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But in the dark of the night, in the silence, in the void between the what-must-be-done, Max found none.
He thought of Eric, how fascinated he’d been with his brother as a newborn, amused by him as a toddler. He remembered how frustrated Eric had been at five and six, desperate to keep up with a brother eight years his senior.
Yet it had been Eric with whom he’d first shared the secret of what he was, what he had. Because there had been trust between them. Brotherhood.
How could he have not seen the changes? How could he have been so blind to them? If he had let himself see, there would have been enough time for him to pull Eric back from the edges of the dark before he’d leaped into it.
He should have looked after him. He should have been more aware. Instead, he’d killed his brother.
What he’d become at the end couldn’t erase all he’d been before. Just as the horror of her end didn’t erase all the girl they’d buried had been.
But he’d never have the chance to bury his brother, to mark his name, say his name. To send his soul to peace.
To live with the choice he’d made, he pushed along the path of what had to be done next. Food, shelter, movement. Following the signs. He’d killed again, to defend the lives of those who’d become his responsibility. An it harm none, a vow he believed with every cell of his being. He’d broken it, made that choice because he saw no other choice, and accepted he might have to make that choice again.
He had a chance now to build a life here, with Lana, with their child, with the children that might come after. So he would do what had to be done next.
Beside him, Lana stirred in sleep, as she often did now. Dreams dogged her sleep, dreams she couldn’t remember. Or claimed she couldn’t remember. But this time instead of curling toward him, she turned away, and got out of bed.
“Are you all right?”
She walked to the window, stood naked in the blue moonlight.
“To make the Savior is your fate. Life out of death, light out of dark. To save the Savior is your fate. Life out of death, light out of dark.”
He rose, went to her. He didn’t touch her, didn’t speak as she stared through the window with eyes as deep as the night.
“Power demands sacrifice to reach its terrible balance. It calls for blood and tears, and still it feeds on love and joy. You, son of the Tuatha de Danann, have lived before, will live again. You, sire of the Savior, sire of The One, embrace the moments and hold them dear, as moments are fleeting and finite. But life and light, the power of what will come, the legacy within, are infinite.”
Lana took his hand, pressed it to the sweet mound of her belly. “She is. A heart beating, wings fluttering, light stirring. She is the sword shining, the bolt that strikes true. She is the answer to questions not yet asked.
“She will be.”
Lana kept his hand, walked back to the bed. “She is your blood. She is your gift. Sleep now, and be at peace.” Lana drew him down, lay beside him. Rested a hand on his cheek. “You are loved.” She closed her eyes, sighed. Slept.
And so did he.
DARK TO LIGHT
And the light shineth in the darkness;
and the darkness comprehended it not.
—John 1:5
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The self-appointed town council decided there’d never be a better time to hold a public meeting. Having the power back up boosted morale and mood, but it wouldn’t take long before that minor miracle faded into the expected.
They agreed to strike while the spirit of gratitude and appreciation rode high.
Spreading the word posed no problem, nor did finding volunteers to set up row after row of chairs at the Legion’s hall, as the school cafeteria wouldn’t hold the expanded population if, as expected, most showed.
They set up long tables on the platform while Chuck got the sound system up and running.
Arlys stood in the empty hall, imagined it full. Imagined countless scenarios—raging from pretty good to ugly chaos.
“Do you think we’re ready, Lloyd?”
“As we’ll ever be, I guess.” He looked down at the binder in his hands. “It’s a good agenda, a sensible one. Doesn’t mean it’s going to fly. Starting with asking everybody to stow their guns in the vestibule out there. Some won’t.”
“And I’m worried the some who won’t are the ones most likely to cause trouble. But we have to start somewhere.” She turned as Lana came in carrying a huge basket. Then sniffed the air. “My God, what is that amazing smell?”
“Bread. Fresh baked.” She set the basket on the platform, one full of small rounds and loaves. “We’ve got a variety. I’ve got a lot of different starters going. We had packaged yeast, but that won’t last forever, so I’m making more right now. And I’m going to try my hand at making dry yeast.”
“You can make yeast?” Arlys all but buried her head in the basket.
“Yeah. It grows on fruits, potatoes, even tomatoes. I’m going to experiment. Somebody else has to figure out how to mill flour.”
“If I don’t have a chunk of that”—Lloyd breathed in hard through his nose—“I might just die right here and now.”
“Help yourself. The idea was having some for every household. They’re small, I know, but—”
“Praise Jesus,” Lloyd said with his mouth full.
“Community action at work.” Arlys broke a chunk of her own from Lloyd’s round. “We’re going to have rules, we’re going to have structure, but…” She bit in. “We’re also going to have bread that brings a tear to your eye. It’s still warm!”
“Bread symbolizes hospitality. We break bread together.” Lana smiled at the basket. “I liked using the community kitchen for the first time with this symbol.”
“Will you marry me?” Lloyd broke off another little chunk.
“Hey!” Arlys jabbed him with her elbow. “Get in line.”
Laughing, Lana wiggled her hand with the ring Max had slipped onto it one quiet spring night.
“Already taken, but I’ll bake bread for you. Next up? Fred and I are going to get serious about making cheese.”
“If you can do that, we’re going to crown you the queens of New Hope.”
Laughing at Arlys, Lana fluffed at her hair. “I’d look good in a crown. I’ll be back with more.”
Arlys sat beside the basket. “We’re going to do this, Lloyd.”
He sat on the other side, broke what remained of the round, offered half. “Damn right.”
* * *
By eight, the hall buzzed with voices. Some had muttered about leaving their weapons, and some had just ignored the edict. But most left them outside the hall.
The holiday feeling still rang out, confirming the sense of timing the meeting. Arlys watched Kurt Rove—gun still on his hip—stride in. He gave the crowd a hard look before making his way to where the Mercer brothers had saved a seat for him.
If trouble came, she knew, it would center there.
Arlys took her seat at the long table, flipped open her notebook. She expected to have a lot to record.
Fred leaned over to her. “Some are already angry.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
Jonah stepped to the podium. His opening, “Um,” reverberated in the room, surprising everyone into silence, then laughter. “We have a sound system thanks to Chuck.” He waited out the applause. “And we’ve got that because we have power back thanks to Manning, Wanda, Chuck again, and Max.”
Applause thundered; cheers and whistles rang.
Arlys noted Rove just folded his arms over his chest.
“We’re going to ask everybody to conserve that power. Those of you who don’t have a washing machine in your place, Manning’s bypassed the coin-op at the Laundromat. We put a sign-up sheet in there for rotation. We’ve got detergent in inventory, for now, and Marci Wiggs is heading up the committee making soaps. Marci, why don’t you stand up, let us know how that’s coming.”
Smart, Arlys thou
ght as the woman stood, began to speak. Touch on other basics, on cooperation.
He called out other volunteers. Candle making, clothes, firewood, animal husbandry, the gardens, the greenhouse project, community maintenance.
