Birth of a Nation

   Bobol stopped when he reached the trail around the pond. He’d run downhill the entire way, stuck to a bank above a ravine, detoured only for hazards.

   Evening dawned, dinner hour and he smelled cooking—midway between Branch House and Hall, he was uncertain of which kitchen. Bobol seldom skipped meals, tonight he had no appetite, the idea of company was repellant—except an urge to be with Roxie…

   Still the drug, he told himself—the woman is a psychotic monster.

   The need ravaged him, he had an erection, desperately wanted to please it… Roxie’s pixie eyes filled his mind.

   She was probably with Leon and Chattagong…

   Suddenly, he wanted to kill.

   ‘No!’ he told himself.

   He reeked, pheromonal sweat covered every pore.

   Without removing shoes or jacket, Bobol ran into the water and threw himself under. Fed by icy springs, the pond shocked his system, he let out a yell—it echoed.

   He wanted to drown but was too practiced a swimmer—he didn’t know how.

   Then three gunshots cracked across the gloaming.

   Panicked again, he went the opposite direction, stroking as hard as he could and coming into the muddy shallows at the pond’s lowest end. He dragged himself out and crouched beneath tall weeds under the causeway bridge, waited for darkness.

   Taralisa and Suthra shared dinner with Rajin, Synoveh fed Sunrah. Window faced pond and caught sunset reflections.

   Talked of classes and kids, gardens, herbs and flowers.

   Synoveh’s face wasn’t as stiff and Taralisa’s balm had smoothed the cracked lips, eased swelling.

   A strange yell came from the pond, high pitched but masculine—tight, with a tone of surprise.

   Synoveh: “Who was that?”

   Taralisa: “Bobol.”

   Suthra: “Had ice in his pants,” she started to laugh and Rajin took it up.

   A gunshot echoed, then a second one, and then a final report.

   Everybody silent, wondering looks passed back and forth.

   Suthra and Taralisa stood, went to the cabin door.

   Outside:

   Achen and Marcus had cooked, came from the kitchen with Luvin.

   Ali Battaglia and her parents, Heather and Wistra, stepped down from their porch.

   Everybody confused, nobody informed, voiced babbled uselessly.

   But concern for the children braced the talk.

   Suthra organized: “Someone has to run to the Hearth and find what they know. I’ll do it.”

   Heather: “Be careful… go quiet.”

   Achen: “You ought to have a weapon—we don’t know… ”

   Taralisa: “That yell was Bobol.”

   “It didn’t sound like pain… ”  

   "Heather: “Like someone crazed.”

   They all agreed.

   Suthra kissed her wife, tightened the thongs on her sandals and flitted off into the dusk.

   Half the way around she encountered Peter with Edzelian and Alicia. A Townie woman, Darla Syl and her son Matthew were with them, she had a Homesteader husband, Galero, he was a jeweler with a talent for finding gold nuggets and crystals. He was in the mountains collecting.

   Peter offered up a quick explanation for the shots, finished: “ …need t’ git th’ kids t’ safety an’ inform Branch House. Hildy an’ Volmer are with Jepson—they want Taralisa, if possible.”

   “I don’t know—where did those guys go?”

   “No idea—lotta twisted terrain back there, coulda gone anyplace… ”

   “We’re not safe in the open.”

   “Le’s git t’ Branch House… ”

   They turned and trotted.

   Suthra ran alongside Alicia: “Where did Peter find another girlfriend?”

   She laughed: “I’m from the Almanor and I saw him at the spaceport doing that excavation job… I like to watch machines—rhythm, power—you know?”

   “Yeah… ”

   “Peter was having lunch with Edzy, feeding him and wasn’t doing a good job with a berry pie, it was all over. I sat down and helped, then I was in love with Edzy so I attached myself to his Dad… ”

   Suthra chuckled: “We’ve heard all the excuses for Peter… I made my share. Defies logic… ”

   “Logic is for solving problems. I don’t have a problem with Peter, therefor I don’t need logic.”

   “That’s beautiful reasoning.”

   A light shined in Cal’s eyes and he awoke. Gold moon, full, had discovered a gap between layers of overhanging tree.

   Hungry and thirsty, he sat up and had a headache. He also craved flush more than he wanted food or liquor. That was a need he could satisfy—Bobol had dropped the inhaler and Cal had recovered it. Chattagong was too distracted at the time to notice, and he had many replacements.

   Cal sniffed a hit. Bobol had adjusted the dosage regulator to its weakest setting, a mere taste.

   He couldn’t find the control. Frustrated, feeling teased, he dosed over and over, swapping nostrils, making a cold burn and raw sinuses.

   Then he was enraged and aroused. Nobody around to hurt or love…

   Moonbeam too faint to find a trail, he was trapped.

   But he saw the rock wall.

   Cal put all of his furious energy into pulling it down. He took the heavy stones with both hands and heaved them into the darkness, explored to find the noisiest target. Brush thrashed and broke, rocks heaped up and soon the sound was clatter and rattle—the louder the better for Cal.

   He labored all night.

   Voices… voices… From across the water or from inside his head?

   Bobol couldn’t tell, ignored them—they didn’t leave.

   Not inside his head, not the familiar ones… One… in there… It…

   Bobol was a frequent experimenter with the purple drug and liked the voices he found there.

   He didn’t like the voices now—Leon, Derek, Chattagong—urgent, angry, hustling…

   Bobol knew he wouldn’t find those voices with It, he hoped they weren’t inside his head… they must be external.

   Opened his eyes and saw moon ripples on the pond and heard tromping footsteps—a lot. Fainter voices murmured.

   Coming closer.

   He still crouched under towering reeds, soaked and finally noticing it.

   The drug was wearing off, his body demanded more.

   Chattagong, Derek and Leon had it.

   Like Cal, he disregarded hunger and thirst, followed the new craving, after all, Roxie must be with them.

   Then he was aroused again, weakly, and it faded.

   Dizzy, he gathered his few remaining wits.

   Remembered following Leon, and why…

   Motivations seesawed—more flush opposed to safety for his friends.

   Either way, he thought he needed to keep up with the voices. This time he wouldn’t get caught.

   The noises took him around the lower end of the water, he skulked under the log causeway, slithered between the weeds and made no sound out of place.

   A parade of head-shadows on the skyline over the divide, a small crowd passing from the pond to the old river meanders and they vanished under deep forest on the way down to Drunkard’s Den.

   Bobol ducked tree-to-tree and stayed with them.

   Drunks had a campfire in front of the stillhouse, sat on decrepit furnishing, sang and joked.

   The mob of refugees was upon them before they noticed.

   Chattagong went to the lit area and fired a shot into the air.

   He had attention: “We claim this territory as living space for our Brotherhood!”

   Bobol saw other guns—Leon, Derek and three more guards, men who moved in jerky agitated steps typical of flush users.

   Mayor of the Den, Delgard did not usually confront firearms, this time he rose: “Got plenty room and lotsa’ whiskey—you don’t need to git so bossy!”

   Chattagong shoved him back down: “Shut up! We’re making a country here!”

   Leon, to the drunks: “You people are now our subjects.” Pointed his pistol at Delgard’s head: “Kneel, kiss my boot.”

   “Yes sir,” the alcoholic obeyed.

   Chattagong: “All of you! Get down in front of us and bow your heads!”

   The dozen odd souls knelt.

   “Everybody swear loyalty! Repeat this: I am a devoted servant of the Brotherhood, bound forever!”

   The crowd echoed his words.

   Leon, to Delgard: “Bring food.”

   “Ain’t any.”

   “Shit!—What do you have?”

   “Whiskey and gin… folks like to sip the beer too, sometimes. Could eat the mash…? way sour… I wouldn’t.”

   “How do you live?”

   “They been feeding us—Taralisa fixes hurts… ”

   Bobol had worked in close, heard everything, he looked through the crowd—features mostly lost in shadows but flare ups and shifting bodies revealed faces—no Roxie, nor Cal.

   Disappointed and liberated at once, he made a quick evaluation—without the babe flush lost much of its appeal, and it had to be Roxie, he would accept no other—until dosed, but that wasn’t for tonight.

   He crept away from Drunkard’s Den.

   In early morning light, before the sun:

   “Here, pal—you need this… ” Cal jammed the flush dispenser into Jason’s left nostril and released a hit. The spray condensed inside his nose and ran back out in a thin white stream. The drug killed the black bugs on contact.

   Disappointed in the corpse’s response, Cal decided to search it.

   There was a second inhaler in Jason’s pocket.

   It was nearly full and adjusted to deliver the strongest dose.

   Cal treated himself to three, collapsed upon his face before the last one finished.

   Five minute later he was able to rise, he was in a mood…

   He kicked the body but the roll wasn’t an interesting move. Cal grabbed an arm, lifted the corpse and hurled it against the cliff base. He picked it up again by a foot and swung it over his head, Jason’s face smashed into the rocks. Again and more he threw the body with as much force as he had pitched stones in the dark.

   Jason broke apart.

   Muscled parts had desiccated—mummified. But the viscera were a putrid slop, white and pink larvae swam in the fluids. Angry winged insects buzzed in, drawn by the smell. One of his hands swatted at the cloud as Cal drew a knife with the other.

   He sawed the head from the body and set it atop a boulder, the noose and stick were a useful handle.

   Satisfied that Jason had a good view, Cal went to the woods, he found a short straight limb, broke it off and whittled an end to a sharp point.

   He put the head on the ground and jammed the spear into the stumped neck, wriggled and forced it deep so the trophy wouldn’t fall off.

   The jaw snapped, the head refused to stay.

   Frustrated in the extreme, Cal turned the skull upside down and used a rock to hammer the stake into the cranium. That nailed it tight, but there wasn’t much resembling a human face anymore.

   Swagger stick in hand, Cal set out to quench his thirst and find Roxie.

   Taralisa woke Mabutu, Mabutu woke Salyanna.

   Dressed in day’s first light, cabin full of gray shadows.

   Fire on the hearth and tea.

   Crowded, busy front room.

   Marcus, to Salyanna and Mabutu: “We’re taking you to a safe place—like a fire drill… ”

   Taralisa: “We have space for all the kids at our garden.”

   Suthra: “We believe they went to Drunkard’s Den. We want to get past that area before sunrise.”

   Marcus: “Fill up on tea and crackers, we go in just a few minutes.”

   And then a strange convoy departed, parents kept the little ones in the center, taller adults walked the flanks. Ten kids, half of them babies in papooses and toddlers would have to endure a much further hike than normal, plus Mabutu and Salyanna and eighteen adults.

   The logs rocked and groaned under the passage, the far end of the causeway overlooked the approaches to the Den.

   Marcus, Achen and Alicia scouted and discovered no hostile forces. They hustled the group on past, up the main Homestead route.

   Peter and Alicia had carried Jepson to one of the Conversation Corner benches, Hildy and Volmer worked to save as much of his hand as they could. Middle and ring fingers blown away, the pinky was sacrificed in surgery.

   Roxie followed the patient in, hovered around his treatment. Then she sat, held his left hand and watched him sleep.

   She was in the depression after the drug, somebody gave her food—cake and a sweet creamy dessert—and she took a little.

   Roxie and Jepson were both slight, she found room on the bench at his side, slept with her old cribbie.

   They awoke with faces together—sleep-kissing, no tongue.

   Sun not out yet, Boris stoked the fire.

   Sitting together:

   Roxie: “How’s the hand?”

   “Starting to throb, woke me… ”

   “Nobody ever saved my life before—that was crazy! Why did you do it?”

   “They pulled us from the fire… ”

   “Don’t be shy! You know what I mean.”

   “It’s nothing, Roxie—I would have done it for anyone. I wanted you to kick Leon and getting shot would have messed it up… ”

   “I missed.”

   “Sorry.”

   “Not your fault.”

   “What did happen to Leon?”

   “Those guys ran away, took a lotta folks.”

   “Who?”

   “I dunno—I haven’t looked.” She stood up and reviewed the nearby space. Refugees had been sleeping in the Conversation Corner since arrival, this morning only Roxie and Jepson occupied it. “I think they’re all gone… ” But she spied a shadow within a dark spot and went to investigate: “Bobol!”

   Maniacal eyes fixated upon her, as familiar as a busy night in the brothel, as familiar as Cal, familiar as her own face in a mirror.

   He sat up and blinked, resisted words and avoided Roxie’s look. Oriented himself and rose: “Ain’t breakfast ready… ?” Bobol hurried away to assist Boris.

   Ate at the kitchen table with the Village—Roxie expected to be snubbed but nobody questioned her. Bobol on her left and Jepson on her right—she helped the wounded eunuch eat, surprised herself with the volunteerism but it came naturally.

   So many voices usually filled her head—drugs, sex, violence, repressed memories—typically in raging conflict. Quiet this morning—Bobol on her left and Jepson on her right—soft energy from somewhere.

   They scouted food, Leon knew the alcoholic’s hidden riverside trail bypassing the causeway, he took Panchapat and Brillig, former guards reunited with flush.

   They turned back toward Branch House, approached from the direction of the Games Field.

   It appeared the doubled circle of cabins was empty.

   Crept in, peeked through windows, opened doors, still nobody.

   Leon showed the way to the cookhouse and they raided the larder, loading shoulder bags with fruit, grains, salad and sweetroot, but three people couldn’t carry enough for a crowd of thirty.

   Leaving: main trail to the causeway.

   Colonists held the bridge with sentries at the ramp—Hildy, Karma and Bechet had crossbows at ready, their attention in the wrong direction.

   The raiders snuck in close, Brillig stepped in slithery mud and fell.

   The splash revealed their presence, the colonists turned about and crouched. Leon fired a round—over their heads.

   Karma shot her bow, the quarrel hit Brillig in the chest, punctured a lung and crushed a ventricle chamber, dead before the blood stained his shirt.

   Leon and Panchapat let loose a volley—missed—and ran back toward Branch House. They crouched behind the stone fountain.

   All of the colonists on the bridge ran to the shooting, the far end was unguarded.

   Derek had been in the weeds watching, another pair of guards were with him—Trobe and Hatcher. They crept up the ramp and followed the colonists.

   Eight Homesteaders approached Branch House, gunfire held them low. Trayvon and Bechet worked around to the right flank unseen, moved in close.

   Karma looked rearward and saw the men coming over the causeway, she raised the alert before colonists   were surrounded.

   They ran, splashed a shallow pond inlet and made the trail to the Hall, gunshots pealed at their backs but nobody was hit.

   Now the renegades held Branch House, Drunkard’s Den, and the lower end of the pond. Empires have started from less.