The School on Heart's Content Road (68 page)

He growls into the mike, “But you see, these financiers
manipulate
the dollar and the markets. They
make
it happen! But gee,
we're
bad.”

Applause. Whistles. Hoots. Agreement.

Now from a nearby folded chair, he snatches a True Maine Militia song sheet and rolls it up. Twists each end to make it look like a huge joint. He pretends to toke it up over the open top of a candle globe and, while the audience roars and whistles and applauds, he pretends to smoke it. He booms into the mike, “EVERYTHING WE ORDINARY PEOPLE DO IS BAD!
Why?
”

He waits.

He asks again, “Why is it everything we do is bad? And even
illegal
?”

“Control,
sir
!” Kirky hollers out in military fashion.

Gordon swings around to Kirky and grins. Then speaks into the mike. “Kirky says it is
control
.”

Maple leaves seesaw between the stage and the dark zone of hundreds of faces.

Gordon plays one-handedly with his dark mustache, sort of grooming, mighty “joint” and beer bottle dangling from the fingers of the other hand. Then he leans toward the mike and makes the big speakers thump and scrape with the effects of his roughened palm. “America is a mean place. Time to move on. We Mainers need to go
home
. We have forgotten
home
.”

On the dusky candlelit piazza next to the stage.

The friendly militia guy with sleeves ripped off his BDU shirt over a black T-shirt, a proper businessman's shave, and a fondness for dynamite (yes, he's an agency operative) comes to stand almost shoulder to shoulder with Rex. Much of the Settlement family is bunched around in here, basically women and teen girls keeping an eye on their leader, on the stage.

And, yes, this dynamite guy sure does love to get into Rex's space. Though this time, he doesn't have that Wizard-of-Oz lion laugh and there's no trying to outshout the din of the lusty crowd.

He sees that Rex has his head cocked, sort of, listening for all he's worth to the words and the rustles coming from the gigantic nearby speakers.

Meanwhile, from the stage floor, Gordon smiles at the crowd.

He fussily sets down the bottle and “joint.” Snickers and tee-hees float forth. Gordon takes the mike, stand and all, into both hands as if to balance himself. Belching beerily, he asks, “Say, what
is
globalism?”

Answers from near and far are scrambled, overlapped, squeaked and squealed, roared.

Gordon smiles broadly. “Well.”

More offerings, some clear, all enthusiastic. Cackles and cheers. Having fun.

Gordon squints at the mike. “Globalism is
one
civilization. Like a net around an orange.” Shakes his head. “Civilizations al . . . ways . . . go . . . down. ALWAYS. Like a hornet's nest, it has its season.” Closes his eyes. “But the Sumerians and Mayans, Incas and Romans were not in a global net. Frontiers were left between those collapsing civilizations, which had committed suicide by wrecking their soils, cutting every tree.”

He is now giving the crowd a sickly smile.

“
No
frontiers left now. Genocide and relocations, sure. But no fresh unspoiled green vistas to trudge or sail to. Sorry.” He sighs. He digs into the tightness of his pistol-less pistol belt. He grinds his teeth, softly, privately. “THE PLANET EARTH, OUR ROCK, IS DYING OF SUCCESS!”

Groans answer him. Some light applause shows they are with him. Also some whistles. He likes the groans best. More fitting.

Sorrowfully and deeply, he goes on. “Success. It's the thing modern schools tell us to march toward, isn't it? But, my brother, my sister, the more of that success you have, the better
trained
and the less human you are. You imitate the system, so now you are just a little piece of something . . . something totally without a mind! Pet! Livestock! But you don't even shit in your stall! You are just a knee-jerk lever of the big grid!”

Applause like thunder.

He waits. Then, before it even subsides, he shouts, “Man . . . I . . . want . . . to . . . get . . . back . . . home!” He steps back and wags his head sheepishly as the applause swoops down, crackling and gusting in its returned thunder. A few moos and woofs.

Gordon laughs. A merry moment.

Mickey stands with Butch Martin and another Settlement guy way to one side of the crowd. At the open bay doors of the largest Quonset hut, Mickey is working for Rex, now wearing the service pistol outside his BDU shirt, eyes squinty, watching for the unbelievable. Would somebody
really
try to kill Gordo? Mickey is thinking.

Man, this is a herd. Totally fucking weird. One guy even said he and his dad are from Texas. Willie's here, up on the roof of the Quonset hut for goats. Has a scope trained on the whole thing. He said this is what
you get when you let females start militias. And Rex is tense. I can tell, even though he looks just the same as always.

Meanwhile, on stage, Gordon contemplates.

“The net that is squeezing the orange is a centralized water-food-energy-and-media grid, almost totally. Soon it will be total.”

More noises of agreement, overlaid with some partytime sounds.

The Prophet leans back, eyes closed. Praying? Does Gordon pray? With eyes still closed, he bellers, “We want to get OFF! THE! LEASH! Into the arms of THE! MOTHER! the mother of men!, the great turtle Gluskap, the swollen round magnificent green SOURCE of life that is beneath our feet!” His eyes fly open. “Fuck the global grids and their waste and deceptions and sophisticated terror tactics and holy finance . . . so-called civilized. It's immoral madness! We want LIFE! IT'S! RIGHT! HERE!”

He drops to his knees, limber from so much self-inflicted hard labor here in his little Settlement world, which years ago he gathered together out of weakness and fear. “Pretend this is the ground!” he shouts off mike. He pats the stage. He kisses it.

The crowd goes bonkers.

Finally, back on his feet, face reddened and chest huffing a bit, slowly in a whisper, “You guys understand me? Is what I say madness? Or truth?”

Truth! Truth!
comes the reply from the living darkness before him.

“The Patriot Movement—those gentlemen believe in preparedness. Better be ready, boys, 'cause no matter which little bit of this monster you are focusing on to bitch about, it's a lot bigger than you can see at any one time . . . or see at all. The government leaders they show on TV? That's
theater
! The real government is secret. Think tanks. Foundations. Corporations. A rogue network. We waste time here talking about government treachery. Dig up the dirt, understand the danger . . . fine. But”—he whispers the rest in an evil voice that almost swallows the mike—“we cannot fix something that is not broken! The system izzz working as designed. It is FLOWERINNNG! Tonight we too, begin a shadow government. We turn our backs on E-VILE. FORGET THEMMMMM!”

A solid wall of sound, almost vitreous, is delivered of the darkness of the Quad, shadows and silhouettes and dreamlike flashes of the many faces, but the sound is a diamond blinding Gordon.

Gordon screams, as if in pain, “FORGET!!!!! THEM!!!!!!”

Jane's heart spins.

It's Mum! Out there! It's her! She's there by those two guys with hats! (
Sigh
.) No, it's not actually. It
sort of
looked like her. And the other lady there is
sort of
like Mum too. What's that? That man's face is burned maybe. Scary with no skin. And the man with the neck thing, scarf thing, his nose might be gone. I'm tired of this darkishness, no good lights. I have the Boston germs again maybe and my head hates this
noise
. People screaming, screaming. But it is wicked important to keep the flag up and look mean and soldierish. I peek at Kirky and at his flag too; we are together in this.

Gordon's screaming advice is lost in their screaming participation.

Waiting for a softening in the crowd's voice, he states quietly, “Forget the Constitution. Forget the rat holes of corporatism, state capitals, and D.C.” He turns and peers into the temporarily opened side of the nearest piazza, where this event's temporary stage has been attached, the captains of the True Maine Militia huddled there overseeing the spectacle of their creation. He talks to the mike. “Even the great and true
True
Maine Militia got sidetracked a couple weeks ago with corporatism's Augusta branch of E-vile.”