by Ursula Pflug
“She heard this was a place,” the French girl said. Between gulps she stared at her coffee as if it was liquid gold, as if she’d forgotten such a thing could exist but had missed it nonetheless.
“A place?” I asked.
“What?” she asked.
Why did everyone here dissociate so much? Was it something in the water? Or was it our minds evolving, as I’d overheard Nan say? Or maybe it was the Lemurians from Telos, their city inside the mountain, trying to communicate with us.
“She heard this was a place,” I said. “What kind of place?”
The girl thought for a minute, trying to retrieve the memory. “A place you can come.”
I nodded. “How old are you?” I asked, trying to figure out if I was still the youngest adult here. If you can call a teenager an adult. If they have no one to look after them then what else can you call them?
“I’m seventeen,” she said, wiping away the dark hair plastered over one eye by the eternal morning rain. “But I left two years ago. And then I went back, just to visit. I missed her, even after everything what happened.” She gulped her coffee, gratefully.
“The food police on Kitchen Committee must have lightened up a little,” I said.
“Why?” the girl asked.
“Last week you couldn’t find anything but herbal tea and juice.”
“Only some juices,” the girl said.
“Non-acidic,” I agreed.
“Yep. OJ would get you kicked off,” she said and we both laughed.
Progress.
“She’ll be back,” I said. “I know she will.” I gave the girl the biggest hug to go with the biggest mug. I remembered the hug Skinny gave me yesterday and thought maybe I was passing it on, that hugs could somehow be contagious. It felt so good when she hugged me back, hard. When the hug was done, I walked away carrying my coffee. I was grateful for the rain as it would hide my sudden unexpected tears.
Laureen hadn’t returned as she’d promised she would. The day wasn’t over yet, but still.
“Je m’appelle Marie,” the girl called after me, a little reproachful.
On top of being a great hugger, Marie remembered more of her manners than I remembered of mine. First thing to go, after nail polish.
8
DAY EIGHT. And now, so quickly, I have not quite nothing:
1) Too small black rubber boots that belong to Laureen, ’cause we couldn’t find mine in the truck box before she left for San Francisco to find Peter. Happy Trails, Mother. I bumped into Skinny today by the orange Security tent, asked for news; there hasn’t been any. No need for worry, he reminded me. She promised him she’d be back inside three days, which means tomorrow.
2) Leather jacket. It belongs to Skinny, who I’ve never seen wearing anything other than his filthy white T-shirt, even on the coldest nights. Is he real? I check his skinny arms for goose bumps, see none.
3) I have my sleeping bag.
4) Our tent.
5) My name-brand phone. Which does not work up here.
9
DAY NINE. Laureen has not returned. Skinny, busy with committees, chats with me briefly to say I should take classes to pass the time. This gathering is ostensibly a healing festival; there are half a dozen different workshops under the grove of Ponderosas every afternoon, but I don’t sign up for any. Parentless, and without last night’s television to discuss, it seems, like my mom, I’m a shy person. I hardly speak to anyone, except for the simplest of informational exchanges, as in: Where are the latrines? On the far side of the meadow, downstream from the spring. Where do you wash your clothes? On rocks downstream, or we drive into town to the coin wash.
I do not go to the coin wash: I have no coins, no vehicle, no driver’s licence, although a ride could be begged, pretty easily. Why didn’t Laureen leave me more than fifty dollars? Our ration of the common food plus unlimited workshop passes are the larger part of her technician fee. Maybe she figured adding to my collection of T-shirts and beads could wait till she got back, or else she’s trying to wean me of my consumptive habits.
It’s true there isn’t much need for cash here, as I haven’t broken my bill. I could, for laundry money, I guess. And buy pop and a hamburger while I’m in town.
Remember pop? Remember hamburgers?
I’d still have forty dollars left.
I decide to hold onto my fifty.
You never know.
10
DAY TEN. No Laureen. I surreptitiously used a little of the big boxes of biodegradable laundry detergent someone left beside the aptly named Laundry Rocks. For all I know some Tribe person left them there, to deter newbies from washing their underwear with Tide back at the spring. Even I know better than that.
I guess Mom taught me more than she thought she did.
If she doesn’t come back tomorrow, I’ll email Lark and ask him what to do. I’ll probably get an automated reply. Out of office.
Or I’ll grab a ride from Daniel or someone to town.
Drink pop. Eat hamburgers. Go to the coin wash. Charge my phone while I’m there. Call Lark. Call my mom.
The coin wash in Shasta City, the little town on the flank of the mountain, looms large as a venue of possibilities. The last bastion and all that. Question: If the coin wash represents civilization, what do we represent?
Think hard, Amethyst. Just because you heard the word anarcho-syndicalism in the coffee line-up yesterday doesn’t mean you (or for that matter anyone else here) actually knows what it means.
Mom’s boots are handy when I want my runners to dry out, even if they are a size too small. Tight dry footwear, I’ve learned, can be better than roomy but wet.
Truthfully, I squelch through the mud in bare feet a lot, although Skinny points out this is a bit of a health hazard. Staph infection and all that.
Gross. I’ll try and remember.
11
DAY ELEVEN. Daniel said he’d go to San Francisco to look for Laureen. He thinks I should stay, learn something, not fly east on wired airfare at the first glitch. He knows Peter’s address, as well as a lot of my mother’s other Bay Area acquaintances. He told me not to worry, that it was probably just truck trouble, which of course doesn’t explain why she hasn’t emailed. He didn’t mention that and neither did I. I wasn’t sure if his worry made me feel better or worse. He left this morning, and I can actually hardly wait to see my mother. I also gave him Lark’s email and told him to write—ask whether he’d heard from Laureen. Just in case my mom’s packet radio setup is being glitchy.
I guess you have to develop a sense of humour.
More people arrive every day, are as thrilled as the others to:
1) Dig more desperately needed latrines.
2) Help each other push their vehicles out of the mud.
3) Hang their damp sleeping bags on lines strung between trees every morning.
4) Build tipis and lodges out of the Lodgepole Pines, in which yet more healing workshops will take place.
5) Build saunas over the runoff, for healing and getting clean.
Really, I ought to take one. Thank God the little mirror in Kitchen disappeared.
12
DAY TWELVE. Chatting with Skinny over breakfast I made a sarcastic remark about all this healing. Loud enough to offend anyone who was inclined that way, he said, “For instance, abuse survivors have a couple of crappy choices. Number one, suicide, or they can unload their pain by passing it on to the next generation.”
“What’s wrong with therapy?” I asked, wondering at his lack of irony. I couldn’t read his motivation. Was he trying to shock me or was he just being a jerk? Everybody gets to be a jerk sometimes, but from what I’d seen of Skinny, he indulged less than most.
He got up abruptly to collect empty and half-empty oatmeal bowls to take to Kitchen where Nan was busy building up the fire so
she could boil water.
“Sure,” he agreed, coming back for more dishes, “And crystal healing and Lomilomi and steam-filled lodges. And political theory. They all help too.”
He looked at the picnic bench as if he was wondering whether to sit back down or not. I patted it. Reassuringly, I hoped.
“Busted,” he said, but sat facing out so he could make a quick escape if he needed one. “How do we create something new from the ground up? If you could create a world, if you had that power, what would it be like? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? So we can ask and try to answer that question?”
“Nah,” I said, watching him fish rolling papers and a little pouch of tobacco out of his back pocket, and begin rolling himself a cigarette. “The new kids here aren’t asking anything like that. A French Canadian girl I met in the coffee line-up said she was here because she’d heard it was a place you can come.”
“A place you can come,” Skinny said. “That’s kind of profound.”
“Now that you mention it, I guess it kind of is,” I said. “I liked Marie. Sometimes I wonder about everyone here. Where did they come from? Where are they going? It would be cool to do little interviews, collect their stories, and transcribe them. I mean, I know a bit about you and Nan, but it would give me an excuse to to talk to more people.”
“That’s an amazing idea and I’d totally lend you an iPod to record the stories. I’ve still got one with charge I think. Anyhow,” Skinny added, “you can’t say we’re operating outside of the state’s purview because we have all the required permits, which are legion and complex.”
Most folks had up and left already, and of those who remained quite a few scowled when Skinny lit up his cigarette. He drew long and hard, obviously well practised when it came to ignoring those sorts of glances.
“So who does the paperwork?” I asked.
“You don’t know your mother at all, do you?” Skinny asked. “You just travel with her.”
“And complain,” I said. “I complain a lot while we travel. It’s my age, apparently. She says I’ll grow out of it.”
“So did I answer your question?” he asked.
“Uh, which question?” I’d never really noticed before but among the usual hearts and skulls and flowers there was a flying mountain inside a purple pyramid tattooed on his left forearm. I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure it was a flying mountain because it was the kind of tattoo your half-trained friend does, maybe a fellow traveller waiting with you in a train yard. Still, what it lost in finesse it gained in feeling; the flying mountain was smiling broadly. It was a nice touch.
“Anarcho-syndicalism means we’re doing it without the state,” Skinny said, reminding me of what we’d been talking about.
“I’d take help from the state,” I said. “Especially if Siskiyou County sent someone up to clean the outhouses. Whoever’s on that committee is failing big time.”
“No shit,” Skinny said and I groaned. “So join up,” he added.
“Join up what?” I had a terrible urge to touch the smiling mountain but thought I had better not. From what I’d observed, except for hugging Laureen the day we arrived, and me a few days ago, Skinny seemed to have an aversion to touch. I wrapped one hand around the other to restrain myself.
“The outhouse detail,” he said.
I stared at him. “You wouldn’t do that in a million years.”
“I have so. Everyone has to.”
“Everyone?”
“Every committee member,” Skinny said.
“Oh. You mean Tribe?”
I was briefly sure the tattooed mountain’s smile was broadening as it listened to our conversation, as if it approved. The things lack of sleep will do to you.
“Yes,” he said. “It breeds egalitarianism, having everyone do outhouse duty.”
“And e-coli. It breeds e-coli too.”
It was Skinny’s turn to groan. “All the same it’s good practice. What if there isn’t one, next year or next month?”
“Isn’t one what? Outhouse? How could that be, ever?” I asked. “Even if they all magically vanished you could just dig a new one.”
“Isn’t a state,” Skinny said, squinting at me from under his silly plastic hat, which, on him, was bizarrely attractive. On some few lucky people, any hat at all just looks really good.
“Never thought of that.”
“What did your mother talk about over dinner, then?”
“I live with Lark, mainly,” I said. Feeling exposed, I reflexively dug in my jeans pocket for my phone. I could peer at that while Skinny peered at me. It was still there. In spite of being out of charge and out of range.
“Ah yes, Mr. Moneybags,” Skinny said, getting up.
“He’s nice!” I insisted. “And not rich.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to start, Camden Town.”
“Start what?”
“Healing.” He looked at me oddly and walked into the woods, back down the little trail towards the orange Security tent where, I assumed, he intended to update the registration files on his laptop. A few minutes later he returned, took our dirty plates and carried them to Kitchen, which made me laugh but I thought it was cool too.
13
SEEDS
Amanda Jenkins’ story, as told to Camden O’Connor
I don’t know how it is I came to have no parents and no name. I heard this is a place you can come, if you lookin’ for a name. I have nothing. But I have had nothing before, and now I am glad to be free of it.
Where was I before I came here? In the city. There were five of us, or maybe ten or thirty. The building was an empty one, gutted by fire. We slept on the floors, on found mattresses. I sprayed them all with a can of bug juice I bought. I do not like fleas or bedbugs.
I planted flowers. I dug the earth out of the central courtyard. An empty yard. Probably it was full of lead, but eventually that too will be washed away by rain. The rain is cleaner now.
When I arrived, there was no one there. Soon there were sometimes ten, sometimes twenty of us.
I planted sunflowers in the yard. I stayed long enough to see their big heads turn, slowly, throughout the day.
I made window boxes out of some panelling ripped out of a wall. In them I planted geraniums, herbs, and tomatoes. The seeds were seeds I brought from the East. The soil was not good, soil dug out of the yard. It was not really a yard, maybe used for parking before. One day I woke up and there were chickens in it. Where did the chickens come from? It didn’t matter. They laid eggs, and I knew they would be good to eat, when winter came.
I gathered the chicken dung and diluted it with water, and carefully poured it into the pots of plants. The tomatoes did fine. When someone new came, I made them eat tomatoes. “Vitamin C,” I said. They looked at me strange; their eyes wide and dark, blank as stones. “Eat your tomatoes,” I said. They were young, most of them. They were young and frightened and ready to fight, and yet their mouths were all open, as though they were expecting something wonderful to come out of nowhere, to fly in. They gathered from the edges of the burnt city, hearing. What did they hear? That there was a place, a place you could come. My sadness was that I was alone, that I was older than everyone there, that I had to look after them all. They played with each other, giggling and combing one another’s hair. They were like children, really. They ran up and down the halls of the building, delighted, discovering things. Exploring. They liked to rearrange, to take things apart and rearrange them. I remembered, I did that too. It was necessary, if they were to learn. Why we were here and not somewhere else.
I looked after the plants and made the children eat them. I hoped that none of them would get sick with something I could not cure. I made them eat garlic and drink tea brewed from nettles and burdock root. So they would be strong, would not get sick. I dreamt of someone coming over the hill. A man. He would
arrive soon, I dreamt. He would help me in my work. I did not mind after a time, being always alone, being lonely. I no longer looked for anyone to fall into, to carry me. I made the youngsters drink their teas. I made them wash. I watched as they played their secret, whispering games. I did not mind anymore. I didn’t mind not being one of them, but one of the others. The man coming over the hill. I realized he wasn’t coming over the hill, but was one of the ones here. He said his name was Stephen. He was maybe nineteen. He was very strong. I leant out the window, watching him. He was leading the children. “Shit in the pit,” he said, “not in the sunflowers. Wash your hands before you eat. Here, drink this tea.” He yelled at them sometimes but they did not really mind. As he became stronger, I disappeared into the shadows. I lurked in the hallways, disappearing. I could because there wasn’t so much responsibility; now someone had grown, like a sunflower … he was almost ready to harvest for seed. Ready to be an adult, come to help me shoulder the weight. I was glad. He did not speak to me, Stephen, but I could hear his voice in my mind, asking questions. I answered, from my room hidden in the dim corridors.
Yes, you can do this and this and this. Yes, the windmill on the roof is good. They will help you. You must make them work, teach them it is important. Energy and power. Their own. At first they won’t believe you, will not understand why, just as you did not understand, thought it was enough just to drift, to be asleep to your own power. Yes, you can do it. You can.
“Will you help?” he asked me in my mind. “Yes,” I said, “I will.” After a time they could hardly see me anymore. Stephen saw me, but only dimly, like something half forgotten, like a dream. He had already forgotten that I used to be a real person. He had forgotten I used to be flesh and blood like him, that I too suffered, hated to be so alone. I watched him cry, alone, sometimes at night. I cannot do it, he cried, calling out my name. I cannot do it, I cannot. You must help me. You say you love me, so you must help. You don’t know what it’s like to work so hard for so little. Everything is darkness here, and I cannot see.
