Robyn's Egg (36 page)

Robyn whispered, “I think this could be the best day of my life, Moyer. Those little girls were so sweet. And their mothers didn’t seem to care how much time I spent with them.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” Moyer said.

“The little girls, did you notice, they didn’t have holograms?”

“Of course not, honey, they were born here.”

“I thought you were making that up.”

“Nope.”

Robyn closed her eyes and smiled. Moyer supposed this new world had opened possibilities previously denied them. Pain oozed from his bruised legs like a vapor. His muscles relaxed. Sleep welcomed him and he drifted into it without resistance.

“Moyer?”

“Hmm, what?”

“Do you think they’ll let us stay?”

“I don’t know. But we should get some sleep.”

Moyer blew out the candle and rested his head on the pillow. He let his thoughts mingle with cricket songs and let the rhythm lull him to sleep.

“Moyer?”

“What!”

“Don’t be mad, I swear this is the last time. What were you and Brother Nastasi discussing?”

“Nothing. We were only shooting the breeze and trying each other on for size.”

“Do you think he will help us?”

“I think so. He said he would and he strikes me as a man of his word.”

He waited for another question that didn’t come. Her breathing slowed, and he draped his arm over her waist. His breathing soon matched his wife’s.

“Moyer?”

“What now? You said last time was the last time.”

“Sorry, it’s just, I don’t know, do you think once things calm down a little, we can visit my folks so they won’t worry about us?”

“Sure, as soon as it’s safe.”

Robyn sighed and relaxed under his touch. He listened to her breathing wind down. Within minutes she was snoring. Moyer listened to the crickets and Robyn’s light rattle, but his thoughts wouldn’t harmonize to their tempo. Instead, he dwelled on how he would break the news to Robyn that her parents were dead.

Chapter 36

Sunday, 8 July

F
our horse drawn carts were already tied up in front of the church when the one carrying the Winfields and the Judge pulled up. Inside, pews had been straightened into rows. Those at the front were full of people Moyer had never seen before.

“There are others?” he asked Nastasi.

“Yes, we are nearly three hundred strong, now.” Nastasi led them to the front. A pair of benches pushed end to end sat before the altar facing the congregation. Moyer, Robyn and Hawthorne sat next to Nastasi.

Adults seated in the pews bowed heads reverently in prayer and discreetly stole glimpses of the newcomers. Their children were not so subtle and openly stared and pointed.

The church gradually filled. The remaining members of the council took places on the benches before the altar. Brother Duffy shot Moyer an annoyed glance. Nastasi led the congregation through the ceremony. Moyer watched carefully and parroted the actions of the others and tried not to seem too out of place.

Much of the service was similar to those back in the city. Nastasi stood, enormous arms outstretched, watery blue eyes gazing at the ceiling until the church was absolutely still. Then he lowered his gaze and spoke.

“There are three newcomers among us.” He motioned for them to stand. “They come to us from the capital, persecuted, seeking our shelter. The council has taken the matter under consideration, and recommends we make room for them with us.”

Brother Duffy glowered at Nastasi and lifted himself off the bench. “Not all of the council agrees,” he said, his shrill voice booming. It was an obvious act of defiance, though none of the other council members interrupted.

“You should know something before you decide. These three are being hunted in the city, and their presence may draw Security Services to us. Their presence poses a considerable threat to every man, woman, and child in this community. Know this before you vote,” Brother Duffy said, a single finger raised in the air. He slowly settled back onto the bench, eyes scanning the crowd, a smug look on his face. Moyer was sure they would never be friends.

Nastasi spoke, a beneficent smile on his face. “The way is never easy, friends. Part of the measure of you, is how much you will sacrifice for others. By a show of hands, how many believe the newcomers should be permitted to stay?” Hands shot up throughout the congregation.

“And how many opposed?” Two parishioners raised their hands, and another two on the council, Brothers Duffy and Wallace. “Let us welcome Brother John Hawthorne, Brother Moyer Winfield, and Sister Robyn Winfield,” Nastasi said.

Introductions went on for more than an hour after service. The handshakes were vigorous and warm, as were the smiles. Moyer saw Hawthorne drift toward the edge of the crowd and head into town toward the library at his first chance. A few minutes later Moyer followed.

Hawthorne sat near the rear windows with the sun on his shoulders, his feet up on a table, and an open book in his hand. His eyes shifted up from the page when Moyer entered, then shifted back to his book. The building was empty except for the two of them. Hawthorne’s turn of a page punctuated the silence.

“Reading?”

Hawthorne looked up and raised his brows. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay, Judge? You seemed to leave pretty fast.”

Hawthorne lowered his book, “I’m fine. I just wanted to spend the time I have left doing the things I want to do, all the little things I never got to do because I was so busy.”

Moyer smiled, “That sounds rather morose, and not like the person I’ve come to know. From what I’ve seen, the end is still a long way off for you.”

When Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change, Moyer grew suspicious. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

“Has Brother Nastasi talked to you?” Hawthorne asked.

“About what?”

Hawthorne tipped his head back and as if searching for something on the ceiling. He puffed out his cheeks and let loose a loud sigh. He placed the open book face down on the table to mark his place.

“Brother Nastasi asked me to go back into the capital.”

Moyer’s mouth hung open. “Why? Does he want you to retake your seat on the Supreme Court?”

“No, he wants me to make a grand appearance so I make a splash on the net, to show I’m still alive, and to show that the corporations are manipulative liars. I think he’s hoping for an uprising. I’m supposed to be the spark.”

“But they’ll kill you.”

“He knows. He pointed out that if I’d remained on the bench, my death would have meant victory for the corporations, victory for Perko. They could have waited me out. It was simply a matter of time. Whereas, if I return now, my death at their hands makes me a martyr. It would be a major defeat for them. By dying, I could do more good than my entire career heading the Supreme Court.” Hawthorne offered a weak smile. “And the pitiful truth is he’s right.”

“Are you going to do it?”

Hawthorne nodded.

“When?”

“He was vague. He told me we would go when I was ready. But I know it won’t be long. They’ll want to strike while the iron is hot and people still remember who I am. I figured in the meantime I would do some of the things I always wanted; read good fiction, walk in the woods next to the creek, feel the sun on my shoulders, eat a few home cooked meals.”

Moyer didn’t know what to say. He looked at Hawthorne whose face was sad yet calm. “I’m sorry,” Moyer said. “I won’t interrupt again.”

Moyer turned to leave. Hawthorne called to him as he neared the door. “Be wary of the religious zealots here. They have an agenda. I’ve heard them talking and they have designs for you, too.” Hawthorne lifted a book and tossed it to Moyer. Moyer turned it over in his hands so the title faced him. It was a
Bible
. “Have you read this book of theirs?”

Moyer shook his head.

“You should. Pay particular attention to what happens to their messiahs and deliverers. Be careful not to let it happen to you.”

Chapter 37

Wednesday, 5 September

C
orn grew tall in the Connors’ field as summer eased into fall. Hawthorne spent his days at the library, or down by the creek with his treasured books. Frequently he read stories to the Connors children after chores.

Moyer spent his time with the men trying to help out and feeling awkward as he learned the skills required for survival in Mannington. He helped clear land, cut down trees and split the logs that would be milled into lumber for the construction of his house the following year. His muscles grew sore, and then grew strong. His soft hands toughened. Throughout the summer as time allowed, Moyer led a crew of men from homestead to homestead digging wells and installing windmills to draw fresh water into the homes. He had other ideas for utilizing his skills as an engineer to improve life in the valley. However, as the harvest commenced and with winter on its heels, those ideas would have to wait.

One Sunday after weekly services, Nastasi handed Moyer batteries for the computer and a copy of the Worm source code. Though curious, Moyer didn’t ask Nastasi how he’d managed it. He knew it was something Nastasi wouldn’t divulge.

After working sunup to sundown in the fields, Moyer worked nights developing a virus to disable the Worm, stopping only when exhaustion rendered his work gibberish. It wasn’t uncommon to spend his first hour of programming undoing his mistakes from the night before.

After dinner, Moyer and Robyn frequently walked the trails along the creek or to the top of the hill behind the Connors’ farm. The trails offered privacy that was impossible in the crowded house. They brought together their experiences from the day and talked, and often bent tall grasses down into a bed and made love under an open sky.

Robyn had been learning, as well. Under the guidance of Betsy Connors she learned to can peas and make raspberry jam. She butchered rabbits, milked the goats, cooked meals from scratch, learned to make soap, and washed clothes by hand. The workdays were sometimes long as the approach of winter lent a sense of urgency, but Robyn didn’t mind. It was somehow different working for her own benefit and survival, and for the benefit of friends.

On a cool late summer morning, Robyn went to the creek with Betsy Connors and her eldest daughter Frieda to collect nettles. The sky was clear and pale blue and shadows stretched long across fields blanketed in dew. Frieda was a youthful copy of her mother, more slender at the waist, hair a couple shades lighter, but there was no mistaking where she came from. They walked down the carriage track to the foot trail paralleling the stream bank carrying broad, willow baskets with large, hoop handles.

Betsy stopped at a stand of tall weeds growing in the shade. The weeds stretched to the water’s edge in a large thicket tens of meters long. Straight stalks covered in fuzz sported broad, heart-shaped leaves with jagged edge as if they’d been cut out with pinking shears.

Betsy selected a stalk, sliced it with a paring knife near the ground, and laid it in her basket. Frieda did the same. Robyn emulated what she’d seen. When she put the stalk in the basket it brushed her arm. Stinging pain seared her skin. She dropped the stalk and screeched. Her skin turned pink. White welts dotted her arm.

Robyn scratched her skin. Frieda reacted first, rushing to Robyn’s side, and seeing what she had done, clutched Robyn’s hand. “Don’t! If you rub or scratch it gets worse. Let’s go down to the water and soak it.”

Betsy continued clipping nettles, her lips pursed into a tightlipped grin, straining to keep back a laugh. At the creek’s edge, Frieda took Robyn’s arm above the elbow and plunged it under the water.

“It’s cold,” Robyn complained.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it feel better?”

Robyn nodded, the discomfort still plain on her face.

“It should go away in fifteen or twenty minutes if you don’t scratch.”

“Why didn’t you tell me they sting?”

Frieda looked apologetic. “We thought you knew.”

Robyn wagged her head.

“The fuzz on the stems and leaves are little needles that inject a toxin. You can handle them with your palms because the skin there is too thick and tough for them to penetrate. But if they touch you anywhere else, you get stung – well, I guess you know that now,” she said with a sly grin.

Robyn glared at the girl. She didn’t think her situation was the least bit funny.

“Wait, we ate those things. How come we weren’t stung then?”

“Because they were boiled in salt and the water drained off. That takes the poison out.”

Robyn’s stomach grew queasy and sour saliva filled her mouth. “I don’t feel well. I think I’m going to–.” Robyn’s stomach seized and she vomited before she could get the words out. Her half-digested breakfast hit the stream and swiftly floated away.

“Momma! Something’s wrong!” Frieda shouted.

Betsy peered over the bank and scolded her child, “Stop fussing, it’s only nettles.”

“But Momma, she’s puking.”

“Puking? Nonsense.” Betsy gingerly negotiated the stream bank to the water’s edge.

Robyn knelt bent forward at the waist, holding her stung arm away from her body while water dripped from her fingers. She breathed through her mouth wishing she could rinse the acidy taste away in the creek, but unsure whether the water was safe. Betsy studied Robyn, her doughy face pinched with scrutiny as if Robyn was intentionally being melodramatic.

Robyn felt a familiar flutter in her stomach. The blood drained from her face and she wobbled, head spinning. She managed to pull her hair back and turn her head toward the water as her stomach muscles seized again, squeezing out food she didn’t realize she still had.

“That’s not right,” Betsy said. She looked perplexed. “I’ve never seen anyone react to nettles this way.”

Robyn spat to clear out her mouth. “I must be allergic.”

“Do you want to lie down?” Betsy asked.