19

! ! !

Changes.

The galaxies move through space.

The stars ignite,

burn,

age,

cool,

Evolving.

God is Change.

God prevails.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2027

(from notes expanded SUNDAY, AUGUST 29)

EARTHQUAKE TODAY.

It hit early this morning just as we were beginning the dayʼs walk, and it was a strong one. The ground itself gave a low, grating rumble like buried thunder. It jerked and shuddered, then seemed to drop. Iʼm sure it did drop, though I donʼt know how far. Once the shaking stopped, everything looked the same—except for sudden patches of dust thrown up here and there in the brown hills around us.

Several people screamed or shouted during the quake. Some, burdened by heavy packs, lost their footing and fell into the dirt or onto the broken asphalt. Travis, with Dominic on his chest and a heavy pack on his back was almost one of these. He stumbled, staggered, and managed somehow to catch himself. The baby, unhurt, but jolted by the sudden shaking, began to cry, adding to the noise of two older children walking nearby, the sudden talking of almost everyone, and the gasps of an old man who had fallen during the quake.

I put aside my usual suspicions and went to see whether the old man was all right—not that I could have done much to help him if he hadnʼt been. I retrieved his cane for him—it had landed beyond his reach—and helped him up. He was as light as a child, thin, toothless, and frightened of me.

I gave him a pat on the shoulder and sent him on his way, checking when his back was turned to see that he hadnʼt lifted anything. The world was full of thieves. Old people and young kids were often pickpockets. Nothing missing.

Another man nearby smiled at me—an older, but not yet old black man who still had his teeth, and who pushed his belongings in twin saddlebags hanging from a small, sturdy metal-framed cart. He didnʼt say anything, but I liked his smile. I smiled back. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be a man, and wondered whether he had seen through my disguise. Not that it mattered.

I went back to my group where Zahra and Natividad were comforting Dominic and Harry was picking up something from the roadside. I went to Harry, and saw that he had found a filthy rag knotted into a small, tight ball around something. Harry tore the rotten cloth and a roll of money fell out into his hands. Hundred-dollar bills. Two or three dozen of them.

“Put it away!” I whispered.

He pushed the money into a deep pants pocket. “New shoes,” he whispered. “Good ones, and other things. Do you need anything?”

I had promised to buy him a new pair of shoes as soon as we reached a dependable store. His were worn out. Now another idea occurred to me. “If you have enough,” I whispered, “buy yourself a gun. Iʼll still get your shoes. You get a gun!” Then I spoke to the others, ignoring his surprise. “Is everyone all right?”

Everyone was. Dominic was happy again, riding now on his motherʼs back, and playing with her hair. Zahra was readjusting her pack, and Travis had gone on and was taking a look at the small community ahead. This was farm country. Weʼd passed through nothing for days except small, dying towns, withering roadside communities and farms, some working, some abandoned and growing weeds.

We walked forward toward Travis.

“Fire,” he said as we approached.

One house down the hill from the road smoked from several of its windows. Already people from the highway had begun to drift down toward it. Trouble. The people who owned the house might manage to put out their fire and still be overwhelmed by scavengers.

“Letʼs get away from here,” I said. “The people down there are still strong, and theyʼre going to feel besieged soon. Theyʼll fight back.”

“We might find something we can use,” Zahra argued.

“Thereʼs nothing down there worth our getting shot over,” I said. “Letʼs go!” I led the way past the small community and we were almost clear of it when the gunfire began.

There were people still on the road with us, but many had flooded down into the small community to steal. The crowd would not confine its attention to the one burning house, and all the households would have to resist.

There were more shots behind us—first single shots, then an uneven crackling of exchanged fire, then the unmistakable chatter of automatic weapons fire. We walked faster, hoping that we were beyond the range of anything aimed in our direction.

“Shit!” Zahra whispered, keeping up with me. “I should have known that was going to happen. People out here in the middle of nowhere gotta be tough.”

“I donʼt think their toughness will get them through this day, though,” I said, looking back. There was much more smoke rising now, and it was rising from more than one place. Distant shouts and screams mixed with the gunfire. Stupid place to put a naked little community. They should have hidden their homes away in the mountains where few strangers would ever see them. That was something for me to keep in mind. All the people of this community could do now was take a few of their tormentors with them. Tomorrow the survivors of this place would be on the road with scraps of their belongings on their backs.

Itʼs odd, but I donʼt think anyone on the road would have thought of attacking that community en masse like that if the earthquake—or something—had not started a fire. One small fire was the weakness that gave scavengers permission to devastate the community—which they were no doubt doing now. The shooting could scare away some, kill or wound others, and make the remainder very angry. If the people of the community chose to live in such a dangerous place, they should have set up overwhelming defenses—a line of explosive charges and incendiaries, that kind of thing. Only power that strong, that destructive, that sudden would scare attackers off, would drive them away in a panic more overwhelming than the greed and the need that had drawn them in the first place. If the people of the community were without explosives, they should have grabbed their money and their kids and run like crazy the moment they saw the horde coming. They knew the hills better than migrating scavengers could. They should have had hiding places already prepared or at least been able to lose themselves among the hills while scavengers were ransacking their homes. But they had done none of this. And now vast thick clouds of smoke rose behind us, drawing even more scavengers.

“Whole worldʼs gone crazy,” a voice near me said, and I knew before I looked that it was the man with the saddlebagged cart. Weʼd slowed down a little, looking back, and he had caught up. He too had had the sense not to try to go scavenging in the little community. He didnʼt look like a man who scavenged. His clothes were dirty and ordinary, but they fit him well and they looked almost new. His jeans were still dark blue, and still creased down the legs. His red, short-sleeved shirt still had all its buttons. He wore expensive walking shoes and had had, not too long ago, an expensive professional haircut. What was he doing out here on the road, pushing a cart? A rich pauper—or at least, a once-rich pauper. He had a short, full, salt and pepper beard. I decided that I liked his looks as much as I had before. What a handsome old man.

Had the world gone crazy?

“From what Iʼve read,” I said to him, “the world goes crazy every three or four decades. The trick is to survive until it goes sane again.” I was showing off my education and background; I admit it. But the old man seemed unimpressed.

“The nineteen nineties were crazy,” he said, “but they were rich. Nothing like this bad. I donʼt think itʼs ever been this bad. Those people, those animals back there…”

“I donʼt see how they can act that way,” Natividad said. “I wish we could call the police—whoever the

police are around here. The householders back there should call.”

“It wouldnʼt do any good,” I said. “Even if the cops came today instead of tomorrow, theyʼd just add to the death toll.”

We walked on, the stranger walking with us. He seemed content to walk with us. He could have dropped back or walked on ahead since he didnʼt have to carry his load. As long as he stayed on the road, he could speed along. But he stuck with us. I talked to him, introduced myself and learned that his name was Bankole— Taylor Franklin Bankole. Our last names were an instant bond between us. Weʼre both descended from men who assumed African surnames back during the 1960s. His father and my grandfather had had their names legally changed, and both had chosen Yoruba replacement names.

“Most people chose Swahili names in the ʼ60s,” Bankole told me. He wanted to be called Bankole. “My father had to do something different. All his life he had to be different.”

“I donʼt know my grandfatherʼs reasons,” I said. “His last name was Broome before he changed it, and that was no loss. But why he chose Olamina…? Even my father didnʼt know. He made the change before my father was born, so my father was always Olamina, and so were we.”

Bankole was one year older than my father. He had been born in 1970, and he was, according to him, too damn old to be tramping along a highway with everything he owned in a couple of saddlebags. He was 57. I caught myself wishing he were younger so he would live longer.

Old or not, he heard the two girls calling for help sooner than we did.

There was a road, more dirt than asphalt, running below and alongside the highway, then veering away from the highway into the hills. Up that road was a half-collapsed house, the dust of its collapse still hanging over it. It couldnʼt have been much of a house before it fell in. Now it was rubble. And once Bankole alerted us, we could hear faint shouts from it.

“Sounds like women,” Harry said.

I sighed. “Letʼs go see. It might just be a matter of pushing some wood off them or something.” Harry caught me by the shoulder. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I took the gun out and gave it to him in case someone elseʼs pain made me useless. “Watch our backs,” I said.

We went in wary and tentative, knowing that a call for help could be false, could lure people to their attackers. A few other people followed us off the road, and Harry hung back, staying between them and us. Bankole shoved his cart along, keeping up with me.

There were two voices calling from the rubble. Both sounded like women. One was pleading, the other cursing. We located them by the sound of their voices, then Zahra, Travis and I began throwing off rubble—dry, broken wood, plaster, plastic, and brick from an ancient chimney. Bankole stood with Harry, watching, and looking formidable. Did he have a gun? I hoped he did. We were drawing a small audience of hungry-eyed scavengers. Most people looked to see what we were doing, and went on. A few stayed and stared. If the women had been trapped since the earthquake, it was surprising that no one had come already to steal their belongings and set fire to the rubble, leaving them in it. I hoped we would be able to get the women out and get back on the highway before someone decided to rush us. No doubt they already would have if there had been anything of value in sight.

Natividad spoke to Bankole, then put Dominic in one of his saddlebags and felt to see that her knife was still in her pocket. I didnʼt like that much. Better she should keep wearing the baby so we could leave at a run if she had to.

We found a pale leg, bruised and bleeding but unbroken, pinned under a beam. A whole section of wall and ceiling plus some of the chimney had fallen on these women. We moved the loose stuff then worked together to lift heavier pieces. At last we dragged the women out by their exposed limbs—an arm and a leg for one, both legs for the other. I didnʼt enjoy it any more than they did.

On the other hand, it wasnʼt that bad. The women had lost some skin here and there, and one was bleeding from the nose and mouth. She spat out blood and a couple of teeth and cursed and tried to get up. I let Zahra help her up. All I wanted to do now was get away from here.

The other one, face wet with tears, just sat and stared at us. She was quiet now in a blank, unnatural way. Too quiet. When Travis tried to help her up, she cringed and cried out. Travis let her alone. She didnʼt seem to be hurt beyond a few scratches, but she might have hit her head. She might be in shock.

“Whereʼs your stuff?” Zahra was asking the bloody one. “Weʼre going to have to get away from here fast.” I rubbed my mouth, trying to get past an irrational certainty that two of my own teeth were gone. I felt horrible—scraped and bruised and throbbing, yet whole and unbroken, undamaged in any major way I just wanted to huddle somewhere until I felt less miserable. I took a deep breath and went to the frightened, cringing woman.

“Can you understand me?” I asked.

She looked at me, then looked around, saw her companion wiping away blood with a grimy hand, and tried to get up and run to her. She tripped, started to fall, and I caught her, grateful that she wasnʼt every big. “Your legs are all right,” I said, “but take it easy. We have to get out of here soon, and youʼve got to be able to walk.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A total stranger,” I said. “Try to walk.”

“There was an earthquake.”

“Yeah. Walk!”

She took a shaky step away from me, then another. She staggered over to her friend. “Allie?” she said. Her friend saw her, stumbled to her, hugged her, smeared her with blood. “Jill! Thank God!” “Hereʼs their stuff,” Travis said. “Letʼs get them out of here while we still can.”

We made them walk a little more, tried to make them see and understand the danger of staying where we were. We couldnʼt drag them with us, and what would have been the point of digging them out, then leaving them at the mercy of scavengers. They had to walk along with us until they were stronger and able to take care of themselves.

“Okay” the bloody one said. She was the smaller and tougher of the two, not that there was that much physical difference between them. Two medium-size, brown-haired white women in their twenties. They might be sisters.

“Okay,” the bloody one repeated. “Letʼs get out of here.” She was walking without limping or staggering now, though her companion was less steady.

“Give me my stuff,” she said.

Travis waved her toward two dusty sleepsack packs. She put one on her back, then looked at the other and at her companion.

“I can carry it,” the other woman said. “Iʼm all right.”

She wasnʼt, but she had to carry her own things. No one could carry a double pack for long. No one could fight while carrying a double pack.

There were a dozen people standing around staring as we brought the two women out. Harry walked ahead of us, gun in hand. Something about him said with great clarity that he would kill. If he were pushed even a little, he would kill. I hadnʼt seen him that way before. It was impressive and frightening and wrong. Right for the situation and the moment, but wrong for Harry. He wasnʼt the kind of man who ought ever to look that way.

When had I begun thinking of him as a man rather than a boy? What the hell. Weʼre all men and women now, not kids anymore. Shit.

Bankole walked behind, looking even more formidable than Harry in spite of his graying hair and beard. He had a gun in his hand. I had gotten a look at it as I walked past him. Another automatic—perhaps a nine millimeter. I hoped he was good with it.

Natividad pushed his cart along just ahead of him with Dominic still in one of the bags. Travis walked beside her, guarding her and the baby.

I walked with the two women, fearful that one of them might fall or that some fool might grab one. The one called Allie was still bleeding, spitting blood and wiping her bloody nose with a bloody arm. And the one called Jill still looked dull and shaky. Allie and I kept Jill between us.

Before the attack began, I knew it would happen. Helping the two trapped women had made us targets. We might already have been attacked if the community down the road had not drawn off so many of the most violent, desperate people. The weak would be attacked today. The quake had set the mood. And one attack could trigger others.

We could only try to be ready.

Out of the blue, a man grabbed Zahra. Sheʼs small, and must have looked weak as well as beautiful. An instant later, someone grabbed me. I was spun around, and I tripped and started to fall. It was that stupid. Before anyone could hit me, I tripped and fell. But because my attacker had pulled me toward him, I fell against him. I dragged him down with me. Somehow, I managed to get my knife out. I flicked it open. I jabbed it upward into my attackerʼs body.

The six inch blade went in to the hilt. Then, in empathic agony, I jerked it out again.

I canʼt describe the pain.

The others told me later that I screamed as theyʼd never heard anyone scream. Iʼm not surprised. Nothing has ever hurt me that much before.

After a while, the agony in my chest ebbed and died. That is, the man on top of me bled and died. Not until then could I begin to be aware of something other than pain.

The first thing I heard was Dominic, crying.

I understood then that I had also heard shots fired—several shots. Where was everyone? Were they wounded?

Dead? Being held prisoner?

I kept my body still beneath the dead man. He was painfully heavy as deadweight, and his body odor was nauseating. He had bled all over my chest, and, if my nose was any judge, in death, he had urinated on me. Yet I didnʼt dare move until I understood the situation.

I opened my eyes just a little.

Before I could understand what I was seeing, someone hauled the stinking dead man off me. I found myself looking into two worried faces: Harry and Bankole.

I coughed and tried to get up, but Bankole held me down.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he demanded.

“No, Iʼm all right,” I said. I saw Harry staring at all the blood, and I added, “Donʼt worry. The other guy did all the bleeding.”

They helped me up, and I discovered I was right. The dead man had urinated on me. I was almost frantic with the need to strip off my filthy clothes and wash. But that had to wait. No matter how disgusting I was, I wouldnʼt undress in daylight where I could be seen. Iʼd had enough trouble for one day. I looked around, saw Travis and Natividad comforting Dominic who was still screaming. Zahra was with the two new girls, standing guard beside them as they sat on the ground.

“Are those two okay?” I asked.

Harry nodded. “Theyʼre scared and shaken up, but theyʼre all right. Everyoneʼs all right—except him and his friends.” He gestured toward the dead man. There were three more dead lying nearby. “There were some wounded,” Harry said. “We let them go.”

I nodded. “Weʼd better strip these bodies and go, too. Weʼre too obvious here from the highway.” We did a quick, thorough job, searching everything except body cavities. We werenʼt needy enough to do that yet. Then, at Zahraʼs insistence, I did go behind the ruined house for a quick change of clothing. She took the gun from Harry and stood watch for me.

“Youʼre bloody,” she said. “If people think youʼre wounded, they might jump you. This ainʼt a good day to look like you got something wrong with you.”

I suspected that she was right. Anyway, it was a pleasure to have her talk me into something I already wanted so much to do.

I put my filthy, wet clothes into a plastic bag, sealed it, and stuffed it into my pack. If any of the dead had owned clothing that would fit me, and that was still in wearable condition, I would have thrown mine away. As it was, I would keep them and wash them the next time we came to a water station or a store that permitted washing. We had collected money from the corpses, but it would be best to use that for necessities.

We had taken about twenty-five hundred dollars in all from the four corpses—along with two knives that we could sell or pass on to the two girls, and one gun pulled by a man Harry had shot. The gun turned out to be an empty, dirty Beretta nine millimeter. Its owner had had no ammunition, but we can buy that—maybe from Bankole. For that we will spend money. I had found a few pieces of jewelry in the pocket of the man who attacked me—two gold rings, a necklace of polished blue stones that I thought were lapis lazuli, and a single earring which turned out to be a radio. The radio we would keep. It could give us information about the world beyond the highway. It would be good not to be cut off any longer. I wondered who my attacker had robbed to get it.

All four of the corpses had little plastic pill boxes hidden somewhere on them. Two boxes contained a couple of pills each. The other two were empty. So these people who carried neither food nor water nor adequate weapons did carry pills when they could steal them or steal enough to buy them. Junkies. What was their drug of choice, I wondered. Pyro? For the first time in days, I found myself thinking of my brother Keith. Had he dealt in the round purple pills we kept finding on people who attacked us? Was that why he died?

A few miles later along the highway, we saw some cops in cars, heading south toward what must now be a burned out hulk of a community with a lot of corpses. Perhaps the cops would arrest a few late-arriving scavengers. Perhaps they would scavenge a little themselves. Or perhaps they would just have a look and drive away. What had cops done for my community when it was burning? Nothing.

The two women weʼd dug out of the rubble want to stay with us. Allison and Jillian Gilchrist are their names. They are sisters, 24 and 25 years old, poor, running away from a life of prostitution. Their pimp was their father. The house that had fallen on them was empty when they took shelter in it the night before. It looked long abandoned.

“Abandoned buildings are traps,” Zahra told them as we walked. “Out here in the middle of nowhere, theyʼre targets for all kinds of people.”

“Nobody bothered us,” Jill said. “But then the house fell on us, and nobody helped us either, until you guys came along.”

“Youʼre very fortunate,” Bankole told her. He was still with us, and walking next to me. “People donʼt help each other much out here.”

“We know,” Jill admitted. “Weʼre grateful. Who are you guys, anyway?”

Harry gave her an odd little smile. “Earthseed,” he said, and glanced at me. You have to watch out for Harry when he smiles that way.

“Whatʼs Earthseed?” Jill asked, right on cue. She had let Harry direct her gaze to me. “We share some ideas,” I said. “We intend to settle up north, and found a community.” “Where up north?” Allie demanded. Her mouth was still hurting, and I felt it more when I paid attention to her. At least her bleeding had almost stopped.

“Weʼre looking for jobs that pay salaries and weʼre watching water prices,” I said. “We want to settle where water isnʼt such a big problem.”

“Waterʼs a problem everywhere,” she proclaimed. Then, “What are you? Some kind of cult or something?” “We believe in some of the same things,” I said.

She turned to stare at me with what looked like hostility. “I think religion is dog shit,” she announced. “Itʼs either phony or crazy.”

I shrugged. “You can travel with us or you can walk away.”

“But what the hell do you stand for?” she demanded. “What do you pray to?”

“Ourselves,” I said. “What else is there?”

She turned away in disgust, then turned back. “Do we have to join your cult if we travel with you?” “No.”

“All right then!” She turned her back and walked ahead of me as though sheʼd won something. I raised my voice just enough to startle and projected it at the back of her head. I said, “We risked ourselves for you today.”

She jumped, but refused to look back.

I continued. “You donʼt owe us anything for that. It isnʼt something you could buy from us. But if you travel with us, and thereʼs trouble, you stand by us, stand with us. Now will you do that or not?” Allie swung around, stiff with anger. She stopped right in front of me and stood there. I didnʼt stop or turn. It wasnʼt a time for giving way. I needed to know what her pride and anger might drive her to. How much of that apparent hostility of hers was real, and how much might be due to her pain? Was she going to be more trouble than she was worth?

When she realized that I meant to walk over her if I had to, that I would do it, she slid around me to walk beside me as though she had intended to do that all along.

“If you hadnʼt been the ones to dig us out,” she said, “we wouldnʼt bother with you at all.” She drew a deep, ragged breath. “We know how to pull our own weight. We can help our friends and fight our enemies. Weʼve been doing that since we were kids.”

I looked at her, thinking of the little that she and her sister had told us about their lives: prostitution, pimp father… Hell of a story if it were true. No doubt the details would be even more interesting. How had they gotten away from their father, anyway? They would bear watching, but they might turn out to be worth something. “Welcome,” I said.

She stared at me, nodded, then walked ahead of me in long quick strides. Her sister, who had dropped to walk near us while we were talking, now walked faster to join her. And Zahra, who had dropped back to keep an eye on the sister, grinned at me and shook her head. She went up to join Harry who was leading the group.

Bankole came up beside me again, and I realized he had gotten out of the way as soon as he saw trouble between Allie and me.

“One fight a day is enough for me,” he said when he saw me looking at him.

I smiled. “Thank you for standing by us back there.”

He shrugged. “I was surprised to see that anyone else cared what happened to a couple of strangers.” “You cared.”

“Yes. That kind of thing will get me killed someday. If you donʼt mind, Iʼd like to travel with your group, too.” “You have been. Youʼre welcome.”

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled back at me. He had clear eyes with deep brown irises—attractive eyes. I like him too much already. Iʼll have to be careful.

Late today we reached Salinas, a small city that seemed little touched by the quake and its aftershocks. The ground has been shuddering off and on all day. Also, Salinas seemed untouched by the hordes of overeager scavengers that we had been seeing since that first burning community this morning. That was a surprise. Almost all of the smaller communities weʼd passed had been burning and swarming with scavengers. It was as though the quake had given yesterdayʼs quiet, plodding paupers permission to go animal and prey on anyone who still lives in a house.

I suspected that the bulk of the predatory scavengers were still behind us, still killing and dying and fighting over the spoils. Iʼve never worked as hard at not seeing what was going on around me as I did today. The smoke and the noise helped veil things from me. I had enough to do dealing with Allieʼs throbbing face and mouth and the ambient misery of the highway.

We were tired when we reached Salinas, but we had decided to walk on after resupplying and washing. We didnʼt want to be in town when the worst of the scavengers arrived. They might be calm, tired after their day of burning and stealing, but I doubted it. I thought they would be drunk with power and hungry for more. As Bankole said, “Once people get the idea that itʼs all right to take what you want and destroy the rest, who knows when theyʼll stop.”

But Salinas looked well-armed. Cops had parked all along the shoulders of the highway, staring at us, some holding their shotguns or automatic rifles as though theyʼd love an excuse to use them. Maybe they knew what was coming.

We needed to resupply, but we didnʼt know whether we would be allowed to. Salinas had the look of a “stay on the road” type town—the kind that wanted you gone by sundown unless you lived there. This week and last, we had run across a few little towns like that.

But no one stopped us when we headed off the road to a store. There were only a few people on the road now, and the cops were able to watch all of us. I saw them watching us in particular, but they didnʼt stop us. We were quiet. We were women and a baby as well as men, and three of us were white. I donʼt think any of that harmed us in their eyes.

The security guards in the stores were as well-armed as the cops—shot-guns and automatic rifles, a couple of machine guns on tripods in cubicles above us. Bankole said he could remember a time when security guards had revolvers or nothing but clubs. My father used to talk like that.

Some of the guards either werenʼt very well trained—or they were almost as power-drunk as the scavengers. They pointed their guns at us. It was crazy. Two or three of us walked into a store and two or three guns were trained on us. We didnʼt know what was going on at first. We froze, staring, waiting to see what was going to happen.

The guys behind the guns laughed. One of them said, “Buy something or get the fuck out!”

We got out. These were little stores. There were plenty of them to choose from. Some of them turned out to have sane guards. I couldnʼt help wondering how many accidents the crazy guards have with those guns. I suppose that after the fact, every accident was an armed robber with obvious homicidal inclinations.

The guards at the water station seemed calm and professional. They kept their guns down and confined themselves to cursing people to speed them along. We felt safe enough not only to buy water and give our clothes a quick wash and dry, but to rent a couple of cubicles—menʼs and womenʼs—and sponge ourselves off from a basin of water each. That settled the question of my sex for any of the new people who hadnʼt already figured it out.

At last, somewhat cleaner, resupplied with food, water, ammunition for all three guns, and, by the way, condoms for my own future, we headed out of town. On our way, we passed through a small street market at the edge of town. It was just a few people with their merchandise—mostly junk—scattered on tables or on filthy rags spread on the bare asphalt. Bankole spotted the rifle on one of the tables.

It was an antique—a bolt action Winchester, empty of course, with a five-round capacity. It would be, as Bankole admitted, slow. But he liked it. He inspected it with eyes and fingers and bargained with the well armed old man and woman who were offering it for sale. They had one of the cleaner tables with merchandise laid out in a neat pattern—a small, manual typewriter; a stack of books; a few hand tools, worn, but clean; two knives in worn leather sheaths; a couple of pots, and the rifle with sling and scope.

While Bankole haggled with the man over the rifle, I bought the pots from the woman. I would get Bankole to carry them in his cart. They were large enough to contain soup or stew or hot cereal for all of us at once. We were nine now, and bigger pots made sense. Then I joined Harry at the stack of books.

There was no nonfiction. I bought a fat anthology of poetry and Harry bought a western novel. The others, either from lack of money or from lack of interest ignored the books. I would have bought more if I could have carried them. My pack was already about as heavy as I thought I could stand, and still walk all day.

Our bargaining finished, we stood away from the table to wait for Bankole. And Bankole surprised us. He got the old man down to a price he seemed to think was fair, then he called us over. “Any of you know how to handle a relic like this?” he asked.

Well, Harry and I did, and he had us look the rifle over. In the end, everyone had a look at it, some with obvious awkwardness and some with familiarity. Back in the neighborhood, Harry and I had practiced with the guns of other households—rifles and shotguns as well as handguns. Whatever was legal back home was shared, at least in practice sessions. My father had wanted us to be familiar with whatever weapons might be available. Harry and I were both good, competent shots, but weʼd never bought a used gun. I liked the rifle, I liked the look and feel of it, but that didnʼt mean much. Harry seemed to like it, too. Same problem.

“Come over here,” Bankole said. He herded us out of earshot of the old couple. “You should buy that gun,” he told us. “You took enough money off those four junkies to pay the price I got that guy to agree to. You need at least one accurate, long-range weapon, and this is a good one.”

“That money would buy a lot of food,” Travis said.

Bankole nodded. “Yes, but only living people need food. You buy this, and it will pay for itself the first time you need it. Anyone who doesnʼt know how to use it, Iʼll teach. My father and I used to hunt deer with guns just like this.”

“Itʼs an antique,” Harry said. “If it were automatic…”

“If it were automatic, you couldnʼt afford it.” Bankole shrugged. “This thing is cheap because itʼs old and itʼs legal.”

“And itʼs slow,” Zahra said. “And if you think that old guyʼs price is cheap, youʼre crazy.” “I know Iʼm new here,” Allie said, “but I agree with Bankole. You guys are good with your handguns, but sooner or later, youʼre going to meet someone who sits out of handgun range and picks you off. Picks us off.” “And this rifle is going to save us?” Zahra demanded.

“I doubt that it would save us,” I said. “But with a decent shot behind it, it might give us a chance.” I looked at Bankole. “You hit any of those deer?”

He smiled. “One or two.”

I did not return the smile. “Why donʼt you buy the rifle for yourself?”

“I canʼt afford it,” he said. “Iʼve got enough money to keep me going and take care of necessities for a while. Everything else that I had was stolen from me or burned.”

I didnʼt quite believe him. But then, no one knew how much money I had either. In a way, I suppose he was asking about our solvency. Did we have enough money to spend an unexpected windfall on an old rifle? And what did he intend to do if we did? I hoped, not for the first time, that he wasnʼt just a handsome thief. Yet I did like the gun, and we do need it.

“Harry and I are decent shots, too,” I said to the group. “I like the feel of this gun, and itʼs the best we can afford right now. Has anyone seen any real trouble with it?”

They looked at one another. No one answered.

“It just needs a cleaning and some 30-06 ammunition,” Bankole said. “Itʼs been stored for a while, but it appears to have been well maintained. If you buy it, I think I can manage to buy a cleaning kit and some ammunition.”

At that, I spoke up before anyone else could. “If we buy, thatʼs a deal. Who else can handle the rifle?” “I can,” Natividad said. And when that won her a few surprised looks, she smiled. “I had no brothers. My father needed to teach someone.”

“We never had a chance to do any shooting,” Allie said. “But we can learn.”

Jill nodded. “I always wanted to learn,” she said.

“Iʼll have to learn, too,” Travis admitted. “Where I grew up, guns were either locked away or carried by hired guards.”

“Letʼs go buy it, then,” I said. “And letʼs get out of here. The sun will be down soon.”

Bankole kept his word, bought cleaning things and plenty of ammunition—insisted on buying them before we left town, because, as he said, “Who knows when weʼll need it, or when weʼll find other people willing to sell it to us.”

Once that was settled, we left town.

As we left, Harry carried the new rifle and Zahra carried the Beretta, both empty and in need of attention before we loaded them. Only Bankole and I carried fully loaded guns. I led the group and he brought up the rear. It was getting dark. Behind us in the distance, we could hear gunfire and the dull thunder of small explosions.

20

! ! !

God is neither good

nor evil,

neither loving

nor hating.

God is Power.

God is Change.

We must find the rest of what we need

within ourselves,

in one another,

in our Destiny.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 2027

(from notes expanded TUESDAY, AUGUST 31)

TODAY OR TOMORROW SHOULD be a rest day, but weʼve agreed not to rest. Last night was full of distant shooting, explosions and fire. We could see fire behind us, though not in front. Moving on seems sensible, in spite of our weariness.

Then, this morning, I cleaned the little black earring radio with alcohol from my pack, turned the thing on, and put it in my ear. I had to relay what it said since its sound could not reach the others. What it said told us we should not only forget about resting, but change our plans.

We had intended to follow U.S. 101 up through San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge. But the radio warned us to stay away from the Bay Area. From San Jose up through San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley, there is chaos. The quake hit hard up there, and the scavengers, predators, cops, and private armies of security guards seem bent on destroying whatʼs left, Also, of course, pyro is doing its part. This far north, the radio reporters shorten the name to “pro” or “ro” and they say there are plenty of addicts.

Addicts are running wild, setting fires in areas that the earthquake didnʼt damage. Bands of the street poor precede or follow them, grabbing whatever they can from stores and from the walled enclaves of the rich and whatʼs left of the middle class. Yeah.

In some places, the rich are escaping by flying out in helicopters. The bridges that are still intact—and most of them are—are guarded either by the police or by gangs. Both groups are there to rob desperate, fleeing people of their weapons, money, food, and water—at the least. The penalty for being too poor to be worth robbing is a beating, a rape, and/or death. The National Guard has been activated to restore order, and I suppose it might. But I suspect that in the short term, it will only add to the chaos. What else could another group of well-armed people do in such an insane situation. The thoughtful ones might take their guns and other equipment and vanish to help their families. Others might find themselves at war with their own people. Theyʼll

be confused and scared and dangerous. Of course, some will discover that they enjoy their new power—the power to make others submit, the power to take what they want—property, sex, life… Bad situation. The Bay Area will be a good place to avoid for a long time.

We spread maps on the ground, studied them as we ate breakfast, and decided to turn off U.S. 101 this morning. Weʼll follow a smaller, no doubt emptier road inland to the little town of San Juan Bautista, then east along State Route 156. From 156 to 152 to Interstate 5. Weʼll use I-5 to circle around the Bay Area. For a time weʼll walk up the center of the state instead of along the coast. We might have to bypass I-5 and go farther east to State 33 or 99. I like the emptiness around much of I-5. Cities are dangerous. Even small towns can be deadly. Yet we have to be able to re-supply. In particular, we have to be able to get water. If that means going into the more populated areas around one of the other highways, weʼll do it. Meanwhile weʼll be careful, resupply every time we get a chance, never pass up a chance to top off our water and food, waste nothing. But, hell, the maps are old. Maybe the area around I-5 is more settled now.

To reach I-5, weʼll pass a big freshwater lake—San Luis Reservoir. It might be dry now. Over the past few years a lot of things had gone dry. But there will be trees, cool shade, a place to rest and be comfortable. Perhaps there will at least be a water station. If so, weʼll camp there and rest for a day or even two days. After hiking up and over a lot of hills, weʼll need the extra rest.

For now, I suspect that weʼll soon have scavengers being driven north toward us from Salinas, and refugees being driven south toward us from the Bay Area. The best thing we can do is get out of the way. We got an early start, fortified by the good food we had bought at Salinas—some extra stuff that Bankole had wheeled in his cart, though we all chipped in to buy it. We made sandwiches—dried beef, cheese, sliced tomatoes—all on bread made from wheat flour. And we ate grapes. It was a shame we had to hurry. We hadnʼt had anything that good tasting for a long time.

The highway north was emptier today than Iʼve ever seen it. We were the biggest crowd around—eight adults and a baby—and other people kept away from us. Several of the other walkers were individuals and couples with children. They all seemed in a hurry—as though they, too, knew what might be coming behind them. Did they also know what might be ahead—what was ahead if they stayed on 101. Before we left 101 I tried to warn a couple of women traveling alone with kids to avoid the Bay Area. I told them Iʼd heard there was a lot of trouble up there—fires, riots, bad quake damage. They just held on to their kids and edged away from me.

Then we left 101 and took our small, hilly road, our short cut to San Juan Bautista. The road was paved and not too badly broken up. It was lonely. For long stretches we saw no one at all. No one had followed us from 101. We passed farms, small communities, and shanties, and the people living in these came out with their guns to stare at us. But they let us alone. The shortcut worked. We managed to reach and pass through San Juan Bautista before dark. Weʼve camped just east of the town. Weʼre all exhausted, footsore, full of aches and pains and blisters. I long for a rest day, but not yet. Not yet.

I put my sleepsack next to Bankoleʼs and lay down, already half asleep. We had drawn straws for the watch schedule, and my watch wasnʼt until the early morning. I ate nuts and raisins, bread and cheese, and I slept like a corpse.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2027

(from notes expanded TUESDAY, AUGUST 31)

Early this morning I awoke to the sound of gunfire, nearby and loud. Short bursts of automatic weapons fire. And there was light from somewhere.

“Be still,” someone said. “Stay down and keep quiet.” Zahraʼs voice. She had the watch just before mine. “What is it?” one of the Gilchrists demanded. And then, “Weʼve got to get away!”

“Stay!” I whispered. “Be still, and it will pass.”

I could see now that two groups were running from the highway—the 156—one group chasing the other, both firing their guns as though they and their enemies were the only people in the world. We could only stay down and hope they didnʼt shoot us by accident. If nobody moved, accidents were less likely.

The light came from a fire burning some distance from us. Not buildings. We hadnʼt camped near buildings. Yet something was burning. It was, I decided, a big truck of some kind. Perhaps that was the reason for the shooting. Someone, some group had tried to hijack a truck on the highway and things had gone wrong. Now, whatever the truck was carrying—food, I suspected—the fire would get it. Neither the hijackers nor the defenders would win.

We would win if we could just keep out of the fighting.

I reached over to feel for Bankole, wanting assurance that he was all right.

He wasnʼt there.

His sleepsack and his things were still there, but he was gone.

Moving as little as I could, I looked toward our designated toilet area. He must be there. I couldnʼt see him, but where else could he be? Bad timing. I squinted, trying to pick him out, not knowing whether to be glad or afraid because I couldnʼt. After all, if I could see him, so could other people.

The shooting went on and on while we lay still and quiet and scared. One of the trees weʼd camped under was hit twice, but well above our heads.

Then the truck exploded. I donʼt know what exploded in it. It hadnʼt looked like an old truck—one of those that used diesel fuel, but it might have been. Would diesel fuel explode? I didnʼt know.

The explosion seemed to end the gunfight. A few more shots were exchanged, then nothing. I saw people, visible in the firelight, walking back toward the truck. Sometime later, I saw others—several together in a bunch—moving away toward the town. Both groups were moving away from us, and that was good.

Now. Where was Bankole? In as low a voice as I could manage, I spoke to the others. “Can anyone see Bankole?”

No answer.

“Zahra, did you see him go?”

“Yeah, a couple of minutes before the shooting started,” she answered.

All right. If he didnʼt come out soon, we would have to go looking for him. I swallowed, tried not to think about finding him hurt or dead. “Is everyone else all right?” I asked. “Zahra?”

“Iʼm fine.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Iʼm okay.”

“Travis? Natividad?”

“Weʼre all right,” Travis said.

“What about Dominic?”

“Didnʼt even wake up.”

That was good. If he had, his crying could have gotten us killed. “Allie? Jill?”

“Weʼre okay,” Allie said.

I sat up, keeping my movements slow and cautious. I couldnʼt see anyone or hear anything beyond insects and the distant fire. When no one shot me, others sat up, too. Where noise and light had not awakened Dominic, his motherʼs movement did the trick. He awoke and began to whimper, but Natividad held him and he quieted.

But still no Bankole. I wanted to get up and go looking for him. I had two mental images of him: One of him lying wounded or dead, and one of him crouching behind a tree holding his own Beretta nine millimeter. If the latter was true, I could scare him into shooting me. There might also be other people out there with ready guns and frayed nerves.

“What time is it?” I asked Zahra who had Harryʼs watch.

“Three-forty,” she said.

“Let me have the gun,” I said. “Your watch is almost over anyway.”

“What about Bankole?” She passed both the watch and the gun over.

“If he isnʼt back in five minutes Iʼm going to go look for him.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “You arenʼt going to do that by yourself. Iʼll go with you.”

I almost said no. I donʼt think he would have paid any attention if I had, but I never spoke the word. If Bankole were injured and conscious, I would be useless the moment I saw him. I would be lucky to drag myself back to camp. Someone else would have to drag him back.

“Thank you,” I said to Harry.

Five minutes later, he and I went first to the toilet area, then around it, searching. There was no one, or rather, we could see no one. Still, there might be other people around—others camping overnight, others involved in the shooting, others prowling… Still, I called Bankoleʼs name once, aloud. I touched Harry as a kind of warning and he jumped, settled, then jumped again as I said the name. We both listened in absolute silence.

There was a rustling off to our right where there were several trees blotting out the stars, creating a space of impenetrable darkness. Anything could be there.

The rustling came again, and with it a whimper—a childʼs whimper. Then Bankoleʼs voice: “Olamina!”

“Yes,” I answered, almost limp with relief. “Here!”

He came out of the pool of darkness, a tall, broad shadow that seemed bulkier than it should have been. He was carrying something.

“I have an orphaned child,” he said. “The mother was hit by a stray bullet. She just died.” I sighed. “Is the child hurt?”

“No, just scared. Iʼll carry him back to our camp. Will one of you get his things?”

“Take us to his camp,” I said.

Harry collected the childʼs things, and I collected the motherʼs and searched her body. Between us, we gathered everything. By the time we finished, the little boy, perhaps three years old, was crying. That scared me. I left Harry to push the dead womanʼs pack along in her baby carriage and Bankole to carry the whimpering child. All I carried was the gun, drawn and ready. Even when we got back to our own camp, I couldnʼt relax. The little boy wouldnʼt be quiet and Dominic joined him with even louder cries. Zahra and Jill worked to comfort the new child, but he was surrounded by strangers in the middle of the night, and he wanted his mother!

I saw movement over near the burned out carcass of the truck. The fire was still burning, but it was smaller now, burning itself out. There were still people near it. They had lost their truck. Would they care about a crying child? And if they did care, would they want to help the kid or just shut its mouth?

A lone, dark figure came away from the truck and took several steps toward us. At that moment, Natividad took the new child, and in spite of his age, gave him one breast and Dominic the other. It worked. Both children were comforted almost at once. They made a few more small sounds, then settled

down to nursing.

The shadow figure from the truck stood still, perhaps confused now that it was no longer guided by noise. After a moment, it turned and went back past the truck and out of sight. Gone. It couldnʼt have seen us. We could look out of the darkness under the trees that sheltered our campsite and see by firelight, by starlight. But others could only follow the baby noise to us.

“We ought to move,” Allie whispered. “Even if they canʼt see us, they know weʼre here.” “Watch with me,” I said.

“What?”

“Stay awake and watch with me. Let the others get a little more rest. Trying to move in the dark is more dangerous than staying put.”

“…all right. But I donʼt have a gun.”

“Do you have a knife?”

“Yeah.”

“That will have to be enough until we get the other guns clean and ready.” Weʼve been too tired and in too much of a hurry to do that so far. Also, I donʼt want Allie or Jill to have guns yet. Not yet. “Just keep your eyes open.” The only real defense against automatic rifles is concealment and silence.

“A knife is better than a gun now,” Zahra said. “If you have to use it, it will be quiet.”

I nodded. “The rest of you, try to get a little more rest. Iʼll wake you at dawn.”

Most of them lay down to sleep, or at least to rest. Natividad kept both children with her. Tomorrow, though, one of us would have to take charge of the little boy. We didnʼt need the burden of such a big child— one who had reached the “run around and grab everything” stage. But we had the little boy, and there was no one to hand him off to. No woman camping alongside a highway with her child would have other relatives handy.

“Olamina,” Bankole said into my ear. His voice was low and soft and only I reacted to it. I turned, and he was so close that I felt his beard brush my face. Soft, thick beard. This morning he combed it more carefully than he combed the hair on his head. He has the only mirror among us. Vain, vain old man. I moved almost by reflex toward him.

I kissed him, wondering what it would feel like to kiss so much beard. I did kiss the beard at first, missing his mouth by a little in the dark. Then I found it and he moved a little and slipped his arms around me and we settled to it for a little while.

It was hard for me to make myself push him away. I didnʼt want to. He didnʼt want to let me. “I was going to say thank you for coming after me,” he said. “That woman was conscious almost until she died. The only thing I could do for her was stay with her.”

“I was afraid you might have been shot out there.”

“I was flat on the ground until I heard the woman groaning.”

I sighed. “Yeah.” And then, “Rest.”

He lay down next to me and rubbed my arm—which tingled wherever he touched it. “We should talk soon,” he said.

“At least,” I agreed.

He grinned—I could see the flash of teeth—and turned over and tried to sleep.

The boyʼs name was Justin Rohr. His dead mother had been Sandra Rohr. Justin had been born in Riverside, California just three years ago. His mother had gotten him this far north from Riverside. She had saved his birth certificate, some baby pictures, and a picture of a stocky, freckled, red-haired man who was, according to a notation on the back of the photo, Richard Walter Rohr, born January 9, 2002, and died May 20, 2026. The boyʼs father—only twenty-four when he died. I wondered what had killed him. Sandra Rohr had saved her marriage certificate and other papers important to her. All were wrapped in a plastic packet that I had taken from her body. Elsewhere on her, I had found several thousand dollars and a gold ring.

There was nothing about relatives or a specific destination. It seemed that Sandra had simply been heading north with her son in search of a better life.

The little boy tolerated us all well enough today, although he got frustrated when we didnʼt understand him at once. When he cried, he demanded that we produce his mother.

Allie, of all people, was his choice for substitute mother. She resisted him at first. She ignored him or pushed him away. But when he was not being wheeled along, he chose to walk with her or demand to be carried by her. By the end of the day, she had given in. The two of them had chosen each other.

“She used to have a little boy,” her sister Jill told me as we walked along State 156 with the few other walkers who had chosen this route. It was empty. There were times when we could see no one at all, or when, as we headed east and north, the only people we could see were heading west and south toward us, toward the coast.

“She called her little boy Adam,” Jill continued. “He was only a few months old when…he died.” I looked at her. She had a big swollen purple bruise in the middle of her forehead, like a misshapen third eye. I donʼt think it hurt her much, though. It didnʼt hurt me much.

“When he died,” I repeated. “Who killed him?”

She looked away and rubbed her bruise. “Our father. Thatʼs why we left. He killed the baby. It cried. He hit it with his fists until it stopped.”

I shook my head and sighed. It was no news to me that other peopleʼs fathers could be monsters. Iʼd

heard about such things all my life, but Iʼd never before met people who were so clearly their fatherʼs victims. “We burned the house,” Jill whispered. I heard her say it, and I knew without asking what she wasnʼt saying. But she looked like a person talking to herself, forgetting that anyone was listening. “He was passed out drunk on the floor. The baby was dead. We got our stuff and our money—we earned it!—and we set fire to the trash on the floor and the couch. We didnʼt stay to see. I donʼt know what happened. We ran away. Maybe the fire went out. Maybe he didnʼt die.” She focused on me. “He might still be alive.”

She sounded more scared than anything else. Not hopeful or sorry. Scared. The devil might still be alive. “Where did you run from?” I asked. “What city?”

“Glendale.”

“Way down in L.A. County?”

“Yeah.”

“Then heʼs more than three hundred miles behind you.”

“…yeah.”

“He drank a lot, didnʼt he.”

“All the time.”

“Then heʼd be in no shape to follow you even if the fire never touched him. What do you think would happen to a drunk on the highway? Heʼd never even make it out of L.A.”

She nodded. “You sound like Allie. Youʼre both right. I know. But… I dream about him sometimes—that heʼs coming, that heʼs found us… I know itʼs crazy. But I wake up covered in sweat.”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering my own nightmares during the search for my father. “Yeah.” Jill and I walked together for a while without talking. We were moving slowly because Justin demanded to be allowed to walk now and then. He had too much energy to spend hours sitting and riding. And, of course, when he was allowed to walk, he wanted to run all around, investigate everything. I had time to stop, swing my pack around, and dig out a length of clothesline. I handed it to Jill.

“Tell your sister to try harnessing him with this,” I said. “It might save his life. One end around his waist, the other around her arm.”

She took the rope.

“Iʼve taken care of a few three-year-olds,” I said, “and Iʼll tell you, sheʼs going to need a lot of help with that little kid. If she doesnʼt know that now, she will.”

“Are you guys just going to leave all the work to her?” Jill demanded.

“Of course not.” I watched Allie and Justin walking along—lean, angular woman and pudgy, bumblebee of a child. The boy ran to investigate a bush near the roadside, then, startled by the approach of strangers, ran back to Allie and hung on to the cloth of her jeans until she took his hand. “They do seem to be adopting each other, though,” I said. “And taking care of other people can be a good cure for nightmares like yours and maybe hers.”

“You sound as though you know.”

I nodded. “I live in this world, too.”

We passed through Hollister before noon. We resupplied there, not knowing when we would see well equipped stores again. We had already discovered that several of the small communities shown on the maps no longer existed—had not existed for years. The earthquake had done a lot of damage in Hollister, but the people hadnʼt gone animal. They seemed to be helping one another with repairs and looking after their own destitute. Imagine that.

21

! ! !

The Self must create

Its own reasons for being.

To shape God,

Shape Self.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 2027

THERE IS STILL A little water in the San Luis Reservoir. Itʼs more fresh water than Iʼve ever seen in one place, but by the vast size of the reservoir, I can see that itʼs only a little compared to what should be there— what used to be there.

The highway runs through the recreational area for several miles. That gave us a chance to travel through on the road until we spotted an area that would make a good rest-day camp and that wasnʼt occupied.

There are a lot of people in the area—people who have set up permanent camps in everything from rag and-plastic tents to wooden shacks that look almost fit for human habitation. Where are so many people going to the bathroom? How clean is the water in the reservoir? No doubt cities that use it purify the water when it reaches them. Whether they do or not, I think itʼs time for us to break out the water purification tablets.

Around several of the tents and shacks, there are small, ragged gardens—new plantings and remnants of summer vegetable gardens. There are a few things left to harvest: big squashes, pumpkins, and gourds still growing along with carrots, peppers, greens, and a little corn. Good, cheap, filling foods. Not enough protein, but perhaps the people hunt. There must be game around here, and I saw plenty of guns. People wear holstered handguns or carry rifles or shotguns. The men in particular go armed.

They all stared at us.

As we went past, people stopped their gardening, outdoor cooking, or whatever to stare at us. We had pushed ourselves, had been eager to arrive ahead of the crowd I believe will soon come in from the Bay Area. So we didnʼt arrive with the usual human river. Yet by ourselves we are enough of a crowd to make the local squatters nervous. They let us alone, though. Except during disaster-induced feeding frenzies like the ones after the earthquake, most people let one another alone. I think Dominic and Justin are making it easier for us to fit in. Justin, now tethered to Allieʼs wrist, runs around staring at the squatters until they make him nervous. Then he runs back to Allie and demands to be carried. Heʼs a cute little kid. Lean, grim-faced people tend to smile at him.

No one shot at us or challenged us as we walked along the highway. No one bothered us later when we left the highway and headed into the trees toward what we thought might be a good area. We found old campsites and toilet places and avoided them. We didnʼt want to be within sight of the highway or of anyone elseʼs tent or shack. We wanted privacy, not too many rocks to sleep on, and a way of reaching the water that didnʼt put us too much on display. We looked for over an hour until we found an isolated old campsite, long abandoned and a little higher upslope than others weʼd seen. It suited all of us. Then, with hours of daylight left, we rested in enormous comfort and laziness, knowing we had the rest of today and all of tomorrow to do almost nothing. Natividad fed Dominic and the two of them drifted off to sleep. Allie followed her example with Justin, although preparing him a meal was a little more complicated. Both women had more reason to be tired and to need sleep than the rest of us, so we left them out when we drew lots for a watch schedule—one for day and night. We shouldnʼt get too comfortable. Also, we agreed that no one should go off exploring or getting water alone. I thought the couples would soon start going off together—And I thought it was just about time for Bankole and me to have that talk.

I sat with him and cleaned our new handgun while he cleaned the rifle. Harry was on watch and needed my gun. When I went over to give it to him, he let me know he understood exactly what was going on between Bankole and me.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “Donʼt give the poor old guy a heart attack.”

“Iʼll tell him you were worried,” I said.

Harry laughed, then sobered. “Be careful, Lauren. Bankole is probably all right. He seems to be. But, well… Yell if anything goes wrong.”

I rested my hand on his shoulder for a moment and said, “Thank you.”

The nice thing about sitting and working alongside someone you donʼt know very well, someone youʼd like to know much better, is that you can talk with him or be quiet with him. You can get comfortable with him and with the awareness that youʼll soon be making love to him.

Bankole and I were quiet for a while, a little shy. I sneaked glances at him and caught him sneaking glances at me. Then, to my own surprise, I began to talk to him about Earthseed—not preaching, just talking, testing I guess. I needed to see his reaction. Earthseed is the most important thing in my life. If Bankole were going to laugh at it, I needed to know now. I didnʼt expect him to agree with it or even to be much interested in it. Heʼs an old man. I thought he was probably content with whatever religion he had. It occurred to me as I spoke that I had no idea what his religion was. I asked him.

“None at all,” he said. “When my wife was alive, we went to a Methodist church. Her religion was important to her, so I went along. I saw how it comforted her, and I wanted to believe, but I never could.” “We were Baptists,” I said. “I couldnʼt make myself believe either, and I couldnʼt tell anyone. My father was the minister. I kept quiet and began to understand Earthseed.”

“Began to invent Earthseed,” he said.

“Began to discover it and understand it,” I said. “Stumbling across the truth isnʼt the same as making things up.” I wondered how many times and ways I would have to say this to new people.

“It sounds like some combination of Buddhism, existentialism, Sufism, and I donʼt know what else,” he said. “Buddhism doesnʼt make a god of the concept of change, but the impermanence of everything is a basic Buddhist principle.”

“I know,” I said. “Iʼve done a lot of reading. Some other religions and philosophies do contain ideas that would fit into Earthseed, but none of them are Earthseed. They go off in their own directions.” He nodded. “All right. But tell me, what do people have to do to be good members of an Earthseed Community?”

A nice, door-opening question. “The essentials,” I answered, “are to learn to shape God with forethought, care, and work; to educate and benefit their community, their families, and themselves; and to contribute to the fulfillment of the Destiny.”

“And why should people bother about the Destiny, farfetched as it is? Whatʼs in it for them?” “A unifying, purposeful life here on Earth, and the hope of heaven for themselves and their children. A real heaven, not mythology or philosophy. A heaven that will be theirs to shape.”

“Or a hell,” he said. His mouth twitched. “Human beings are good at creating hells for themselves even out of richness.” He thought for a moment. “It sounds too simple, you know.”

“You think itʼs simple?” I asked in surprise.

“I said it sounds too simple.”

“It sounds overwhelming to some people.”

“I mean itʼs too…straightforward. If you get people to accept it, theyʼll make it more complicated, more open to interpretation, more mystical, and more comforting.”

“Not around me they wonʼt!” I said.

“With you or without you, they will. All religions change. Think about the big ones. What do you think Christ would be these days? A Baptist? A Methodist? A Catholic? And the Buddha—do you think heʼd be a Buddhist now? What kind of Buddhism would he practice?” He smiled. “After all, if ʻGod is Change,ʼ surely Earthseed can change, and if it lasts, it will.”

I looked away from him because he was smiling. This was all nothing to him. “I know,” I said. “No one can stop Change, but we all shape Change whether we mean to or not. I mean to guide and shape Earthseed into what it should be.”

“Perhaps.” He went on smiling. “How serious are you about this?”

The question drove me deep into myself. I spoke, almost not knowing what I would say. “When my father…disappeared,” I began, “it was Earthseed that kept me going. When most of my community and the rest of my family were wiped out, and I was alone, I still had Earthseed. What I am now, all that I am now is Earthseed.”

“What you are now,” he said after a long silence, “is a very unusual young woman.”

We didnʼt talk for a while after that. I wondered what he thought. He hadnʼt seemed to be bottling up too much hilarity. No more than Iʼd expected. He had been willing to go along with his wifeʼs religious needs. Now, he would at least permit me mine.

I wondered about his wife. He hadnʼt mentioned her before. What had she been like? How had she died? “Did you leave home because your wife died?” I asked.

He put down a long slender cleaning rod and rested his back against the tree behind him. “My wife died five years ago,” he said. “Three men broke in—junkies, dealers, I donʼt know. They beat her, tried to make her tell where the drugs were.”

“Drugs?”

“They had decided that we must have something they could use or sell. They didnʼt like the things she was able to give them so they kept beating her. She had a heart problem.” He drew in a long breath, then sighed. “She was still alive when I got home. She was able to tell me what had happened. I tried to help her, but the bastards had taken her medicine, taken everything. I phoned for an ambulance. It arrived an hour after she died. I tried to save her, then to revive her. I tried so damned hard…”

I stared down the hill from our camp where just a glint of water was visible in the distance through the trees and bushes. The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there arenʼt any other kind and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees. “I should have headed north when Sharon died,” Bankole said. “I thought about it.”

“But you stayed.” I turned away from the water and looked at him. “Why?”

He shook his head. “I didnʼt know what to do, so for some time I didnʼt do anything. Friends took care of me, cooked for me, cleaned the house. It surprised me that they would do that. Church people most of them. Neighbors. More her friends than mine.”

I thought of Wardell Parrish, devastated after the loss of his sister and her children—and his house. Had Bankole been some communityʼs Wardell Parrish? “Did you live in a walled community?” I asked. “Yes. Not rich, though. Nowhere near rich. People managed to hold on to their property and feed their families. Not much else. No servants. No hired guards.”

“Sounds like my old neighborhood.”

“I suppose it sounds like a lot of old neighborhoods that arenʼt there any more. I stayed to help the people who had helped me. I couldnʼt walk away from them.”

“But you did. You left. Why?”

“Fire—and scavengers.”

“You, too? Your whole community?”

“Yes. The houses burned, most of the people were killed… The rest scattered, went to family or friends elsewhere. Scavengers and squatters moved in. I didnʼt decide to leave. I escaped.”

Much too familiar. “Where did you live? What city?”

“San Diego.”

“That far south?”

“Yes. As I said, I should have left years ago. If I had, I could have managed plane fare and resettlement money.”

Plane fare and resettlement money? He might not call that rich, but we would have.

“Where are you going now?” I asked.

“North.” He shrugged.

“Just anywhere north or somewhere in particular?”

“Anywhere where I can be paid for my services and allowed to live among people who arenʼt out to kill me for my food or water.”

Or for drugs, I thought. I looked into his bearded face and added up the hints Iʼd picked up today and over the past few days. “Youʼre a doctor, arenʼt you?”

He looked a little surprised. “I was, yes. Family practice. It seems a long time ago.”

“People will always need doctors,” I said. “Youʼll do all right.”

“My mother used to say that.” He gave me a wry smile. “But here I am.”

I smiled back because, looking at him now, I couldnʼt help myself, but as he spoke, I decided he had told me at least one lie. He might be as displaced and in distress as he appeared to be, but he wasnʼt just wandering north. He wasnʼt looking for just anywhere he could be paid for his services and not robbed or murdered. He wasnʼt the kind of man who wandered. He knew where he was going. He had a haven somewhere—a relativeʼs home, another home of his own, a friendʼs home, something—some definite destination.

Or perhaps he just had enough money to buy a place for himself in Washington or Canada or Alaska. He had had to choose between fast, safe, expensive air travel and having settling-in money when he got where he was going. He had chosen settling-in money. If so, I agreed with him. He was taking the kind of risk that would enable him to make a new beginning as soon as possible—if he survived.

On the other hand, if I were right about any of this, he might disappear on me some night. Or perhaps he would be more open about it—just walk away from me some day, turn down a side road and wave good-bye. I didnʼt want that. After Iʼd slept with him I would want it even less.

Even now, I wanted to keep him with me. I hated that he was lying to me already—or I believed he was. But why should he tell me everything? He didnʼt know me very well yet, and like me, he meant to survive. Perhaps I could convince him that he and I could survive well together. Meanwhile, best to enjoy him without quite trusting him. I may be wrong about all this, but I donʼt believe I am. Pity.

We finished the guns, loaded them, and went down to the water to wash. You could go right down to the water, scoop some up in a pot, and take it away. It was free. I kept looking around, thinking someone would come to stop us or charge us or something. I suppose we could have been robbed, but no one paid any attention to us. We saw other people getting water in bottles, canteens, pots, and bags, but the place seemed peaceful. No one bothered anyone. No one paid any attention to us.

“A place like this canʼt last,” I told Bankole. “Itʼs a shame. Life could be good here.”

“I suspect that itʼs against the law to live here,” he said. “This is a State Recreation Area. There should be some kind of limit on how long you can stay. Iʼm certain that there should be—used to be—some group policing the place. I wonder if officials of some kind come around to collect bribes now and then.”

“Not while weʼre here, I hope.” I dried my hands and arms and waited for him to dry his. “Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. He looked at me for a while, then reached for me. He took me by both arms, drew me to him, kissed me, and spoke into my ear. “Arenʼt you?”

I didnʼt say anything. After a while I took his hand and we went back to camp to pick up one of his blankets. Then we went to an isolated little spot that weʼd both noticed earlier.

It felt natural and easy to lie down with him, and explore the smooth, hard, broad feel of his body. Heʼd kept himself fit. No doubt walking hundreds of miles in the past few weeks had burned off whatever fat heʼd been carrying. He was still big—barrel-chested and tall. Best of all, he took a lot of uncomplicated pleasure in my body, and I got to share it with him. It isnʼt often that I can enjoy the good side of my hyperempathy. I let the sensation take over, intense and wild. I might be more in danger of having a heart attack than he is. How had I done without this for so long?

There was an odd, unromantic moment when we both reached into crumpled clothing and produced condoms. It was funny because of the way it hit us both at once, and we laughed, then went on to the serious business of loving and pleasuring one another. That combed and trimmed beard that heʼs so vain about tickles like mad.

“I knew I should have let you alone,” he said to me when we had made love twice and were still not willing to get up and go back to the others. “Youʼre going to kill me. Iʼm too old for this stuff.”

I laughed and made a pillow of his shoulder.

After a while, he said, “I need to be serious for a minute, girl.”

“Okay.”

He drew a long breath, sighed, swallowed, hesitated. “I donʼt want to give you up,” he said. I smiled.

“Youʼre a kid,” he said. “I ought to know better. How old are you, anyway?”

I told him.

He jumped, then pushed me off his shoulder. “Eighteen?” He flinched away from me as though my skin burned him. “My god,” he said. “Youʼre a baby! Iʼm a child molester!”

I didnʼt laugh, though I wanted to. I just looked at him.

After a while he frowned and shook his head. In a little more time, he moved back against me, touching my face, my shoulders, my breasts.

“Youʼre not just eighteen,” he said.

I shrugged.

“When were you born? What year?”

“Twenty oh nine.”

“No.” He drew the word out: “Nooo.”

I kissed him and said in the same tone, “Yesss. Now stop your nonsense. You want to be with me and I want to be with you. Weʼre not going to split up because of my age, are we?”

After a while he shook his head. “You should have a nice youngster like Travis,” he said. “I should have the sense and the strength to send you off to find one.”

That made me think of Curtis, and I cringed away from thinking of him. Iʼve thought as little as possible about Curtis Talcott. He isnʼt like my brothers. He may be dead, but none of us ever saw his body. I saw his brother Michael. I was terrified of seeing Curtis himself, but I never did. He may not be dead. Heʼs lost to me, but I hope heʼs not dead. He should be here with me on the road. I hope heʼs alive and all right. “Who have I reminded you of?” Bankole asked me, his voice soft and deep.

I shook my head. “A boy I knew at home. We were going to get married this year. I donʼt even know whether heʼs still alive.”

“You loved him?”

“Yes! We were going to marry and leave home, walk north. We had decided to go this fall.” “Thatʼs crazy! You intended to walk this road even though you didnʼt have to?”

“Yes. And if we had left earlier, heʼd be with me. I wish I knew he was all right.”

He lay down on his back and drew me down beside him. “Weʼve all lost someone,” he said. “You and I seem to have lost everyone. Thatʼs a bond, I suppose.”

“A terrible one,” I said. “But not our only one.”

He shook his head. “Youʼre really eighteen?”

“Yes. As of last month.”

“You look and act years older.”

“This is who I am,” I said.

“You were the oldest kid in your family, werenʼt you?”

I nodded. “I had four brothers. Theyʼre all dead.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Yes.”

TUESDAY, AUGUST 31, 2027

Iʼve spent all of today talking, writing, reading, and making love to Bankole. It seems such a luxury not to have to get up, pack, and walk all day. We all lay sprawled around the campsite resting aching muscles, eating, and doing nothing. More people flowed into the area from the highway and made their camps, but none of them bothered us.

I began Zahraʼs reading lesson and Jill and Allie looked interested. I included them as though I had intended to from the first. It turned out that they could read a little, but hadnʼt learned to write. Toward the end of the lesson, I read a few Earthseed verses to them in spite of Harryʼs groans. Yet when Allie proclaimed that she would never pray to any god of change, Harry was the one who corrected her. Zahra and Travis both smiled at that, and Bankole watched us all with apparent interest.

After that, Allie began to ask questions instead of making scornful proclamations, and for the most part, the others answered her—Travis and Natividad, Harry and Zahra. Once Bankole answered, expanding on something I told him yesterday. Then he caught himself and looked a little embarrassed.

“I still think itʼs too simple,” he said to me. “A lot of it is logical, but it will never work without a sprinkling of mystical confusion.”

“Iʼll leave that to my descendants,” I said, and he busied himself, digging a bag of almonds out of his pack, pouring some into his hand, and passing the rest around.

Just before nightfall a gun battle began over toward the highway. We couldnʼt see any of it from where we were, but we stopped talking and lay down. With bullets flying, it seemed best to keep low. The shooting started and stopped, moved away, then came back. I was on watch, so I had to stay alert, but in this storm of noise, nothing moved near us except the trees in the evening breeze. It looked so peaceful, and yet people out there were trying to kill each other, and no doubt succeeding. Strange how normal itʼs become for us to lie on the ground and listen while nearby, people try to kill each other.

22

! ! !

As wind,

As water,

As fire,

As life,

God

Is both creative and destructive,

Demanding and yielding,

Sculptor and clay.

God is Infinite Potential:

God is Change.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2027

WEʼVE HAD OVER A week of weary, frightening, nerve-wracking walking. Weʼve reached and passed through the city of Sacramento without real trouble. Weʼve been able to buy enough food and water, been able to find plenty of empty places in the hills where we could make camp. Yet none of us have had any feelings of comfort or well-being along the stretch of Interstate-5 that weʼve just traveled.

I-5 is much less traveled than U.S. 101, in spite of the earthquake chaos. There were times when the only people we could see were each other. Those times never lasted long, but they did happen. On the other hand, there were more trucks on I-5. We had to be careful because trucks traveled during the day as well as at night. Also, there were more human bones on I-5. It was nothing to run across skulls, lower jaws, or bones of the pelvis and torso. Arm and leg bones were rarer, but now and then, we spotted them, too. “I think itʼs the trucks,” Bankole told us. “If they hit someone along here, they wouldnʼt stop. They wouldnʼt dare. And the junkies and alcoholics wouldnʼt be that careful where they walked.”

I suppose heʼs right, although along that whole empty stretch of road, we saw only four people whom I believed were either not sober or not sane.

But we saw other things. On Tuesday we camped in a little hollow back in the hills to the west of the road, and a big black and white dog came wandering down toward our camp with the fresh-looking, bloody hand and forearm of a child in its mouth.

The dog spotted us, froze, turned, and ran back the way it had come. But we all got a good look before it went, and we all saw the same thing. That night, we posted a double watch. Two watchers, two guns, no unnecessary conversation, no sex.

The next day we decided not to take another rest day until we had passed through Sacramento. There was no guarantee that anything would be better on the other side of Sacramento, but we wanted to get away from this grim land.

That night, looking for a place to camp, we stumbled across four ragged, filthy kids huddled around a campfire. The picture of them is still clear in my mind. Kids the age of my brothers—twelve, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, three boys and a girl. The girl was pregnant, and so huge it was obvious she would be giving birth any day. We rounded a bend in a dry stream bed, and there these kids were, roasting a severed human leg, maneuvering it where it lay in the middle of their fire atop the burning wood by twisting its foot. As we watched, the girl pulled a sliver of charred flesh from the thigh and stuffed it into her mouth.

They never saw us. I was in the lead, and I stopped the others before they all rounded the bend. Harry and Zahra, who were just behind me, saw all that I saw. We turned the others back and away, not telling them why until we were far from those kids and their cannibal feast.

No one attacked us. No one bothered us at all. The country we walked through was even beautiful in some places—green trees and rolling hills; golden dried grasses and tiny communities; farms, many overgrown and abandoned, and abandoned houses. Nice country, and compared to Southern California, rich country. More water, more food, more room…

So why were the people eating one another?

There were several burned out buildings. It was obvious that there had been trouble here, too, but much less than on the coast. Yet we couldnʼt wait to get back to the coast.

Sacramento was all right to resupply in and hurry through. Water and food were cheap there compared to what you could buy along the roadside, of course. Cities were always a relief as far as prices went. But cities were also dangerous. More gangs, more cops, more suspicious, nervous people with guns. You tiptoe through cities. You keep up a steady pace, keep your eyes open, and try to look both too intimidating to bother and invisible. Neat trick. Bankole says cities have been like that for a long time.

Speaking of Bankole, I havenʼt let him get much rest on this rest day. He doesnʼt seem to mind. He did say something that I should make note of, though. He said he wanted me to leave the group with him. He has, as I suspected, a safe haven—or as safe as any haven can be that isnʼt surrounded by high-tech security devices

and armed guards. Itʼs in the hills on the coast near Cape Mendocino maybe two weeks from here. “My sister and her family have been living there,” he said. “But the property belongs to me. Thereʼs room on it for you.”

I could imagine how delighted his sister would be to see me. Would she try to be polite, or would she stare at me, then at him, then demand to know whether he was in his right mind?

“Did you hear what I said?” he demanded.

I looked at him, interested in the anger I heard in his voice. Why anger?

“What am I doing? Boring you?” he demanded.

I took his hand and kissed it. “You introduce me to your sister and sheʼll measure you for a straitjacket.” After a while, he laughed. “Yes.” And then, “I donʼt care.”

“You might, sooner or later.”

“Youʼll come with me, then.”

“No. Iʼd like to, but no.”

He smiled. “Yes. Youʼll come.”

I watched him. I tried to read the smile, but itʼs hard to read a bearded face. Itʼs easier to say what I didnʼt see—or didnʼt recognize. I didnʼt see condescension or that particular kind of disregard that some men reserve for women. He wasnʼt deciding that my “no” was a secret “yes.” Something else was going on.

“I own three hundred acres,” he said. “I bought the property years ago as an investment. There was going to be a big housing development up there, and speculators like me were going to make tons of money, selling our land to the developers. The project fell through for some reason, and I was stuck with land that I could either sell at a loss or keep. I kept it. Most of it is good for farming. Itʼs got some trees on it, and some big tree stumps. My sister and her husband have built a house and a few outbuildings.”

“You might have dozens or hundreds of squatters on that land now,” I said.

“I donʼt think so. Access is a problem. Itʼs not convenient to any real road, and itʼs well away from the big highways. Itʼs a great place to hide.”

“Water?”

“There are wells. My sister says the area is getting dryer, warmer. Thatʼs no surprise. But the ground water seems dependable so far.”

I thought I could see where he was headed now, but he was going to have to get there all by himself. His land; his choice.

“There arenʼt many black people up that way, are there?” I asked.

“Not many,” he agreed. “My sister hasnʼt had much trouble, though.”

“What does she do for a living? Farm the land?”

“Yes, and her husband does odd jobs for cash—which is dangerous because it leaves her and the children alone for days, weeks, even months at a time. If we can manage to support ourselves without becoming a drain on her few resources, we might be useful to her. We might give her more security.” “How many kids?”

“Three. Letʼs see…eleven, thirteen, and fifteen years old by now. Sheʼs only forty herself.” His mouth twitched. Only. Yeah. Even his little sister was old enough to be my mother. “Her nameʼs Alex. Alexandra. Married to Don Casey. They both hate cities. They thought my land was a godsend. They could raise children who might live to grow up.” He nodded. “And their children have done all right.”

“How have you kept in touch?” I asked. “Phone?”

“That was part of our agreement,” he said. “They donʼt have a phone, but when Don goes to one of the towns to get work, he phones me and lets me know how everyone is. He wonʼt know whatʼs happened to me. He wonʼt be expecting me. If heʼs tried to phone, both he and Alex will be worried.”

“You should have flown up,” I said. “But Iʼm glad you didnʼt.”

“Are you? So am I. Listen, you are coming with me. I canʼt think of anything I want as much as I want you. I havenʼt wanted anything at all for a long time. Too long.”

I leaned back against a tree. Our campsite wasnʼt as completely private as the one at San Luis had been, but there were trees, and the couples could get away from each other. Each couple had one gun, and the Gilchrist sisters were babysitting Dominic as well as Justin. We had put them in the middle of a rough triangle and given them my gun. On I-5 they and Travis had had a chance to do a little target practice. It was all of our duty to look around now and then and make sure no strangers wandered into the area. I looked around.

Sitting up I could see Justin running around, chasing pigeons. Jill was keeping an eye on him, but not trying to keep up with him.

Bankole took me by the shoulder and turned me to face him. “Iʼm not boring you, am I?” he asked for the second time.

I had been trying not to look at him. I looked now, but he had not yet said what he had to say if he wanted to keep me with him. Did he know? I thought he did.

“I want to go with you,” I said. “But Iʼm serious about Earthseed. I couldnʼt be more serious. You have to understand that.” Why did this sound strange to me? It was the absolute truth, but I felt odd telling it. “I know my rival,” he said.

Maybe thatʼs why it sounded strange. I was telling him there was someone else—something else. Maybe it would have sounded less strange if the something were another man.

“You could help me,” I said.

“Help you what? Do you have any real idea what you want to do?”

“Begin the first Earthseed Community.”

He sighed.

“You could help me,” I repeated. “This world is falling apart. You could help me begin something purposeful and constructive.”

“Going to fix the world, are you?” he said with quiet amusement.

I looked at him. For a moment I was too angry to let myself speak. When I could control my voice, I said, “Itʼs all right if you donʼt believe, but donʼt laugh. Do you know what it means to have something to believe in? Donʼt laugh.”

After a while he said, “All right.”

After a longer while, I said, “Fixing the world is not what Earthseed is about.”

“The stars. I know.” He lay flat on his back, but turned his head to look at me instead of looking up. “This world would be a better place if people lived according to Earthseed,” I said. “But then, this world would be better if people lived according to the teachings of almost any religion.”

“Thatʼs true. Why do you think theyʼll live according to the teaching of yours?”

“A few will. Several thousand? Several hundred thousand? Millions? I donʼt know. But when I have a home base, Iʼll begin the first community. In fact, Iʼve already begun it.”

“Is that what you need me for?” He didnʼt bother to smile or pretend it was a joke. It wasnʼt. I moved over closer to him and sat next to him so that I could look down into his face.

“I need you to understand me,” I said. “I need you to take me the way I am or go off to your land by yourself.”

“You need me to take you and all your friends off the street so you can start a church.” Again, he was altogether serious.

“That or nothing,” I said with equal seriousness. He gave me a humorless smile. “So now we know where we stand.”

I smoothed his beard, and saw that he wanted to move away from my hand, but that he did not move. “Are you all that sure you want God as your rival?” I asked.

“I donʼt seem to have much choice, do I?” He covered my caressing hand with one of his own. “Tell me, do you ever lose your temper and scream and cry?”

“Sure.”

“I canʼt picture it. In all honesty, I canʼt.”

And that reminded me of something that I hadnʼt told him, had better tell him before he found out and felt cheated or decided that I didnʼt trust him—which I still didnʼt, quite. But I didnʼt want to lose him to stupidity or cowardice. I didnʼt want to lose him at all.

“Still want me with you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I intend to marry you once weʼve settled.”

He had managed to surprise me. I stared at him with my mouth open.

“A genuine spur-of-the-moment reaction,” he said. Iʼll have to remember it. Will you marry me, by the way?”

“Listen to me first.”

“No more. Bring your church. Bring your congregation. I doubt they care any more about the stars than I do, but bring them. I like them, and thereʼs room for them.”

If they would come. My next effort would be to convince them. But this effort wasnʼt over yet. “That isnʼt all,” I said. “Let me tell you one more thing. Then, if you still want me, Iʼll marry you anytime you say. I want to. You must know I want to.”

He waited.

“My mother was taking—abusing—a prescription drug when she got pregnant with me. The drug was Paracetco. As a result, I have hyperempathy syndrome.”

He took that in with no sign of how he felt about it. He sat up and looked at me—looked at me with great curiosity, as though he hoped to see some sign of my hyperempathy on my face or body. “You feel other peopleʼs pain?” he asked.

“I share other peopleʼs pain and pleasure,” I said. “There hasnʼt been much pleasure to share lately, except with you.”

“Do you share bleeding?”

“No more. I did when I was little.”

“But you… I saw you kill a man.”

“Yes.” I shook my head, remembering what he had seen. “I had to, or he would have killed me.” “I know that. Itʼs just that… Iʼm surprised you were able to do it.”

“I told you, I had to.”

He shook his head. “Iʼve read about the syndrome, of course, although Iʼve never seen a case. I remember thinking that it might not be so bad a thing if most people had to endure all the pain they caused. Not doctors or other medical people, of course, but most people.”

“Bad idea,” I said.

“Iʼm not sure.”

“Take my word for it. Bad, bad idea. Self-defense shouldnʼt have to be an agony or a killing or both. I can

be crippled by the pain of a wounded person. Iʼm a very good shot because Iʼve never felt that I could afford just to wound someone. Also…” I stopped, looked past him for a moment and drew a deep breath, then focused on him again. “The worst of it is, if you got hurt, I might not be able to help you. I might be as crippled by your injury —by your pain, I mean—as you are.”

“I suspect youʼd find a way.” He smiled a little.

“Donʼt suspect that, Bankole.” I stopped and hunted for words that would make him understand. “Iʼm not looking for compliments or even reassurance. I want you to understand: If you broke your leg badly, if you were shot, if anything serious and disabling happened to you, I might be disabled, too. You must know how disabling real pain can be.”

“Yes. I know a little about you, too. No, donʼt tell me again that you arenʼt fishing for compliments. I know. Letʼs go back to camp. Iʼve got some pain medications in my bag. Iʼll teach you how and when to use them on me or whoever needs them. If you can just hold on and be yourself long enough to use them, you can do whatever else may be necessary.”

“…okay. So…do you still want to marry me?” It surprised me how much I didnʼt want to ask the question. I knew he still wanted me. Yet there I was, asking him, almost begging him to say it. I needed to hear it. He laughed. Big, full laughter that sounded so real, I couldnʼt take offense. “Iʼll have to remember this,” he said. “Do you imagine for one minute, girl, that I would let you get away?”