The World as We Know It Page 11

  “You know what they used to do to horse thieves?” I screamed into his ear, my voice cracking.

  “I’m sorry!” he pleaded, spitting out dirt, his face pressed into the ground.

  “They used to shoot them on the spot, and nobody protested. You should have taken my gun off my horse. That might have saved you from me.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m just so hungry.”

  “You were going to eat him?”

  The teeth on the blade snagged the skin of his throat, tearing grooves in his flesh. My grip only tightened.

  “I’m so sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

  I heard footsteps behind me and Aaron’s voice yelling at me. “Don’t do it, Joe,” he said. The lights of torches glowed around us and grew brighter as neighbors approached to see what it was that had woken them.

  “Don’t touch me. I’ll kill him.”

  “Joe, take a breath.”

  “He was going to eat my horse!”

  “But he didn’t,” Aaron said. “Think, Joe. How will you feel when he’s dead?”

  “I don’t care!”

  “You do care. Take a lesson from Buck Grangerford and don’t start down that road. The world has seen enough violence.”

  I said nothing. I felt warmth on my cheek and then a rub from Nomad’s moist muzzle. I turned to look at him and he looked right back, and I saw the compassion in his dark eyes. He was calm and still.

  “Please,” said the thief, the dirt under his head turning to mud from the tears.

  Slowly I released his arm, took the knife from his throat, and stood. He lay on the ground crying.

  The next day was different. I had lost it, and I was ashamed of what I’d done. I had nearly killed a hungry man. His name was Thomas. As it turned out, Thom had just come out of hiding from the city, and the ways of the new world had not yet been introduced to him. He had no skill for wilderness survival, and he had taken the first opportunity he had seen for food without conflict. When he felt my knife at his throat, he had fully expected death to come next, but when he lay there crying afterward, they weren’t tears of fear, he said. They were tears of joy. The mercy and compassion that had been shown to him in that single moment had renewed his faith in humanity.

  Thom was not a violent man, I learned. Nor was he a career thief. He was a desperate man who, from his limited perspective, saw only one way to survive. Afterward, he was offered food and work, and I even assisted in building a cabin for him when I was around. Thom and I had about the strangest introduction that I can imagine a pair of friends can claim. One stole from the other, who in turn nearly killed him for it.

  After that incident, though, I began to grow more attached to my horse. I kept him with me as much as possible, and when he wasn’t, I made sure he remained in the company of someone I trusted. I couldn’t go through that again. Everybody needs someone to care for, be that a spouse, a child, or even a horse. We aren’t complete without somebody relying on us.

  Over the next several days, I had time to explore the new settlement, and it became evident that everything from Washington to New England had spread out so much that it was like one immense single-level megalopolis. There was no longer a government center or a commercial center. Just farmland, primitive architecture, and people sparsely scattered between the cities and suburbs that were still standing.

  I took a few days and headed to the Chesapeake for some fishing. I was always expecting that a change in geography would change me as a person, and perhaps the vast sea could help to ease my mind. Since that nearly fateful night, I had been on edge constantly, tense, and anxiety stricken. Whatever barrier had existed in my conscience to keep me under control had snapped, and I was losing my grip on who I was and what exactly I was doing there. That had to change before we set back out on the highway, and fishing helped to calm me while I made a contribution to the neighborhood I had become a part of. It reminded me of my home. I met some fishermen in the harbor who welcomed me aboard their old wooden schooner in exchange for a small percentage of whatever I caught.

  The beautiful thing about the sea is that it never changes. Once we were far enough out of the harbor, the land behind us looked the same as it had during my last visit there years before. The rising sun lent an orange glow to the twinkling waves that gradually turned to deep blue as it made its way higher in the sky. Whitecaps peaked all around us. My time at sea was peaceful and quiet, and I felt a whole new connection with the earth. I imagine sailing is the way God might travel. Most of the time, the only sounds were the subtle waves crashing into the hull and the gentle creaking of the old boat as it rocked. Then excitement would suddenly erupt when one of us had hooked something, and occasionally, a catch would be large enough that it took two or three of us to pull the creature aboard.

  We brought in blue crabs and all sorts of fish. Huge fish. It’s amazing the kinds of animals that lurk in deep waters. Once I caught a marlin, and pulling him in was like wrestling a monster. He glowed green under the surface, but his gray-blue dorsal and caudal fins cut through the waves like our sails through the air. He squirmed and flopped against the hull as we lifted him from the water, and I was nearly speared by his bill when pulling him onto the boat. In our struggle, one of my comrades tripped over the jib sheet, jerking the boom to the port side where I was leaning over the edge and fighting the massive fish with all of my might. The jib boom struck me in the back, knocking me over the side into the water. I emerged again, splashing and gasping for air.

  “You clumsy bastard!” called the fisherman who had tripped.

  “Me?” I returned in laughter. “This is your doing!”

  “For every fish we catch, we have to give them a man.”

  “At least tell me you got him.”

  They all smiled as they held up my fish for display while I treaded water. It was the most exhilarating fun I could remember having in far too long. Despite our clumsiness, we had managed to conquer the monster, and it was all worth it to see the joy on the faces of the people he fed. We brought our catch back from the harbor on a wooden cart hitched behind Nomad, who was unfailingly prepared to take on any burden.

  There were always boats coming and going and lingering in the harbor, and I relished watching the other fishermen as we floated past them. There were so many of us all existing in harmony—all on the same mission. One morning as we were leaving port, I was sure I saw the last president of the United States on another boat across the harbor. Of all people to see out there, I thought, imagine seeing him. It was a small rowboat, and he was alone. He looked like everyone else, sitting at the edge and leaning back against the bow, dangling one leg over the water with a fishing pole in his hands. I squinted for a better look, but we were at too great a distance to identify him with certainty. The more time passes, the more I wonder. Who knows? Perhaps I was just being hopeful.

  As relaxing as it was out on the water, I had a lot of time to think about Maria. The sea reminded me of her. Sometimes, at just the right time of day with the right cloud cover, the color of the water exactly matched her eyes. She loved the water and would always choose it over the mountains, though my preference was for the latter. It had been so long that some of the little things about her were beginning to feel like more of a dream than reality. I couldn’t always conjure the sensations associated with my memories, like how even in warm weather her hands were always cold, but I could hardly remember how they actually felt when I would hold them. I had to concentrate to remember her voice. Even the most valuable memories become hazy when the mind is so overwhelmed. Somehow, although I had left home largely to escape the unwarranted animosity I felt toward her, the void inside me was growing every day that I spent away from her. I had left to recover something lost, and yet I felt I was losing more. I missed the days when things had been good—when we had been so happy. How long could I stand it all without losing my grip completely? Sometimes I tried not to remember her, but that was usually even more painful.

  I didn�
�t mention those things in my latest letter to Maria, except for the part about the color of the water and her eyes. I figured she’d like that. And I wrote about sailing and fishing and the people who had taken me in, both in the mountains and on the coast. She might have even been envious, wishing she were there more than she wished I were home. Perhaps that thought was more hopeful than realistic. I couldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t miss me at all.

  By then, my arm was almost entirely healed. The tiny holes in my leg from my accident with the alligator were nothing but scars and nearly invisible unless you were looking for them. Of all the world’s dangers, it seemed that perhaps the greatest came from within myself. Of course, I still had no idea what lay ahead. I could write as many letters as I wanted, but I could not receive one, and it was I who needed the motivation to push on. The trail was always behind me, and I kept replaying her last words in my head.

  “You had better come back to me. I love you.”

  I returned to the mountains as refreshed as I could be, given all that I was going through. After we had established their postal center and my letter had been sent off, it was time to move north. I marked my map again. Our burden would be lighter for the time being. Nomad and I would be traveling through populated areas, and there was no need to stock food for the trip. There would certainly be places to stop along the way, but I wasn’t quite ready to leave that one. I hadn’t felt so at home in a while. Home felt so close, but it was so far away. All of the people from my old life were becoming more and more distant, both geographically and in my memory.

  “So where are you headed next, Joe?” Aaron asked as he cleaned up after a day of work. He poured a bucket of water over his head, droplets reflecting the moonlight as they ran down and dripped from his thick black beard.

  “New York, I expect.”

  “Ah, the Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “I’ve got a friend up there,” Jake said. “Look for a girl named Leah Jordan.”

  “Jake,” Dave scoffed, “Do you know how many people lived in New York? Nearly nine million just within its limits. Over twenty-two million in the metro area, which is hundreds of square miles larger now. How is he supposed to find one woman?”

  “Don’t ask me. Joe’s the great adventurer,” he replied, turning to me. “Which is why you need to know this stuff,” he continued, referring to our ongoing lessons on navigation by the stars. He taught me how to find Polaris, the “North Star,” by the orientation of the Plough, or the “Big Dipper.” I was to follow the line of the two stars, Merak and Dubhe, that make the edge of the constellation, which rotates counterclockwise around one of the brightest stars in the sky. In the northern hemisphere, north on the ground would always be directly below that star. The constellation Orion, he explained, rises in the east and sets in the west, like the sun. From Orion’s belt, the star Mintaka can be used to find true east and west by where it emerges or falls on the horizon.

  “Where did you learn all this, anyway?” I asked him.

  “Oh, you know, I’ve been around,” he replied dismissively. “But when you do find her, tell her to send a letter down here, eh?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  “Whatever you can?” he asked, somewhat pleadingly. “She’s very important.”

  8

  THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

  As I moved north, accents of the people I met began to change. I passed by what used to be Baltimore and then Philadelphia. I remembered reading an article once about a “greening” initiative in Philadelphia wherein fourteen thousand vacant lots were converted to green space, and in an unanticipated byproduct of urban beautification, crime rates in those areas dropped. Perhaps, I thought, a cleaner, greener atmosphere could make a person feel safer. Even a criminal.

  Most of the cold urban buildings were still standing, but some had come down and had been replaced with smaller, more efficient and functional structures. I was amazed at how quickly the new development was taking shape. Masonry seemed to be the building method of choice, and buildings were erected on a grid, reminiscent of colonial America. It was beautiful. They were installing windows and doors, which meant that they had the ability to float glass and forge metal. I would have to learn more. I suppose that many of the people had fled from the cities immediately after the collapse but were gradually returning to reclaim and rebuild. Whatever rioting there had been I expected was long over.

  Half the Eastern Seaboard had evolved into one massive agglomeration, and we made so many stops that it took weeks to make our way through it. I stayed with different families along the way who fed me a plethora of ethnic foods I had never before tasted. Some of them gave up old family recipes for me to bring back home. They reminded me of the “New Deli” around the corner from our old house that was owned by an Indian family with a sense of humor. It was nicer than staying outside every night, and they seemed to be used to taking in drifters. People were moving through all the time. Sometimes I was not the only strange guest in a house, but there was seldom any hesitation in inviting an outsider in. I got accustomed to having human company on a constant basis. It was far less lonely for a while.

  I was pleasantly surprised when we reached what had been New York City. New Yorkers, at one time, had had a reputation for pretentiousness, but they were as gracious to me as anyone back home. I was always asking for directions; where’s the nearest community farm—where’s the nearest water well—where can I get some wood for a fire or whatever necessity it was that I needed—who do I talk to for this or that? That’s how I met the people who took me in.

  I discovered that the big city had established a registrar to ease communication and to connect the disconnected. It was a similar concept to what they had done in refugee camps after natural disasters or civil wars but with considerably more human resources and considerably less panic. It was all very organized and civilized, albeit somewhat frustrating at times.

  The registrar was made up of a series of huge circus tents. Hundreds of people worked underneath to keep written records of names and to deliver messages. It doubled as the citizen catalogue and the local mail system. Their postal center had already been established for me. Lines reminiscent of the quintessential DMV office formed beneath the tents and wrapped outside, leaving many of us to bake in the sun on a hot day. I tied my horse to a tree in the shade and joined the others waiting to send or receive messages. It wasn’t long before I was drenched in sweat.

  “It’s damn hot out here,” I said to the fellow next to me.

  “Almost makes you wonder if it’s worth it, doesn’t it?” he replied.

  I looked around. Some others had had the foresight to bring umbrellas or light cloths for shade, but most had not. I figured that sweating like a dog in my shirt was no less appropriate than doing it without one, so I stripped it off and used it to fan myself.

  “Well it was only a matter of time,” said my neighbor, doing the same. “What’s more important, class or comfort?”

  “These days, the latter,” I said.

  After a while, others in our line and neighboring ones began to catch on, and clothing was waving in every direction. The fellow next to me pointed out that if we were to fan toward the next line over we could create more of a breeze, so we did. Across from us, they did the same, and the breeze of each fan augmented the previous one. Eventually, we had a synchronized wave passing between each line, creating a channeled draft that cooled everyone. It was a strange social event that would have piqued the curiosity of the Tralfamadorians, but it worked out quite nicely and gave us something to do while we waited. There were thousands of us waiting that day to list our names or to find a name or to send or collect messages. The time offered ample opportunity for conversation with my neighbors. I had never taken advantage of that opportunity when it had been presented to me in the old world. Lines were just for waiting.

  That was how I tracked down Leah. When I
finally got to the end of the line, I found myself flashing back to a day in the mall before the collapse. I had happened to get a phone call from Paul while I was standing in one such line, and I remember saying, “I love when I’m in a retail store and my wife sticks me in the checkout line and goes off to shop some more, and I get to the front of the line, the cashier is waiting for me, and my wife still isn’t back.”

  “Did that just happen to you?” he had asked.

  “That’s occurring at this very moment.”

  I was at an equal loss at the registrar, having not considered what I would say to the stranger I was looking for before reaching the thin receptionist at the table who was trying desperately to maintain her patience in the midst of my casual Midwestern pace.

  “Got a lot of people in line behind you, friend. Are you listing or searching?”

  “Searching, I guess.”

  “Name?”

  “Leah Jordan.”

  She wrote the name on a piece of crude brown paper and passed it to an assistant who scampered off behind her. She motioned for me to move aside and wait while the gofer dug through alphabetical lists to find the appropriate message file. After a few minutes, he returned and told me that there were six Leah Jordans listed and asked if I knew her box number. Of course I did not, so I decided to leave a message for all six. I could see the minor frustration in his face, but it was certainly not a new task.

  “At least I didn’t say Jane Smith,” I told him. His scowl softened a bit as I began writing my note.

  Jake sent me. Meet me at the well nearest the registrar at noon three days from the date of this message. I’ll be the guy with the horse. My name is Joe.

  Of the six Leah Jordans in the area, three had acquaintances named Jake with whom they shared a close enough bond that the hike to meet me was worth it. Two of them had come with their husbands, and one had come alone. Unfortunately, I had never thought to ask Jake’s last name, so I was left identifying him only as Jake from the former DC area. That was clear enough, and once we had established which Leah was the correct Leah, the other two and their husbands left me with letters to pass on as I traveled west; one to the former Los Angeles area and one to the former Denver area. Their inconvenience was not in vain.