Life in the Ashes
The air was
listless. The dust on the old road also refused to be stirred.
It seemed to be early Fall, yet the memory of late summer heat
lingered. The sun hung directly overhead, in a sky too heavy with
washed out blue.
some sweet grass, flicking a tail at a lazy fly. Her rider sat
quietly, and the smells were of pine and dust, for they stood and sat
beside that dry dirt road, hidden behind a thick stand of young and old
scotch pines. Horse had no thoughts and didn’t even know whether
her rider was male or female, although various smells told a story
For Horse, to
graze on the sweet grass, was to live in a now of delight, for the
weight of her rider was slight, while the heat was tempered by the
shade. Again, Horse did not know that she was a large piebald
mare, or that her rider was thin and tall for a woman - nearly 5 feet
eleven inches, and weighing only 135 pounds. There was a lot
Horse didn’t know.
She didn’t know
how old she was, or that her rider had raised her from a foal, starting
over seven years ago. She didn’t know the names of anything, and
didn’t even know her own name - which was, obviously, Horse, although
when rider used that sound Horse responded. All Horse knew was
that her rider was part of her, even in an inward way.
It wasn’t so much
that her rider and she shared thoughts, but they did know each other’s
emotions in an intimate fashion. Right now Horse could feel her
rider’s anxiety increase, such that Horse herself shifted her weight
and hooves a bit, and looked up for a moment, wondering if there was
something dangerous coming. But her rider’s smell wasn’t right -
wasn’t cause for worry - they were not in any danger.
stillness in the air waited. Something was coming.
In the not too
distant past, a motor bike was a thing of elegant beauty - a living
mechanical horse. Powerful, savage, - it lifted its rider into a
state of freedom and euphoria, often without even drugs.
Yet, coming down that dry hot dusty road, in the direction
of Horse and her rider, was a mass of growling, barely functioning,
fallen debris of that once upon a time amimalistic and radical
A clump of this
former glory, perhaps just over twenty, collected itself in front of,
behind and around, a half dozen barely running trucks, pickups and what
once might have been an expensive SUV. Their riders also seemed
barely human, tattooed and pierced here and there with bits of metal
and bone, clothes torn and worn and a hair style that won its claim to
fame by just how intentionally unkempt it could appear. Whether
these riders were male or female or something entirely other - that too
was unclear, although whatever was riding down that dusty road, in the
direction of Horse and rider, did seem a bit like an comic apparition
right out of some demented B-movie idea of post-apocalyptic hell.
Noise came with,
and was not so much deafening, but simply out of place. Too loud
for the season and the heat. The place wanted quiet, and the
machines refused to play along.
Rider was dressed
to kill, literally. Her basic clothes - shirt and trousers - were
well-made well-cured deer hide, with bits of beaded color and fringe.
Her soft golden brown hair was well groomed, and woven into
a long long braid, which was now tucked inside the collar of her shirt.
The earrings she usually wore, and as well the bracelets - each
of coordinated turquoise and silver - were off now, stuffed inside one
of her saddle bags in order to be out of the way during the coming
boot had a six inch knife on its outside, tucked in a little scabbard.
On her back was a sword - a Japanese katana, and in her belt its
partner, a tanto. A well cared for Remington pump action shotgun
was in her saddle scabbard. There was also a brace of 45-caliber
pistols in one of her saddle bags. All was soft leather (mostly
deer), fringed and beaded.
Yet, it was the
face paint that would frighten her opponents. Rider’s face was
mostly painted black, with red circles around the eyes and mouth - each
touch of red suggesting dripping blood at its lower edges. She
wore colored contact lenses too, that covered her whole eye for effect
(she didn’t need a correction) - these were a bright yellow inside of
which were set cat-like red oval irises.
The clump of
mechanical chaos, that was this particular marauder band, rounded a
corner of the dirt road and there encountered a long straight stretch,
which was fronted nearest them with a some kind of metal wall, meant to
warn and perhaps terrify trespassers. Their passaged raised dust,
and stirred some wind, but the heavy air resisted, and with so little
breeze these so tiny pieces of dry earth soon fell back to their
The metal wall
that barred the road consisted of a number of shoved together and piled
up burned and blown up cars, trucks and motor bikes, as well as bits
and pieces of human skeletons. At one corner, - the corner where
one might drive around the barrier if one dared, was a pile of human
skulls. In the center of this wall a sign: “On this Path lies a
Death you cannot Imagine”.
The clump rode to
a staggered and uncoordinated stop, and a couple of people dismounted
and walked up to the barrier for a closer look. Engines were
turned off, and groups gathered discussing whether or not to proceed.
They had needs, and up the road further into the surrounding
hills were signs of smoke and habitation - places they usually pillaged
and destroyed in order to satisfy their own hungers.
As they stood
there, indecisive, they heard Horse wicker and snort, as Rider rode her
down the road toward the wall from the other side. The shotgun
was out of its scabbard, held in her right hand pointing up, with its
stock resting on the toe of her right boot. Horse walked slowly,
giving time for the marauder’s to draw weapons and aim them in her
yards out she stopped, turned Horse sideways, exposing her left side
and revealing the katana strapped to her back. Her painted face
was now clearly seen. She sat there for a while starring at them,
and then turned Horse around, exposing her back and rode slowly away.
The message was clear: don’t fuck with me; and, nothing about you scares me at all.
One of the bike
riders raised a rifle, took aim, and there was a soft noise, which
would have been familiar to anyone who had experienced combat - the
noise of a sniper bullet ripping through the air far ahead of the sound
of its going off. The bullet drove a hole through the face and
then blew the back of the head off of the biker with the raised rifle,
knocking him ass over backwards into the dust. The sound of the
echo-report of the just fired sniper rifle followed.
scattered to the sides of the road, or fell to the ground in fear.
A couple of them wet or shit their pants. By the time they
dared to get up, Horse and Rider were far away, rounding the corner at
the end of the long dusty stretch of road. There was dead
silence. The air still barely moved. But anger and rage
stirred the marauder’s emotions, and so they fired up their vehicles,
rode around the pile of skulls at the edge of the barrier, and began
the last minutes of their lives leading to their inevitable doom.
Quite a few of
the people living down that dusty road made it their business to
completely destroy such marauding bands, and this one was just one more
foolish group, driven by too many uncontrolled appetites while
possessing almost no common sense whatsoever.
As the marauding
clump of vehicles rounded the pile of skulls, it slowly gathered
tightly together, in part driven by fear. One sniper meant the
possibilities of other snipers, but anger and rage and hunger drove the
mob-like mass forward.
took on speed and the clump spread out a little, until it ran into the
killing field in the last fifty yards of that long straight on the
dusty road to nowhere. Once they were centered in the kill zone,
trip levers holding back loads of rock and stone caused angle arms of
iron and steel to pull up out of the dust of the road more than a dozen
lines of heavy duty chain, around which was wrapped tautly stretched
razor wire, right before and into the midst of the marauding
The chain based
razor wire cut flesh and rubber and grabbed bits of bike and car parts,
spilling the bikers, and driving the larger pickups and so forth into
each other and over the top of the crashed bikes and bodies now
littering the road. Some of the chains broke, but it made no
difference. The forward momentum was lost - the clump became an
exploding spasm of flesh and metal.
For a moment
rising dust hid all from view, but as that settled, the moans of the
injured began to be heard, and some survivors rose up to stand confused
in the killing field. Then came the crossbow bolts. If you
stood, you got at least two, if not more. The noise was soon gone
except for some moans. The dead air returned to dominance bearing
the weight of not just the sky now, but of death and dying as well.
After a while no
one was able to stand anymore. Next, into this massive pile
of confusion, came a pack of five very large wolf-like dogs.
Their pelts were mostly gray and black mixed together.
These moved slowly, nosing and testing with teeth and claw the
piled bodies and debris, growling when something still living was
found. Into the mass of this field of death next came
Rider, having dismounted from Horse. Both the katana and the
tanto were in her hands, as she moved among that gory mess, dispatching
with sadness and sympathy any not yet dead into the lands beyond time
The moans grew
less, and silence sought to reign once more. A couple of dozen
people stood among the trees in somber quiet, watching the ritual
finish to their gory art.
At a certain
point she paused, because two of her pack were licking one of the faces
- not growling. That one she skipped, until all the rest were as
dead as dead could be. At a gesture, the wolf-like dogs moved
back and away, and she squatted down on her heels besides this body her
animal friends found somehow not quite as wrong inside as the others.
He was fat, and
older, with patches on his leathers indicating an ancient biker gang -
a Hell’s Angel it would seem, from stories now long past. He
moaned, and was not somehow as bloodied as all the rest.
Something had hit his forehead, perhaps knocking him off his bike
and into unconsciousness.
He opened his
eyes, and looked directly at her, licking his lips. She pulled a
small flask from a side pocket and poured from it some rough home
brewed liquor into his mouth. He coughed and spit a little and
then sighed deeply.
“Well,” he said, you sure as hell ain’t some fucking angel or some demon
“No, I’m worse”, she replied.
“That”, he said, “I do not doubt” and laughed.
He tried to sit
up, but she put a hand on his chest and kept him on his back.
“Take your time. You’ve a big life and death
decision to make, and you’ll make a better one if you don’t try to move
so fast. You might have a concussion. “
She got up to
move on to other duties, and a couple of her very large wolf-dogs lay
down next to him, clearly encouraging him to stay put.
The killing field
was next possessed by groups of people, young and old, who moved among
the mess picking up pieces of metal, while a tow truck arrived and
began to pull the vehicles apart. It was a bad business -
separating metal from body parts, but one that had to be done.
Like Rider each was dressed in quiet earth-like colors - accented
with splashes of beaded or crafted art, which had made them essentially
invisible inside the tree line on the sides of the road around the zone
crossbow quarrels from the bodies, using tongs and wearing gloves.
Blood borne illnesses were still a problem. Someone
started to hum, and others joined in. There was a reverence in
that tune, for what had had to be done, had not been done
lightly. The marauders had been warned after all.
technical skills began to pile stuff on a flatbed truck that had also
arrived. Nothing was to be wasted. Weapons the marauders
carried were collected, and each body was carefully searched, although
no clothes were taken. After a while there were two piles: one of
bodies and one of collected wrecked cars and bikes. If gasoline
tanks had not been ruptured, the gas was also collected.
Medicines and other important items, such as canned food were put
on the flatbed, which drove away a couple of times and then later came
back for more. Members of the collective whispered to each other,
and some began drifting home. A folding chair was brought, and
the now less-groggy biker was told to sit there while his head wound
was looked after.
coming, the sun was maybe an hour from setting. Flies had
gathered around the dead, and some crows and other carrion birds also
joined the activity. No one shooed them away, and the pack of
wolf-dogs just moved away from the bloody mess of the killing field and
lay among the trees in the shade. The day’s mood changed, and a
late afternoon breeze stirred the scene, diluting the smell of blood
He was given some
water, and a piece of fresh fruit. When he tried to speak, the
dogs growled, so that was the end of that. Another folding chair
was eventually brought in the returning flatbed, and Rider sat down in
front of him, sighing as she did.
“I don’t like it that my pack accepted you. It would
be simpler if I just could end you like the others, but they know and
see stuff in a different way and I have to honor that.”
He started to
speak and she shut him up with a gesture - and a low growl of her own.
“Here’s the deal. If you want to leave, we’ll give
you a working bike and some of the stuff that belonged to your friends.
You can go back to the main highway and go wherever the fuck you
want to go.
“That’s the one option.
“The other is more scary in a way, for all of us.
You take off your clothes, all of them, and then naked you walk
to town, thinking about being maybe reborn in this life of yours -
becoming something you are not yet. In town you will be bathed
and scrubbed and de-loused and stuff.
All your hair and beard will be cut off - its a hygiene
problem. We’ll also take your blood and test it. Then comes
for you the really hard part.
“You’ll be called before the community fire, still naked.
If its too cold, you’ll get a blanket for warmth. Then you
confess ... all of at ... all the awful shit you’ve done in your whole
fucking miserable life. You’ll talk until you are hoarse.
My pack will guard you, and if you lie or leave stuff out they’ll
know - they’ll smell the lies.
“When you’re done, there’ll be a vote. If just one
person says no, down the road you go. You don’t get to argue to
stay ... you just go, without a word. You’ll still get a bike and
stuff. My pack lets you live, the community gets to say whether
you will provisionally join us. If you join us you’ll go to work
in the House of Graceful Souls for a year.
“You will not be the first individual to come to us on
this path ... we’ve done this before. The danger to us is that
you’ll start to pull shit ... make trouble ... not learn.
Maybe hurt someone. That happens my pack gets to have
you. Then its not down the road on a bike ... its into the woods
and they’ll hunt you down and kill you in a way nobody here will give a
“This is a hard world now, as you know. Same with
us. We don’t take any prisoners, but sometimes we find new
friends. That’ll be up to you.
“Take your time thinking about this, but once the sun sets
you have to decide - the road and a bike, or a long hard risky naked
fucking path to a new life.”
A lot of
post-apocalyptic movies of the before-time - the time leading to the
descent into and through chaos and anarchy - showed fractured
violent communities, where people wore ugly clothes and lived in ugly
houses and used ugly speech. The town of Sanctuary, where Horse
and Rider lived, intentionally did the opposite. It put art at
its center - as its heart. Each person thought of themselves as a
work of art, and each living place and each path and each work space
was also a work of art. Even the killing field was seen as a work
of art, and those who carried out its details thought of all that
destruction and violence as a horrible and necessary ritual work of
art. Death was not taken lightly.
One of the places
in Sanctuary built and kept repaired ultra-lite tiny flying one-seat
planes. If you flew over Sanctuary in one of them you would
hardly see it at all, because it was so well integrated into the forest
and meadows and natural seeming fields. For example, planted
everywhere were the three sisters, as known to the Iroquois Confederacy
and other native American ways. The center was a stalk of
corn, right next to which was a bean plant having a vine-like character
which climbed the corn stalk, while at the base was a gourde-like
plant such as a pumpkin or squash, spreading its leaves yards outward
from the core of corn and bean vine. Wherever you walked in
Sanctuary you would run into the three sisters, for there were
thousands of them spread among acres and acres of land and
The roofs of
houses were planted as well, with everywhere herbs and medicinals and
flowers and such. Woodworkers and weavers made doors and
curtains, many of which had glass, for there was both a glass-works and
a pottery works. Large herds of sheep and goats prowled the outer
precincts of the village, all watched and tended by young children and
year-long flowing streams ran in and through and near Sanctuary, from
which water wheels gave power to turn the granite stone wheel for
grinding corn and wheat into flour. The water wheels also
generated electricity, for the now past civilization was not despised
as much as harvested for items that should not be lost.
Sanctuary was a
town that wove together both ancient and modern arts, for it tried to
preserve as much as possible all the knowledge of humanity from the
before-time. At its core was the Library.
During the last
years of the before-time, some far-thinkers saw the coming time of
chaos, and prepared for it by gathering as much human knowledge as
possible into high density data discs. These discs, which were of
various types and kinds according to the taste of those who created
them, were then distributed all over the world, in the company of
multiple copies of each disc and multiple hand-crankable laptop
came with each disc set, that allowed the holder of the Library to find
out how to treat such social-chaos related diseases as cholera and
dysentery. Also included was how to create penicillin, or make
insulin ... literally thousands and thousands of basic instructions
from which one might be able to recreate medicines, and even technology.
As well, all that
could be gathered of ancient cultures was included in the Library.
For a time, as different folk all over the world created their
own versions of the Library, each individual group traded copies of
their material with other groups. When the final stages of the
Collapse drew near, and Internet communication itself disappeared,
human knowledge had been saved from the ravages of the ensuing descent
into madness, in various degrees in a multitude of places and languages
was intentionally created as a survival home for different people with
different skill sets. Originally there were about 1500 people
living there, and since its establishment another 1500 have been added.
One did not have to have a skill, but whether it was Divine
Providence or just simply blind chance, multiple kinds of expertise
ended up in these forested hills in the San Francisco Mountains near
what had once been called the Four Corners area of the United States.
Then, of course,
there were the children. Some showed up by themselves or in
groups of two or three. How they survived to get there, was a
miracle. A few were part of the community from the beginning, and
many had been born since the first in-gathering, as it was
called. More than a few were of the fabled star-children, that
the before-time had started to notice. These were unusual
individuals, capable of all kinds of mental and social arts never
before seen. Each such child added something to the community of
Sanctuary that could not have been imagined to have existed before.
Rider was nine
when she walked in. Dirty, dusty, starving and wild. With
her came a large bitch of a dog - something part German Shepherd and
part Wolfhound. Huge and fiercely protective of Rider, yet
completely docile and obedient as if Bitch (as Rider had named her) was
somehow part of Rider’s mind. The two always lived alone at the
edge of the village. It was when Rider was 12, and first bled,
that the real strangeness happened.
That summer she
disappeared for three weeks, out and about with Bitch. When she
came back she and Bitch were dragging a large flexible cage made of
woven blackthorn branches, inside of which was an actual wild male
wolf. The cage was tight, and the wolf had tired of trying
to fight and bite its way away through the thorns. Rider then
built a larger wooded cage for the wolf, and when Bitch next came in
heat Rider put the two of them in together. Once it was clear
that Bitch was successfully mated to the wolf, he was set free.
When the pups
came (there were five), from the beginning they slept with Rider and
Bitch. As they grew older, the bond was clear. What
Rider felt, they felt. What they felt, she understood. They
even learned to play with Sanctuary’s growing pile of children,
although all the other dogs and cats and animals (and most the humans)
kept a clear and obvious distance.
It wasn’t really
fear as much as it was respect. The pack, as they came to be
known, had their own way, their own rules. Once a starving bear
had wandered near some sheep and goats, and scared cries from the
guarding children rang out in the woods. The pack was there in
minutes, and the bear was chased away, never to return.
On occasion the
male wolf - the father - visited. He’d sit atop a hill nearby and
howl at the moon. The pack would howl too, but never went out to
When Rider was 15
she singled out a man, who was not just by reputation tough, but had
been an actual soldier - a former marine. He was with her for a
week, and never said a word to anyone later about what they had done or
what had been said. All the same, at a community fire meeting
three weeks later she explained her plans for the killing field and why
it needed to be built.
They had had some
problems before, with wanderers bringing their troubles with them, but
up until she spoke that night at the circle-fire, the community
had never felt the spirit of the thing. No one had ever
said what she said about death needing to be beautiful, as well as
violence. Sanctuary was not of a single religious view, although
in the before-time many had believed in turning the other cheek.
Hard questions were thrown at her that night, and she stood there
before them for the first time in the costume she had made and which
she wore when the rite of the art of the killing field was enacted.
That was the first time they saw the swords, the knives, and that
makeup on her face.
One of the older wise women had said later that it was as if the goddess of the hunt was among them now, and that when a human being became a predator of other human beings - when they descended and became lost in their animal nature, then it meant they too could be hunted.
Rider, Horse, the
pack - prowled the edges of the village, mostly lived apart,
occasionally took a man among them, and seldom hung out with others.
Always had a kind word when about though. Smiled even -
once in a while. But mostly silent, and watchful and often
seemingly gone, except when marauders or troubles came. Then they
were there - the sword of Sanctuary some called her in the stories and
What she really
thought, no one knew, and she was not the only very private minded
member of Sanctuary.
The former Hell’s
Angel decided to try to stay. When he told Rider and used
the word “try” she quoted Yoda: Don’t try, do. He didn’t
get it, and Rider shook her head, and said to some others: This is not starting out good.
adolescent boy, with a crossbow hung across his back came up to him and
told him to take off all his clothes, and throw them on the fire.
There was already a huge fire in the middle of the killing field,
started where gas had spilled, and on which all the bodies and clothes
were being burned.
Around the fire
was a big circle of people, adults and children. Some holding
hands, many singing. One of the older ones said to him to get
going to town, calling him “Angel”. The name stuck, and by
the time he’d walked to what seemed to be an edge of the town, several
people called him that.
A couple members
of the pack followed near by. Greeting and sniffing all who came
toward him, it took a while before he noticed that only a few of the
children petted them. The wolf-dogs nudged him down a path and he
could see there was here and there some light, even electrical light -
something of a surprise to him - enough to see by anyway.
No one seemed
bothered by his nakedness. They didn’t stare at his body but many
paused as they walked by and did look at his face and eyes with some
intensity. Some expressed open hostility on their faces. A
few were armed, but not most. His feet hurt, and his mind seemed
out of sorts. He wanted badly a drink of some kind of
While he didn’t
know it, he was being guided to a bath-house, of which there were
several dozen in Sanctuary, for that was one of the social arts on
which they concentrated - something borrowed from Japanese
meet him on the veranda of one such bath-house. They
wore little clothing and took him by the hand and began his outer
cleansing. They were all watched over by a band of adolescent
crossbow bearers, and of course a couple of the ever present members of
the pack. Sometimes the members of his guard would change, and a
few words spoken in whispers drifted toward him.
Mostly he was
bathed and scrubbed and bathed and scrubbed again. One of the
women feed him some hot tea, and a bit of vegetable soup. They
did the nails on his hands and his feet. They shaved him
everywhere and then the hair was gathered up and burned in one of the
many charcoal heaters throughout the bath house. Once the hair
was burned scented herbs were added, to clean the air of the smell of
the burning hair.
No one really
spoke to him. Some hummed some kind of a tune. The women
looked healthy and fit, and he got an erection at one point. That
brought laughs, but not at him so much as with him somehow. They
understood his consternation, and did not make fun of him.
At one point an
older man came in and examined him carefully ... all over. Had
instruments like a doctor. Took his temperature, his blood
pressure, probed his anus, and drew some blood. Looked in his
ears, down his throat, made some comment on his teeth and his breath,
after which one of the women brought him some kind of antiseptic
mouthwash, which he was told not to swallow. That cleaning
was done three times before a quick sniff of his breath by one of the
women pronounced him barely passable.
Outside he could
hear some drumming. Low and rhythmic - fading in and out.
He was dried carefully, everywhere. Shown to a
cushion chair and told to wait. He was left alone in a nice
wood-walled room, with a view out over the veranda. A sliver of
moon had risen. The air was cooling, and a blanket was
given to him.
Then an even
older old man walked in, carrying and leaning on a tall carved staff.
This old man stood over him, looking down and such a look Angel
had never before felt. It was like that way too personal probe of
his anus, but went into his soul not his body. He turned his head
away and was scared in a manner that was not like any kind of fear he’d
The newest old
You’ve been a little bit physically cleansed. Only a little bit. If you stay you’ll diet and be cleansed inside, again physically. Not to say we don’t have alcohol or drugs or even tobacco, but first you get clean. Tonight though, starts the cleansing of your soul. That’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, and tonight is only the start.
This is not for us ... its for yourself, make no mistake. No one really wants to hear what a shit you’ve been, but all the same, its the only gift we can give you to start your new life. You confess, we listen. Few will judge you, but some might. No one here is perfect. There will be those who have done worse then you can ever imagine, or have ever done. They in particular will know when you lie, because that’s one of the things they know best about themselves - how to lie.
We get to ask questions. Sometimes this part of joining us takes all night and more. Can’t be predicted. During your first weeks here, if no one sends you to the road, anyone can question you ... anytime. The pack vouched your survival of the killing field. They saw there was still some human in you. If someone comes up to question you, you stop whatever you are doing and answer. You’ll have two moons during which anyone can send you to the road, if they wish.
The tea and soup we gave you had some medicinals in it ... to help you feel a little less pain, and maybe be a little more awake in your mind. That’s the only help we can give, and if you need some more during the confession, just say, and we’ll do what we can. My advice though is that the more truth you speak the better you’ll feel and the more clear will be your mind. Its the truth that is the key.
One final thing. You don’t have to tell your story all at once ... but for your own sake I’d start with the things you most do not want to say. As you look within, notice those - the hard ones. You start with the ones you most fear to say, then it gets easier.
Now get up and follow me ... your future waits out there,
and what is its nature is up to you.
lasted until sunrise. He spoke, they listened. The old man
had been right - although it took Angel a while to speak of the things
he’d done, about which he felt the worst. But an hour or so in,
he did. He cried then. No one came to comfort him,
though. They just listened, many leaving the circle-fire and some
few of those coming back.
strangest of all was when some of his stories led to laughter. He
hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t like he was telling a joke, it
was just that some bad things had this quality of being absurd.
Mostly they were about bad things he’d done to try to impress
others, and how he felt afterward when they weren’t impressed.
His listeners saw this folly for what it was - a vanity, not so
much evil as foolish - this trying to impress. They laughed and
then he laughed too.
leaving the circle near dawn stopped by and laid a hand on his
shoulder. It was like they were voting in a kind of way - saying:
I see you and I know you, you are like me and I wish you
When the sun
rose, there were just three, human beings that is. Rider had been
there all night, her and her pack. So too the old man with the
staff. Then the oldest woman of those who cleaned him in the bath
house came by and gestured him to follow.
She led him
through the town and in the dawn’s light he began to see the scale of
the place. They went up some hills and down. Across an
almost river like creek, on a bridge made of stone. Through some
woods, past some meadows. People moving about.
Children running with dogs out toward fenced-in pens of goats and
sheep, setting them free to roam the hills further out. The whole
place coming alive in the daylight.
In all his
wanderings he’d never seen anything like it. Happy healthy people.
eventually to a group of buildings, clearly interconnected with covered
brick walkways, and bits of garden and wooden benches on which to sit.
There too a stirring of life coming awake to the light of
This is the House of Graceful Souls, she said. A short man walked toward them. He had a funny rounded face, if some folks had seen him before he would have called him a dummy. It was a Down’s man if one remembered that term from the before-time. She introduced them.
Angel, she said, this is Heartmender Smith. This is his place.
He’s the boss and you’ll be working for him.
The dummy smiled
that guileless smile - typical for a Down’s, and Angel felt confused.
Smith reached out and offered his hand to be shaken. Angel
shook it, and Smith looked then at the woman and said: He needs sleep, and three days perhaps of not doing.
Rest and food first, then work.
The woman led him
away, down a path, some wooden stairs and through a door and then into
a set of rooms, many with beds inside them.
Can you read?, she asked.
He nodded yes,
still confused, but tired enough that a bed looked wonderful. She
led him into a room, and as he sat down on it, she opened a drawer in
the bedside stand and took out a little book, covered in leather.
She showed him inside some maps of Sanctuary, of the House of
Graceful Souls, and of the rooms where he was. She pointed out
where he could toilet, where was the nearest bathhouse, where there was
food. She showed him clothes in a closet and in a set of drawers.
Sleep as long as you need. Eat when you need.
Remember if asked questions, answer. There is no hurry
here. No place to go, nothing to be or do. If you get us,
this is home, the kind of home we mostly only dream exists.
As she turned to
leave, she paused in the doorway and looked at him. My name is Gabriel. I too am an angel.
With that she
walked away, first shutting the door to the room, and he was asleep
before his head hit the pillow.
He woke in the
late afternoon, to a small cat licking his face. Angel looked up
to see the door to his room open and an equally small girl staring at
His name’s Buttons, she said. My name is Rachael, but you can call me Racy, that’s what
closer, and seemed to be studying his tattoos. Nice ink, she said, as
she picked up the cat and bounced out of the room, pausing in the
doorway like the older woman had. Bathroom’s that way, she said
pointing to his left, and the galley is that way she added,
pointing to the right. She spun in a couple of circles, flashed a
grin like only a child can do, and vanished in the direction of the
After going to
the bathroom and discovering real working plumbing fixtures, something
he had not seen in years, he went to the galley. It was a
somewhat spacious room with lots of plants and glass to let in the
light. There was a table in a corner, and Rider was sitting there
waiting for him. For a minute he almost didn’t recognize her
because she wasn’t armed and her face wasn’t painted. She hooked
a finger at him as soon as he walked in one of the doors, drawing him
closer. A couple of the wolf-dogs sat at her feet, but no one
else was near that table.
As he approached
her she pointed a finger in the direction of the tables full of food
and plates and stuff, so he stopped there first ... again surprised by
wealth of this place. For a moment he thought of what a score
this might have been for his band, but immediately realized that this
place was way too organized and there was no way they’d even have
gotten near it. Once again he realize how lucky he was to
He started to
strut a bit as he neared the table, but a low growl got that impulse
out of him right away. He found he couldn’t look her in the
She was staring,
candidly, and said: When’s the last time you got laid?
He dropped his
fork, and tried to mumble.
Not to worry, she said, I’m just trying to point out to you that in this
community there are a lot of opportunities for the right man, if he
figures out how to be a true man, and gets out of his head the illusion
that the best lovers are the young and inexperienced.
She continued: You probably have a lot of bad ideas about women, having
been part of that bunch of idiots that just got destroyed. Here,
if the guy pays attention, some true woman might just take him under
her wing and teach him how to be a true man.
With that she got
up, bused her dishes into the kitchen and with a couple of wolf-dogs
following left the room; and left him with his mind spinning crosswise
and upside down, which was probably her intention.
teacher was Racy. His obligation was to tell all to any who
asked, and whenever Racy ran into him, which was often as he wandered
around, what she wanted to know was the story behind every bit of ink.
He had a lot of tattoos.
surprised him too. He’d be involved in one thing and there she
would be, pointing to one tattoo or another, and asking for its story.
Once he thought about fibbing, but just then one of the wolf-dogs
was there starring at him, and he knew he had to be honest - that too
was part of the obligation. But how could he be honest to a five
or six year old, given that some of the ink-stories were about very bad
things he had done, and which normally would have been told in a
language he had no desire to speak to someone so young ... so bright
... so innocent.
Inside his soul
he twisted and turned and danced and struggled, never realizing until
years later what a gift this was, - this demand he confess the things
he confessed to an innocent little girl. It helped later to
understand what star-children were, for Racy was one of those - a
person others might have called an old-soul, but who was not quite that
- more of a fresh soul, so unbound and untied from anything past that
simply by being she placed a demand on him that led to inner healing
that could have come in no other way.
Of course, Racy
was not at all like Heartmender Smith, the Down’s man. For some
inexplicable reason Angel was terrified of him.
We should not
assume that the inner life of a Down’s individual is like our own.
We can use the same language and sense in each other similar
emotions, but there is more and less there than appears simply because
the intellect seems dimmed.
seer-philosopher Rudolf Steiner described Down’s, and other individuals
in need of special care, as for complicated reasons accepting a body
that is weaker in certain ways. Most of us incarnate into bodies
that are capable of a normal range of activity, although the karma of
certain childhood diseases, such as polio, will often then change that.
But that is how
we see from the outside - we see the odd body type. In the
inwardness of the Down’s child, the bright light of normal human
thinking, and its ability to grasp abstractions is not present.
This inner light of spirit is “centered” lower in the organism,
and the bright light of perception we “normals" experience in our
heads, lives in the Down’s Child nearer the heart.
This does not
necessarily make them more moral or loving although such is often the
case. The heart as an organ of perception is more vivid for
a Down’s, but this does not mean there is no thinking at all. It
is just not abstract. It can be very concrete and sometimes quite
clever. When it is clever, the Down’s child will be secretive and
perhaps inclined to possessiveness, or to thievery. The mixture
of nature and nurture in their early life is important to the
development of a Down’s child.
before-time, the Steiner inspired communities were often called
Camphill Communities, and sometimes part of what was called shared
living. In Sanctuary, the Library preserved as much of what
wisdom had been discovered about those in need of special care during
the last hundred years of the before-time. The ideas and
teachings of Steiner and Camphill were well represented in the Library.
One of those
shared living families brought Heartmender Smith to Sanctuary right in
the beginning. He was about ten years old at that time.
This meant that right from the beginning those in need of special
care had a home in Sanctuary. Over time this part of Sanctuary
came to include all kinds of individuals with special needs, including
the aging and the dying. Hospice care was part of this work, and
Heartmender Smith wasn’t even his name in the beginning of Sanctuary.
In the beginning he was just John Smith.
for special needs care, for hospice care, and for all kind of care for
those who could not fully take care of themselves. He visited the
ill, read to those who’d lost their sight (although mostly certain
children’s stories). He changed diapers and bed pans. He
was tireless and always of a good mood. He matured.
It was in his
late twenties that people started to notice the effect he was having on
certain emotionally troubled members of the Sanctuary community.
People liked to sit with him and just talk. He was often
seen in private conversation with people who otherwise had a hard time
sharing their own inner emotional and cognitive life with others.
He listened well and did not judge. He gave no advice.
Sometimes he hugged, and he was a strong hugger - he held you a
long time - wouldn’t let you go, and people who had grief they held on
to too tightly found themselves in that embrace and crying.
One day at
evening community fire, one of the star children ran through the
circle, calling out for someone she called “Heartmender”.
It took a while for those present to realize that she was
looking for John Smith, and had in the process of her own unique and
intuitive insight given him a true name - something the community later
learned to trust as one of the gifts of the star children.
Heartmender Smith became the leader of that part of Sanctuary where
special care was needed. There was no election, no formal
process. It was just that people started going to him with
certain questions and were finding his answers very practical and deep
in an emotional way. His answer generally felt right, and so it
became the habit of the community to place under his guidance all new
Again it was one
of the star children that called that complicated wandering building,
where special needs folk were cared for, the House of Graceful Souls.
So new members of the community were placed in the House, with
Heartmender Smith as their guide.
The old man that
had talked to Angel that first night, and advised him about how to
first tell the hardest things to tell, was named by the star
children: Teller-of-Stories. It was Teller-of-Stories that taught
about how it was that going first to the House of Graceful Souls helped
people understand “washing the feet”. Helped people understand
humility. You changed diapers. You washed bed pans.
You cleaned toilets, and washed soiled linens. You cleaned
soiled people that couldn’t clean themselves.
worked all the time in the House of Graceful Souls. Most everyone
worked there on at least a couple tenth-day work periods every year -
that day the community did work that had to be done, and which
many didn’t like to do. Tenth-day work was an idea borrowed from
a very wise American writer of the before-time: Ursula K. LeQuin.
A lot of her social ideas from her book The Dispossessed
lived in Sanctuary.
Now Angel didn’t
know any of this, but he also felt something when he was with
Heartmender Smith. He felt an emotional reality that he’d
spent most his life running from. He’d hidden his own heart from
his own self-awareness, in drugs and sex and violence. He heart
was in hiding, and when he saw Heartmender Smith during his first days
wandering about the House of Graceful Souls, he wanted to run away.
Very scary to have to be around someone who just by being
who they were made you self-aware of your deepest secret places.
Yet, if Angel was
to stay in Sanctuary he could not hide from himself - this he knew
without knowing it intellectually. Sanctuary was very emotionally
real - more real than any place he’d ever lived before.
Which was of course what he was told in the beginning - it
was a place where the very first step seemed to be surrendering to
something, starting with confession. Angel just hadn’t yet
realized how long that time of surrender and confession was to last.
Angel one morning.
Time to go to work, she said.
As he walked
along with her, she explained that one didn’t start out right away with
personal bed care of those that needed it. Instead, he was to
start in the laundry, washing bed clothes and other soiled items.
Later he would graduate to more personal care. This wasn’t
about punishing him in any way, it was about letting him get used to
caring for others.
In the laundry
there was only one other regular worker. Most of the rest were
tenth-day folks. The work was hard, there was a lot of laundry
and cleaning soiled clothes and linen required some carefulness.
They used a kind of homemade soap and something that was like
bleach, but was not. Angel didn’t understand any of the
chemistry, but the instructions were printed on the walls of the
laundry, and everything was labeled and clear.
He was a bit
shocked after about a week there when one of the tenth-day people threw
a recyclable container in the burn-garbage pail. He didn’t say
anything, only to find out at the end of the day, that that action had
been a kind of test. A couple of the tenth-day men stayed back
and invited him to sit with them at the House galley.
We threw you a curve ball today, one of them
said. We wanted to see how you would react if we violated a rule. It isn’t like there was a right way to act, we just
wanted to see what you’d do, and then ask you why you did what you did.
We’re not trying to catch you out ... we’re just trying to get to
that and then decided he was really pissed. In his past, he would
have hit one of them. Somehow he guessed that really wouldn’t
work here. So he starred at his coffee cup for a while, and then
looked at them in a most serious way.
I know you think I’m a fuck up, and the guys I was with
were trash, but we had codes - we had our own kind of brotherhood, and
what you guys did today, that’s bullshit. We tease and we joke
and we sometimes make the new guy dance a bit, but what you just did to
me, that’s serious asshole stuff.
I’m walking around here on broken glass and you made it
worse. I sweated all afternoon, trying to figure out the right
thing to do, and now its turns out this was some kind of jackoff test?!?
His voice was
rising as he spoke, and others in the galley started looking at the
three of them. He stood up, wanting to run, wanting to throw
something, wanting to punch someone.
Next thing he
knew there was a tiny hand holding his. Racy was there besides
him. She looked at the two seated tenth-day men, and smiled what
looked a bit like a very feral smile. They looked down, and
then both stood up, and started to apologize.
This is my friend, Racy said,
interrupting them. Then she put her other hand on one of
his tattoos and said: This is a reminder of a guy whose tongue he cut out ...
pulled it out with a pliers and cut it off with a hot knife. Got
him drunk first though. Very kind. You get to ask Angel questions and he has to tell you the
truth. You don’t get to mind-fuck him.
near enough in the galley to hear what had gone on, applauded.
The next morning
Gabriel caught him in the galley and told him not to go to work in the
laundry, but to wait in the galley - someone was coming to see him.
No, she said, you didn’t do something bad, you did something good.
He was on his
third cup of coffee when in walked Rider and the old man with the staff
- Teller of Stories. Rider smiled and the old man frowned.
Both expressions seemed to mean the same thing somehow.
Rider was her usual straight to the point: You know anything about the RV People?
That made him sit
up very straight.
Tell us everything you think you know, the old man
Very scary people, said Angel, after
thinking about it a bit. More than 500 miles south of here and maybe west.
Ruins of Phoenix some say. RV is about how their leaders
live in these old million dollar RVs, so can move around if they have
to. Maybe make and sell drugs. Buy and sell people.
Smart, got a Library like you guys. Do bad shit with the knowledge though.
Most folks I knew stay as far away as possible from them.
All the stories about them bad, scary bad. Torture, child
slaves, weird religious shit. You name it. Supposed to be
guarded by an army of cannibals.
We hear they may be making a move in our direction, the old man said.
Need to send out a scouting party, you and me, and a
couple of others, she said.
I know its a stupid question, but why me, said Angel.
You still have the road in you. You’re the newest
guy to come in in the last year. You still have the right
instincts. That was Rider.
understand that, but didn’t like going toward the RV. When we found you guys we was running from the RV.
I know, - the old man.
Everyone just sitting there thinking.
Now? said Angel.
Now, said Rider, but have to pick up a few tools and fools first.
It took about 24
hours. They needed a big truck, that looked like a wreck and ran
like a cougar. Inside the truck was a bike that also looked like
crap but which would perform in spite of the fact that the muffler
sound and black smoke pouring out the exhaust implied it was near death.
Also inside the
truck was an ultra-lite and some electronic gear, one guy to pilot the
ultra-lite and the other guy to run the gear. Rider, Horse and
pack went cross-country, with some plans she wouldn’t share.
Angel drove, and
the old man rode in the cab with him. The two guys in the back
sat in old stuffed chairs, and drank beer from the Sanctuary
micro-brewery, kept cold in a small refrigerator run off the truck
engine. Angel had two shotguns and a nine-millimeter with him in
the cab. The guys in the back had a couple of assault rifles and
a sniper rifle as well. Both had been marines - some folks said
they’d been Navy Seals, but they only admitted to being marines.
had his tall walking staff, and a cigar - a very good cigar.
The old man gave
all the directions. Sometimes they went on main roads, sometimes
not. Sometimes they pulled off into the trees and waited until
something else went by on the road. Angel couldn’t figure how the
old man knew someone was coming, but there was no complaining as they
were making fairly good time and keeping out of trouble.
About three days
into the trip, they met up with Rider in some low hills that looked
across a vast open plain, dotted with fire lights at night, and perhaps
even some electrical lights. That night they sat around a camp
fire, made a good meal of some fresh killed and butchered deer meat
Rider and the pack provided. Everyone shared, including the pack,
except they had theirs raw.
The old man
wanted to know if there needed to be a lot of killing.
The two marines
didn’t say anything, and Angel then understood that it was Rider who
was being asked. She sat still for quite a while, and then said: I’m leaving Horse and One, Two and Five here with you.
Three and Four will go with me tonight. We’ll be a couple
of days walk-about down there, since we can only safely move at night.
I’ll let you know after I get back.
In the mean time, stay out of trouble.
She looked at
Angel: You play cards?
Don’t play with the old man, but those two can’t bluff
With that, they
all bunked down, except for Rider and Three and Four who slipped
silently into the night at one point and no one even noticed.
On the trip down
the old man had explained to Angel how the pack got its individual
names - it was another of those star-children things - a kind of joke
actually, because Rider initially didn’t like it. It had to do
with a game they played, that included the pack members. These
children ran around playing some weird version of hide and seek and
included in the game the wolf-dogs.
Since the pack
members pretty much all looked alike, only the star-children and Rider
could initially tell them apart. In the game the numbers were
used to refer to individual members of the pack, and after a
while the number-names stuck, in spite of Rider’s resistance.
The next morning
the old man had disappeared and Tom and Jerry, as the two marines had
been named by the star-children, said it was not unusual for the old
man to wander off during scouting trips. They also explained,
over a breakfast of bacon and eggs, how they were actually named at
birth William Katz and Matthew Maus, and that once they were known in
Sanctuary as Katz and Maus, Tom and Jerry they became.
There was a lot
of good camping gear in the truck, given its large size, so the waiting
for Rider to return was kind of a vacation. Tom went fly fishing
in the early evening, while Jerry showed Angel how to clean and double
check all the guns.
The old man was
back after the second night just in time for after dinner dessert.
He brought a friend, another old man, this time a Native America
looking guy who said his name was called President Obama. Some
kind of joke, but only Teller of Stories and Obama were in on it.
The two of them laughed a lot. It was in the following
morning that the strangest thing happened.
into, camp with Three and Four a little after sunrise. Obama
stood and bowed very low, almost worshipfully.
Your grace, he said, with a
bit of humor like edge.
Oh shit, she said, with
the same odd edge in her voice.
You two knock it off, said the old
Angel said, how about a little less we have secrets crap here.
If we’re about to go up against RV, I for one need to know you’re
not a bunch of fucking idiots.
There followed a
lot of looks and glances between Obama, Rider and the old man, until
Rider gave a big sigh and started speaking. Tom and Jerry were
also paying careful attention.
I named Obama “steps in shit” when I was five, ‘cause
well he did it once and I was - well I was me. So with me calling
him “steps in shit” he started calling me “your grace”. I was
raised by Hopi, and he was my adoptive grandfather. They found me
abandoned on the Navajo Res when I was about three days old.
When I was eight, I got mad at them, because they didn’t
like Bitch and the wildness I was getting into. So I wandered off
and took a long hike. Haven’t seen steps-in-shit since.
She laughed then,
deep rolling laughter out of joy and power. She knew who she was
and what she was about. Whatever was next, she was their leader
and they would die for her if she needed it. Toward the end the
wolf-dogs joined in with yips and barks and almost some dancing.
Horse rose up on her hind legs and snorted and whinnied. As
they all let it soften away, off not to far there came a howl - the
father wolf was out there, and then there were more howls all over the
dozens, perhaps hundreds, of wolves and who knows what were with them
too. Then setting moon broke full from behind some clouds, and
even Angel knew there was something more going on than anyone of them
could give voice to. The old man coughed to get their attention,
and then said to her: So?
The little girl
devil left her eyes, and a serious face was there, and she began to
RV’s making an army. At least that’s what they
think. Playing with fire to my mind. Too many crazy
people coming and joining. RV leaders must think they can control
this horse they’re making, but it isn’t to be.
I’ve seen meetings among those gathering in, the crazies,
the cannibals, the marauders, - talking to each other. Jealous,
not interested in being together, ... some of them look with feral
hunger on the RV’s camps and hoards and stuff.
But something else in play too ... Some mercs of a kind,
dressed like soldiers ... heavy gear, electronics, at least a half
dozen armored vehicles with big guns on top. They do
perimeter guard work, watch the crazies and others. A few have
trained dogs, but no match for mine ... still dangerous tho’ ... mostly
used to watch the bands, keep an eye out for small thievery, and such
One bad bunch grabbed a woman from near the RV
group-center, raped her. Next day the mercs came, took the
rapers, castrated them in public and then set them on fire with a
couple of those flame thrower things ... ugly, especially the smells ...
If you or your group acts good, the mercs are passing out
some new drugs ... people take them, lie down and dream for a while,
maybe do some sex, but no violence ... very peaceable drugs ... might
be some version of that LSD I used to hear about ...
There’s at least 2500 armed folk out there, with another
couple thousand civilians of various kinds. Plenty of food seems
like, along with good water being trucked in from some place.
I fed number Four some of those tiny tracer spy chips Tom
and Jerry gave me, told her to go take a dump as close as she could get
to the center ... Did that a couple of times, ... we might get some
intel from those ... who knows ... someone steps in it, drives over it,
who knows ... maybe Obama tracked one here ....
At that everyone
laughed. Jerry got up and went to the truck and brought out a
laptop, while Tom set up some kind of aerial on a pole held up by a
Angel asked the
questions everyone didn’t want asked ...
What if they move north? Can we stop them?
Not by ourselves, she said, not by ourselves, and I mean everyone in Sanctuary ...
we’re not enough against this.
What then? said the old man,
and Obama echoed him, what then?
Bad juju she said, evil shit. Fight fire with fire. Anyone does
what I’m thinking needs doing is going to have nasty karma from it,
nasty nasty karma.
Jerry looked up
from his laptop, he was wearing some earphones. We’re going to have to fly recon at first light tomorrow,
risk them knowing we are out here. But from the sounds of
this something is going on ... noises of people packing up, engines
firing up, some singing weird-like war songs ...
We might have to make a quick decision, she said. Lets wait a while and see if they raise dust from moving
in a certain direction, and then you fly over and take a look.
Obama and the old
man were full of frowns. But neither said anything. Both
knew war decisions belonged to those that were going to fight them.
Old men sitting peaceably at home had no business telling others
where and when and how to die.
Tom and Jerry got
out the ultra-lite and began to pre-flight it. Rider told Angel
to prep the bike as well. Then she took Obama and the old man and
sent them out into the woods, doing something they clearly didn’t want
to do. Angel saw them arguing before they left, and then saw her
kind of stand very still, and change somehow. Become something
more. Hard to describe, but the light around her seemed to shift
- like she was there and something else was there too.
After that the old man and Obama had no more objections,
and went on to do their tasks. She went off to sleep in a pile of
wolf-dogs, since neither she nor they had slept much in two days.
and Tom got on the ultra-lite. Rider gave him specific
Go out West in a big loop, first north, flying low, and
then West up high. I want you to find the water trucks, where
they are coming from. Don’t need you to scout the big groups, we
can see already today from the dust they are moving north. Lots
of folks besides us Sanctuary types live up there. They may know
about us already ... even rumors be bad enough. The moon will be
full, and there will be few if any clouds. You should be able to
see by that as well.
Regular water for a few thousand people is a big deal.
Its one of the ways they are paying the crazies and such.
Tom was back
about two hours after moon-rise. The ultra-lite didn’t really
need a runway and just floated in motor off over some low trees and
landed soft. By that time, Obama and the old man were brewing
something in a big pot over the fire. Wasn’t food, smelled weird,
but not necessarily bad.
Jerry set up the
laptop to screen for everyone to look at what Tom’s digital cameras had
caught. The source of the water had been found. Obama
That’s a cistern system some new agers built in the last
days of the before-time. When the monsoons come in July and
August around here, they captured all that rain in their cisterns.
Old tech, very good. Have to process it to make it
drinkable though. Looks like those buildings there are where they
filter it, and maybe add some chemicals, although I don’t know where
they get the chlorine and stuff like that today.
We are going to poison the water, she said. Poison the source. Something real bad. Lots of collateral damage, there’s children with these folks. Pregnant women too. No other way to stop them. These are hard times, and the RV’s should know by now ... what you sow, you reap.
Tom and Jerry
swore, together. Tom said: I thought I was finished with weapons of mass
destruction! Rider answered back, quickly, in that quiet no non-sense
voice she had: More like weapons of mass desperation.
Angel then made a
bark-like scared and troubled laugh. Some part of him thought it
was funny given what he’d been up to before running into Rider and
Sanctuary. Obama and the old man just looked way too old, too
sad, too unable to stop what has to be.
angry. The pack growled, very low. Then the wolves in the
woods around them started to howl again. Even the air seemed
heavy, and the moon hid itself behind some clouds.
5,000 people? said Angel.
Just like that, we kill 5,000 people. Won’t they
notice something when people start to die?
Rider looked at
the old man. He spoke ...
Bugs, he said. Like Dysentery, Cholera, water born illnesses. Bad
bugs. Parasites from animal shit. They’ll think the water’s
clean, because it comes from a clean source. Won’t be looking for
that kind of attack. They’ll be rationing water anyway, see to
everyone getting a fair share every day. Some may survive, but
those that do will be too ill to help any others. They’ll all
have drunk a couple days worth of these bugs before they even notice
the first ones is getting sick.
Obama spoke next:
Those mercs, you think they don’t take care of their own
water, have their own chemicals and stuff. Former military would
have all kinds of stuff maybe?
Sure, she said. But they won’t know who, might look for awhile
like some kind of weird play by the RV’s themselves or some one of the
other groups. This makes a kinds of chaos. That’s were
Angel comes in. He goes with me and Horse and pack. On the
bike. Does something to make a distraction, while I dope the
water. If I can get to the trucks, one or two, I can also pollute
their plumbing systems - how they pump and stuff. Their guards
chase off after Angel, and I sneak inside the grounds where the
cisterns are, do the bad things.
With luck they won’t kill Angel and we’ll get him back.
With luck they won’t kill me, but then they wouldn’t survive
pack. Lots of ways this can go bad. You’ll know soon enough
if it works. Old man can help you travel parallel and watch what
I doubt they’ll get a hundred miles before the whole mass
collapses into chaos and anarchy. We, or you, watch and see if
what survives tries to go further north. You should be able to
handle whatever’s left, which I guarantee will not be much, and not be
strong or healthy.
Sobered by these
thoughts, they all fell silent. The fire crackled as Obama fed it
some more wood. Jerry brought out a harmonica, and played some
sad songs, some slow-dancing cowboy blues. Some of the wolves
lurking in the woods around them joined in again. The moon came
out once more.
Angel thought he
saw a couple of tears on Rider’s face, but didn’t say anything.
What was there to say? Hard times, harder choices.
The plan worked,
The guards at the
cisterns shot Angel in the thigh with a rifle, a through and through,
no arteries or bones hit. He fell off the bike which decided to
suicide and blow up when it crashed. The guards came out to
kill him, but the pack showed up and after a few exchanges of growls
and shots, the guards decided where the better part of valor lay.
Rider got inside
and did the deed. The guards left Angel alone figuring he was
wolf meat anyway, which enabled him to tie off the wound with part of
his shirt and his belt. The pack led him to a nearby ravine,
where he waited for Rider and the night.
He got to ride
back behind Rider on Horse, which led him in the direction of certain
ideas, but she made it clear that he wasn’t yet a true man, so he best
keep those kinds of ideas to himself.
They were a
couple of days late getting back to the truck partly because Horse had
to carry them both, and they had to do a work around and get ahead of
the RV army to catch up to Tom and Jerry and the old man. Obama
had gone home, wherever that was.
There was some
beer shared around when it was seen that they had survived.
They followed the army at distance while it slowly and
haphazardly traveled up the old interstate highway north from the
Phoenix area toward what remained of Flagstaff. The saguaro
cactus desert was giving way to pine forests, near the former Prescott
and Sedona areas of Arizona, when the army just stopped moving
It had been more
and more stringing out - elongating - and then it just stopped moving
at all. Parts of it burned brightly at night - people probably
burning bodies. Trucks and other more mobile vehicles broke away,
but soon they too stopped. Kind of like rats leaving a sinking
ship, only to die about half a day or so out.
about doing an ultra-lite flyover, but the old man said no, and when he
looked at Rider, she just shook her head yes, and slipped away with
Horse and pack in the night, this time dressed in her gear, swords and
face paint and all.
Tom and Jerry and
Angel took up positions watching. Jerry unpacked the sniper
rifle, just in case. She was five days moving through the
huge killing field. Carrion birds were everywhere, and the wolves
that had followed them drifted close by on their way to the killing
field, letting themselves be seen, but made no move toward their camp.
The old man
gathered herbs and stuff, taking care of Angel’s wound and then mounted
the ultra-lite and took off following the path the pack and Horse and
Rider had taken, and marked. Through the sniper scope Jerry
provided descriptions, mostly of the old man, who kept himself far more
visible than did Rider. The old man was making fires, and the
herb smells sometimes drifted near where they waited.
heard singing floating on the winds that came up at night. Tom
said it was Rider, letting out her grief. The three men
drank no beer, hardly talked. What was there to say?
The old man came
back first and set Tom and Jerry to making what he called a
“sweat-lodge”. When Rider came back she had two knife
wounds, one on her face. When they looked at her, she just had
one word: mercs.
Jerry wanted to
sew the cuts up, and she just shook her head no. What was weird
was that the pack wasn’t with her, and when asked she just shook her
head no again.
The old man set
them to make the fire for the sweat-lodge and they all four watched her
take off all her bloody clothes and burn them in the fire. Naked
and bloody she stood and then broke the pair of swords over a knee, as
well as the two small knives she normally carried in her boots.
Later Tom said privately that she should not have been able to do
that. Swordless and clothesless she crawled into the Lodge.
When she came out
a couple of hours later, Obama walked into the camp carrying a
beautiful fringed and beaded deer cloth dress and some calf-high
moccasins, as well as replacements for her usual shirt and pants.
After helping her dress in the dress, he had her sit by the fire
and he brushed out her hair and wove it into a long braid. No one
spoke a word.
The next morning
the pack arrived, bringing with them about 150 survivors, many children
and women, two of those pregnant. About noon a strong wind
came up, and the fires in that huge killing field increased in ferocity
and soon the whole desert there was ablaze. Periodically
unexploded ordinance went off, with loud bangs and spitting pieces of
It was hard not
to see this as beautiful, and when Obama stood tall, facing the
fireworks, arms out spread, and sang what had to be a prayer before
wandering off again, it was difficult not to feel this awfulness was
also something holy.
They were two
weeks getting back to Sanctuary, but the ultra-lite had gone on ahead,
and over a hundred people, including families, came down to greet
the newcomers and explain to them their possibilities.
Teller of Stories
told tales of Sanctuary every night around the campfires as they
traveled north. For the first week Tom and Jerry took game, along
with the pack so as to feed everyone. When the families from
Sanctuary arrived, a bit of joy began to bloom, and the shock of recent
events started to fade some.
didn’t talk, not even the children. The one with the most
words every day was Teller of Stories. Here is the story he told
the first night on the trail north. Keep in mind that the way he
tells it is as important as the story.
He begins as the
campfire burns low, and tired adults and children huddling together get
ready to enter the realm of Morpheus - the realm of forgetting.
Everybody dreams. Night dreams and day dreams are not the same. In night dreams I entertain visitors. In day dreams I entertain myself. In night dreams the dead visit. In the day, I am among the living, even when dreaming.
Fantasy is good for the soul. The before-time died of too little fantasy and imagination. The story tellers tried, but the number lovers did not listen ... they were too busy counting their gold.
A spirit-mind wrapped in numbers is cold and has no heart. A civilization without a heart commits suicide, in one way or another. Loving numbers is to already be dead to life.
The newly dead will visit us all over the next months. Out beyond us was a great sacrifice. Many of you here loved those who died out there. That love is a warmth they will seek. They will not be ready right away to leave the earth-time for the star-time. They will need us, and we will need them.
So in the night dreams we will entertain visitors.
But to do that rightly we have work to do. To help them and to help ourselves we have to remember, even the things we don’t want to remember.
In the before-time no one much understood about the dead. Few believed there was life after life. So the dead were not important, and the living suffered for ignoring them. A science of just numbers and no imagination killed civilization as surely as did the gold counters. So too a religion of stale ideas, frozen in time and space.
The before-time got old and then died. We of today live in the in-between-time. We live after the before-time, but not yet in the new-time.
We live in chaos and anarchy - the burning fire before the new Phoenix rises from the cold ashes of destruction.
For the new-time to come, we have to remember the imagination, and lose our attachment to dead and cold ideas. So in the next days, once we get to what might become your new home - the place we call Sanctuary - we have to start to remember those who just died.
So when you get to the campfires in Sanctuary be ready to tell stories about the life you were leading. Even the bad things, even the horrible and terrible things. Especially the awful things, the things we most want not to remember.
It will be easier than you think because the dead will come and visit in the night and remind you.
Some times we call these kinds of dreams: Nightmares. They scare us, and we might even wake up screaming. But I promise you, if you tell of the scary dark things that visit in the night, over time they will visit less and less.
They want to leave, but before they can leave the earth-time to go to the star-time, they need to finish something. They need to finish finding out who they are. They got lost in life and didn’t find out who they are, and so when they die they don’t know, and they depend on us to tell them.
The great majority of the before-time civilization didn’t know what a human being was. They believed we were just things, bits of stuff, bound up in rules over which we had no powers. We came out of stuff, lived as stuff and then when we died, the stuff fell apart - dust to dust was the old saying.
Problem was the before-time civilization didn’t know how to count things of the heart, or count things of the imagination. That civilization taught us confusion and unreality, all the time claiming they were giving us reality. Why did something, to be real, have to be able to be counted?
So there will be work to come, but no hurry to do the work. It is work because it is hard, although at the same time it is play. It is hard because we are not used to doing it, not used to living out of the imagination and the heart to the degree we need to so live. We have to learn to stretch our imaginative and heart-string muscles as it were.
The place you are going - this Sanctuary place - a lot of people there have traveled roads just as hard as yours. They will know what you have done, and what you have yet to do. They will help you be patient. They will help you not do, and teach you how to take time. They have been lost themselves and are still finding themselves and know a lot about all of that.
While we travel to what might become your new home, there is no need to talk, unless you want to talk. Rest, day-dream, eat good food, get better. If you have night visitors, share that or don’t share that. There isn’t just one way to do this finding yourself. There is just your way, your truth, your dreams.
Remember though, none of this we have to do alone.
That’s why we are on earth and in same-time together - to learn
to share and to be good company.
One night, just
before the whole crowd - the new people and the Sanctuary people that
had come to greet them - got back to Sanctuary, Rider spoke to the
Some of the mercenaries were alive when I did the killing
field ritual work. We fought, I won. A couple didn’t die
right away, and I helped them be talkative. They told me a really
The RV people weren’t moving North looking for us ...
they were running. Something was coming toward them from further
South. Not in a couple of weeks but surely in a half of a year at
It was dark, something connected to before-time drug
gangs and ancient Toltec sacrificial rites. Thousands and
thousands of people, needing food and water, and fleeing the growing
heat of the warming. Like a mad army of locusts, stripping bare
all the land that it crosses over.
My guess is we have to abandon Sanctuary, and move
further North, much further. My other guess is that that old man
teller-of-stories knows something about where to move to.
Some of his stories in Sanctuary hint at this. I
remember in one of his stories there was a place, in northern Oregon
and southern Washington, where four now active volcanoes made a
geographical cross. Some place were magic might come to rule one
I’m going back to the killing field in a few days.
Could use some help. I want to turn it into a warning
barrier like on our dusty road. Not exactly the same, but
something that might give a pause to the locusts - get their attention
and make them think about where they are going and if they really want
to get there ...
Tom and Jerry went with her and a couple of dozen others from Sanctuary - veterans, people who knew how to make IEDs and such - bombs and traps - both men and women. Tough folks. Determined folks.
Angel wanted to
go to, but Racy had come down with the Sanctuary people and told him
that if he went he would die, and she didn’t want him to die. He
looked to Rider and Teller-of-Stories and they both nodded. Made
him mad, though. Made him feel impotent.
Gabriel, who had also come down, took Angel by the hand and with a
blanket they went away from the camp and into the woods. Time to start to teach you how to be a true man, she said.
She was 20 years older than he was, and full of surprises. When Racy saw them come back to the camp in the morning, she told Angel: Might be time for you to get a new tattoo, something with a grin like the one running all over your usual sour face.
When everyone got back to Sanctuary there was a lot of sadness and anger over the idea that they had to pick up and move. So much effort and life had been invested, and the community was torn into smaller groups, each thinking they knew best what to do, including some who were planning on not leaving.
The new people -
the survivors of the RV debacle - didn’t know what to make of it.
Who could blame them? The chaos of the time had made it
once more into the souls of Sanctuary folk, and their hard won idyllic
life was crumbling. It was as if some kind of vacation from
madness was over, and now it was time to once more enter into the
struggle with cultural and individual insanity.
All kinds of
arguments came and went, including some violence. Finally the
star-children called a community meeting, and that united action -
rather unfamiliar and unexpected - started to sober people up.
The star-children requested a feast and a festival as well. Whatever’s happening it’s time to party, sang Racy, as
she danced and twirled through the community for three days, never
seeming to stop or sleep.
The mood of
everyone changed and the star-children seemed behind it.
The flaring of
tempers subsided, work set aside was started up again, people went to
the bathhouses, clothes were cleaned and even some new fashions
appeared. The star-children began making remarkable masks, and
handing them out to everyone. Each mask was individual.
The festival didn’t start at a particular time, it just sort of
grew - everyone was slowly being caught up in it, and food that maybe
needed to be eaten, and not saved or abandoned if they fled, was turned
into fancy dishes.
hoarded liquor gave it up. Some people started giving presents.
The folk from the RV would wake up in the morning to baskets of
bright colored new outfits in their rooms. The star-children
promised a drama one night to come - a play they said.
Then Tom and
Jerry and the folks who had gone to lay a delaying maze in the path of
the locusts got back. Rider and Horse and pack were not with
them. For several hours the party-mood broke - it had had a
quality of mania ... of excessive fake celebration to cover over the
anger and the sadness.
Angel and Gabriel were now a couple and brought some folding chairs so as to sit together at the huge community meeting that was called by Tom and Jerry, where they would tell the story that might or might not answer everyone’s burning question: Where was Rider?
The story was
more strange than expected, and Rider had been a lot strange ... for
years. Tom spoke:
The night we were done laying the traps and IEDs and stuff, we had a little party because the next day we were going north - coming home or coming here at any rate. It was a full moon with a clear sky.
The smell of rot and decay was mostly gone. Fires we had set and help from carrion eaters had pretty much cleaned the area up.
Rider had been packing all day, and I noticed she was packing odd, loading up Horse as if she wasn’t going to ride her. She’d made a travois too, one of those two pole things a horse can drag in order to carry extra stuff. And, made smaller one’s for the pack. We didn’t ask questions - you know how is with her, when she wants to tell you something, she tells you - otherwise no point to ask.
She packed food and water and feed grains and other practical stuff. No weapons though. She’d broken her swords and thrown away her guns - you must have heard about that already. Could have picked up all kinds to replace, just laying everywhere on the ground, but she didn’t.
We were eating around a campfire when she walked up naked as the day she was born, and threw the dress Obama had given her, plus her new regular work duds on the fire. I’ll try to say it as exactly as she said it to us:
“Going south”, she said. “Going to be a goddess to some sorry folks. They need me to help them transform the locust thing to something better. Might not work, though. Serious bad people with them. Magic people. Dangerous people. Might be like a war. I dream of being crucified. The tree people and the rock people and the four-legged and the winged people - they are all with me. I won’t be alone. The thunder and lightening folk too - the storm people - they will try to watch my back.
“Still, the Dark Ones carry the bomb, and some other stuff, some stuff the old science didn’t know was possible. Got to try to stop them, - if not stop them at least mess with their heads a little bit - make their schemes have holes and weaknesses.
“Don’t be sad - its why I was born in this time. With you, I was just getting ready for this - learning, practicing for this.
“Love each other if you can.”
That was the last thing she said. She turned around
and walked away, Horse and pack following her south and into the night.
We were basically speechless. I mostly still am. Its
one of those things that makes complete sense at the same time it makes
you crazy just to know it happens.
over the community fire. No one spoke or moved, until the
star-children got up and wearing their personal masks performed their
play. It was all mime - all silent.
Over the next
days, the community talked. The story the star-children told was
about them splitting up, and traveling different paths. Not
everyone would go to the same place. Most would eventually get to
the new Sanctuary - up north in the magic place where the volcano cross
was. Teller of Stories told us the names of the mountains that
were now active volcanoes, each connected to one of the Four
Directions: To the South, Mt. Hood. To the North, Mt. Rainer. To the
West, Mt. St. Helens, and to the East, Mt. Adams.
A long discussion
was had about what to do with the physical structures of Sanctuary
South as it was now being called. Some folks wanted to destroy
it, and others wanted to leave it behind. Some of that was
settled when Heartmender Smith spoke at one of the community fires, and
announced he was staying. Some people should not be moved, and
with some grace from the Mystery, this home might survive in a way.
Once that was in
the air, the star-children starting planting various kinds of ivy
everywhere. They didn’t explain what they were up to, but
soon others caught on. Nature was being evoked to perhaps hide
Sanctuary South. Some others did smash certain things, and said
that if the place looked like a ruin, it might be a good idea in case
some few wanted to try to continue to live there.
The road to the killing field was wrecked. If someone came from that direction all they would find was rusted out cars and other debris common to almost everywhere else. Explosives were used to make it look like some kind of war had maybe taken place there several years ago.
groups got ready to leave, - the first ones were ready in a couple of
months time - the wealth of Sanctuary South was divided up.
Cars, ultralights, glass and pottery works tools and
knowledge, the Library duplicated, ... if it could be moved and packed
it was. Of course the animals - the sheep and the goats and the
cows and the chickens and the horses and the dogs and the cats and the
pet birds, and trained falcons and other fauna were spread out among
all. Seeds of course, all kinds of seeds and plant cuttings
If people got
heated up over who was to have what, usually one of the star-children,
or Teller of Stories or Heartmender Smith would show up and help
resolve conflict. It was hard - leave takings on such a scale
could never be easy.
different skills organized themselves into what they called guilds.
They spread their knowledge around. Warriors and weavers
and healers and teachers and veterinarians - they all made sure that
every group had someone who knew how to do stuff - not just book
knowledge like the Library, but practical hands-on knowledge.
happened. For example, every time there was a big group leaving,
wolves came to the nearby hills and sang. Birds too, during the
day and night, collected and flew nearby. Crows especially, and
ravens. Once in a while larger animals, that the community had
known were out there and mostly had not hunted, showed themselves at a
distance as if saying goodbye.
Even the weather
seemed to cooperate. Nothing extreme, nothing unusual.
Rain, sun, snow, clouds, wind - all mild and normal. The
ivy planted by the star-children grew at a furious rate - for reasons
no one could explain, other than that it seemed to be needed.
The last groups
to leave noticed that you had to be far inside the town to even know it
was there. At the end, when no one else was going to leave,
there were only about three dozen folk, all clustered around the House
of Graceful Souls. Heartmender Smith of course, plus Angel and
Gabriel, and of course, Racy. A couple of dogs, some chickens and
other food sources.
A deep winter had
come, there was plenty of fire wood and stored food. The snows
were soft and fluffy, the temperature not too cold. The House of
Graceful Souls could be lived in without anyone having to go outside.
On Christmas Day
the pack showed up, seemingly investigating the status of things.
They wandered about the town, nosing into every nook and cranny.
They slept in the House for a few days, next to people.
Then one morning they were gone.
A few years later
no one would have been found there alive. A serious
investigation, knowing where to look, might have found some graves, one
of which had the name Heartmender Smith on it. No stones for
Angel or Gabriel or Racy, though. Like the rest of Sanctuary
South, they were now one with the wind.