Out of Exodia (22 page)

“
I know,” she says. “I feel
that too.”

Never before has my gemfry gift worked
both ways. Tears streak down her face. Mine too. I drop my hands to
encircle her and she tightens her embrace. Our lips meet in the
longest, most satisfying kiss. She is mine; I am hers. She knows
I’d die for her; I know she would have waited forever for me. Our
thoughts mingle and merge into a single desire.

* * *

The large carved panels spelled out
Hazel Roth Campground. The wood on the sign was weathered and worn.
It was doubtful, Teague lectured, that anyone had been to the
campground in decades. He tried to explain the concept to the
younger ones who expressed their skepticism that a pre-Suppression
society would choose to spend their free time living so
primitively, but they were pleased to find toilets and wells they
could pump by hand.

The roads and trails forked off into
several sections and the Reds who were first in claimed what spots
they could find that were free of forest debris. Where once there
had been cleared openings to pitch a tent or park a vehicle, there
now lay fallen logs, mounds of leaves, or thick beds of pine
needles. Every forty feet or so they found a rusted ring the size
of a truck tire protruding from the ground. Teague had no
explanation for the buried iron, but suggested that perhaps they
provided a base for early century electronic devices.

By the time everyone was settled they
had only a couple of hours before sunset. Their evening meals began
to drop from the sky, but in the campground the tree branches
caught nearly half of the packages. Older kids and young men
climbed the oaks, jostled the pines, poked the limbs, and managed
to free enough to feed every hungry Red.

Lydia and Bram were the last to arrive
and found their friends cleaning out a room in what Teague called
the park ranger’s lodge, a small log cabin that must have been a
hundred years old.

“
This is where you two will
stay,” Blake said. “For your wedding night. But it’s not ready yet.
We’re sprucing it up.”

“
And we’re going to do the
same to you,” Onita giggled.

Lydia scratched her fingers through
Bram’s beard and raised her eyebrows.

Onita nodded. “Go with Blake, Bram.
They’ve heated some water and sharpened some razors. And for you,
Lydia, well, you’re going to love what we’ve prepared.”

An hour later Bram was
still in Blake’s tent, fresh, clean-shaven, even his hair was
trimmed above his ears. He kept eyeing the tent flap like he wanted
to flee, but Blake made him wait until Onita had Lydia ready.
Finally, just before the sun set with ruby and ginger flames, Onita
returned with a pampered bride. She wore new clothes, pale
iridescent green, loose and flowing. Her scrubbed face glowed and
her shiny hair gave off a fragrance that reminded him of the first
time they met.
Her scent then, he
remembered, was an earthy bouquet unlike any flower he knew.
Sensual, fragrant.
But he was even more
aware of her eyes. They spoke to him. He smiled. He took her hand
and wordlessly led her back to the cabin. Friends and children
followed singing and laughing.

Their friends had done a good job. An
old-fashioned wooden bed stood overlaid with piles of blankets and
the windows were covered with the banners and flags that the
jubilant Reds had fashioned for their escape out of
Exodia.

The newlyweds closed the door, ignored
the hooting and whistling outside, and set the double portion of
meat they’d been given on an old table. Lydia removed her boots and
climbed onto the soft pile of blankets. She smiled at Bram as he
loosened his shoes. As soon as he lowered his weight onto the bed
it collapsed with a bang and a puff of dust. There was laughter
outside to match Bram and Lydia’s, then the voices receded and the
newlyweds were alone.

Bram entwined his fingers with Lydia’s
and the feeling of mutually reading the other’s mind returned. The
spiritual union overwhelmed Lydia and humbled Bram.

* * *

“
I’m not happy about this,”
Harmon complained to his wife.

“
Neither is Mira, but why?”
Marilyn kept her eyes on her baby as she asked. “Isn’t Lydia a Red?
Like us?”

“
Jenny’s a Red, but
obviously Lydia’s father was from … from somewhere
else.”

“
Don’t let it bother you so
much. You’ve always liked her.”

“
Didn’t think she’d be my
sister-in-law.” Harmon would have been pacing if there’d been any
room. Instead he stroked the baby’s bare foot, alternating light
squeezes and rolling his thumb along the tiny heel. “Maybe he
shouldn’t be the leader. I could do what he does. I can speak. I
can lead. I know better than he does how that rod
works.”

Marilyn nodded but she wasn’t listening
anymore. She was much more interested in the perfect lips, the
fuzzy hair, the dark eyes of her son.

“
We really need to settle
on a name,” she said. “It’s been a month already. We can’t call him
baby or junior forever.”

* * *

Mira walked back and forth in front of
the wash house mirror. It didn’t reflect much more than shadows in
the dark room. As she practiced what to say she imagined her
audience to be not the row of porcelain sinks, one with a critter’s
nest beneath the lime-encrusted faucet, but rather the twelve
judges.

Yesterday she stood front and center at
her brother’s wedding. The ceremony tugged at her emotions, but
when she read the expression on her older brother’s face, she
reordered her thoughts. She’d always had a deeper connection to
Harmon; Bram was the long lost baby brother. She didn’t have that
sisterly connection with him. He didn’t speak to her much. She
could never persuade him to dance, something so important to her.
She’d camouflaged her feelings when he let Kassandra and Gresham
go. Now he was this all-important, chosen-by-God,
better-than-everyone leader, and married to Lydia, whose black hair
matched Bram’s, but whose sable skin was far, far too
dark.

* * *

Bram only had to reach a hand just
outside the door to snatch two loaves. Perhaps the morning’s bread
was sweeter because they shared it in their marriage bed, or
perhaps the flavor’s brightness merely reflected the happy hearts
of two young people who had waited too long for life to surprise
them with some overdue joy.

They weren’t deaf to the particular
sounds of hundreds of Reds settling in to a lazy day. Bram could
hear children playing, adults gossiping, horses nickering, but what
he couldn’t hear was that special hum that always accompanied
Malcolm’s box when the cloud was on the move. He was sure the Reds
were right in not breaking camp. They wouldn’t need him to wave the
rod or rally the stragglers today. They’d likely rest here a day or
two. He’d taken to imagining Ronel sending spotter planes to scout
their path, keeping them out of the Blue army’s way, if the Blue
army had been revived. He’d seen children playing war games in the
dirt, dragging sticks to make roadways, and moving stones to make
ambushes just like Ronel would, if he could see from on high what
lay in their path. Bram wondered about the reasons for letting them
encounter hostile groups and keeping them from friendly
towns.

His jarring encounter with God Himself
was pushed down to some dark molasses hole, like a dream that
couldn’t have been real, half-forgotten before dawn. Two souvenirs
from the event, the black tablet, now tucked securely in the secret
compartment of Malcolm’s box, and the copied list written on the
back of the map weren’t much more than quick topics around the
campfire. The map should have hung like a banner but was instead
folded and packed. Bram thought briefly of that fact as he finished
his bread, then dismissed it as he leaned in for his new wife’s
offered kiss.

* * *

Bram and Lydia emerged from the cabin
when the sun was too high to leave much more than curt shadows, the
day half over. A few children skipped around them, repeating
practiced chants the older kids had rehearsed with them. Bram
whispered to the girls, sending them off to collect bouquets of
wild flowers for Lydia, instructing them to find purple ones for
her hair.

They walked hand in hand around the
campground, speaking with Onita, Jenny, Marilyn, and Cleavon’s
brother, then Korzon’s son and Malcolm. They circled on, walking
happily down the lanes. Bram loved how Lydia walked with her head
high, always aware of her surroundings. He loved how she’d play
guessing games with the little kids as they followed the cloud. He
loved how her hand would slip into his when he least expected it.
He loved the way a lightning bold would charge through his skin at
her touch. He loved her eyes, her nose, her lips, her soft skin
that hid the hard strength beneath. She had a sense of humor and a
quick wit and he knew her heart like no other.

“
Do you notice something
strange?” Lydia broke into his concentration.

Bram unconsciously shook his head,
squeezed Lydia’s hand and pulled it to his lips.

“
We haven’t seen a single
judge anywhere around camp.” Lydia ticked through the
names.

“
You’re right,” Bram said,
finally refracting his focus. “Something must be wrong.”

* * *

Mira faced the judges and began to
speak against Bram. Her argument to elect a new leader met with
dumb stares and a few confused questions. She danced around her
prepared answers.

“
No, don’t misunderstand
me, I’m not just questioning his ability to lead, I think he’s lost
the competence to make appropriate decisions.” She thumbed her chin
as if choosing her phrasing on the spot. “There are proper, uh,
accepted ways to live. He’s got us traipsing in
circles.”

Barrett’s father swung his head to the
side and spoke barely above a whisper, “Mira, what exactly has put
you over the edge? It can’t be that he just married Lydia, can it?
Is there something about their marriage that you don’t approve
of?”

“
No, no, no. Of course
not—”

“
Because that girl is truly
special.”

“
She is, she is.” Mira
pivoted from one foot to the other.

“
My son—” his voice broke
and he dropped his eyes “my son, if he were here, would tell you
how special Lydia is.”

“
Oh no, we shouldn’t even
bring her name into this,” Mira lied. She twitched her head toward
Harmon who stood.

“
I think my sister is just
concerned that maybe we need someone a little wiser. And, you know,
Bram isn’t the only one who can use the rod or hear the voice of
God or, or— Do you remember the plagues in Exodia? Of course you
do. I was equally honored to implement those, shall we say,
‘encouragements’ to pressure the Executive President to allow us to
leave.”

Harmon drew in an expansive breath, put
his hands on his hips, and continued, “And when we battled at the
air field it was I who kept the winning in our favor. Bram couldn’t
hold the rod high enough. I had to support his weakening arms
myself. Without me all would have been lost.”

Mira nodded fervently.

* * *

Lydia’s eyes widen and she throws me a
look as we approach the meeting tent, the largest, highest tent we
have. She hears Harmon’s impassioned words too. The lump in my
throat plugs my voice. I mouth a plea for her to find Malcolm and I
duck into the tent.

There’s a lamp glowing in the center so
I can see their faces clearly. Each judge sits on a blanket,
crowded in a semi-circle, facing Mira and Harmon who stand before
them. All eyes turn my way.

I swallow hard and force out a breathy
whisper. “Go on, go on.” I squat down.

Mira’s cheeks glow red and she makes a
most unexpected accusation. “He sacrifices nothing, nothing at all
to lead us. He has married a black woman when he vowed his life to
another. And he has abandoned his children.”

I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and drop my
head. A hot shiver rides my spine.

“
Well,” her voice lifts,
“you can see how devoid of pride he is. No arrogance there, at
least. What could he boast of?”

I wonder what brings on this sudden
gush of spiteful venom. There must be something else I’ve done. Is
this truly how my sister feels?

Now my brother lifts his arms. “Listen
to me. Only me. I’m the one whose words ring with truth. Bram is
simple in his speech. Sincere, yes, but simple.”

I’d never expect my brother’s words to
sting, but they do. He continues, “I have to poke him with that rod
to get him to raise his voice.” He spits a laugh and half the
judges erupt in similar snickers.

I feel the hint of humor; there’s truth
in what he says. I react to the laughter and a tickle itches at the
corners of my mouth. Still, I can’t believe Harmon is daring me in
this way. I hold back my instinctive response, refuse to let them
anger me, and listen.

“
Furthermore,” Harmon
affects a humble tone yet puffs his chest out, “did you know that
he has never atoned for the murder he committed in
Exodia?”

My eyes well up. He’s right. I
shouldn’t be the one to lead. I’ve always thought so. I’m not
worthy.