Out of Exodia (17 page)

Chapter 12 The Truth

From the tenth page of the
third Ledger:

There appeared a desert. And
next to the desert the hills had grown to mountains. The highest
mount hid the truth. He climbed alone until the thunder rumbled
beneath him and he saw the eagle’s breadth of wing.

A QUIET CONFUSION embraces the camp.
They ignored my warning last night. This morning’s clouded sunrise
shows me dull faces and stumbling wanderers. Even children have
drunk the ciders; their eyes are coated with a gray film, their
stares vacant. At least three quarters of the Reds have indulged,
but none of the Grays. Perhaps fear or grief has broken their
addiction. Two of the judges have succumbed, but not Harmon or
Blake or Barrett’s father. And Mira is as sober as Korzon or
Teague.

The morning is warm, muggy, the sky
hints of rain. Our guiding cloud blends with the rainclouds. The
loaves of bread begin to fall as if they’re the first drops. Those
who stumble about don’t even reach for the food. Instead they kick
coldly at the lumps or press a foot down to flatten them to the
earth, pressing them into saucers.

The majority of families have stayed in
the iron lodges. A few tents are interspersed among the trees—those
of the healers—but most of the others who set up tents did so on
the road. I see the judges moving among their guardianships,
reprimanding fathers, mothers, and shaking the shoulders of the
incoherent.

Barrett’s father is the only judge to
ignore those under his jurisdiction and to speak to me instead. His
eyes are red, but sincere. He holds to his chest the same two worn
belt sacks I’d seen him clutch at Barrett’s funeral. Suddenly I
realize what must be in the sacks. Since Barrett’s death I’d
blocked the thought of the ledgers from my mind.

“
Bram, all this time …” he
pauses, blinks twice, stretches open the mouth of one of the sacks
and fans out the ledgers, “my son … he had these journals with him.
Accounting ledgers, really, they’d use anything they could find
after the Suppression … but, these ledgers were important to him.”
I nod, willing him to finish. His pain is substantial. “You should
read them. This, this road incident is predicted here.” He has all
the ledgers out, holding them in his hands like precious treasure.
“I don’t know where he stole them from. He was a little thief, you
know.” His voice breaks.

I take the ledgers, thanking him, but I
don’t tell him I’ve read them many times. He rolls up the empty
sacks and stuffs them in his own belt bag. He wants to say
something else, but he turns instead and pretends to search out a
loaf of bread for himself.

I press my thumbs against the covers. I
wonder if the words on these pages will rearrange themselves to
help us get to Ronel’s camp. I studied them hard with Barrett and
Harmon, yet I don’t remember anything that could be interpreted as
a prediction about these Grays, the battle, their
addiction.

I look briefly at the opening pages.
Then my heart gives a staccato burst as I reach pages eight, nine,
ten. It’s all right here. I wonder at the amazing intricacies of
these words, that they can be read and deciphered one way years ago
and differently today.

The water, the wells, the battles, the
cave-dwellers, the addiction. All here.

I close my eyes and think
again of Sana’s long ago predictions:
addiction near, raid contained, iron candidate, a road
incident.
All so clear now. Another one
forms: dread inaction. I can barely breathe through my rushing
heartbeats. So much from one lamb’s death—
carnation died
.

I make a jarring connection
and nearly scream the words, “
Carnation
died
. Car. Nation.” These people—these
iron lodgers—are their own small nation, still driving cars while
the rest of our country struggles with primitive
transportation.

* * *

Bram’s sudden eruption of fractured
thought, shouting about cars and nations, brought Harmon to his
side.

“
Brother?”

“
Car nation
died.”

“
What?” Harmon gripped his
brother’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? I mean, aside from half the camp
wandering stoned.”

“
We have to leave.
Immediately.”

“
They’re in no condition to
travel. Let’s give them a day. Besides, the cloud has disappeared.
Which way would we go?”

Bram suddenly looked up. Whatever spell
he’d been under broke with Harmon’s question.

“
Where’s Malcolm? We have
to leave now. No … I have to leave. Staying is not an option.” He
murmured two more words. Harmon barely made out the phrase: dread
inaction.

* * *

I’m about to set off alone leaving
Lydia huddled with her mother who drank the cider. Harmon holds the
rod, paces back and forth, and keeps his eyes down. He’s in charge
while I’m gone. He doesn’t understand why I have to act. I’m not
sure I do either except that something pulls me toward the hills. I
tell them I might be gone for several days. Harmon nods and pats me
on the back; Lydia smiles, presses her cheek against mine; her
mother drools.

I cross the fields, noting the crops
had been corn and wheat and beans. Like the vision I’d had. Some of
the uneven rows are ready for harvesting; the edges of the fields
are rimmed with black ash and decay.

Black ash. That’s how I feel. Burned
out. Too many problems. Why do I have this burden of all these
people on me? Why do I have to practically carry them like infants?
Did I take an oath? Did I ask for this job?

As I get through the last field I look
back. I can no longer see the Reds. As if a burden has been lifted
I feel lighter. I step a little more quickly and where the train
tracks turn east I continue north. The land looks wasted here,
desert-like. The hard sand is dimpled with bits of asphalt, broken
pieces of blacktop from a long ago life. I leave no tracks, but I’m
not afraid of losing my way. That feeling of trust has
reawakened.

I begin to run across this wasteland,
heading for the low hills a day’s race away.

By mid-afternoon my feet are sore and
I’m wet with a clinging sweat. There’s no desert heat to dry me. I
reach the first hill and climb easily. The second hill is steeper.
I use the gnarly roots and slender trunks to pull myself up, reach
the top, and pick my way through thorns until I find a path that
leads down. When I reach the bottom the area yawns into a pleasant
valley where there’s a pond. A green scum of algae coats the top,
but I don’t care. I shed my clothes and slip into the cool bath,
squat down to sink up to my chin, and submerge my head beneath the
surface for a moment. I’m tempted to try to swim. With no one
around to tease me I think I might be able to teach myself this
elusive skill. I step out into deeper water and splash about
awkwardly. The mucky ooze sucks my right foot down. I panic. I push
against the sloppy bottom only to succeed in getting my other foot
captured as well. With both feet snared I try to hold my balance by
using my arms, like wings, and flap beneath the surface. If my head
goes under I’m lost. That panicky fear sends alarms along every
nerve. I feel myself slipping backward. I gulp some air just in
time. My head goes under. I know I need to straighten upright to
bring my face to the surface, but the task is
impossible.

For one inexplicably
peaceful moment my panic turns to calm. I do
not
fear my own death. I know I will
not drown. There is great power in the thought. But how I know this
eludes me.

The moments float by as my lungs seem
to dread my inaction. My hands find the bottom of the pond at the
same moment the suction around my feet relaxes. I push, twist my
body over, and crawl up and out of the green water. The algae
closes over the spot that would have been my grave.

I sit naked on the bank and
pray.

I spend a fair amount of time like that
and then I get dressed and walk around the pond. There’s another
hill to climb. I see what’s pulled me here: a hill so high, so
steep, it’s really more of a mountain. Trees and grass abandon the
slopes half way up, but I can see that the rocky side will be
manageable to climb.

Abruptly the urge that’s brought me
this far dissolves and suddenly I’m exhausted. I find a soft
moss-covered spot to lie down, ignore the hunger pains, and try to
sleep.

* * *

“
What do ya mean he’s
gone?” Eugene shouted in Harmon’s face. “I got a judgment question.
I hardly ever ask for arbitration.”

“
What’s the problem? Maybe
I can help.” Harmon leaned the rod against the metal door of the
cabin they stood in front of and folded his arms across his
chest.

Eugene cast his eyes about, lowered his
voice, and spit out one word. It wasn’t the word Harmon expected.
Eugene continued with a chuckle laced with disgust, “Seems it’s on
everybody’s mind. Henry’s cheating with one of Teague’s
granddaughters. His wife is after Cleavon’s brother. Now those two
Sindel sisters, Leah and Linette, are trying to seduce me.” He
shook his head. “I ain’t drunk any of that poison ale. I still see
straight.”

Harmon put his hand back on the rod and
lifted it. “I want to talk to all the judges. Round them up. Meet
me at Josh’s tent.”

Bram hadn’t been gone half a day before
trouble started mounting up. There were arguments over the rights
to the fermented drinks, fistfights over women, women fighting over
men, children copying the behaviors they saw, and a growing number
of people getting sick. Like Lydia’s mother.

* * *

Jenny
tried the drink because she was tired of listening to Bram,
her daughter’s boyfriend, telling people two and three times his
age what they should and shouldn’t do. She didn’t remember how much
she had, only that once she started she was helpless to stop until
she passed out. When Bram left, Lydia had been holding
Jenny’s
hair away from
her face as she vomited. It was hours before she could think
straight, but then as soon as Lydia left her alone she went looking
in iron lodges for a stash of the sweet liquid.

* * *

I wake to the rumble of thunder. The
sky is still light. For an instant I think that what I hear is a
spotter plane, then I remember that the Blues lie rotting in a
canyon. Still, Truslow has other troops. He could recall the border
patrols and conscript the coastal people. He could have sent
another army after us while we lingered in the underground
city.

Or maybe what I hear is one of Ronel’s
planes on its way to drop our evening meal. I search the skies and
see only the wide-spread wings of an eagle, its eyes focused on
some distant prey.

There’s maybe three hours of daylight
left. I feel refreshed and ready to climb. Compelled to climb. I
take one step and stop. I remove my faded blue boots and set them
to the side. They’re nearly worn out anyway and I expect to have to
grip the mountainside with toes and fingers to reach the summit,
but also I remember how Lydia went barefoot at the altar. Holy
ground. I hear the thunder again, though there’s nothing in the sky
that even hints that the elements are about to change. There’s a
tingly electricity in the air and I feel weakened by it. I lift my
eyes to the mountain. My strength returns.

I begin my climb.

* * *

Harmon sensed the change around him.
Because he was in charge in his younger brother’s absence, he
reveled in the treatment he received from the few who were sober,
but more than that, he felt the delicious thrill of power. While
others lived the stagnant day in drunken numbness, he drank in the
exhilarating intoxication of control.

By noon he’d settled seven quarrels and
physically intervened in three fights. An hour later he discovered
several young boys learning from the Gray children how to make new
juice and how to accelerate the fermentation. The kids were
grateful to Harmon when, instead of handing out punishments, he
sent them off to help with the horses.

He spent the afternoon refereeing the
Sindel sisters and several young men who’d thought nothing of
parading around the lodges in fewer clothes than were
appropriate.

But he was most stunned to find a
growing number of men and women throwing every ring and bracelet
and necklace they had into a black pot that Eugene held. At first
he thought it was extortion, but as more and more people brought
not only jewelry, but also the figurines and metal idols they’d
hoarded, Harmon began to suspect some unholy purpose.

“
What’s this about,
Eugene?”

“
I was bringing this all to
you, Harmon.”

“
What for? What do I need
with a thousand rings?”

“
We’re going to melt it
down. Make something big.”

Harmon glared at the useless treasure,
afraid to estimate its value. It held no appeal to him, but he was
well aware that most of the Reds believed their jewels were better
than money and more important than food. They were often the source
of arguments and thievery. The fact that so many people were
willingly dropping their precious wealth into a communal pot was,
he thought, due to the effects of the addictive ciders.