Left on Paradise (5 page)

Heather looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. She’d told her parents she’d be out until eleven or so. Since she was bunking with them, it was mindful to give them a little privacy. After all, it was their dream being fulfilled. Now a memory of her parents came to mind—when she once heard them in the night—and she quickly suppressed it. It was unseemly to dwell on such things and Heather decided to wait outside another fifteen minutes. She sat on the deck for a time, then lay on her back. The clouds were breaking up and a half moon was clearly seen. The stars were indeed bright at sea and Heather remembered how ancient navigators crossed the oceans with little more than a sextant and an unclouded sky. Columbus and Vespuchi and ...

The Pilgrims.

She laughed a little to remember that she too was a pilgrim now. She closed her eyes and remembered grade school stories of idealistic ventures and misbegotten plans, of hard winters and failing crops, of friendly natives and grateful feasts, of difficulties endured and thanksgiving given, of potatoes and corn and turkey.

It had been a long day and Heather fell asleep to the soft pitch of the seas and the gentle caress of warm winds. An hour later, a Russian-speaking sailor woke her and pointed to his back and the hard wood deck, reminding the young woman of the backache to be suffered for a night off a bunk. Heather thanked him for his consideration and returned to her room. It was past midnight when she opened the door, only to discover that her parents remained out: their bed was empty and unmade and the lamp remained lit.

Heather kicked her shoes off, brushed her teeth, and went to bed without changing from shirt and shorts to nightgown. Just after she unfastened her bra and loosened her shorts, Heather set her alarm so she could shower before breakfast (since the Godsons had announced that a public meeting would follow the morning meal). As the young woman dimmed the lights and closed her eyes, she wondered whether the young women on the
Mayflower
had gazed upon the same stars and dreamed the same desires as she—whether they too longed for undying love and hoped for a good life.

It wasn’t long before she slept.

4

The Flower of the First of May
Compact

One hundred and two people, not all of them adults, crowded into the unadorned state room—which was little more than an improvised mess hall never intended to hold so many guests. Elbow pressed elbow and knee brushed knee—though babies remained in the back of the room while older children sat on the floor with books and writing tablets and younger children played in a corner with educational toys purchased by Kit at an upscale toy boutique. One of the babies nursed from her mother and three others were cradled in the arms of anxious-appearing men.

Ryan stood before a lectern at the front of the hall. A half-filled glass of orange juice sat on a stand beside the lectern and a cup of coffee was in his hand. He chewed the final bite from a breakfast roll as he surveyed his audience, then rubbed the crumbs from his fingers and spoke. His voice carried to the back of the room, so he switched off the microphone rigged to the lectern.

“Is everyone here?”

A few people clapped.

“Then it’s time to begin,” Ryan said. “For today, ladies and gentlemen, is the first day of a new calendar. In what promises to be a truly great society.”

Several people cheered and a dozen others clapped.

“We’re going to make a new world: a progressive one.”

A score of voices rang out.

“And we’re going to do it now.”

Everyone clapped and cheers rang through the room. Even on the bridge, the crew heard the roar of excitement and wondered what was afoot. Only in the engine room did the pump and grind of the ship’s great pistons prevent the crew from sharing in the moment. Only there did the fire and smoke of the world’s work obfuscate the liberal acclamation.

As the cheers died down, Ryan stood before the lectern, grasping its sides with his hands, eyes staring straight ahead and shoulders pulled back. He panned the room slow and deliberate as he spoke.

“It was I,” the actor declared, “who conceived this dream and it was I who purchased this island and gathered our provisions. It was I who posted announcements for this great enterprise and sorted your applications—all with Kit’s help, I hasten to add. But it was each one of you who left your comforts and security to tame a jungle. It was each one of you who uprooted yourselves from the old world to begin a new one. It was each one of you who gave up father and mother and sister and brother for the sake of this adventure. You are the true hope and destiny of all mankind. There are doctors and nurses among you who left lucrative careers to heal without pay. There are university professors who resigned tenured positions to teach mankind to live in peace and engineers who’ve forsaken family and friend to build a new civilization. The new land is you. All of you. Give yourselves a hand.”

The crowd cheered wildly for itself. Upraised hands clapped hard and lowered hands slapped together.

“Every one of you,” Ryan continued, “has devoted your life to this enterprise. Some have given much and others even more, but now we stand as equals: each one of us ready to sacrifice prestige, honor, and our very lives for the good of humanity. None of us has held back. What is owned by one is owned by all. What is given to one is given to all. No one will lack what he needs and no one will need what he lacks.”

Now the crowd roared so loud Ryan couldn’t be heard. He waved several times for quiet, but each time failed to quell the enthusiasm. Finally, he stepped away from the podium and waited several minutes for the crowd to settle.

“We have business to tend to,” Ryan said after a review of his notes. “As I explained in yesterday’s letter, the government of this island will pass from Russia to the community itself only after we’ve ratified a formal charter. Did anyone not receive a copy of the handout? Raise your hand.”

Two hands went up and Ryan asked Kit to pass copies to them.

“I’ll summarize,” Ryan announced, “the contents while you review. By international treaty, we need to submit a governing charter. Therefore, we intend—if you please, that is—to organize a basic charter while on this ship. A copy can be faxed to Geneva from the bridge and the captain himself will deliver the original when he returns to Russia. With that charter, we’ll cease being a party of idealistic dreamers as they call us in the old world and become a legitimate government recognized by international law—with formal rights and obligations. We are a people and we will become a state.”

Cheers broke out once more and Ryan was forced to wait several minutes for the noise to subside.

“And our government,” Ryan continued, “truly shall be of the people, by the people, for the people. That’s why we’ve been so careful to select only proven progressives and liberals who’ve marched against racism, campaigned against pollution, protested capital punishment, resisted militarism, and—I think that I can say it out loud in this room without fear—voted for Green and Democratic candidates. You weren’t picked on the basis of equal opportunity laws, but on the basis of your commitments and your character. Having given yourselves completely to humankind, a state of paradise now is entrusted to you. Brothers and sisters, look around. These are your executives and your legislators and your judiciary. Here are the only princes and kings and emperors and presidents and justices and mayors and bosses and fathers and mothers you’ll ever know again.”

The crowd again broke into long applause while Ryan took a sip of coffee and exchanged a few words with his wife. When he returned to the podium and raised his arms for quiet, the cheers slowed.

“Once upon a time,” Ryan said, “we tried to create a new society. In Selma and San Francisco. In Berkeley and Chicago. We knew no law in those days but love, as our artists and prophets sang. But politicians and lawyers and generals and bankers never could accept us. They wanted to keep their power, prestige, and profit. And they crushed us. We can be honest here: the sixties were a victory for conservatives and their silent majority. Nixon crushed our head even if we bruised his heel. And I’m not sure we did even that.”

The crowd fell silent.

“They called us a counterculture,” the speaker now dropped his voice so that many in the audience were forced to strain to hear his words, “as if freedom and equality could ever be mere dissent movements rather than the rightful inheritance of all humankind. They laughed at us, fought us, and even co-opted some of us. And now they’ve betrayed their own constitution to steal from us what is ours. They condemn the rise of illegitimate births in America. Well, we condemn the advent of illegitimate democracy. Dubya, Cheney, Powell, and the whole lot of them are bas ...”

Ryan stopped himself mid-sentence. “Well,” he said with a smile, “they’re illegitimate.”

A few catcalls and a couple whistles sounded from the crowd.

“Still,” Ryan continued, “our noble dream will become reality. There will be hard times, I’m sure. Many of us have left family and friend for the sake of this new colony and we’ll certainly miss them. But, as I explain in the letter, we’ve made provision to rotate in additional inhabitants after six months and to allow vacations to the United States after a year. That’s assuming, of course, that American authorities accept our passports. We’ll need to endure a full year without seeing the mothers who birthed us or the loved ones we’ve left behind. Look to your left and to your right. These are your fathers and mothers and sisters and lovers. Together, we’ll make a true paradise, so remember who you are and love the ones near you.”

As Ryan concluded his remarks, he stepped from the podium and hugged his wife, afterwards stepping into the crowd to shake hands with the men and kiss several of the women. The audience also turned inward. Couples embraced and strangers shook hands. Men and women spoke words of good cheer to each other, then embraced and kissed. Everyone hugged the children. Not one person was left alone, neither the plain nor the pretty. Every woman was adored and every man admired. Yet their love remained almost untarnished—for this night brought the reunion of mother and daughter and father and son and brother and sister.

Several minutes passed as Ryan let the crowd settle before returning to the podium. When he did, he was professional and to the point.

“Now,” Ryan said, moving his eyes over the assembly, “we have work to do. Hold your applause until the day’s work is done.”

The audience remained quiet.

“First,” Ryan said, “by a show of hands, who wishes to establish a democracy?”

The actor scanned the crowd and saw two hundred hands raised. When he asked whether anyone opposed democracy, not one hand was raised.

“It’s unanimous,” Ryan declared. “We’re a democracy.”

Ryan sipped from his water before continuing.

“Next,” Ryan said, “those who prefer parliamentary democracy after the European style gather to my left. Those who prefer a checks and balances system after the American pattern move to my right.”

It took ten minutes for the crowd to separate in the crowded room, but after it did, the tally became clear. Every single citizen voted for parliamentary democracy, many shouting the Bush triumph was enabled by an archaic political system that thwarted the will of the people—a form of government originally constructed to line the pockets of Yankee capitalists and Southern slavers. It also was decided within the hour that all significant political decisions would be brought before the entire citizenry via direct democracy. Allowing every person to vote on critical decisions was judged the only way to ensure that all ethnic, gender, and even ideological distinctions were fairly represented. Moreover, the majority voted that everyone past puberty would be awarded the vote since the most crucial private and public interests come into being at the advent of sexual maturity. In short, the form of government was deliberated and determined before the first coffee break.

It took until noon to decide the legislative assembly also would serve as the judiciary. Trials of accused criminals were to be conducted before the assembled people—each of whom was to be instructed in matters of the law. In this way, political dominance by a legal class could be avoided. Several trial lawyers objected, but were outvoted and overruled. When the lawyers argued only legal experts could protect civil rights, majority spokespersons observed that a community of liberals wasn’t likely to face much crime in the first place, and if it did, the political ideals of its citizenry would prevent the unconscionable abuses that law-and-order conservatives inflicted on the American judicial system.

“Where will we find,” one young man articulated, “the poverty and prejudice that create crime? We need neither attorney nor judge. We must presume innocence, not guilt. For our judges and juries as well as the accused.”

Neither was an independent executive branch established (from fear of a Nixon-like imperial presidency). Instead, the citizens decided to create an Executive Council of the People’s Will—an executive and administrative body of five delegates slated to serve two-week terms of office beginning on the first and third Monday of each calendar month. Four delegates would be drawn from each of the four neighborhoods and the fifth representative selected from staff headquarters. The Small Council, as the Executive Council of the People’s Will was nicknamed, was scheduled to meet weekly and submit a written report to each convocation of the entire electorate in a General Council of the People’s Will. The General Will, as the communal assembly soon came to be called, was to meet as often as necessary to resolve legal, constitutional, and political issues by public deliberation and direct vote. It alone was considered the final guardian of democracy and interpreter of law. Following Ryan’s recommendation, the assembly voted to name the new country the State of Paradise.

Lunch was served at noon and the rest of the day was spent dividing one hundred and two settlers into separate villages—or neighborhoods as they also were called. Though it had been decided to establish four twenty-four-person villages, considerable debate was needed to resolve the complexities of ethnic composition. Some voters thought racism best eradicated by integrating all peoples of whatever color while others thought is better to let each racial group live after its own fashion. A few even wanted the matter resolved by lot. After three hours of debate, it was agreed by a 68-20 vote (with fourteen under-aged children not voting) to integrate.

Ryan consoled the losers with remembrance that no minority would be oppressed within the wider community. He also reminded them that all inhabitants would be free to intermingle as they themselves chose. It also was decided that a neighborhood of professional staff would oversee and distribute a central store of critical and otherwise scarce supplies. This village would include: physician Dr. Marc Graves, nurse practitioner Cynthia Fallows, anthropologist Dr. Tomas Morales, psychologist Dr. Janine Erikson, sociologist Dr. Scott Law, and veterinarian Dr. Mary Vander Mare.

After organizing a framework for local communities, the people selected their neighborhoods. By voice vote it was decided to choose inhabitants by lottery rather than individual choice to guard against cliques and hurt feelings. Ryan loaded a laptop with a database that included every inhabitant’s name, race, age, family status, and personal preferences and the assembly set parameters for neighborhoods during an hour-long discussion. After consensus was reached regarding selection criteria, Ryan clicked his mouse and the computer’s screen flashed for an instant as the database configured several hundred possible neighborhoods—each one no more than fifty percent Caucasian and no less than fifty percent female. A kindergartner with blond cornrows and fair skin was asked to choose a number between one and six hundred twenty-four—and selected both of her favorite numbers: four and seventeen. Lucky twenty-one, as many called it, was used to select the actual inhabitants of villages from the many potential populations. The villages determined (as if by divine election), rosters then were printed and distributed to volunteers who called the neighborhoods into existence from the four corners of the room. During the next few minutes, most villagers introduced themselves in the cramped corners of the hall while the professional staff met in the middle of the room.