me. My feet hit the packed earth like the chuffing of a motor.
Will. Tobias.
I wish I could tell them what I have done, but it must remain a secret. I have a secret.
The Tree. Babel Hour.
I will not regret missing Babel Hour. But there will be questions. I imagine myself sitting before Enos, telling him more lies.
Enos. My father. Von.
Suddenly I am staggering beneath the onus of my sins. What have I done? There is no way I can meet with Lynna again. My stomach churns with the weight of strange Worldly foods. I fear I will vomit them up, but I keep moving and the moment passes.
I start to run. The trail steepens; the pack straps hammer my shoulders. I am not even looking at the fence. I run until the thoughts in my head become a blur and the pain in my legs and shoulders is all that occupies me. For a few seconds, the physical pain provides me with mental peace. I lengthen my stride, and my foot comes down on an exposed root, turning it in, sending me sprawling headfirst. The carbine and shovel go flying, and the pack slams into my back as I hit the hard earth. I know at once that something bad has happened, even before the pain rockets from my ankle up my right leg.
I do not move. I know it will hurt. My leg feels hot. I imagine a broken bone, jutting out through the skin of my ankle. I wonder if I will be able to move at all or if I will simply lie there until I die. No, not die. Enos will send out searchers.
Carefully I turn onto my back. The pain is less than I feared. I sit up and carefully unlace my boot. I peel back the sock. My skin is unbroken, but my ankle is swelling rapidly. I try to move it. It hurts, but not terribly. Maybe it is just a sprain. I grab a nearby birch sapling and stand up using my good leg. The forest whirls around me. I hang tight to the sapling until the dizziness passes, then test the injured ankle with some weight. It feels wrong, but it doesn’t hurt. I take a step. My ankle explodes with pain; I gasp and grab the sapling again. I lower myself to the ground and wait for the trees to stop spinning.
Using the small saw in my pack, I cut down the little sapling that served me so well and use the fence-repair tools in my pack to fashion it into a sort of crutch. I hobble around for several steps to test it. It will be slow going, but at least I can move. My fear of being stranded leaves me, to be replaced with a sense of satisfaction. By the most direct route, the Village is less than two miles distant. I am confident I can make it back, even if I have to crawl.
I gather my shovel and carbine, fasten them to my pack, and begin the long journey home. At least I will not be blamed for shirking my duty. My injury will tell its own lies about why I will be arriving so late.
It is a very long walk. I follow the fence line toward the road that will take me home, one lurching step at a time. The pain from my ankle comes and goes in dizzying waves, and the failing light makes the footing treacherous. Twice I fall and lie on the trail, thinking it might be best to simply build a fire and wait for help. It cannot be long before Brother Enos sends out search parties. But both times I get up and keep moving.
As I come up out of the woods and onto the north ridge, the last glimmer of sunset has come and gone, and I have only completed a small part of my journey. With two good legs, I could reach the Village within half an hour, but on this night I estimate it will take another three hours of hobbling.
By the time I reach the North Road, my armpit is rubbed raw from the rough crossbar of the crutch, my ankle is a throbbing melon hanging off the end of my leg, and it is pitch-dark. Still a mile to go, but now that I am on the road the walking will be easier.
I leave the pack, the shovel, and my carbine by the side of the road. Brother Peter can pick them up later in his ATV. I continue on. All thoughts of the Worldly girl have left me. I think only of
the next step. I am cold. The warmth left with the sun, and I can see my breath, but I am sweating. Icy sweat runs down my face onto my neck. My eyes are fixed on the dirt surface of the road a few steps in front of me. My universe is reduced to a few square cubits. I attempt to pray, but the prayers I know so well are jumbled and meaningless. I take this as a sign that Zerachiel will not help me now. I have touched a girl. I have only this crude crutch, and my will, to carry me home.
Something compels me to raise my head, and I see a ghostly blur standing on the road a few dozen cubits ahead. I stop and try to make it out. At first I think I am looking at one of our flock, a sheep that has found a breach in the fence. But its shape is wrong. This is no sheep.
It is the wolf.
I reach for my carbine, but it is not there. I left it with my pack, back by the gate. I look around, but see no other wolves. A lone wolf is not likely to attack, I tell myself.
The wolf is moving, coming toward me slowly.
“Go away!” I wave my crutch and almost fall down. I catch myself. Falling would be bad. To a wolf, revealing myself to be crippled would be an invitation to dinner.
The wolf stops and sits down about twenty paces away. I can make out some of the details of its face. I feel in my pocket for my folding knife. A three-inch blade is small defense against a mouthful of canine teeth, but it is all I have.
“I’ll hurt you,” I say.
The wolf tips its head. I sense it is amused.
“You don’t belong here. Go!”
The wolf yawns.
I don’t know what else to do, so I start moving toward him. The wolf stands and trots off to the side and into the field bordering the road. I keep moving. The wolf, less than a stone’s throw away, flanks me on my left. From time to time, it pulls ahead, then stops and waits for me to catch up. I go back and forth between watching the road surface in front of me and checking on the wolf. After perhaps ten minutes of this, the creature is gone. I stop and turn in a circle. The wolf has vanished. It could be lying low in the grasses. At any moment it might come leaping out of the blackness to tear open my throat. I keep moving, looking from the road ahead to the left, to the right, and every two steps turning to look behind. It is excruciatingly slow going. I imagine the wolf laughing at me from the darkness.
