We at Acorn were told that we were attacked and enslaved because we were a heathen cult. But the Gamas and the Sullivans aren't cultists. I've asked women from both families why they were attacked, but they don't know either.
The Gamas and the Sullivans owned their land just as we did, and unlike the Dovetrees, the Gamas and the Sullivans had never raised marijuana or sold alcoholic beverages. They worked their land and they took jobs in the towns whenever they could find them. They worked hard and behaved themselves. And in the end, what did it matter? All their hard work and ours, all Bankole's attention to dead-and-gone laws, and all my hopes for my Larkin and for Earthseed……..I don't know what's going to happen. We will get out of this! We'll do that somehow! But what then? From what I've been able to hear, some of our "teachers" come from important families in the Churches of Christian America in Eureka, Arcata, and the surrounding smaller towns. This land is mine now. Bankole, with his trust in law and order, made a will, I've read it. The copy we kept here has been destroyed, of course, but the original and other copies still exist. The land is mine, but how can I take it back? How can we ever rebuild what we had?
When we break free of our "teachers," we will kill at least some of them. I see no way to avoid this. If they have to, and if they can, they'll kill us to stop our escape. The way they rape us, the way they lash us, the way they let some of us die—all that tells me they don't value our lives. Do their families know what they're doing? Do the police know? Are some of these "teachers" cops themselves or relatives of cops?
A great many people must know that something is going on. Each shift of our "teachers" stays with us for at least a week, then goes away for a week. Where do they tell people they've been? The area must be full of people who know, at least, that something unusual is happening. That's why once we've freed ourselves, I don't see how we can stay here. Too many people here will hate us either because we've killed their men in our escape or because they won't be able to forgive us for the wrongs that they, their families, or their friends have done us.
Earthseed lives. Enough of us know it and believe it for it to live on in us. Earthseed Lives and will live. But Jarret's Crusaders have strangled Acorn. Acorn is dead.
************************************
I keep saying that I need to write about Bankole, and I keep not doing it. I was a zombie for days after I saw his body thrown into the bare hole they made Lucio Figueroa dig. They said none of their prayers over him, and, of course they refused to allow us to have services for him.
I saw him alive on the day the Crusaders invaded. I know I did. What happened? He was a healthy man, and no fool. He would not have provoked armed men to kill him. We're not allowed to talk to our men, but I had to find out what happened. I kept trying until I found a moment to talk to Harry Balter. I wanted it to be Harry so I could tell him about Zahra.
We managed to meet in the field as we worked with only our own community members nearby. We were harvesting—often in the rain—salad greens, onions, potatoes, carrots, and squashes, all planted and tended by Acorn, of course. We should also have been harvesting acorns— should already have harvested them—but we weren't permitted to do that. Some of us were being made to cut down both the mature live oak and pine trees and the saplings that we had planted. These trees not only commemorated our dead and provided us with much protein, but also they helped hold the hillside near our cabins in place. Somehow, our "teachers" have gotten the idea that we worshipped trees, thus we must have no trees nearby except those that produce the fruit and nuts that our "teachers" like to eat. Funny how that worked out. The orange, lemon, grapefruit, persimmon, pear, walnut, and avocado trees were good. All others were wicked temptations.
This is what Harry told me, bit by bit, during the times we managed to be near one another in our work.
"They used the collars, you know?" he said. "On that first day, they waited until we were all conscious. Then they came in and one of them said, 'We don't want you to make any mistakes. We want you to understand how this is going to work.' Then they started with Jorge Cho, and he screamed and writhed like a worm on a hook. Then they got Alan Faircloth, then Michael, then Bankole.
"Bankole was awake, but not really alert. He was just sitting on the floor, holding his head between his hands, staring down. They had taken all the furniture out by then, and piled it in a heap out where the trucks were. So none of us fell on anything but the floor. When they used the collar on him, he didn't make a sound. He just toppled over onto his side and twitched, sort of convulsed. He never screamed, never said a word. But he went into worse convulsions than any of the others had. Then he was dead. That was all. Michael said the collar had triggered a massive heart attack."
Harry didn't say more for a long time—or maybe he did, and I just didn't hear it. I was crying in spite of myself. I could be quiet, but I couldn't stop the tears. Then I heard him whisper, as we passed one another again, "I'm sorry, Lauren. God, I'm sorry. He was a good guy."
Bankole had delivered both of Harry's children. Bankole had delivered everyone's children, including his own daughter. Without believing in Earthseed, or even in Acorn, he had stayed and worked hard to make it all work. He had done more than anyone to make it work. How stupid and pointless that he should die at the hands of men who didn't know him or care about him or even intend to kill him. They just didn't know how to use the powerful weapons they possessed. They gassed Zahra to death by mistake because they didn't take her size into consideration. They shocked Bankole into a heart attack by mistake because they didn't take his age into consideration. It must have been his age. He'd had no heart trouble before. He was a strong, healthy man who should have lived to see his daughter grow up and maybe later father a son or another daughter.
It was all I could do not to fold up among the rows of plants and just lie there and moan and cry. But I stayed upright, somehow managed not to attract our "teachers'" attentions.
After a time, I told him about Zahra. "I really believe it was her size," I finished. "Maybe these people don't know much about their weapons. Or maybe they just don't care. Maybe both. None of them lifted a finger to help Teresa."
There was another long, long silence. We worked and Harry got himself under control. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.
"Olamina, we've got to kill these bastards!"
He almost never called me Olamina. We'd known each other since we were both in diapers. He called me Lauren except during the more important Gathering Day ceremonies. He had called me Olamina for the first time when I Welcomed his first child into the Acorn community, and into Earthseed. It was as though for him the name were a title.
"First we've got to get rid of these collars," I said. "Then we have to find out what happened to the kids. If... if they're alive, we have to find out where they are."
"Do you think they are alive?"
"I don't know." I drew a deep breath. "I'd give almost anything to know where my Larkin is and whether she's all right." Another pause. "These people lie about almost everything. But there must be records somewhere. There must be something. We've got to try to find out. Gather information. Seek weakness. Watch, wait, and do what you have to to stay alive!"
A "teacher" was coming toward us. Either he had spotted us whispering as we worked or he was just checking. I let Harry move past me. Our few moments of talk were over.
Chapter 13
□ □ □
From EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
When vision fails
Direction is lost.
When direction is lost
Purpose may be forgotten.
When purpose is forgotten
Emotion rules alone.
When emotion rules alone,
Destruction ... destruction.
FROM ACORN, I WAS TAKEN to a reeducation camp that was housed in an old maximum-security prison in Del Norte County, just north of Humboldt County. Pelican Bay State Prison, the thing ha
d been called. It became Pelican Bay Christian Reeducation Camp. I have no memory of it, I'm glad to say, but people who spent time there as adults and older kids have told me that even though it was no longer called a prison, it reeked of suffering. Because of its prison structure, it lent itself more easily than did Acorn to isolating people. not only from society but from one another. It also provided enough room for a nursery that was completely separate from the heathen inmates who might contaminate the children. I was cared for at the Pelican Bay nursery for several months. I know this because I was fingerprinted, footprinted, and geneprinted there, and my records were stored at the Christian American Church of Crescent City. They were supposed to be accessible only to camp authorities, who were to prevent me from being adopted by my heathen biological parents, and to whoever did adopt me. Also, there I was given my name: Asha Vere. Asha Vere was the name of a character in a popular Dreamask program.
Dreamasks—also known as head cages, dream books, or simply, Masks—were new then, and were beginning to edge out some of the virtual-reality stuff. Even the early ones were cheap—big ski-mask-like devices with goggles over the eyes. Wearing them made people look not-quite-human. But the masks made computer-stimulated and guided dreams available to the public, and people loved them. Dreamasks were related to old-fashioned lie detectors, to slave collars, and to a frighteningly efficient form of audiovisual subliminal suggestion. In spite of the way they looked, Dreamasks were
lightweight, clothlike, and comfortable. Each one offered wearers a whole series of adventures in which they could identify with any of several characters. They could live their character's fictional life complete with realistic sensation. They could submerge themselves in other, simpler, happier lives. The poor could enjoy the illusion of wealth, the ugly could be beautiful, the sick could be healthy, the timid could be bold
Jarret's people worried that this new entertainment would be like a drug to the "morally weak." To avoid their censure, Dreamasks International made a number of religious programs—programs that particularly featured Christian American characters. Asha Vere was one of those characters.
Asha Vere was a tall, beautiful, Amazon-like Black Christian American woman who ran around rescuing people from heathen cults, anti-Christian plots, and squatter-camp pimps. I suppose someone thought that naming me after such an upright character might stifle any hereditary inclination in me toward heathenism. So I was stuck with the name. And so, by the way, were a lot of other women. Strong female characters were out of fashion in the fiction of the time. President Jarret and his followers in Christian America believed that one of the things that had gone wrong with the country was the intrusion of women into "men's business." I've seen recordings of him saying this and large audiences of both men and women cheering and applauding wildly. In fact, I've discovered that Asha Vere was originally intended to be a man, Aaron Vere, but a Dreamask executive convinced his colleagues that it was time for a hit series starring a tough-tender, Christian American female. He was right. There was such a hunger for interesting female characters that, as silly as the Asha Vere stories were, people liked them. And surprising numbers of people named their girl children "Asha" or "Vere" or "Asha Vere."
My name, eventually, was Asha Vere Alexander, daughter of Madison Alexander and Kayce Guest Alexander. These were middle-class Black members of the Church of Christian America in Seattle. They adopted me during the Al-Can war when they moved from Seattle—which had been hit by several misiles—down to Crescent City, where Kayce's mother Layla Guest lived. Ironically, Layla Guest was a refugee from Los Angeles. But she was a much richer refugee than my mother had been. Crescent City, a big, booming town among the redwoods, was so near Pelican Bay that Layla volunteered at the Pelican Bay nursery. It was Layla who brought Kayce and me together. Kayce didn't really want me. I was a big, dark-skinned, solemn baby, and she didn't like my looks. "She was a grim, stone-faced little thing," I heard her say later to her friends. "And she was as plain as a stone. I was afraid for her—afraid that if I didn't take her, no one would."
Both Kayce and Layla believed it was the duty of good Christian Americans to give homes to the many orphaned children from squatter settlements and heathen cults. If one couldn't be an Asha Vere, rescuing all sorts of people, one could at least rescue one or two unfortunate children and raise them properly.
Five months after Layla introduced her daughter to me, the Alexanders adopted me. I didn't exactly become their daughter, but they meant to do their duty—to raise me properly and save me from whatever depraved existence I might have had with my biological parents.
from The Journals of Lauren Oya Olamina
sunday, december 4, 2033
They have begun to let us alone more on Sundays after services. I suppose they're tired of using up their own Sundays to lash us into memorizing chapters of the Bible. After five or six hours of services and a meal of boiled vegetables, we are told to rest in our quarters and thank God for his goodness to us.
We aren't permitted to do anything. To do anything other than Bible study would be, in their view, "work," and a violation of the Fourth Commandment. We're to sit still, not speak, not repair our clothing or our shoes—we're all in rags since all but two sets per person of our clothing have been confiscated. We're allowed to read the Bible, pray, and sleep. If we're caught doing anything more than that, we're lashed.
Of course, the moment we're left alone, we do as we like. We hold whispered conversations, we clean and repair our things as best we can, we share information. And I write. Only on Sundays can we do these things in daylight.
We're permitted no electric light and no oil lamps, so we have only the window for light. During the week, it's dark when we get up and dark when we're shut in to sleep. During the week, we are machines—or domestic animals.
The only conveniences we're permitted are a galvanized bucket which we must all use as a toilet and a 20-liter plastic bottle of water fitted with a cheap plastic siphon pump. We each have one plastic bowl from which we both eat and drink. It's odd about the bowls. They're bright shades of blue, red, yellow, orange, and green. They're the only colorful things in our prison room—bright, cheerful lies. They're what you see first when you walk in. Mary Sullivan calls them our dog dishes. We hate them, but we use them. What choice do we have? Our only "legal" individual possessions are our bowls, our clothing, our blankets— one each—and our Camp Christian-issued paper King James Bibles.
On Sundays when we're fortunate enough to be let alone early, I take out paper and pencil and use my Bible as a desk.
My writing is a way for me to remind myself that I am human, that God is Change, and that I will escape this place. As irrational as the feeling may be, my writing still comforts me.
Other people find other comforts. Mary Sullivan and Allie combine their blankets and make love to one another late at night. It comforts them. Their sleeping place is next to mine, and I hear them at it. They aren't the only ones who do it, but they're the only pair so far that stays together.
"Do we disgust you?" Mary Sullivan whispered to me one morning with characteristic bluntness. We had been awakened later than usual and we could just see each other in the half-light. I could see Mary sitting up beside a still-sleeping Allie.
I looked at her, surprised. She's a tall woman—almost my size—angular and bony, but with an interesting-looking, expressive face. She looked as though she had always had plenty of hard, physical work to do, but not always enough to eat. "Do you love my friend?" I asked her.
She blinked, drew back as though she was about to tell me to mind my own business or to go to hell. But after a moment, she said in her harsh voice, "Of course I do!"
I managed a smile, although I don't know whether she could see it, and I nodded. "Then be good to one another," I said. "And if there's trouble, you and your sisters stand with us, with Earthseed." We're the strongest single group among the prisoners. The Sullivans and the Gam
as have tended to group themselves with us, anyway, although nothing had been said. Well, now I've said something, at least to Mary Sullivan.
After a moment, she nodded, unsmiling. She wasn't a woman who smiled often.
I worry that someone will break ranks and report Allie and Mary, but so far, no one has reported anyone for anything, although our "teachers" keep inviting us to report one another's sins. There has been trouble now and then. Squatter-camp women have gotten into fights over food or possessions, and the rest of us stopped things before they got too loud—before a "teacher" arrived and demanded to know what was going on and who was responsible.
And there is one young squatter-camp woman, Crystal Blair, who seems to be a natural bully. She hits or shoves people, takes their food or their small possessions. She amuses herself by telling lies to cause fights. ("Do you know what she said about you? I heard her! She said...") She snatches things from people, sometimes making no secret of what she's doing. She doesn't want the pitiful possessions. Sometimes she makes a show of breaking them. She wants the other women to know that she can do what she damned well pleases, and they can't stop her. She has power, and they don't
We've taught her to let Earthseed women and our possessions alone. We stood together, and let her know we're willing to make her life even more of a misery to her than it already is. We discovered by accident that all we had to do was hold her down and tug on her collar. The collar punishes her, and it punishes me and the other sharers among us if we were stupid enough to watch her suffering, but it leaves no marks. If we use her clothing to tie and gag her, then with just an occasional tug on her collar we can give her a hellish night. After we put her through one such night, she let us alone. She tormented other women. Tormenting people was her particular comfort.
Parable of the Talents p-2 Page 21
