by A. S. Hames
At the end of Main Street, I turn north along the lane and recall something from the Leader’s Companion Book.
The Leader is on the Path to Glory. Are You Following Him?
Yes, I am.
I pass the last homes in town and move into the fields. This is our patch, stretching over a mile from here up to the river. 622 acres producing potatoes, brassicas, and legumes on the west side; apples, pears, and plums on the east. We used to have some beef and dairy up in the far pasture too, until our animals were consumed during the famine a few years back. Not by us – the townsfolk stole them.
It’s not been easy for Ma since Pa died. It used to be 80% of our crops taken by the Regional Authority, but that’s now closer to 90%. Like those families in wheat, barley, hops, and beans, we sell our surplus for a profit, only we don’t have so much of a surplus nowadays. It’s not like we can raise our prices either because we’d be lynched.
Jogging up to our timber farmhouse, I notice an army staff car parked beyond our old tractor. I hope it’s not a sergeant looking for an absent wolf handler.
Entering through the side door, I hear the Leader of the Nation on the radio giving today’s speech about the coming victory. These speeches are repeated six times daily, so there’s no excuse for missing them. I always listen first thing because some days there’s fresh information and I like to be the first to know. I’m guessing Ma and the visitor are in the main room listening now.
“You are the Nation, the Nation is you,” the Leader says.
“I am the Nation, the Nation is me,” I whisper.
“The war will soon be won if we all pull together…”
I sneak up to my bedroom and I’m surprised at how much I enjoy its reassuring familiarity and calm. Pinned to the wall, there’s the prize-winning drawing I did of the Leader when I was eight. Next to it, a prize-winning poem I wrote at twelve. Whereas being an empath almost brought me death, these have brought me the praise I’ve thrived on ever since. It seems unreal that we’ll get to see the Leader in person today, as opposed to the recorded radio broadcasts. But I’m meant to be in a hurry, so I get my senior scout’s badge and I take my compass and magnifying glass as well. And that’s it. Bye, room.
As I creep back downstairs, I hear Ma and a voice I don’t recognize. I must not be seen. Ma would be embarrassed if she had to watch me being scolded by an army official.
“The Nation will always support you in your efforts,” the Leader of the Nation says.
“Liar,” Ma says.
What? What did Ma say? Sickness grips me. I can’t move. Ma has committed a Crime against the Nation. It can’t be.
From the hall by the back door, I can see a little into the main room. Ma is staring at the radio set. A military man is with her, an officer by the look of it, although I can only see his back and not his face or rank. I’d try to get a sense of what they’re feeling, but the shock is numbing me.
“The Nation will never abandon you.”
“Liar,” Ma says.
I wince as if jabbed by a sergeant’s baton. This is unbelievable. I’d yell but I’m too shaken up. The correct procedure is to arrest her and shoot her dead if she tries to escape, but my weapon is faulty and might explode if I pull the trigger. I reckon the military man’s weapon must be faulty too, because the alternative is that he agrees with Ma. If he does, I’m free to beat him to death with the stock of my rifle while I arrest Ma – but it’s all too impossible to believe.
Then I realize what has happened. I’ve made a mistake. Yes, a mistake. I heard it wrong.
I leave the house, because the other thing to do is deliver Ma to the town square to be shot dead by Trooper Essie in front of the Leader. And you can’t let that happen if you aren’t sure of your facts.
I hurry across the fields and down the lane. I love Ma and I will protect her from wrongful accusations by unreliable persons such as myself. I will also make no attempt to discover the identity of the military man because I’d struggle to keep it all in if I knew when I was in his presence.
Passing an old log-framed house, I hear more of the Leader’s recorded broadcast through an open window.
“You are blessed to be living in a time of opportunity.” I stop and listen as it helps clear my mind. “The Nation only exists for your wellbeing. Are you, in all honesty, in all truth, doing everything you can for the Nation, for the land that loves you, and nurtures you, and feeds you?”
I slump a little. In all honesty, in all truth, I know what I heard. I cannot deny it. I let my disloyalty fall away. I know what I heard.
I brush a speck off my uniform. I want to look my best. I have volunteered to protect the Nation, the land that loves me, and nurtures me, and feeds me. I am Trooper Jay-Ruth Two-Five, Head Girl at Forbearance School, and soon to be a trainee teacher. When Ma comes to the parade to cheer me, it will be my duty to point my finger and denounce her as an Enemy of the Nation.
2. Farewell
BEN
I’m in my tiny room and someone outside is yelling about the truck waiting for me. That’s the third time, but I don’t want to go. It’s not my war. It’s the Nation’s war with the redcoats from the north. Honestly, we’ve never even seen one in Pinedale.
They yell again, only this time they’re coming for me. They really do want me to lay down my life for the Nation, but I don’t want to die. The Nation isn’t important to me. Damn it, it’s only been called that these past fifty years. Older folk still call our country Arcadia – though only in whispers.
I take a breath to calm myself. I guess this is it – the last time I’ll enjoy the peace of my room. All my certainties are about to scatter like ashes in the wind. I want to be a good man, but I also feel like running away, because I want to live.
Oh, to hell with it. I yank the door open, grab my tunic from my mother, give her and my gran a hug, and say my goodbyes once again. This is no way to spend my seventeenth birthday.
“I’ll see you soon,” I tell them as I put my tunic on. I have no idea why I say it, because it’s not based on any kind of likelihood, but there you have it. It’s called optimism. By all accounts, it’s one of my best traits, but I don’t see much use for it today.
I smile and we say our final goodbyes.
On the way to the truck, I pause by the stone marking Pa’s final resting place and say a silent farewell. He believed in an afterlife, so maybe he’s calling out to me. His advice would be to stay calm. That’s sensible, of course. Rushing around with tumbling thoughts will only lead to a swift demise.
So… staying calm. That’s the thing.
3. Trust and Truth
JAY
I continue down the lane, hurrying past the dark timber homes, my thoughts swirling around a single word.
Liar.
How can one word explode into such calamity? And how am I meant to explain it to my brother when he returns home from the war? Do I leave him a note?
“Dear Ax,
I hope you are well. If you’re wondering about our beloved Ma, I’m sorry to report that I’ve had her shot dead.”
I shudder. All that schooling, all those years of learning everything about the Leader and the Nation, and in all that time Ma only ever encouraged me.
But what if I don’t report her? Would I be betraying everything the whole town, the whole Nation, believes in? Okay, so there are mutterers, but there’s a big difference between muttering and calling the Leader a liar.
“You remind me of my daughter.” It’s Mrs Nine-Three on her front porch wearing the oldest knitted brown cardigan you ever saw. There’s sadness surrounding her, which is there for all to see.
“Do you remember her?” she asks. “She left with the originals, only I’m thinking they’re all dead by now.”
“I’m sure they’re not,” I say, and not just because my brother’s with them.
“We never hear from them, do we.”
I don’t want to talk about this, so I continue up the lane. People
should try harder to remember that before the founding of the Nation we were Arcadia and things were bad. Since them we’ve had forty-eight years of certainty. It’s only these past two years that have brought us pain – and that will soon end.
Rounding the corner onto Main Street, I smack into Dub’s grandpa, almost knocking him off his feet.
“Ohh, sorry. Are you alright?”
“You’re meant to save that kind of attack for the enemy,” he says, recovering fast for a man of sixty.
I’m a little shaken up, which doesn’t help with clear thinking, but… Dub’s grandpa. This man rubbing his arm once criticized the Leader’s decision to increase the tax on stored corn, saying it would result in farmers storing the minimum, which can be dangerous if there’s a hard winter. I know all this because he went to prison for three years for saying it in the town square. The Town Guardian refused to believe it was a slip of the tongue.
“I think Ma committed a slip of the tongue,” I tell him.
His face turns fearful. “Are you sure?”
Tears spring to my eyes as I start telling him what happened. I even say the dreaded word “liar” but I stop because there’s a skinny old woman coming out of the dried goods store. I try to look disinterested and she does the same, which makes me suspicious she heard what I said about Ma. Calling the Leader of the Nation a liar is far more serious than questioning corn storage tax.
“I have to go,” I tell Dub’s grandpa as I switch to following the woman.
I’m worried. If a call for the Leader’s death means the death penalty, while questioning the corn storage tax means three years in jail, then what sentence would Ma get? The death penalty would be harsh, but there’s no getting away from the fact we’re at war.
No, I’m getting carried away. There’s no reason to believe I have a problem. I simply follow the nosy woman, hoping she’ll turn into a residential avenue and free me from this ridiculous worry. But she doesn’t turn – her determined scuttling action only propels her forward.
I pass Ti, avoiding eye contact. There was talk of my brother marrying her, but he volunteered for the army instead. I just concentrate on following the nosy woman.
At the end of Main Street, there are two choices: a right fork up to the town’s eastern boundary, which offers nothing but a thirty-mile hike to the mountains, or a left fork to the administrative buildings.
It’s no surprise she turns left. I can’t believe I’ve created such a disaster. Why did I have to go back for my stupid scouting badge? Maybe I could make an appeal to the generous side of her nature. Or pull my rifle on her. But I do neither and she bustles into the Town Guardian’s office.
I try to calm myself with thoughts that a custodial sentence is the more likely outcome, but that lets in Dub’s grandpa’s description of jail.
Year after year of being beaten, being cold, being hungry, being thirsty, being tired, eating rats, and watching others die.
And what if it isn’t jail? What if she gets to be shot dead by Essie?
It’s clear to me now that crimes should carry definite sentences so we all know what’s what. Say, ten years for spreading lies about the Leader and two for stabbing a blacksmith in the backside, like Dub’s cousin did that time. Or is it an insult to suggest the Leader’s reputation is the equivalent of five working men’s rear ends?
My mind is wandering, probably because I don’t want to imagine the scene in the Town Guardian’s office. There’s nothing I can do though but wait at the end of the street while my soul burns. And so I shuffle my feet and chew my nails until that woman emerges clutching her grubby little purse.
She’s been paid!
There is only one sane, sensible way to deal with this. I cannot let it fester like an open wound, not when I’m about to go to the Front to fight in the war. I must report that I misheard Ma even though that is a lie.
I stride forward, fully focused, apart from a hiss slipping from my mouth as I pass the woman.
Entering the waiting area, I’m faced with a large oil painting of the Leader with his hand to his chin, as if he’s weighing complex issues. This is clearly not a place anyone would come on casual business. I give my name at the desk and take a seat.
It’s good to see paintings. On film, we only see the Leader in black and white at a distance. In paintings, it’s possible to see the shade and cut of his gleaming golden hair, the strength in his hands, and the wisdom in those blue eyes exceeding that of any regular thirty-year-old.
Next to the painting is a notice:
REWARD
Reporting Those Who Speak
or Act against the Nation
may entitle YOU to a reward of up to
ONE DOLLAR
Report Wrongdoers Today!
Although most people in town wouldn’t be able to read the sign, its message is read out every week at the community hall before the official news film. It is deemed important that the uneducated are kept up-to-date with official notices. It’s a tempting amount of money, too. Right now, I can barely rattle twelve cents together in my pocket.
My stomach gurgles. I’m so empty. An image of Dub stuffing my meaty pat into his greedy mouth flits across my mind. Does the Leader of the Nation have meat in his pats? Or do leaders eat different kinds of food? Judging by the powerful frame, glowing skin, and thick, healthy hair in the painting, the Leader of the Nation eats well.
“Jay-Ruth Two-Five?”
I turn from the piercing eyes of the Leader to a slim, middle-aged man with swept back white hair and a pair of spectacles perched halfway down his nose. It’s the Guardian at his office door.
As I rise, I feel hot. Sick, even. I force myself to ignore it.
The interior of the office is dark with lots of green. Draped from the walls are three green Flags of the Nation with a wolf staring out from each of them. There is also a painting of the Leader of the Nation in a mossback uniform with a wolf at his side, and another showing the Leader setting free a white dove, which I know represents peace.
The Guardian goes the other side of the dark oak desk and settles himself in a dark green leather chair. He moves a radiophone sitting on the desk to one side and I wonder briefly if it connects directly to the Leader. It must be strange to press the ‘send” button and talk with someone in another town.
“Take a seat, trooper.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I remove my cap and sit. It feels odd being called trooper.
He looks over his spectacles. “How can I help?”
“I overheard a conversation. Well, not a conversation, exactly…”
I fiddle with my cap. It’s hard to look him in the eye. Is my chair lower than his?
“Just say what you heard.”
I swallow but there’s no spit in my throat, so it feels lumpy.
“I heard someone say something, Guardian. She called the Leader of the Nation a word that…”
“What word?”
“Liar. I think a woman came in before me to report it.”
“Yes, a fifty cents reward has been claimed.”
“Yes, but I think I misheard it.”
He removes his spectacles and sets them down on the desk. Then he slides open a drawer and takes out a golden tin, which he opens and holds toward me. It’s filled with paper-wrapped candy. Blues, reds, greens… I haven’t had candy in months. I almost take too long in selecting, but I go for green because it almost matches my cap and tunic.
“You’re Head Girl at school,” he says. “That’s quite a privilege.”
“Yes sir,” I say, putting the candy in my top pocket, “I’m hoping to be a useful teacher one day.”
“A most respected member of the community,” he says, seeming to forget that anyone who goes to school or teaches can never fully be part of a community that views reading and writing with suspicion.
“You did well to come to me,” he says, putting the tin away. “Our Leader is a tireless worker for all that is good in the world. Ove
r many years, we’ve stood on a precipice, our continued survival due solely to a collective effort under his guidance. In all that time, he has never lied.”
I think of us all standing on a precipice. The Leader of the Nation, the Town Guardian, Ma and me. For some reason, Ma is standing closest to the edge. Then me.
“So,” he says, “did your mother say the terrible word or not?”
I hate lying, I truly do. “I can’t be sure, sir, but I think that woman was premature in reporting it.”
“Is it possible your mother did say it, but it was no more than a slip of the tongue?” He fixes me with a direct stare. “What do you think?”
I can’t think of anything. My mind is racing with gunshots and jail cells.
“Tell me, trooper, are you comfortable telling lies?”
I shake my head.
“If you tell me the truth,” he says, “you’ll have served the Nation. If you lie, you’ll be serving our enemies. How old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
He nods. “Growing up often involves uncomfortable choices.”
“Can someone be executed for a slip of the tongue?” I ask.
He weighs the situation, a little like the Leader in that painting in the waiting area.
“That depends on you telling me the truth.”
“She did say it, but I don’t know if she meant it. She was with an army officer. I don’t know who though. Do you think she could have been calling the officer a liar and that I misunderstood what I heard?”
The Guardian weighs the situation again, suggesting that the previous bout of weighing didn’t do the job. I don’t even dare to try to feel his emotions. You can’t do that kind of thing with someone who terrifies you.
