Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (23 page)

Snow in the foothills covered grasses on the rolling landscape. Elk, bison, deer, and antelope would paw through to nutrients, but cattle were disinclined. They would starve before they found forage under deep snow.

Big barns were a community effort, and the hay that filled them was as well. Sweet grass hay, prairie grown and mown with rediscovered horse drawn technology, filled the lofts to overflowing. From the effort of summer labor, oxen prospered.

Everyone took turns feeding the stock. It was a one person job and easily accomplished with the tools that would load the mass of hay necessary and the sledge pulled by heavy horse. This morning it was Cable’s turn, but Edge had the day off, owed him a favor, and volunteered.

Returning from the morning feed, Edge brought the team to a halt. Quietly, below the level easily heard by a human being but well understood by a horse, he gave the command.

“Whoa, baby… whoa there.”

The old mare stood gratefully, her more rambunctious offspring in harness next to her, pawing the ground. Both knew they would soon be able to relax, the harnesses removed and hung inside and fresh hay in the crib of the corral they called home.

The old door swung easily on well-oiled hinges, and the young man almost missed it - a sound, muffled by the immensity of the huge structure and the soft, sound-absorbing hay.

Someone was crying.

Latching the door, careful to make no noise, Edge left the steaming team in front of the sun-warmed barn. They would wait.

Quietly, carefully, slowly, Edge moved toward the sound. Sobbing ebbed and flowed, coming from above in the loft. The ladder invited him, and he moved up with caution, not sure if he was invading someone’s privacy or would be welcomed to offer comfort. He thought of retreat, unsure. Gradually he raised his head above the loft and the hay covering it, and in the dim light he saw the form of a feminine back, her face buried in the hay. Recognizing the pants that were unusual on a woman, Edge realized the girl was Jody.

His heart feeling like it was collapsing within his chest, Edge for a fleeting moment considered backing away. But with the renewal of deep and penetrating sobs, clearly rising from some kind of agony, he could not.

“Jody,” he whispered, “be you well?”

The girl spun about, startled. Her tear-stained cheeks were red, her eyes wide. As she recognized Edge, her mouth trembled into a small smile.

“Oh, damn… I thought I’d be alone here.”

She tried to control her breathing but failed, hiccupping.

Edge crawled into the hay beside her, taking one hand.

“It… it… it’s my father…,” she moaned, “I… I miss him. He was s’posed to be here.”

Hiding her crumpled mouth with her other hand, she turned over to sit up. She blubbered, tears streaming from her eyes.

“He was so strong… so strong…, and he was s’posed to be here.” She gulped. “It’s just not right!”

Moving close, taking her into his arms, Edge wrapped her in what comfort he could. She knew he had lost his father as well but not that he had never finished mourning. He understood her delayed anguish and pulled her tight. Sobbing heavily, Jody folded into his embrace, and the comfort became mutual, lasting long moments.

Finally breaking away, still holding hands, the two young people who had been so separated by Jody’s fear of becoming close began to talk. She told Edge of her fears, her admiration for her father, and how hard it had been, losing him. Gradually, in the natural way that commonality and sharing grinds away a void that separates, Edge spoke of his own father. He told her of his father’s skills and patience, of his great passions and expectations, and of his death in such a tragic and unexpected way. The two sat in mutual agony for much of the morning, speaking of the men who had raised and cared for them. Edge thought he was wrung out long ago, long past the point of tears, but eventually the words worked their way into his soul, and the tears came.

As he sobbed, shoulders shaking, Jody cupped his face. She drew close, and her warm breath tickling his lips, kissed them lightly. The kiss lingered, soft, warm, moist, and within his arms the firm young body moved against him. Hesitantly, unsure of the invitation offered, he responded. Another kiss, more passionate and needy, followed. Her hands brought his own into places untouched.

Young, hard flesh, shared grief, and unsatisfied attraction burst the dam that had been keeping the two apart. Soft kisses led to passionate ones. Gentle caress led to firm and lustful desire. And before they knew what was happening, Jody was opening herself up to the boy she had been avoiding.

Just before Edge was about to enter her, Jody pushed away, suddenly fearful. She looked scared, like a deer suddenly startled and about to take flight. She whispered a no, protesting, but her hands searched his body and found purchase, clutching hard and drawing him in. Once commenced, there were no protests. There was only reciprocal force, heated grappling, and heavy breathing, mutually and intensely participated in. The sorrows of long mourning were assuaged by lustful compassion in a remote barn full of fragrant hay.

Upon awakening Edge found Jody gone. He sat up at first wondering if she was close and looked around. Unable to see her, noticing the absence of her clothing, he lay back once again, musing on what the recent hours had wrought. He smiled, feeling full and enjoying the wonder of his expectations. He was finally on a path he knew to be headed in the right direction. The smile and the thoughts lasted well into his dreams as he dropped into sleep once again.

Gathering her clothes, Jody hurried to put them on. She was horrified… horrified at what she had allowed to happen. Exiting the barn as quietly as she could, she began to run… and cry. The tears lasted until she was in sight of her community. Then wiping her face as best she could, she determined to avoid Edge. She would never speak willingly to him again.

T
he spotted yellow stud was the best horse Bluehawk had ever worked. He knew this animal was the once in a lifetime partner that would never come again. If he was prone to despair, he would have already been dwelling on the eventual loss he would feel on turning it back to Frank Banger, the horse’s owner. As it was, he pondered all the possibilities for foals from his own mares and how they would compare to their father.

Horses do not breed true to any great extent. A great animal can sire many offspring, all of which will likely be average, even mediocre. Only after generations, with luck being the only deciding factor, will genes come together to produce excellence. This is something those in the business of equine breeding know well, but knowing does not keep them from having hope. When lightning strikes, you get a spotted yellow stud with an inquisitive brain and a big heart.

Too early to choose the other horses that would leave in the spring with him, Bluehawk often walked among the herd from which he would select. They were all good ponies, destined to replace others that had fallen to time or injury in the service of their owners. The Banger ranch supplied much of the best riding stock in the area.

A big, white gelding drew Bluehawk’s eye every time he entered the pasture. Speaking together as they surveyed the crop of four year olds, the horse owner had pointed him out, expressing regret for cutting the horse. He told Bluehawk that if the gelding were intact, he might have been Frank’s selection instead of the appy. Bluehawk shied away from selecting the big gelding. White horses had never seemed right for him. He knew his reluctance was illogical, but still his gut said,
Look away
.

A mouse grey gelding, much smaller but as fast as a cat was always one of the first to approach. The little guy would come close, hesitate as though unsure, and then lower his head and invite a scratch. The tribesman knew the horse had the intelligence and temperament to be exceptional. Perhaps he would make a riding horse for a woman, but with his speed she would have to be a competent rider.

Two or three other ponies caught the tribesman’s eye, but none were yet on the short list. Bluehawk would decide about a month from his return to the Wyoming valleys and begin to work the horses just enough to be reliable on a lead rope with a light pack saddle for his trip home.

A small tree with a convenient flat-topped rock under it invited him after greeting the herd. It was in the lee of a small rise and commanded the view, and Bluehawk walked to it as he had many times in the past, trailing the appy and the rest behind him. Pulling a grass stalk to be chewed, he sat and looked out over the landscape. The ponies drifted apart, some dropping to roll, most pawing the ground and working the short grass with their lips. The pleasant sound of horse’s teeth and jaws working became background to his thoughts.

The conversation had been exceptional recently. Just last evening he and Pearl had traded revelations in one of their mutual interests. What had gone wrong in the greatest nation of the world, leading to a world with little hope and huge obstacles to success, was always food for thought and interesting discussion.

The tiny home that Pearl kept during the winter months surprised Bluehawk in his first visit. He had expected this wise and venerable woman to have a home filled with crocheted doilies, rocking chairs, and knickknacks dusted regularly. Instead he found Pearl to be a minimalist with only enough in her possession to be comfortable. Indeed there was a brace of rocking chairs next to the iron wood stove, but there were no doilies to be found. The only knickknacks were books and a few pieces of art on the walls. The elder woman lived and traveled light.

The beautiful, wrinkled woman with the short, silver hair handed him a jar to be opened on his arrival. The leather-clad Bluehawk grinned. He was happy to open the jar of pickled vegetables. Pearl’s one culinary specialty was pickling. This small jar, accompanied by some warm, buttered bread and radishes fresh from the garden, was as good as a feast at many houses.

After stirring the fire, Pearl sat, waving Bluehawk to the opposite rocker. The heat felt good on this chill winter’s eve.

“I have been increasingly melancholy, my friend,” Pearl began. “Some of the recent reading I’ve done has made me wonder at the beauty and effort squandered in the past.”

As this was a continuing subject on which they agreed, Bluehawk understood.

“Is there something in particular? Something new? I know we’ve discussed the stagnancy in politics, ad nauseam, so I get the feeling you aren’t speaking of that.”

“No… no… not that. I recently found some literature saved in an old computer. It had to do with how people had become increasingly unable to change their minds.”

Bluehawk nodded. The information fit with something that had been nagging him but had never been defined in his mind. He made a small gesture, encouraging Pearl to elaborate.

“There was much discussion on the internet once it became popular, but with the huge increase in exchange of information, it seems that fresh ideas had little chance of being discussed rationally. It was as if the communication over devices inhibited thinking.”

A pamphlet from long ago, relating to philosophy, came to Bluehawk’s mind. He thought it might be related.

“I read something some time ago about how people invest in ideas. Once invested they have difficulty investigating other options… other points of view. You remember that term, confirmation bias? How it meant that people would come to a conclusion on a subject, and they would only accept evidence that supported that position and reject anything opposed? I suspect that’s what you’re talking about. That people stuck to whatever they’d decided, even when reason suggested they should consider another path.”

“Yes… yes… that’s exactly it,” agreed Pearl. “In my investigation, people in a technological communication system were removed from another person’s presence, and because of this they had no investment in the natural tendency to find common ground. Instead of listening more, thinking about what was said, and refining their own understanding… they tended to dig in their heels and become cemented into place.”

Taking the time to mull the point over, the two friends sat rocking and appreciating the heat of the stove. Bluehawk practiced something called mindfulness and had introduced Pearl to it. He popped another pickled veggie into his mouth to be chewed slowly.

“I wonder if that’s why people seemed to get so disconnected in the later years?” Bluehawk was thinking of the time before the plagues. “It seems that there were so many factions that couldn’t agree, those in power with agendas to become more powerful became the only ones able to make things happen… and that meant that everyone else was kept… what was the phrase…? ‘Like a cat on a hot tin roof.’”

Pearl laughed, a hearty, warm sound from deep inside.

“That’s a good one. I haven’t heard that one before. Is it from Mark Twain? Sounds like something he would say or maybe Will Rogers?”

The conversation continued, and the two friends laughed often, trading ideas and questions, considering each other’s points of view and weighing any evidence for relevance and value. As they had no agenda to be satisfied other than arriving at understanding, they made progress. They were diametrically opposed to their subject, to the times they discussed.

To take a break, Bluehawk dug a book out of his fringed, leather satchel, decorated by his wife with porcupine quill and trade beads. He offered it to Pearl. They often exchanged books, and she reciprocated with one of hers from a shelf.

As Bluehawk leafed through his new acquisition, skimming whatever caught his eye in the index, Pearl offered a related thought.

“I’ve been studying for some time the tragedies and successes of the women’s movement.”

Perking up to pay attention, Bluehawk understood this to be sacred ground. The elderly black woman had embraced feminist concerns on becoming aware of them in her first year of college. The subject was little recognized in these times they lived in, but both understood that many of the old conventions had been restored as the world devolved. Still there were ways in which women had maintained status and rights in most communities beyond expectation, perhaps a holdover from the ancient movement. Within trading communities in all directions women were as likely to be business owners as men, and there were few communities that did not provide options and support to women in bad relationships. Many of the people who had returned to nomadic lives, to tribal societies, had embraced matriarchal political structures. Bluehawk’s had not, but many had, and in his own tribe women were certainly equal and valued in every way. He was familiar with the issues, having discussed them in the past, and sympathetic. From Pearl’s tone, he wondered if she had something else in mind.

“Recently I found something disturbing.” Pearl’s face seemed unusually grim. “There is some evidence that women began to abuse their success. That when they found their strength, justified and long overdue, they used it in ways that had been exclusive to men and the abuse of women in the past. And there were other things, too. It seemed that the idea of political correctness meant something different to women than to men… and was used differently. In fact most of what I learn from the past seems to point to a one-sided perspective, that women could not be wrong as long as they all supported each other. There are some clear examples of problems going unresolved because women damped those who spoke against the group. In fact, though most men supported women in the transition, there was a point where they started to recognize they were in their turn being abused… and when men pointed out discrepancies, they were often attacked for trying to defend themselves. Very disturbing.”

Bluehawk nodded, encouraging Pearl to verbalize her thoughts.

“This is something I’ve only just come across, so I’m still trying to find my way through and trying to put it into context. But it seems there was more than a struggle for rights and respect going on. There was also a power aspect to it. That book I gave you mentions some of the issues, but it speaks of it as though it was justified. I’d like your opinion.”

Friends, beyond years or societal upbringing, Bluehawk and Pearl respected each other and found common ground, not by agreeing on everything but by being willing to value their friendship before any one issue. They always debated in mutual interest and intent to learn from each other. They had found that changing their minds was often easy once they considered the other’s evidence with reason. The goals were almost always the same, anyway, only the relative importance or strategies differing. The tribesman took Pearl’s request seriously and would peruse the loaned book thoroughly with Pearl’s concerns in mind. He would find much food for thought, and Pearl would mold his opinion and he would be richer for it.

Mulling over the discussion as Bluehawk sat among the ponies under the tree, he wondered at how thought-provoking and intricate it was. He pondered the woman he loved, his wife, and how flexible their relationship was. To be honest there were times he wished they were more inclined to be faithful but understood that being remote, both in distance and emotionally by their separation, would have difficulties either way. Taking inventory of the women in his life, he found he valued them all differently but equally. He tried to put the discussion into context with each of them, as he mindfully enjoyed the cool air and the light breeze. He felt the sun on his skin, listened to the horses as they wandered away, gradually losing their scent, noticed the clouds and the hawk circling above, and contemplated the words so adroitly written in the book long ago.