Folk of the Fringe

by Orson Scott Card

  "They don't form that fast," said Pete.

  "Two thousand miles," said Teague. "With winters colder and longer now than they used to be—how far you think you'll get before September?"

  "We didn't expect to do it in one year," said Deaver.

  "We need you," said Pete. "We'll hire you."

  Teague laughed. "And pay me what?"

  "A house and a job in Utah," said Pete.

  "You can guarantee that?" said Teague. "You guarantee that I'll have a little plot of ground? A house with hot and cold running water? A nice little job to go to? Eight to five? What about location—I don't want to have to commute more than fifteen minutes to—"

  "Shut up," said Tina.

  Teague shut up.

  "We can promise you that there's peace in the mountains of Utah. We can promise you that if you lead us there, you'll be rewarded as best they can. We can promise you that in Utah, you can reap what you plant, you can keep what you make, you can count on being as safe tomorrow as you are today. Where else in all this world are those things true?"

  "I'm not about to become a Mormon," said Teague.

  "No one expects it," said Sister Monk.

  "They'll just expect you to be a good man," said Deaver.

  "Then forget it," said Teague.

  "A good man," said Deaver. "Not a perfect one."

  "How bad can a man be and still be good?"

  "You have to be good enough to take a helpless group like us two thousand miles, with no promise of payment beyond our word."

  Deaver saw, with satisfaction, that Teague was being won over. He halfway suspected that Teague wanted to be won over. After all, he had already invested a lot of time and effort in helping them get off the freeway. He was risking a lot, too—if the highway patrol caught them here, they'd no doubt be in trouble. And the fact that there wasn't any shooting last night—the patrol might well notice that and come looking for them.

  Maybe Teague thought of that at the same time, because he stood up suddenly. "I'll think about it. But for now we've got to get moving. It'll be slow going for a while, till we can put the carts back together on a road. Put the heaviest stuff on bikes. I hope those things have airless tires."

  "Of course," said Tina. "My husband never considered anything else. What good would bikes be on a cross-country trip, if they're always going flat?"

  "The little kids will carry the two-by-fours."

  Annalee started to protest. "They're too heavy for—"

  "They'll rest a lot," said Teague. "We're going to do this all in one trip. Grown-ups will be carrying a lot more."

  It turned out that Scotty, Mick, Cheri Ann, and Valerie could only handle four of the two-by-fours, but Pete thought of using the others to make a kind of sedan chair, which he and Deaver bore on their shoulders, with a much heavier burden on the two-by-fours between them than they could possibly have carried on their backs.

  Sister Monk started to pick up a bundle of dried food.

  "Put it down," said Teague.

  "It's light," said Sister Monk.

  Teague didn't say another word. Just stared at her, and she stared back. To Deaver's surprise, it was Sister Monk who gave in. He'd never seen such a thing in all his years in the Church. Sister Monk backed down to no man, or woman either. But she backed down to this Jamie Teague.

  It was the first time Deaver realized what Teague must have seen right off—that Sister Monk wasn't doing so well, physically speaking. Deaver was so used to her being fat, and having that mean nothing so far as her being a hard worker in the Church, that it didn't occur to him that this journey was different. But now that Teague's insistence on her carrying nothing had brought the matter to Deaver's attention, he could see how flushed and weak she looked, how her walk was none too steady even in the morning after a night of sleep. For the first time it occurred to Deaver that she might not make it through the trip.

  It made him angry, to realize how much he had unconsciously been depending on this woman. Wasn't he the one with the authority? Wasn't he supposed to lead? Yet he was depending on her. Well, he wouldn't, that's all. Nobody's indispensable. If we can get along without—

  No, he wouldn't start listing the indispensable people who were dead, bulldozed into the mass grave in the parking lot of the stake center on Pinetop Road. There was no point in a census now. They were gone, and this meager handful of Saints was still alive. That meant that the Church was still alive, and would go on, sustained by faith and the Lord and, with any luck, this stranger who came out of nowhere offering help unasked. An angel would have been more useful, but if this Jamie Teague was all the Lord had to offer in the way of help, he'd have to do. If it was, in fact, the Lord who sent him.

  They made it in one trip. One long trip, with frequent stops. Teague wasn't actually with them most of the way. He ranged ahead, leaving south and returning from the north. Sister Monk actually led them, spotting the marks Teague had made on tree trunks, showing which way to go. At the end of the day they were back on the road. U.S. 421 this time, a two-lane expressway, with the overpass some miles behind them. Exhausted as they were, Teague made them rebuild the carts before they gnawed on their jerky and went to sleep. "You'll want to be under way at dawn," he said. "Not sitting around in the open building carts. That was just one overpass."

  So they rebuilt the carts, and he finally let them build a very small fire so they could boil up some soup and give the children a decent meal. Hungry as they were, the kids could hardly keep their eyes open long enough to eat. And when they were asleep, Teague laid out his conditions for traveling with them.

  "I'm not good enough to take you two thousand miles," he said, looking Deaver in the eye. "I only promise to take you as far as the Great Smokies. I haven't traveled west of there anyway, only between the mountains and the sea, so I don't know any more about the country than you do. But I've got a cabin there that's good for the winter. It's where I live. I know my neighbors there, I've got trade goods from my traveling to buy food, and we've kept it free of mobbers. It's as much as I can promise, but I think I can teach you a few things along the way, give you a better chance next spring."

  "It that's as far as you go with us," said Pete, "then we can't pay you anything at all. We got nothing you need, until we get to Utah."

  Teague pulled up a tuft of grass, started splitting the blades up the middle, one by one. "You got something I need."

  "What is it?" demanded Annalee.

  Teague looked at her coldly.

  Deaver offered an explanation. "Maybe we're people he thinks are going to die if he doesn't help us. Maybe he needs not to see us dead."

  Deaver saw Teague's expression change again. An unreadable look, hiding some strange unnameable emotion. Am I right? Is Teague's motive altruistic? Or is there something else, so shameful Teague can't hardly admit it? Does he plan to betray us at some terrible time? Never mind. If the Lord means us to thrive, he'll protect us from such treason. And if he doesn't, I'd rather die by trusting a man who may not be as good as he seems than by being so suspicious I refuse a true friend.

  Sister Monk changed the subject. "You by yourself, Jamie Teague, you can generally avoid trouble, I imagine. You can pretty much be invisible out in the woods, and stay off the roads. But with us, trouble's going to come. We'll be on the roads most of the time, too many of us and too clumsy to hide. Somebody's going to spot us."

  "Might be," said Teague.

  "You got the gun, Jamie Teague. But do you figure you can kill a man with it?"

  "Reckon so," said Teague.

  A pause.

  "Have you ever killed anybody?" asked Pete. There was awe in his voice, as if having killed somebody was a magical act that would endow this stranger with supernatural power.

  "Reckon so," said Teague.

  "I don't believe it," snapped Annalee.

  "We want him as a guide anyway," said Deaver, "not a soldier."

  "Where we're going I don't think there's a difference," s
aid Sister Monk. "You're an English professor. Pete's a fireman, trained to save lives, to risk his own life—but none of us has ever killed anybody, I think."

  "Wish I had," murmured Pete.

  Sister Monk ignored him. "And what if the only way to save us was to sneak up on somebody and kill them. From behind, without even giving them a fair chance. Could you do that, Jamie Teague?"

  Teague nodded.

  "How do we know that?" said Annalee.

  Teague waved her off with a gesture of impatience. "I killed my mother and father," he said. "I can kill anybody."

  "My God," said Rona Harrison.

  Deaver turned to snap at the girl about not taking the name of the Lord in vain. But then it occurred to him that with Teague confessing to patricide, saying "My God" seemed pretty tame by comparison.

  "Well now," said Pete.

  "Isn't that what you wanted to hear?" asked Teague. "Didn't you want to know whether I was bloodthirsty enough to do the killing you need done to save your lives? Don't you want to know that your hired soldier has references?"

  "I wasn't trying to pry into things you don't want to talk about," said Sister Monk.

  "They deserved it," said Teague. "The court gave me a suspended sentence because everybody agreed they deserved it."

  "Did they abuse you?" asked Annalee. Finally she was curious instead of suspicious. A mind like a grocery store newspaper, thought Deaver.

  "Annalee," said Sister Monk sharply. "We've all stepped too far."

  "I've answered the question you need to know," said Teague. "I can kill when I need to. But I decide when I need to. I give orders, I don't take them. That clear? If I tell you to get off the road, you get—no arguments. Right? Cause I don't aim to stick around and kill all comers just cause you aren't willing to do what it takes to avoid a fight."

  "Brother Teague," said Deaver. He pretended not to notice how startled Teague was to be addressed as Brother. "We will gladly accept your authority about how and when to travel, and on what path. And I assure you that it is the desire of our hearts to kill no one, to harm no one, to leave things undisturbed wherever we go."

  "I don't want you killing anybody for me anyhow," said Marie Speaks.

  Everybody looked at her—she'd been talking like a teenager so long that nobody expected her to have an opinion on something serious like this.

  "I die myself first, you got that?"

  "You crazy," said Rona. "You lost your mind, girl."

  "Killing a bushwhacker isn't murder," said Pete.

  "Neither is killing a Mormon," said Marie. "So I hear." Then she got up and walked over to where the little ones were sleeping.

  "She's crazy," said Rona.

  "She's Christian," said Deaver.

  "So am I," said Pete, "but I know there's times when the Lord lets good people fight back. Think of Captain Moroni and the title of liberty. Think of Helaman and the two thousand young men."

  "Think about sleeping," said Teague. "I'm not taking first watch tonight, I'm too tired."

  "Me," said Pete.

  "No, me," said Deaver.

  "You, Mr. Deaver," said Teague. "Your timepiece there still work, or is it on your wrist from nostalgia?"

  "It's solar," said Deaver. "It works fine."

  "Watch till midnight. Then wake Pete. Pete, you wake me at three."

  Then Teague got up and went to the bushes they had designated as the boys' lavatory that night.

  "Murder's the unforgivable sin," said Annalee. "I don't want a murderer telling us what to do."

  "Judge not lest ye be judged," said Deaver. "Let him or her who is without sin cast the first stone."

  That was the end of the discussion, as Deaver knew it would be. There wasn't a one of them who didn't feel guilty for one reason or another. For just being alive with so many others dead, if nothing else. Maybe Marie had learned the right lesson from it after all. Maybe killing was never worth it.

  But Deaver heard the people breathing around him, he looked and watched the children's chests rising and falling with each breath, and then he imagined somebody coming and raising a knife to them, or pointing a gun at them. That's not the same thing as somebody raising a weapon against me personally. I might have the courage to let the blow fall and not defend myself. But there's not a chance in the world that I'd let them harm a hair on those children's heads. I'd blast the bushwhackers to hell and back if I thought they'd harm the children. Now maybe that's murderousness, maybe that's a secret lust for blood in my heart. But I don't think so. I think that's the indignation of God. I think that's what Christ felt when he said it was better to tie a millstone around your neck and jump into the sea than to raise your hand to harm a child.

  Teague killed his mama and his daddy. That was a hard one. Not mine to judge. But I'll be watching that boy differently now. Watching real close. We didn't escape one band of murderers just to fall in with a worse one now. Bad enough to kill strangers because you don't like their religion. But to kill your own mamma and daddy.

  Deaver shuddered, and stared into the darkness beyond the flickering firelight.

  The fifth day after Teague joined them, they were heading toward Wilkesboro. Travel was getting into a regular rhythm now, and nobody was half as sore as they were the third day. And it wasn't so scary anymore. A few times Teague had come rushing back from scouting ahead and made them get off the road, but this wasn't freeway now and most times they could run the bikes up behind some bushes without dismantling the carts. The only portage was crossing I-77. Mostly it was just walking, one foot after the other.

  One of those times in hiding, Rona made Marie peek through the bushes and watch the horsemen going by. They looked like a rough crew, and to Marie it looked like one of them had three human heads hanging from his saddle. Three black human heads, and it made her shudder.

  "Canteens," Teague said, but Marie knew better. She knew lots of things folks didn't think she knew. So now, on the afternoon of the fifth day out of Winston, when Marie was feeling hot and tired and wanted a little entertainment, she got a meanness on her and started doing a number on Rona.

  "You got your eye on him," said Marie.

  "Do not," said Rona. She sounded outraged. This was working fine.

  "You say his name in your sleep."

  "Nightmares is what."

  "You were thinking of him just now when you smiled."

  "Was not. And I didn't smile."

  "Then how do you know who I'm talking about?"

  "You're a queen bitch, that's what you are," said Rona.

  "Don't you talk to me with words like that," said Marie. She was the one supposed to be needling, not the other way around.

  "Stop acting like a bitch and people won't call you one," said Rona.

  "At least I don't get the hots for murderers," said Marie. That got her back.

  "He isn't."

  "Said he was himself."

  "He had good reason."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "They used to torture him."

  "He say that?"

  "I know it."

  "Murder is the unforgivable sin," said Marie. "He'll be in hell forever, so you just don't even bother thinking about marrying him."

  "Shut your mouth! I'm not thinking about marrying him!"

  "And he's white and he's not Mormon and he'll never never never take you to the temple."

  "Maybe I don't care."

  "If you don't care about the temple, why are you going to Utah?"

  Rona looked at her strangely. "Well it ain't to go to the temple."

  Marie didn't know what to make of that, and didn't want to find out what Rona meant. But the meanness wasn't gone out of her yet. So she turned back to the old topic. "He's going to hell no matter what."

  "No he's not!" And Rona gave Marie a shove that nearly knocked her on her butt.

  "Hey!"

  "What's going on here!" It was Brother Deaver, of course. None of the white folks ever told them off about anything. "Have
n't we got things bad enough without you two tailing into each other?"

  "I didn't tail into her," said Marie.

  "Saying he was going to hell!"

  Marie felt Brother Deaver's hand on the back of her neck. "The Lord is the judge of men's souls," he said softly.

  Marie squirmed to get free of his grasp. She was eighteen now, not some kid that grown-ups could grab onto whenever they wanted.

  "So if you can't keep your heart free of condemnation, Marie, I think you'd better learn to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me, girl?"

  She finally broke free. "You got no right to tell a black girl what to do!" she said—loudly now, so that others farther back could hear. "You just teach your own white kids and leave me alone!"

  It was a terrible thing to say, she knew it and she was sorry. But it also got him to shut up and leave her alone, which was what she wanted, wasn't it? Besides, he did marry a white woman, which was the same thing as saying black women were trash. Well, see what it got him—all of them shot dead along with all the other white Mormons, while he was at A&T, where the white Christian Soldiers didn't dare to go. That's the only reason he wanted her to forgive Teague for being a murderer—because he felt like a murderer, too, him being alive because he was black, while his wife and kids were shot down and bulldozed into a parking lot grave. He wanted everybody to be nice and forgiving. Well she knew the law of heaven, didn't she? She wasn't just a Sunday School Mormon, she studied the doctrine and read all the time, and she knew that Christ's atonement had no force over them as murdered. Though truth to tell, his face looked stricken like he was about to die, and just from her cruel hard words against him. She might even have apologized on the spot, except that right then they heard horses' hoofs and all hell broke loose.

  The mobbers came up a side road, just sauntering like they didn't expect trouble. Must have come up since Teague passed that road in his scouting. There was only two of them, and for a minute Marie hoped they'd think this group was too much for them. But the mobbers sized them up quick and didn't even pause a minute. They had guns out before they got to 421.