George followed him with a profound sense of relief.
It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the low interior light, after the fierce brightness of the day outside. Then he saw that the store was far from empty. A couple of dozen people sat, stood, leaned, lounged around its walls, occupying straight chairs, perching on boxes, propping their elbows against shelves. Men, women, children. A gawky teenaged boy. A little girl with huge black eyes and her thumb in her mouth.
The sight of the children gave George a jolt of joy.
The children had been the first to die. Out There.
Already he was thinking in terms of Out There and In Here.
“This here's George Burningfeather,” the tall man told the others. “Says he's a Pennacook. New England tribe.”
“How come he didn't go back north, then?” a man wanted to know.
“The database in our library didn't show any reservations in the part of New Hampshire I came from,” George explained. “And since I was living down here, and this was the nearest one, I just sort of ⦠gravitated here, I guess you'd say.”
“Yeah,” said the tall man. “We know. Getting pretty bad out there, is it?”
George shifted his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other, uncomfortably aware that no one had invited him to set it down. “Pretty bad,” he confirmed grimly.
“Many left alive? We got a radio, but it's broke.”
“Some. Not enough to keep the country running, though.”
“How about the rest of the world?” another man asked. “White people dying everywhere?”
“People
are dying everywhere,” George corrected. “Caucasians are losing the highest numbers to malignant melanoma, but the various viral diseases are getting everybody.”
“Africans and Orientals too?”
“Everybody,” George said again. “There's more than enough death to go around, from a number of causes.”
“What about survivors?” the tall man asked.
“The last reports I read said that aboriginal people like the
American Indians and the Maoris in New Zealand appeared to have the highest survival rate overall, but we don't know why. Could be genetic, could be pure accident. There aren't enough scientists left alive and working to find out.”
“âWe'?” said the tall man suspiciously. “You some kind of scientist too?”
“Not a biologist or a geneticist,” George said quickly. “Just a meteorologist. I mean, I was. Out there.”
“A specialist in the weather,” one of the women said. “So you understand why it's gone so wrong.”
“Nobody fully understands,” George told her regretfully. “We only know some of the factors involved. Once the problems began multiplying exponentially, weâ”
“Expo what?” someone interrupted. Indian eyes stared at George like polished stones.
“Faster and faster,” he simplified, hoping he wasn't sounding condescending. “It all began going sour at once. Drastic changes in the climate, the expanding hole in the ozone layer, a decrease in breathable oxygen in the atmosphereâwe think that might be partly the result of the huge number of trees cut down in the rain forestsâit just piled up on us. Added to that there were so many pollution-related allergies. And the diseases. All those deadly new viruses, one after the other. People dying.” George blinked as if to blink away a memory. “People dying,” he repeated. “Most of the experts who might have come up with some answers died with the rest.”
“Are you saying there's no one left alive who knows what to do about the heat?” a man asked, as if it was somehow George's fault.
“What to do about it? No. But we do believe it's an unnatural planetary warming caused by environmental damage.”
“Caused by man,” said the woman who knew what a meteorologist was.
“Yeah,” George admitted. “It very much looks that way.”
“But man doesn't know how to undo the damage.” She was not asking, she was stating a fact.
“Yeah.”
George looked at the woman with interest. Her speech indicated education. She was in her early thirties, perhaps, though he had no skill at assessing the age of an Indian face. Her features were unlike
his, less rounded, more chiseled. A different tribe. One of the Plains Indians?
Sweeping his gaze around the room, he became aware of a variety of different types. This reservation was occupied not by one tribe, but by individuals from many.
As if reading his thoughts, the woman said, “We're all survivors, like you.” Her face softened slightly, not enough to be a smile, but at least enough to mitigate the severity of her bone structure. “My name's Katherine,” she said. “But people call me Kate. Kate-Who-Sings-Songs.”
“And I'm Harry Delahunt,” the tall man volunteered tardily. “That's Sandy Parkins over there, and Jerry Swimming Ducks and his wife Anne, and Will Westerveltâhe's half Indian, like you and ⦔ Harry continued around the room, introducing people. They variously nodded, raised one forefinger in token greeting, or just met George's eyes impassively. Their names were as diverse as their faces. Some used Indian names, others did not.
George rotated in the center of the room, acknowledging each person in turn. When the introductions were over he said, “Can I put this duffel bag down? I feel awkward standing here holding it as if I might have to leave again any minute.”
Instead of replying, Harry Delahunt looked toward the far end of the store. Following his gaze, George saw someone he had not noticed before, sitting half hidden by shadows. It was an old, old man, with grey hair streaming over his shoulders like a waterfall, and a face fissured by age.
The face turned toward George.
He felt eyes looking him up and down.
The face nodded.
“Put'er down,” said Harry.
The duffel bag thudded onto the floor.
“You got any food in that thing?”
“Some candy bars. Beef jerky. Trail mix.”
“Hunh!” Harry gave a contemptuous snort. “We don't eat that junk here. Kids might like the candy bars, though.”
“Are you low on food?” George glanced at the well-filled grocery shelves.
“We got enough,” Harry replied guardedly. “If we're careful.”
Kate-Who-Sings-Songs said, “You're welcome to share what we
have.” She looked toward the old man in the corner. He nodded. “If you're willing to eat what we eat,” she added, smiling at George.
“That's kind of you,” he said gratefully. He dug in the duffel bag and produced the candy bars. He offered them to the children. The gawky boy snatched his eagerly, but the little girl with the huge eyes stayed where she was, peering around her mother's skirts.
George went to her and hunkered down as low as he could get, holding out the candy bar. “It's real good,” he said softly, slipping into the prevailing speech pattern. “But you don't have to eat it if you don't want to.”
He continued to offer the candy bar. The little girl rolled her eyes up toward her mother, who gave a curt nod.
Slowly, shyly, one small brown hand was extended. Inch by inch, it reached toward George. He didn't move. He didn't even breathe.
The little fingers touched the shiny wrapper and stroked it. But she didn't take hold. Just stroked. Her eyes were huge.
“It's yours if you want it,” George said.
All at once the fingers closed on the bar and snatched it away.
The people in the store laughed. Kind, fond laughter, the laughter of adults enjoying their children.
George felt a knot of tension loosen in his belly.
The ice was broken. A man called Bert Brigham offered George a can of beer.
“Ain't cold, of course,” he said.
“I'm not used to refrigerated drinks anymore,” George told him.
He pulled off the tab and took a deep drink.
The others watched his throat muscles working.
When he had finished the beer, George put the tab back into the aluminum can and set it on the counter. “Thanks,” he said. He could have drunk a second one, but he didn't ask. Nor did anyone offer. They had seen how he emptied the first can without stopping. They knew he was thirsty.
Everyone was thirsty.
The land was thirsty.
Parched.
George turned to Harry Delahunt. “You've told me everyone's name but his,” he said, indicating the ancient figure in the corner.
Harry smiled enough to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “He's Cloud-Being-Born. This is his reservation. Was. His family lived here. Most of âem up and went off to the city to find jobs. Few came back, not many. His daughter, and then his granddaughterâthat's her over thereâstayed and took care of the old man. Reservation rotted around'em. Then people began coming back. Not his tribe. Other people, like you, like me. He don't know where his tribe is. But this is his place, he was born here and he means to die here. So I guess he's the chief. And we're the Indians,” Harry added with a humorless, eroded laugh.
“Cloud-Being-Born,” George repeated. It was an evocative name. Poetic, he thought. He approached the old man respectfully.
The wrinkled face watched him.
He could not tell if the man was even breathing. He might have been carved from stone.
“How old is he?” George asked over his shoulder.
Cloud-Being-Born moved his lips almost imperceptibly. “A hundred and seven,” said a voice like paper rustling.
George stared at him.
“A hundred and seven winters,” the old man repeated. “You. Come close. Let me see you.”
With a sense of awe, George moved closer, bending down so Cloud-Being-Born could see his face. Close up, he could also take a good look at the old man. He saw eyes sunken into deep sockets, a nose like an eagle's beak, rising proudly from between collapsed cheeks. A slash of a mouth, lipless. There was a smell of great age:
dusty, acidic yet not sour, not the sickly smell of the inmates of “convalescent homes” and “Golden Age nursing homes.” Cloud-Being-Born's incredible antiquity was healthy.
“You,” the old Indian said. “I see spirits in your eyes.”
Harry Delahunt barked his strange laugh again. “Spirits is a right good idea,” he said. “We got to welcome Burningfeather here properly!” Ducking behind the counter, he produced an assortment of smeared jelly glasses and a bottle with no label, containing what looked like water. A tiny portion was poured into the glasses, one for each woman. Then the bottle was passed among the men, starting with George.
He managed one cautious sniff at the bottle neck before he drank.
It smelled like nothing.
It smelled like rain, maybe. Or clouds.
He tilted the bottle back and took a swig.
His mouth filled with fire. Tears spurted from his eyes. Everyone laughed. Harry pounded him on the back. “Happens to everyone, the first time,” he said. “That's the old man's firewater. It's some kinda powerful.”
George felt as if his throat was being eaten by lye. But once the liquor hit bottom, a delicious glow began to spread through him, a sense of ease and well-being. He drew a gasping breath, coughed, wiped his eyes and looked around.
They smiled back at him.
These are my people, he thought.
“Dam' good stuff,” he managed to say.
“Dam' right,” Bert Brigham agreed. “Pass that bottle here.”
The bottle was handed to each man in turn. No one took more than one swig before handing it on. Meanwhile, the women took tiny sips, glancing at one another with sparkling eyes. The little girl's mother hiccuped delicately.
The bottle reached Cloud-Being-Born. He accepted it with a grunt and took not one, but two swallows. Then he passed it back the way it had come.
Everyone, George included, took a second drink.
He was not quite as overwhelmed by the liquor the second time. “I'm glad I came,” he said as he passed the bottle to Harry.
“Mmmm.”
“I'm just not sure ⦠why I did, though.”
“Why you did what?”
“Came here. Why we all ⦠came here,” George elaborated.
No one replied.
The bottle was passed again. Then another bottle materialized and at an unspoken signal from Cloud-Being-Born the second bottle was emptied like the first. Heat faded; shadows lengthened. George was vaguely aware of the sun setting, and someoneâKate?âgave him some saltine crackers to eat with hunks of rat cheese, strong and crumbly.
Later, he did not know how much later, he found himself sitting on the porch in the dusk, dangling his legs in space. He was fuzzily aware of people moving around him, coming and going. It did not seem to have anything to do with him. From time to time a bottle filled his hand. He drank. The roseate glow spread through him.
He turned to the shadowy bulk of someone sitting beside him. “Why?” he asked with the intensity of the very drunk.
“Why what?”
George struggled to remember the question, and why he had asked it. “Why'd we come here?” he queried at last, peering owlishly at his companion.
A voice answered from the far end of the porch. “The Ghost Dance brought us.”
That's important, George thought. That man is saying something important. He half turned and tried to focus his eyes on the person who had spoken, but he was having trouble with his eyes. They saw double. Sometimes quadruple. He shook his head to clear it but that set off a frightful clanging in his ears.
With a groan, George canted sideways until his cheek touched the splintery planking of the porch floor. At least that stopped his head from spinning. He stroked the planks with his fingertips. Splinters â¦
Splinters of light dissolving behind his eyes, giving way to velvety darkness. Darkness without stars.
Very much later, George awoke. He was totally disoriented. He did not know where he was or even why he was. He lay in darkness. He opened his eyes and it was still dark, but the thud of his eyelashes striking his eyelids when he batted his eyes made him flinch with pain.
He had the worst hangover of his life.
Something stirred nearby.
“I hope I'm dead,” George muttered. “If I'm not, kill me, will you?”
“You'll be all right,” said a voice. Female voice. George's bruised brain registered the fact without interest. Something hard touched his lips. “Drink this.”
He sipped obediently, too weak to resist. The taste was like the way green grass smells.
George sank back into the starless night.
The next time he awoke, the dim grey light of dawn was streaming through a glassless window above his head. The air was almost cool. He was lying on a narrow cot, with a thin, worn cotton blanket pulled up under his chin.
His head did not hurt.
George sat up very slowly, waiting for the sledgehammer blow of pain that never came.
“Are you feeling better?”
Kate stood in the doorway, looking in at him. He realized he was in one of the shacks he had noticed the day before.
George turned his head gingerly, examining his surroundings. It was definitely one of the shacks; when he looked up, he saw the underside of a corrugated tin roof. Better get out of here before the sun hits that, he thought. Beside the cot on which he lay was a cane-bottomed chair. His Stetson hung from one of the chair posts. At the foot of the cot was a cheap pine dresser, decorated with a pitcher of freshly picked wildflowers.
Flowers?
Where did anyone find flowers still blooming?
“Where am I?” George asked, feeling like he was reading the lines from a corny old movie.
“Your house.”
“My
house?” George started to toss the blanket back and get up. Kate vanished from the doorway.
Air on his body warned him he was naked. Then he noticed his clothes folded neatly on the dresser beside the flowers. His duffel bag was on the floor at the foot of the cot.
“Hey, who undressed me?” he called out.
There was no answer.
Dressing thoughtfully, waiting for the hangover that never returned, George tried to recall the night before.
He remembered the bottle. Bottles. Oh yes, he remembered them all right. And somebody singing? Stories being told? Had he told some? About wanting to go to the stars, maybe.
He couldn't remember.
He found his wallet lying underneath his jeans. Citywise caution made him check its contents.
All there. Useless money, useless credit cards. Even the photographs. Someone had taken them out, probably to look at them, and put one back upside down. It was the snapshot of Stacey with her cloud of glorious red hair.
George blinked, trying not to remember the last time he'd seen Stacey. That was in the hospital ward, with her hair gone and her eyebrows and eyelashes gone and her face the color of old cheese. “Only family members,” they'd said. But when he explained that he and Stacey had planned to marry as soon as she got her degree, a sympathetic nurse had relented and allowed him a few minutes. To say goodbye.
Hyden-Fischer Syndrome. One of the proliferating plague of viral diseases that had sprung up since the discovery of AIDS several decades back. When they first read about this newest one, Stacey had joked, “Looks like something's trying to exterminate the human race, George. AIDS, which we still haven't totally conquered, then NEEP, then AZ12, and now this Hyden-Fischer thing. What next, do you suppose?”
What next indeed.
He stared at the smiling face in his wallet, then folded the leather abruptly and jammed it into the hip pocket of his jeans.
He clapped the Stetson on his head and went outside.
Light and heat hit him simultaneously. Though the sun was barely clearing the horizon, it was already swimming in a sick yellow haze. The day promised to be another scorcher.
What next? George thought. I'll tell you, Stace, since you weren't here to see it. Lucky you. What next was a huge increase in skin cancer fatalities. The good old sun there did that, with the help of the hole in the ozone layer.
And if that isn't enoughâif some few of us should manage to keep on living anywayâthere's a joker in the deck.
We're running out of oxygen.
Bitterly, George surveyed the dreary landscape of the reservation before him. The earth was baked beige. The few straggling trees
were dessicated. The only green remaining was in random clumps of weeds sheltered by the shade of fenceposts.
A lot of America looked like that, George knew.
A lot of the rest of the world was as bad or worse.
As his eyes accustomed themselves to the glare, however, he noticed a group of people on the far side of the barracks, moving around busily. Curious, he sauntered toward them. Then he stopped in astonishment.
They were tending a thriving vegetable plot. Hilled rows of well-worked soil alternated with narrow trenches. Men and women were hoeing weeds and staking up drooping plants. The children were bringing buckets of water to pour into the trenches.
Although he was no expert, George thought he recognized the feathery tops of carrotsâhe'd seen them in the supermarketâand heads of cabbage. Cauliflower, broccoli, pole beans.
Even a few flowers, like punctuation, at the end of each row.
Life was being coaxed from earth that was, elsewhere, refusing to nurture life.
George grinned. Trust the Indians, he thought. No machines, no fancy gadgets. Hand tools and sweat and kids to carry water.
He walked toward the nearest neat row. The woman called Kate, who was tying up bean runners, glanced up at him and smiled. “So you decided to come out for a constitutional.”
“Yeah.” He smiled back. “How the hell are you doing this?” He waved a hand to indicate the vegetables.
“The same way we've done it for thousands of years.”
“No, I mean ⦠seriously.”
“I am being serious. We grow only what we need, and do as little damage to the earth as we can.”
“That's all? You mean, like organic farming?”